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Giving the fox’s silky ears an affectionate tweak, Nicola started back towards the house, her mind drifting ahead to the upcoming meeting with Lord Blackwood. She knew why he was coming, of course. Her father had already hinted at the marquis’s intentions, and, all things considered, she was not opposed to the match. She had always longed for a home and children of her own, and at her age she had almost given up hope of such things coming to pass.
But to think that the Marquis of Blackwood might actually be the man to make them happen…well, it was all but unthinkable. As a nonpareil and pink of the ton, Blackwood could have had his pick of any number of younger and—to Nicola’s way of thinking—eminently more suitable girls than herself. Why, then, would he choose to wed the countrified daughter of a widowed earl, who spent far more time in the country than she did in Town?
And what would the exceedingly correct marquis say, Nicola wondered, if he were to discover that his future wife was tending a menagerie of wounded animals, which at the moment included two silky black puppies she had found half drowned by the edge of the river, an assortment of injured birds—including a falcon with a broken wing—and a wily fox named Alistair? Somehow, she could not imagine him being pleased.
Wives of the nobility simply do not indulge in such pastimes, Nicola could almost hear her stodgy old governess saying.
Well, maybe they didn’t, but, if an alliance between the two of them was what he wished for, Nicola would certainly listen to his proposal. Her father seemed favourably disposed towards the match, and Nicola knew that he would never approve of a suitor who was not acceptable in every way. Clearly, Lord Blackwood had earned her father’s approval.
Now, all he had to do was earn hers!
David set out upon his mission of matrimony in a spirit of amiable resignation. Resignation because, to him, marriage was a necessity of life—an obligation one undertook for the good of the family. And to David Penscott, Marquis of Blackwood, Earl of Winsmore and Viscount Huntley, obligation was a duty that went before all.
His feelings of amiability stemmed from the fact that he believed his selection of Lady Nicola Wyndham to be a judicious one. Her past was unblemished, and if she had spent somewhat more time in the country than most young ladies of her class it did not seem to have affected her adversely. Certainly her manners were all that he could have wished. She neither laughed too much, nor too loud, she was lovely enough to suit his rather exacting standards, and, by all accounts, she was not prone to vapours. If these were qualities to be gained by sacrificing the first blush of youth, it was a sacrifice David was more than willing to make.
Reaching Wyndham Hall just before three o’clock, David was greeted at the door by the steadfast Trethewy—an elderly retainer who had been with the Wyndham family for over forty-five years—and relieved of his hat, gloves and whip. From there, he was shown into the spacious green salon where, as expected, Nicola’s father was waiting to greet him.
‘Ah, Blackwood, good to see you again,’ Lord Wyndham said in a rich voice that carried easily to every corner of the room. ‘Ready to do the deed?’
‘I am, my lord, though I admit to being somewhat anxious as to your daughter’s reply.’
‘Anxious? Good Lord, man, there’s no need for apprehension. Nicola didn’t seem at all unhappy when I informed her of your intentions. Once she had recovered from her surprise, that is.’
Surprise? David wondered ruefully. Or shock?
‘Now, before Nicola joins us, might I interest you in a glass of wine? I have just received a shipment from France and I would welcome your opinion on this particular Bordeaux.’
Already familiar with the size and quality of the earl’s cellar, David nodded in anticipation of a rare treat. ‘I should be pleased to, thank you.’
‘Splendid. I’ve not a bad nose for wine, but it doesn’t hold a candle to a connoisseur’s like yours,’ Wyndham said as he poured out two glasses. ‘Right, then, your good health, Blackwood.’
‘And yours, my lord.’
The wine proved to be of excellent vintage, and David was persuaded to enjoy another glass before Lord Wyndham resumed the conversation.
‘No, my Nicki’s not at all like those other flibbertigibbets at court. She’s a sensible lass, always has been. Takes after her mother in that regard. There were always rumours about her, of course, but I never paid them any mind.’
‘Rumours?’ David repeated cautiously.
‘Aye. Superstitious fools. Thought she was a witch.’
‘Lady Nicola?’
‘Nicola?’ Lord Wyndham frowned. ‘Good Lord, no. Nicola’s not been bothered by any rumours in that regard. At least, not yet.’
David cast a surreptitious glance at the older man. Yet?
‘No, I was referring to Elizabeth. Personally, I could never understand what all the fuss was about,’ the earl continued blithely. ‘Just because the parson’s wife saw Elizabeth feeding a wild buck at the edge of the common was hardly reason to think her odd.’
David’s hand stopped the glass halfway to his lips. ‘A buck?’
‘Aye. Magnificent beast. Twelve pointer, as I recall.’
‘And you say that Lady Wyndham was feeding it…by hand?’
‘As though she were holding out crusts of bread to a lamb. Amazing woman,’ Lord Wyndham said in a tone of mild bewilderment. ‘But a witch? Rubbish! And so I told them, for all the good it did me. Thick-headed bunch,’ he muttered as he crossed to the bell pull and gave it a tug. ‘Still, no point in standing here reminiscing; you’ve important business to get on with. Ah, Trethewy, there you are. Would you tell Lady Nicola that Lord Blackwood is here and ask her to join us?’
‘Very good, m’lord.’
When the butler had gone, Wyndham gruffly cleared his throat. ‘Sorry about that, Blackwood, didn’t mean to ramble on about my wife. It’s just that Elizabeth was very special to me. We were blessed, the two of us, and not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. But then, I’m sure you can understand what I’m talking about, given your father’s second marriage to Madame de Charbier. Now there was a love match if ever.’
The proffered statement—well intentioned as David felt sure it was meant to be—caused the words of condolence he had been about to offer Lord Wyndham to die on his lips, and he turned towards the window, fighting down his resentment. Stephanie de Charbier had been a beautiful young Frenchwoman who had come to England shortly after Napoleon’s banishment to Elba. The widow of an influential Parisian diplomat, she had been left a wealthy young woman, and had purchased a charming house on Green Street, where, along with a small staff brought with her from Paris, she had set about re-establishing her life.
Stephanie had been twenty years younger than his father, but her age had made no difference to either of them. They had met quite by chance at the Royal Art Gallery and had fallen in love almost immediately. They had been married a mere three weeks later.
To be fair, David had no doubt that Stephanie de Charbier had loved his father. She had not been deceitful by nature, and, given her great beauty and genteel background, he knew that she could have had her choice of any number of titled English gentlemen. Certainly enough of them had danced attendance upon her.
But it was Richard Penscott whom she had chosen. And that he’d loved her in return, David did not doubt either. One had only needed to listen to the sound of his father’s voice to know that he’d adored his beautiful French émigré. But what David had never been able to come to terms with was the fact that his father—whom he had loved and respected more than anyone else in the world—had perished because of that love. That on the day Stephanie de Charbier had died from a raging fever Richard Penscott had died too. By simply refusing to go on. By giving up on life.
That David could never forgive the young Frenchwoman for. Not even in death.
Moments later, blissfully unaware of her visitor’s agitation, Nicola walked into the room and hurried to her father’s side. ‘Good afternoon, Papa. I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, but I stayed rather longer at the stables than I meant to.’
‘You did not keep us waiting, my dear,’ Lord Wyndham assured her. ‘Lord Blackwood and I were just discussing your dear mother.’
‘Ah, then I dare say it is a good thing I came when I did, for it is a subject upon which you could converse for hours,’ Nicola said, a silvery ripple of laughter accompanying her words. ‘Good afternoon, Lord Blackwood, how very nice to see—’
The rest of the greeting came to an abrupt halt as Lord Blackwood turned and Nicola was given a glimpse of eyes that were so black, so…distant that they froze the laughter in her throat and caused her to take an involuntary step backwards. Good Lord, whatever could have happened to make him so angry? The tension was etched into his handsome face like lines carved into granite, and even under the impeccably fitted jacket Nicola could sense the rigidity of his broad shoulders.
A swift glance in her father’s direction provided no clue as to Lord Blackwood’s state. If anything, her father seemed blissfully unaware that anything was wrong. What, then, was the cause of it? Was the marquis unhappy about the deed he had come to enact today? Or was he—as a stickler for propriety and punctuality—displeased by her own tardy arrival?
‘Lord Blackwood, pray…forgive my delay in arriving,’ Nicola apologized uncertainly. ‘I fear I…lost track of the time.’
Her apprehension was palpable and, recognizing that he was the cause of it, David swore softly under his breath. How stupid of him to have allowed his emotions to get the upper hand, especially in front of her.
He quickly forced a smile to his lips and bowed over her hand. ‘On the contrary, it is I who should be offering you an apology, Lady Nicola. I did not give you a great deal of notice as regards my intention to call this afternoon.’
His words were all that were polite, but Nicola was not convinced that he had recovered from his anger. Whatever had caused his anger in the first place must yet be lingering in his mind. Still, he was obviously making an effort to be civil, which meant that the least she could do was to accommodate him. Her mother’s training had been too deeply instilled to be ignored.
‘Thank you, my lord, but certainly no great notice was ever required. I am always at home and happy to receive visitors. And you did advise my father of your intention to call, so I am not at all put out.’
It was a most gracious acceptance of his apology, and David bowed again, admiring the finesse with which she had handled his momentary lack of civility.
Here, then, was the woman he hoped to marry, the lady his uncle had referred to as a dark horse, and whom society deemed a mystery. How ridiculous, he thought contemptuously. There was nothing in the least dark or mysterious about Nicola Wyndham. She was unaffectedly gracious and warm, yet possessed of a lively good nature which would make for the kind of companion David could imagine spending the rest of his life with. And, most assuredly, in the fetching silk gown which suited her complexion and richly coloured hair to perfection, she was as lovely as he could have wished.
‘Well, now that the pleasantries have been exchanged, I shall leave the two of you alone,’ Lord Wyndham announced into the silence. ‘Don’t need me at a time like this, eh, what?’
Impulsively, Nicola reached up to press an affectionate kiss to her father’s cheek. ‘On the contrary, I shall always need you, Papa.’
The earl’s eyes softened as they rested on his daughter’s face and he reached out to stroke a shiny lock of her hair. Then, giving her an encouraging wink, he turned on his heel and walked out of the salon.
Left alone with her guest, Nicola offered him a tentative smile. ‘May I offer you some refreshments, Lord Blackwood?’
‘Thank you, Lady Nicola, but no. I have just enjoyed a glass of your father’s most excellent wine.’
‘Then, will you sit down?’
Her voice was pleasantly low-pitched, with a slightly husky overtone that settled well on David’s ear. It made a welcome change from the high-pitched giggles and titters that seemed all too prevalent in the drawing rooms of London.
‘Actually, I should prefer to stand given the nature of what I am about to say. You, however, may wish to be seated.’
‘As you like.’
With an unhurried movement, Nicola settled herself on the rose-coloured sofa and smoothed the skirts of her gown around her. She had taken a little longer with her toilette this afternoon and was glad that she had, if for no other reason than to lend herself extra confidence. She knew that the gown of Pomona green silk was the most flattering she owned, and that it became her very well. Even the thick, russet-coloured hair, which was so often the bane of her existence, toned perfectly with the shade. ‘I am listening, Lord Blackwood.’
‘Thank you, Lady Nicola. I suppose I should begin by saying that, even though our acquaintance has been of relatively short duration, and our time spent in conversation even shorter, I have come to admire you greatly. Your ease in social situations, your manners, and your sense of dignity, are all qualities I am looking for in a…lady.’
Nicola allowed herself a brief smile at his hesitation. It seemed that the word wife did not come easily to the tongue of the bachelor Marquis of Blackwood. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘As for myself, I fear I may not be as…entertaining as some of the gentlemen with whom you have been keeping company—’
‘I have not been keeping the company of gentlemen,’ Nicola felt obliged to point out. ‘Having observed an extended period of mourning for…members of my family, I have been removed from Society these past two years.’
There wasn’t a trace of self-pity in her voice and, knowing how hard her mother’s death had been for her, David’s admiration for the young lady rose. ‘It is never easy to lose a parent,’ he agreed sympathetically.
Nicola sighed. ‘No, but then, I am sure you know how that feels. I understand that you were very close to both your mother and your father, Lord Blackwood.’
By this time, David had his emotions fully under control, and he was able to respond to her in a calm and steady voice. ‘I was indeed. But life goes on, and we must make the best of it. My father would have wished me to marry and start a family of my own, and I know that Lord Wyndham is hopeful that you will do the same. And that is why I have come to see you today.’ David cleared his throat and took a deep breath. ‘I have already spoken to your father and received his blessing. And so I should now like to ask you to do me the very great honour…of becoming…my wife.’
It was hardly a romantic proposal, Nicola reflected. Yet how could it be when they had spoken to each other only a few times over the past two months?
‘My lord, before I answer that, perhaps you would be so good as to explain why you wish to marry me.’
There was a very brief, but very meaningful pause. ‘I…beg your pardon?’
‘Well, as I am no doubt older than the ladies with whom you would have been keeping company, I simply wondered why you would not have asked a younger lady to be your wife. At five-and-twenty, most would say that I am on the shelf and have been for some time.’ Nicola raised questioning eyes to his. ‘Would you not agree?’
Her candour startled him. As did the deep, emerald-green of her eyes. David could not recall having seen such a remarkable shade before. And was that, possibly…a freckle on the tip of her daintily rounded nose?
He quickly marshalled his thoughts and returned to the matter at hand. ‘I wish to marry you, Lady Nicola, because I have no desire to tie myself to a green girl fresh from the school room. I cannot imagine that we would have anything in common, nor have I any intention of wasting time trying to find out if we had. What I seek is a woman of breeding. A woman who knows how to conduct herself in Society, and how to manage a household effectively. Several households, in fact. And I hardly think an eighteen-year-old Bath Miss is likely to possess the degree of maturity necessary.’
‘Is not the vitality of youth suitable recompense?’
David shook his head. ‘Not to me. With youth comes giddiness, frivolity and a tendency towards unacceptable behaviour. Conduct I cannot condone in the future Marchioness of Blackwood. I have a duty to my family. To my name.’
‘Ah, I see.’
Well, he was certainly setting it out plainly enough, Nicola reflected. Whosoever married the Marquis of Blackwood would be doing so with her eyes wide open. There would be no misunderstandings, no false expectations, and no grand delusions of love. Not exactly the type of proposal she had been dreaming of all her life, Nicola acknowledged wryly.
‘In return, the lady who becomes my wife will wear the coronet of a marchioness,’ David continued. ‘She will be the mistress of two of the finest country homes in England, as well as an elegant town house in London, and will have jewels, carriages and servants at her disposal. She will enjoy the respect due to her position in Society, and will want for nothing.’
Nicola knew she shouldn’t have, but she could not prevent a tiny smile from lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘Is that all, my lord?’
‘Is that all?’ David looked down at her in astonishment. ‘Is that not enough? Surely I have offered you all that is good in life?’
‘Well, yes, you have, but—’
‘But what?’
Nicola risked a quick glance upwards, about to explain to Lord Blackwood exactly what was lacking in his proposal, when the look on his face stayed the words on her lips and gave her the answer she was looking for.
No, love was clearly not a requirement in the marquis’s choice of a wife. It would be too…unpredictable, too quixotic an emotion. It would spawn erratic behaviour and, instinctively, Nicola knew that such spontaneity would have no place in the life of the very proper Marquis of Blackwood. Or in that of the marquis’s very proper wife.
‘I take it my proposal is not to your liking, Lady Nicola?’ David asked, as the silence between them lengthened.
‘On the contrary, it is a very flattering one indeed,’ she said, regretting that he had misinterpreted her hesitation. ‘It is just that I am somewhat…surprised by the manner in which it was delivered.’
‘Ah, yes.’ David smiled sardonically. ‘You were expecting something more romantic, perhaps. A proposal inspired by the honeyed words of Byron himself.’
‘Not at all. I do not expect you to profess love where you feel none. That would be hypocritical indeed.’
‘Then perhaps it is myself you find lacking,’ David countered, trying to determine the source of her indecision. ‘I have not led a very domestic existence to this point, nor will I try to make you believe that I have. But you need not fear that you will be making a dreadful mistake by marrying me. You will be given a free hand with regard to the running of my homes and be treated with the respect that is your due. And, in time, hopefully there will be children for you to care for.’ David stopped and glanced at her quickly. ‘You do like children, Lady Nicola?’
Nicola’s face lit up. ‘Oh, yes, of course, I adore them. Don’t you?’
‘To be honest, I have never given it much thought. I’ve always considered it my duty to assure the continuation of the line, of course—’
Nicola’s feathery brows rose in surprise. ‘Is that how you look upon children, my lord? As a duty?’
‘I suppose that is how I look upon a number of things,’ David replied slowly. ‘In a position such as mine, freedom of choice must often be compromised for the good of the family. Surely you understand that?’
Nicola shifted her gaze and focused it on the painting behind Lord Blackwood’s head. ‘Yes, I understand,’ she said softly. And she did. She understood that the most important thing in Blackwood’s life was his duty. Duty to his name and to his family. He would put that before everything—including love. That explained why there had not even been a pretence of affection in his proposal. And since he had chosen her to be his wife he obviously believed that she could deal with his offer on those same terms. But could she? Hadn’t she, like most young women, harboured dreams of being loved for all the right reasons? Of being told that she was the only woman in the world who could make him happy?
Of course she had, and Nicola knew that she would be a fool indeed if that was what she believed she was being offered here. What she was being offered was a life of supreme comfort, in exchange for her presence at the head of his table and her willingness to fill his nursery with children. That was what the Marquis of Blackwood was offering. And, just as Nicola was about to tell him that it simply wasn’t good enough, Blackwood himself threw her into confusion.
‘Forgive me, Lady Nicola. I don’t seem to be doing a very good job of this,’ he admitted as he sank down onto the sofa beside her. ‘Perhaps because I have always believed marriage to be such…a serious business.’
The unexpected admission, humbly offered, caught Nicola totally unawares and she faltered. ‘Well, yes, of course marriage is a serious business. But surely there can be reasons besides duty and obligation for wishing to marry someone.’
‘I would like to think that there are, but I also think that you and I are mature enough to understand that none of those more…sentimental reasons come into play here,’ David said quietly. ‘Like you, I do not look for shallow declarations of love simply because they are expected. I believe that such a great depth of emotion can only develop over time, as two people come to know and to understand each other. But I would hope that we could deal intelligently with each other, and perhaps with affection. Most importantly, I will honour, respect and revere you, Lady Nicola,’ David said softly. ‘That much I can promise you, from this day forward.’
David wasn’t sure who was more surprised by his admission—Lady Nicola, or himself. He couldn’t remember ever having spoken so openly to anyone before. But she wasn’t to know that he had been suffering pangs of conscience ever since she had asked him if he liked children, and his answer had made him sound like an insensitive boor. Of course he liked children; he always had. Why, then, had he made it sound as if it was only duty that made him consider having them?
David studied the lovely face beside him, and offered her a game smile. ‘Well, I think that is all I have to say. Perhaps you would like some time to think it over? A few more days before I call again for your answer? Unless…you are sure of your answer now.’
Nicola lifted her head to look at him, and marvelled at how fickle the human heart could be. She had just received a proposal of marriage from one of the most eligible gentlemen in London—one whom most would have accepted before his final words were out—and now he was offering her time to consider an answer which, until a few short moments ago, would have been the same in a week’s time as it would have been today.
Until a few short moments ago…
