A shiver coursed through her at the memory she harbored of a tall strapping man with hair as black as night who had appeared out of the shadows to come to her aid in Roscoff, Brittany, after she, Linette, and Estelle had been abducted by wicked men.
A man so strikingly handsome Marguerite had lost her breath to look at him…or perhaps it was because he had squeezed her hand as if to reassure her after one evil captor was dead and his two accomplices fled. Even now she could still feel the warm, strong pressure of his fingers enveloping hers…and then he was gone, fading back into the shadows as quickly as he and his companions had come.
Only weeks later had they found out that their brave rescuers were Jared Giles and his men from the infamousVengeance, including his second-in-command named Walker Burke.
The same Walker Burke who everyone knew now was the future Duke of Summerlin, thanks to Lord Donovan’s dogged help in restoring him to his rightful family and procuring royal pardons for him and Lord Dovercourt. Would Walker—no,Alexander Scott—have arrived in England yet to assume his new role as the duke’s last surviving son? If word had come for Donovan, Corie had not yet shared the news with them—
“Marguerite, you’re blushing!” Linette had once again looped her arm through Marguerite’s and grinned broadly at her. “Youdohave a man of your dreams—”
“I do not! And you’re too young yet to even be thinking of such things, Linette Easton! Now we’ll miss dinner if we don’t hurry. Come on, I’ll race you!”
Shewasblushing, Marguerite couldn’t deny it, feeling flushed from her scalp to her toes as she set off at a run across the gorse-covered heath toward where they’d tethered their horses. A laughing Linette was hard upon her heels, their reckless pace and skirts hiked above their knees most unladylike, but Marguerite didn’t care.
Anything to dispel thoughts of the humiliation she’d suffered in London…and of the stirring touch of a man who, as a future duke now, she doubted would scarcely look twice at her.
Ifhe even remembered her at all.
***
“Of course you’ll be traveling with us to London, Marguerite! Lindsay is looking forward to seeing all of us again. It’s been three long years since she and Jared had to leave England after all. She would be crushed if you stayed at home, and we can’t have that, can we?”
Marguerite shook her head at Corisande’s query and pushed the savory chicken stew around her plate, her appetite all but fled. The bedlam around the immense dining table was making her head pound though it was no different than any other meal in the Trent household.
Linette and twelve-year-old Estelle were engaged in a lively discussion of all the sites they wished to see in London, while Estelle’s scruffy little dog, Luther, yapped at his mistress’s feet.
Lord Donovan’s five-year-old daughter, Paloma, adopted by Corie and beloved by all, had begun to sing an off-tune song for her father, while the two-year-old twins, Draydon and Dahlia, giggled and clapped their hands at Luther’s antics. Meanwhile servants bustled around the table and a nanny sat opposite the twins, ready to give assistance if Corie might require it, though she rarely did. Marguerite knew that Corie and Donovan loved the commotion and laughter of their growing family, and usually she did, too. Just not today…
“Of course I would like to see Lindsay,” Marguerite began with her voice raised to be heard over the din. “But someone should remain in Porthleven to look after Papa. What if Frances should become ill while we’re gone?”
“Ridiculous! You know that Frances is healthy as a horse,” Corie said as she wiped away mashed potatoes from Draydon’s mouth, not seeming to mind at all that a splatter had marred the bodice of her apricot-colored gown. “Papa will be fine.”
That was true, Marguerite thought with mounting resignation. Their long-time housekeeper, Frances, hadn’t known a sick day in her life, and she had far less to do since Marguerite and her sisters had gone to live with Donovan and Corie at the manor house.
Their father, the Reverend Joseph Easton, had been so shaken by their abduction three years ago that he had insisted upon it, though he had declined Corie’s offer to join them as well. He’d said only that he preferred the parsonage with its memories of his beloved wife, Adele, and their life together to surround him. Yet Marguerite knew he missed the hubbub that enveloped the dining room now as the dishes were cleared and an almond-studded pudding for dessert made its appearance.
The scent of oranges, vanilla, and cinnamon filled the air. Estelle, who adored sweets, squealed with delight while Paloma pounded her spoon upon the table. As Dahlia began to cry from all the noise, Marguerite wasn’t ready yet to admit defeat in avoiding another dreadful Season and raised her voice above the din.
“With you gone, though, Corie, who will visit the parish poorhouse to ensure all is running smoothly? You know how Mrs. Treweake depends upon you—”
“Frances said she would stop in to check on things for me—and it’s only for a week or two, then Donovan and I will return with the family while you remain in London with Lindsay.” Hoisting a now wailing Dahlia onto her lap, Corie threw Marguerite a look of annoyance. “She has her heart set upon your company, Marguerite! Jared will be traveling back and forth to Dovercourt Manor to oversee the renovations, and he’d prefer that Lindsay not be alone…especially now that another babe is well on the way. Marguerite, where are you going? Marguerite!”
Tears smarting her eyes, she had pushed away from the table so abruptly that her chair crashed to the floor with a bang. With Draydon adding his startled cries to Dahlia’s, Marguerite felt terrible for upsetting her nephew but fled all the same from the dining room and across the hall into the library where she slammed the door.
Sobs shaking her now, she sank into a leather chair near the fireplace and covered her face with her hands.
She’d never felt so miserable, no, not since last year when she’d begged Lindsay’s aunt Winifred, the Dowager Baroness Penney, to allow her to return home to Porthleven rather than remain for the rest of the Season.
Poor Aunt Winnie. The excitable older woman had been such a dear to invite her to London at Donovan and Corie’s request—insisting that Marguerite call her “Aunt” just like Lindsay. Yet in spite of her well-meaning intentions, Winifred had been oblivious to the slights Marguerite had suffered at every ball and assembly. With each passing day she had ached more for home, until at last she knew she could withstand the misery no longer.
She never told Aunt Winnie the truth of why she wanted so desperately to leave London, not wanting to distress her and bring on a swoon and the inevitable smelling salts.
Instead she had fibbed and said she must return home at once to help Corie with pressing family matters. Aunt Winnie had immediately summoned her own coach and four to carry Marguerite straightaway back to Cornwall, along with a lady’s maid to accompany her.
To Donovan and Corie she had said only that terrible homesickness had made it impossible for her to stay in London, and they hadn’t questioned her further. She realized now that she should have just told everyone the truth and spared herself this renewed anguish—
