The Marquess Finds Romance Read online

  “I believe Mary has taken you to several dinner parties, has she not? Do you not look forward to a ball? Every young lady wishes to attend a ball!”

  Janie nodded. “Yes, Mary and St. John have taken me to a few dinner parties. They were very nice. I loved the houses—mansions, really—the fabulous gowns, the luxurious furnishings, the glittering place settings. But I’ve seen them. I can’t keep eating my way through the nineteenth century. And no, I haven’t been to a ball. Mary mentioned that Lord and Lady Fairchild are having a ball next week, and we’re supposed to go to that. I look forward to it, but when Clara and Roger return, I think it will be time for me to go. Thank you though for bringing me here. This has been so fascinating! I’m never going to forget it.”

  “I am so glad you enjoy it here, dear.”

  “I do, but ya know, all good things must come to an end.” Janie grinned and returned to gazing at the sheep. She wasn’t stupid. She hadn’t missed Hickstrom’s prevarication, but since the fairy godmother had told her she wasn’t a “project,” Janie had little fear that she would try to match her to some nineteenth-century lonely heart. After all, she hadn’t even read from Hickstrom’s Book of Fairy Tales! Well, in fact, she had read a bit of it, but just a line or two to help Clara out. No fairy tale had been written for her. Though she was a self-employed maid chatting with a fairy godmother, Janie had no wicked stepmother harassing her, no glass slippers to wear to the ball and no Prince Charming looking for true love.

  “All good things,” Hickstrom repeated softly. “Of course.”

  The sound of hooves caught both their attention, and they looked across the field to see two horses trotting through the woods on the other side of the meadow.

  Janie’s face burned as she recognized the riders. She looked over her shoulder to ensure that her skirts were somewhere near her ankles.

  “Ah! Lords St. John and Carswell approach,” Hickstrom said.

  “Oh, do you know Lord Carswell?” Janie asked. “I just met him about forty minutes ago. What an obnoxious man!”

  “You did not like him?” she asked.

  “Not a bit! How do you know him?”

  “I met Lord Carswell when he visited here before. He was quite taken with Clara, you know.”

  “Really? She didn’t mention him. But she was in love with Roger, wasn’t she?”

  “As planned,” Hickstrom said.

  “Hickstrom!” Janie laughed. “You sound very proud of yourself!” Janie watched as the two men approached.

  St. John’s normally civil expression darkened as he looked at the women. Lord Carswell’s dismissive expression altered to one of interest as he looked at Hickstrom.

  “Miss Hickstrom!” he said, finally doffing his hat. “Well met! I had hoped to see you during my visit. I have so many questions for you.”

  “Lord Carswell, it is so nice to see you again. St. John.” Hickstrom nodded.

  Janie noted that she didn’t curtsey. Janie made sure to drop one.

  St. John tipped his hat toward them.

  “Miss Hickstrom,” he said in barely concealed displeasure. “Which poor soul have you come to visit?”

  “St. John, really! There is no need to be so disagreeable. I have come to visit Miss Ferguson. I doubt that she would consider herself a ‘poor soul.’”

  “Not at all,” Janie said valiantly. She understood that St. John had a long history with Hickstrom, but she was startled by his rudeness. He had always been so courteous, the epitome of a Regency gentleman.

  Janie turned back to the men on horseback to see Lord Carswell eyeing her speculatively, actually looking at her. She twitched the hem of her skirt to let him know that she’d fixed her problem, and then she turned a cold shoulder on him, looking away.

  “If you will excuse us, we were just returning to the castle,” St. John said. “Good day, madam. Janie, we shall see you upon your return.” He urged his horse forward and trotted away.

  Lord Carswell tipped his hat again in Hickstrom’s direction.

  “Will you join us for tea, Miss Hickstrom?”

  “I cannot, Lord Carswell. I have some matters which require my attention, but I am certain Miss Ferguson could do with a nice cup.”

  “Indeed,” Lord Carswell said in an indifferent voice. He had returned to ignoring Janie, and she didn’t care one little bit.

  “Not me!” Janie said. “I’m happy where I am.”

  “I do hope to see you again, Miss Hickstrom,” Lord Carswell said. “Good day!” He moved forward and trotted after St. John.

  Janie turned to Hickstrom. “Nope! I don’t like him one little bit!”

  “Yes, I see that,” she said. “He did seem rather dismissive.”

  “I’m sorry about St. John,” Janie said with a sympathetic grimace. “I’ve never seen him act so rudely. Maybe that Carswell fellow is rubbing off on him.”

  “The earl feels he has good reason to despise me. He does not, of course, as I only desired his happiness, but he is stubborn. I harbor no ill will toward him for his peevishness.”

  “I’m glad. Speaking of ill will, I guess this Lord Carswell will be staying at the castle for a few days, so I’ll have to deal with him at mealtime. No chance you could join us?”

  “I fear not, my dear. I have so much to do, so many hearts to tend. Still, I feel that you could quite adequately ignore him if you so choose.”

  “I will,” Janie said with a firm nod. “I most certainly will. Cantankerous old coot!”

  Chapter Two

  “Hickstrom is back?” Mary exclaimed. “Oh, that can’t be good!”

  Lord Carswell studied Mary out of the corner of his eyes, still very disconcerted by her unusual dialect and the notion that she had been born over two hundred years in the future.

  “No, it does not bode well,” St. John said, sipping a cup of tea.

  “I am honored that you have shared your secret of time travel with me when I was here last,” Lord Carswell said, “but why do you assume that Miss Hickstrom’s appearance portends something ominous?”

  “That’s what Hickstrom does,” Mary said. “She meddles and interferes and makes matches, whether people want to find love or not. She doesn’t just visit. My guess is that she has set her sights on Janie, on making a match for her, but honestly, that doesn’t make sense. To date, Hickstrom has required that her future brides read from a book of fairy tales. That has been the catalyst for bringing us back in time. But Janie came back in time to accompany Clara, just for a visit really. As far as I know, she didn’t read from the book of fairy tales, so why would she be a target?”

  “A target? Surely you cannot believe that Miss Hickstrom hunts her—” Lord Carswell found himself at a loss for an adequately descriptive term.

  “Prey?” St. John offered in a dark tone. “We do not know how the lady selects her victims, but her choices are not random. Therefore, it is likely that Miss Ferguson—that Janie—is not to be one of her projects, my dear.”

  “Then why is she here?” Mary pondered. “Everyone is happily married. Is she bringing someone else back in time? Who do we know who is single?”

  Lord Carswell raised his cup to his lips.

  “There are any number of young bachelors in the county, Mary,” St. John said.

  “But Janie is—” Mary paused, a delicate stain coloring her cheeks.

  “Janie is what, my dear?” St. John prompted.

  Mary appeared to draw in a deep breath, as if she chose her words carefully. “Well, she’s a little bit older than the ‘young bachelors,’” she said. “She’s thirty, so I don’t know which of these fuddy-duddy mothers would even consider her as a bride.” Mary shook her head. “No, it can’t be Janie. I guess we’ll have to wait and see what Hickstrom wants.”

  A tap on the door signaled the arrival of Miss Ferguson. St. John and Lord Carswell rose as she entered the room, curtsied and took a seat next to Mary on the sofa.

  “I heard you were communing with the sheep again,
” Mary said with a smile. She offered Miss Ferguson a cup of tea. “And I heard you met up with Hickstrom. Did she come with you?”

  Mary’s eyes strayed toward the door, as if expecting the appearance of the lady in question.

  Miss Ferguson shook her head. “No, she said she was busy.”

  Lord Carswell noted that Miss Ferguson kept her eyes riveted on Mary’s face, seemingly avoiding the gentlemen in the room. He had developed an instant aversion to her when he first saw her on the bridge with her dress askew and her nether regions exposed. She seemed hoydenish, uncouth, not at all proper. He understood now by inference that she too had traveled back from the future, but she seemed completely incompatible with Clara’s sweet disposition, Mary’s elegant manners, even Rachel Halwell’s decorous comportment.

  He watched her hand shake as she spilled tea into her saucer. She glanced at him and then looked down at her cup again. Lord Carswell wondered at his aversion to Miss Ferguson. Surely he could find it in his upbringing to at least be civil toward the lady. He did not care to see himself in so arrogant a light, but he simply could not tolerate her. Yet tolerate her he must if they were both guests of the same family.

  He felt certain that it was Miss Ferguson’s indecorous demeanor and not her advanced age that set his hackles. He hoped so, for his own sake. He had never considered himself a cruel gentleman, a man who outright dismissed persons of advanced age. Of course he was much older than she, but then he was a gentleman, not a spinster.

  Her flawless skin did not bear the markings of age. She possessed a full head of shining flaxen hair. Her eyes, bright blue-green, showed no dullness and appeared quite youthful. She was not an unattractive female, and he could not help wondering why she was still unmarried at age thirty.

  Lord Carswell reapplied himself to the conversation at hand, the

  discussion regarding Miss Hickstrom, the fairy godmother. He imagined she was probably a spinster herself, albeit with special powers.

  “Busy? Hickstrom?” Mary scoffed. “Did she say why she is here?”

  Miss Ferguson shrugged her shoulders in an unladylike gesture.

  “No, not really. We talked about sheep.”

  “Sheep!” Mary exclaimed. “Is that all?”

  Miss Ferguson’s cheeks colored. She cast a quick glance toward Lord Carswell under veiled lashes, long dark lashes that were incongruous with her light-colored hair.

  “We talked about me going home,” Miss Ferguson murmured.

  “Oh, Janie! Already?” Mary followed Miss Ferguson’s eyes. “Don’t worry. Lord Carswell knows everything. We had to tell him a few months ago.”

  Lord Carswell observed Miss Ferguson hunch a shoulder, as if to turn away from him. She had done so earlier, and he had deduced that she did not like him any more than he liked her.

  “Okay, fine. Well, anyway, you know how much I’ve enjoyed my visit and how grateful I am that you’ve let me stay here at Alvord Castle, but I probably ought to get back as soon as Clara returns. Everyone here is so busy, and I should get back to our business.”

  “The house-cleaning business?” Mary murmured.

  “Yeah, it’s in good hands, but it’s my business now, so I’d like to get back to work. I need to stay busy.”

  Lord Carswell winced at Miss Ferguson’s slang, the language of the London streets. She seemed completely devoid of proper education. He had been aware that Clara had owned a business, but he had been willing to overlook such bourgeoisie origins given his affections for her. He found he could not support such humble beginnings in Miss Ferguson. She did not belong at Alvord Castle. She did not belong in the genteel atmosphere of nineteenth-century nobility.

  “I understand,” Mary said. “What did Hickstrom say about you returning?”

  Miss Ferguson scrunched her nose. “I’m not really sure. Do you ever get the feeling that when you talk to Hickstrom, you have no idea what was actually said?”

  “Every single time,” Mary said with a laugh.

  “Indeed,” St. John added.

  Privately, Lord Carswell agreed with Miss Ferguson’s assessment, but he did not say so.

  “So, no, I’m not really sure. I think she agreed that she would send me back after Clara returns.”

  Mary nodded.

  “I’ll be sorry to see you go.”

  “And I as well,” St. John offered, rather valiantly in Lord Carswell’s opinion. Surely St. John was not overly pleased to have such an unrefined female as a guest in Alvord Castle.

  “Well, at least you’ll be able to attend Lady Fairchild’s ball next week,” Mary said. “We have to order you a gown for that.”

  “Mary, you’ve done so much for me already. I’m sure that in all the gowns you’ve given me or ordered for me, there must be something appropriate to wear.”

  Lord Carswell tilted his head with interest at the use of the word “appropriate.” Did Miss Ferguson not understand the use of irony? Or was she being facetious? He could not credit her with such intelligence. No appropriate lady would have dangled her feet over the edge of a bridge or allowed herself to reveal her limbs and other physical features in such a way.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Mary said. “Let’s buy something in silk, something that shines like your hair does. Maybe ivory?”

  Miss Ferguson glanced at the gentlemen again with rosy cheeks before returning her attention to her saucer and cup.

  “Mary,” she murmured. “Thank you for the compliment.”

  “Well, I wish I had your hair! I’ll have the seamstress come this afternoon.”

  “Thank you again. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You’ll be here for the ball, won’t you, Lord Carswell?” Mary asked.

  Lord Carswell drew his eyes from Miss Ferguson’s bright locks with effort. “Yes, of course. I look forward to attending. I always enjoyed Lady Fairchild’s galas when I have visited.”

  “Good! Well, I’ve got to go see the baby, so I’ll leave you all to it.” Mary rose, and Miss Ferguson jumped to her feet without a modicum of grace.

  “Me too!” she blurted. “Thanks for the tea.” She mimicked Mary’s curtsey without any of the countess’s grace and followed Mary from the room.

  Lord Carswell, in the act of rising to bow, fell back into his seat. St. John had managed a quick bow upon the ladies’ exit before striding over to a side buffet and pouring out two drinks.

  “Something to chase the tea, I think,” he said. He settled back down into his chair. “What did you think of the lady?”

  “A woman out of her time, awkward, rather uncouth, a bit coarse, not at all the sort of female to which I am accustomed.”

  St. John lifted an eyebrow. “I refer to Miss Hickstrom. Do you?”

  Lord Carswell’s face burned. “Ah! Miss Hickstrom. Yes, of course!”

  “Lord Carswell, am I correct in assuming that you referred to Miss Ferguson?”

  Lord Carswell dipped his head in mortification. “I apologize, St. John. To insult your guest as I did is unconscionable. Yes, I did think you were asking my opinion of Miss Ferguson. How very foolish of me. Of course you would not ask about a guest, a friend of Lady Mary.”

  “No, I would not,” St. John said, “but now that you have disclosed your distaste for her, may I ask what prompts such harsh criticism?”

  “I should not say. Do forgive me.”

  “Yet, I remain curious. How did Miss Ferguson incur your censure? Do not say it was her disheveled appearance on the bridge. I doubt that was through design, and I suspect she did not realize her defect. She managed to rectify the situation by the time we saw her again. You stated that she is a ‘woman out of her time.’ They dress dissimilarly in the twenty-first century. I do not believe Miss Ferguson is accustomed to the restrictions of nineteenth-century female garments.”

  “I should take that into consideration,” Lord Carswell said. “Thank you for reminding me.”

  “Then you did judge her by the accident of her dress?”
>
  Lord Carswell drew in a deep breath. “She is not...a young woman,” he began. “But in my opinion, her behavior showed a certain lack of decorum in the way she sat upon the bridge, swinging her feet over the edge as a child might. I would expect a more mature demeanor from someone of her advanced years.”

  St. John laughed then, an outright bellow that startled Lord Carswell.

  “Advanced years? Lord Carswell? Can you be serious? You do understand the meaning of irony, do you not?”

  Lord Carswell finished off his drink in one gulp, feeling as if he had been hoist by his own petard.

  “There is no need to insult me, St. John! You asked my opinion, and I gave it. May I remind you that I am a gentleman? My worth is not determined by whom I marry, or when I marry, or if I marry at all. That measure falls to the female sex. My worth is determined by my wealth, my property and perhaps my title. I would also state that I married once and am now widowed. I chose a bride and was chosen by a lady as husband. I have not languished for lack of a suitable spouse as Miss Ferguson does now.”

  Lord Carswell regretted his words the moment he uttered them, but he was wholly unprepared for St. John’s reaction. The earl buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as if he laughed silently. Lord Carswell pursed his lips, stiffened his back and waited. At last St. John looked up, his eyes moist from tears of laughter.

  “Forgive me, Lord Carswell. I do not mean to laugh at your expense. You have much to learn of the twenty-first century. We both do, but I have more familiarity than you given that I am married to a woman from that time. I am given to understand that the experience of women is different two hundred years into the future. I do not think that the majority of them ‘languish for lack of a suitable spouse.’

  “Mary and Rachel have given me to understand that women need not marry at all in their time, that they often choose not to have children, that many obtain their own income from independent employment. I see from your expression that you cannot countenance such. I could not either at first, but the more ladies I meet from the twenty-first century, the more I am convinced that they have an easier time of it then.”