“Good, you’ve arrived. Your niece met with an accident in the park. I’ve taken the liberty of sending your footman for a doctor. Now we must get her to bed to rest and hope she is not badly hurt.”
“Two invalids!” Lord Harth mocked. “What kind of a household have I come home to? I beg pardon, my dear, I’m your Uncle William, and you must be my niece Catherine."
"How do you do, sir,” she said shyly.
“Better than you, I daresay. Well, we’d best see you into the tender hands of your maid before this young gentleman calls me out for lack of family feeling.”
The Marquis raised a quelling eyebrow, but the Earl ignored him.
“Take her upstairs, Stefton. I’ll have Pennymore fetch her woman. If you get up there before the maid, I promise not to tell a soul.”
Catherine giggled, then stopped when she realized her head was beginning to hurt, and laughing aggravated it. “That is Lord Harth? Somehow I envisioned my uncle to be more formal, a dry old stick.”
A reluctant smile pulled at the Marquis’s mouth. “I know what you mean. But consider. Only a man with a sense of humor could put up with your aunt.”
“True,” Catherine said, sighing, but her thoughts were already wandering, for the slight pain in her head was steadily growing. She directed him to her room and allowed him to lead her to the bed to lie down. She was marginally aware that he was removing her bonnet, gloves, and calfskin boots before she heard Bethie’s familiar voice. Then, through the haze of increasing pain, she thanked the Marquis for his assistance.
The Marquis looked down at where she lay on the bed, his face expressionless; then he nodded curtly to Bethie and left the room.
CHAPTER 12
The Marquis of Stefton paced the cavernous length of the library in Vauden Mansion, the London ancestral home of the Dukes of Vauden. The house was far too large for a bachelor’s residence, but his mother had pleaded with him to make it his home so as not to displace the servants who’d been with the family for years. It was typical of her to show concern for even the lowliest of their employees. It was one of the traits he most admired and loved in his mother, so with affectionate good grace he’d acquiesced to her wishes.
He’d grown used to rattling around the mansion and never gave its size a thought, though he did order most of the furniture to be draped in Holland covers. Now, however, its emptiness haunted him, grating on his nerves. He barked at his servants, scowled and sneered, all to no seeming purpose. The worst was that he knew why.
“Fool, fool, fool,” he muttered, continuing his erratic pacing.
“I’ll agree to that,” the Earl of Soothcoor said mildly.
The Marquis looked at his friend, who sat in a wing chair by the fireplace, leaning forward to warm his hands. He laughed mirthlessly. “Alan, you are such a comfort.”
“If it’s comfort you’re truly wanting, I suggest you hie yourself over to Upper Grosvenor Street.”
“No!”
“And why not, may I be asking?” the Earl said, leaning back in the chair, staring sourly at the Marquis.
“Egad, man, you know why. Surely you must.”
“No. That’s exactly what I don’t know.”
The Marquis came toward his friend. “I’m much too old for her. She thinks of me as a meddlesome uncle, no more.”
The Earl snorted.
“It was a game, a way to amuse myself through another boring Season.”
“Aye, just a game,” said the Earl harshly, a flare of anger whitening his knuckles where they gripped the arms of the chair. “You know, you’re not just a fool, you’re a blind fool!”
The Marquis looked at him sharply. “Grant me the intelligence to know I am not the proper mate for Miss Shreveton, even if she possessed any warm feeling for me, which I assure you, she does not.”
“Aye, I’ll grant you intelligence. The intelligence of a sheep. Och, I canna sit here any longer and listen to your drivel.” He rose from the chair. “I think I’ll be off to find Chilberlain. Even though he’s another lovesick dolt, at least he’s honest, which is more’n I can say for you.”
After the door closed behind Soothcoor, Stefton slammed his fist into the chair arm. Damn the man’s impudence! He rose from the chair and crossed to the bell pull. Soothcoor did not know Catherine. Not the way he did.
She deserved a younger man, one not so jaded by society. Besides, Sir Eugene was correct. He was not at all in her style. She might feel some affection for him, as one would for an uncle. He never encouraged her to flirt with him or think his attentions were any more than an obligation to Eugene. Besides,he steadfastly remained out of her orbit save for their afternoon rides.
When the butler arrived in answer to the bell, he ordered a bottle of brandy to be brought to the library, a full, new bottle.
