A Wedding In Springtime(21)

“The billiard room is this way in case you have the desire to play.” Marchford abruptly changed the subject and led her down a side stairwell. The notion of Pen playing billiards was absurd, but she followed along, trying to arrange her thoughts enough to form words.

“The billiard room,” said Marchford, entering an unlit room with rich mahogany woodwork and burgundy velvet curtains. Compared to the airy, white gallery it was a warm, intimate space.

“I believe in love matches,” blurted Pen.

Marchford raised an eyebrow. “Do you now?”

“Yes. I ensured my sisters all made good matches with men who would not only be able to give them a comfortable life, but also where there was mutual affection.”

Marchford took a step toward her, his eyes dark in the dimly lit room. His features were handsome but strong with a decided nose and chiseled jawline. “The Duke of Marchford is engaged to Lady Louisa. It was intended to be my brother, but with the peerage, I also inherited a bride.”

“Perhaps love can grow. Affection can develop between two people who are often in each other’s company.”

Marchford’s eyes never left hers. “Perhaps you are right.”

Pen looked away, wondering why the room had suddenly grown so hot. What could she be thinking, speaking of love matches with the duke? “Thank you for the tour, Your Grace. It was most informative.”

“It seems, Miss Rose, we have a problem,” he drawled in a low tone.

“A-a problem?” she stammered.

“We have lost Miss Talbot.”





Seven





William Grant bounded up the stairs to the front door of the Duke of Marchford’s grand house. “Where’s Marchford?” he asked the dignified butler who answered the bell.

“I believe His Grace is conducting a tour of the house. If you would wait in the drawing room, Mr. Grant, I shall inform His Grace that you have arrived.”

“No need, no need, I shall find him myself. Must dash. Already kept my horse waiting too long. Fine stepper. Not the thing to let him get chilled.”

“But, Mr. Grant,” called the butler, but Grant had already bounded up the marble stairs to the gallery. It is where people generally lingered on tours of the house. He recognized some of the statuary was quite fine, but not as fine as the handsome bit of horseflesh he had recently purchased at Tatt’s, waiting for him outside.

Grant paused for a moment but heard and saw no one. He walked through the gallery at a quick pace, looking for Marchford and wondering if he had gone down to the billiard room. Grant strode past the statues until arrested by a compelling sight. Miss Talbot stood looking up at a marble of Athena drawing her bow.

In the sunlight, her blond curls shimmered. Gowned in all white, had it not been for her golden hair, he might have mistaken her for another marble statue of the female form in perfection. He smiled at her, unable to stop himself.

“Hallo, we meet again.” Grant walked up to Genie, all thoughts of horses forgot.

Genie noted his presence but returned his smile with a frown. “Oh no, not you again.”

“You wound me!” Grant clutched his heart. “Whatever have I done to win such censure?”

“What have you done?” cried Genie. “Why, I have had to endure hours of lecture about you from my aunt. She was quite disapproving of me ‘whispering in the corner of the drawing room’ with you.”

“Your aunt has lectured you about me? You intrigue me. Whatever did she say?”

“For a woman who holds you in such low esteem, she certainly knows a great deal about you.” Genie sat down on a marble bench, her arms crossed before her. She pursed her lips in a manner that showed she was quite put out, but all Grant could see was how kissable those naturally pink lips must be.

“Do tell. I am aquiver with anticipation.”

“Did you know you are the enemy of every decent young woman?”

“No!” Grant sat beside her, his face a picture of mock horror.

“Yes, quite. You are a mother’s worst nightmare, a handsome, well-breeched, pleasant-mannered young gentleman who has sworn off ever entering the married state. Apparently, you have caused the decline of many a foolish miss who has set her cap at you, and you are the bane of your mother’s existence. Do you deny it?”

“I am well chastised indeed.”

“You accept the judgment against you?”