A Wedding In Springtime(33)

Marchford knew what he must do. He would not force the matter and bring scandal to his house and to that of Lady Louisa. Love may not be in his future, but a marriage certainly was.

Instead of returning to the ballroom, Marchford sat on a stone bench in the garden, appreciating the stillness of the moonless night. Light poured from the door of the house, dimly lighting the garden in shades of gray. Tall bushes formed walls to create different rooms in the garden, some in sight, others hidden from view. It would be a pleasant place to stroll with an interest of fancy, not that he was at leave to indulge in that sort of activity. Marchford closed his eyes and breathed in the aroma of gardenia with a hint of lilac.

His mother had been a lover of flowers and had cultivated a wild jungle of color in their garden. After his mother was gone, his grandmother ordered the flowers to be ripped from the earth and replaced with sensible hedges. Now the Marchford house garden held nothing but well-mannered bushes trimmed at neat right angles. Nothing dared look unkempt in his grandmother’s garden—his garden. Perhaps it was time to bring back the flowers.

It is remarkable how the soft swish of a woman’s skirts can capture the attention of a man. Marchford turned toward the sound, waiting to see who might appear. Was it a couple hiding in the garden for a few moments alone? Was it a seductress come to help him forget his marital woes? The figure that appeared was definitely female, shapely, and alone.

“Good evening,” said Marchford.

The woman gave a small shriek and put her hand over her mouth. “Marchford?”

“At your service.” Marchford stood and bowed.

She stepped forward into the light, revealing Miss Penelope Rose. “What are you doing here in the dark?” she asked in an accusing manner. “You gave me a fright.”

“I might ask the same of you,” replied Marchford. “Why would my grandmother’s companion abandon her during the party and walk alone in the garden?”

“I hardly abandoned your grandmother. She is playing whist with her friends and has no current need for me. As for walking in the garden, I find the cool air a relief after the hot ballroom. Why are you here? Shall I leave before I interrupt a lovers’ tryst?”

Marchford coughed slightly at her brusque, straightforward manner. It was clear why she remained unmarried. She was all social awkwardness and sharp edges. “Nothing so scandalous, I assure you.”

“Yes, yes, of course not, I beg your pardon.” Penelope turned slightly toward the door to the house, as if wishing to leave but not exactly sure how to extricate herself from the conversation. Marchford was not inclined to help.

“And you? Am I interrupting a lovers’ tryst?”

“Me? A tryst? Certainly not!”

“And yet, you are alone in the garden. It would be a natural assumption, an assumption you in fact made.”

“Did I? Yes, well, you are you and I am, well, me.”

“A true statement.” Marchford smothered a smile. He should not enjoy needling her as much as he did, but her abruptness brought out a little used tendency to tease.

“So you see, there is no…” Penelope broke off and narrowed her eyes. “You are teasing me.”

“Perhaps.”

“That is unkind.”

And at once, Marchford felt it had been unkind. The power differential between them made his words appear not to be the work of a tease but of a bully. And that he could not abide. He opened his mouth to offer his apology, but Penelope spoke before he got the chance.

“Impolitic too,” continued Penelope, “for it will only inspire me to answer in kind.”

Marchford closed his mouth. The fact that he was a duke and she his grandmother’s companion did not appear to cow Miss Rose in the least. It was refreshing. Surprising too.

“And how would you respond? Of what have you to accuse me?”

“Much! Where would you like me to start, Your Grace?”

“I had no idea I had so many flaws readily apparent to the casual observer. Pray tell me, do you find my address lacking?”

“No, your manner and address are all what they should be.” Penelope pursed her lips in a way that informed Marchford she was unhappy about this admission.

“You find want with my fashion or form?”

“No, Your Grace.” Despite the chill of the garden, Penelope snapped open her fan and began to wave it in a distracted manner. “Your form is… you dress quite adequately.”