By Love Undone (9 page)

“I
did
come here to help him,” Quin protested. “What do you think—”

She raised a dirt-smudged finger at him. “You came here to help your father. To see to the crops, and keep up the ledgers. And you didn’t come for three weeks, and then arrived precisely on the fifteenth.”

Quin took a deep breath. By God, this woman was infuriating. “I was at Warefield,” he snapped. “I didn’t know anything had happened to Malcolm until my father sent for me.” He leaned toward her, closer to losing his temper than he’d been in years. “Why didn’t
you
write sooner?” he accused hotly.

Maddie glared at him. “He wouldn’t let me, at first. Mr. Bancroft doesn’t like your side of the family.” She folded her arms over her chest. “And now that I think about it, neither do I.”

Quin leaned closer still, his face only inches from
hers. And then his eyes focused on her lips. The anger in his veins became something else entirely—something equally hot and equally disturbing. “You don’t know me,” he murmured, meeting her gaze again.

She held his eyes, still fearless. “And you don’t know me.”

“I would like to,” he said, in a low voice.

Her mouth opened, and then shut again. “You—I—” Maddie swallowed. “Bah,” she finally snapped, and turned her back on him.

Quin watched her stalk back to the house. A slow smile touched his lips. This was becoming very interesting indeed.

“W
onderful,” Maddie snarled, shutting her door with a thud and plunking herself down on her bed. “Wonderful. Now he really
does
want to seduce me.”

She jumped to her feet again and strode to the window. He was still out there in the garden—she could see one leg and part of his arm if she craned her head against the cool glass. With all the insults she’d handed him, Lord Warefield still thought he could win her good favor simply by looking at her with those beguiling eyes and by talking nicely.

“Ha, ha, ha,” she said to his elbow down below. “I’ve heard nice words before. Nicer than that.” What she should have done—what she
would
have done, if he hadn’t temporarily surprised her out of her wits—was tell him to go to Jericho and leave her in peace.

Maddie scowled. In point of fact, she’d had ample opportunity to tell him exactly that, and she hadn’t done it. She’d gawked at him like some stupid, doe-eyed halfwit, and then even worse, had turned tail and run.

She banged her head against the glass. “Stupid, stupid girl,” she muttered. “So what if he’s handsome? So what if he can quote Shakespeare? I’m sure most every
one can. And so what if he doesn’t mind chasing pigs through the mud and ruining a perfectly splendid set of clothes? And….”

Down in the garden, he turned around without warning and looked up at her.

“Drat!” Maddie ducked backward. She stayed hidden behind the curtains for a long moment, smacking her hands together in agitation. With the light outside, he might not have seen her gaping at him through the window. She counted to ten, took a breath, and then stepped forward again.

The marquis stood beneath her window, a white rose in one hand. With a smile, he held it up to her, then bowed with an absurdly grand flourish.

“Of all the nerve,” she breathed. Her clever game had crumbled into a shambles, and he thought he had beaten her. The marquis had a surprise coming. She stuck out her tongue at him.

He blew her a kiss.

Her heart pounding, Maddie unlatched the window and shoved it open. “Don’t you ruin my roses!” she shouted at him.

“‘But soft,’” he called up to her with a deepening grin, “‘what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet—’”

With a choked cry of outrage, she slammed the window shut again. No more speaking to him, or looking at him, or assisting him with anything. That would show him! She stomped to her door and threw it open. And she certainly wasn’t going to the Fowlers’ ball and dance with that arrogant, self-centered
aristocrat
.

She turned down the hallway and was nearly run over by Mr. Bancroft as he scooted around the corner in his wheeled chair. “Mr. Bancroft!” she said, trying to swallow her annoyance at his evil, seductive nephew. “How wonderful!”

“Perhaps this contraption isn’t so bad, after all,” he admitted. “Though I do seem to go in circles quite a bit.”

“I told you that you’d like it.” She cleared her throat. “Mr. Bancroft, I don’t think I need to go—”

“And since I’ve been getting about so well,” he interrupted happily, “I thought the Fowlers’ ball on Friday would be a splendid opportunity for me to make my public debut.”

Maddie closed her mouth again.

He reached out and took her hand. “Would you be my escort, Maddie?”

“I haven’t anything to wear,” she hedged, wondering if he could hear the reluctance in her voice.

“Nonsense. What about the gown you had made for the Dardinales’ Christmas soiree? That was lovely.”

“But it was for winter,” she protested, “two years ago.”

“No one here will notice.”

Someone
would
notice, and she was unsettled to realize it was Lord Warefield’s reaction she’d been thinking of. “I…suppose not.”

“There you go. I’m not much for dancing at the moment, but I do quite a handy job at holding glasses of punch.”

She laughed halfheartedly. “Yes, Mr. Bancroft. I would be delighted to accompany you.”

But saying she would attend and actually preparing for the ball were two very different things. As soon as Warefield returned to his planting, she began rooting through her scanty wardrobe. When Maddie tried the gown on, it still fit, though the burgundy pelisse hardly seemed appropriate for a spring soiree, and the looser waist was hopelessly dated. And her shoes were the same black slippers she’d worn to every formal and semi-formal gathering since she’d come to Langley.
Maddie frowned. She had three days. It was time to begin sewing.

“Miss Maddie?”

“Come in, Mrs. Hodges,” she called, twisting in front of the mirror to eye her hemline skeptically. Using every ounce of skill and patience she possessed, she’d taken in the waist and adjusted the length a total of four times, and was still able to concede only that she looked passable. Barely.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” the housekeeper said approvingly, as she opened the door. “You’ll have that Squire John mooning after you for certain.”

Maddie smiled. “John Ramsey is a friend, Mrs. Hodges, nothing more.”

“Hm. All the same, those Fowler girls’ll be lucky to be noticed enough at their own party to keep from being bumped into.” She laid a silver hair ribbon on the dressing table. “And I wager his lordship’ll have no complaints, either.”

A sudden nervous tremor shook Maddie’s fingers, and she picked up the ribbon to cover it. Apparently she’d frightened him off, for he had barely spoken to her at all in the past three days. Of course, he would likely claim that he’d been occupied with the planting, but she knew better—the coward. “My thanks for the hair ribbon. I hadn’t realized all of mine were so worn.”

“That’s because you never go into Harthgrove with us to look at the catalogs of London fashions.”

“Who has time for London fashions so far from London?” Maddie returned, unable to keep an edge of disdain out of her voice.

“Well, at least
I
have a new hair ribbon to lend to other people who don’t care about fashion,” Mrs. Hodges sniffed with exaggerated haughtiness, turning for the door.

Maddie grinned. “Thank you very, very much for the loan, Mrs. Hodges.”

The housekeeper returned to Maddie’s side and kissed her on the cheek. “My pleasure, Miss Maddie.”

Garrett clumsily rolled the wheeled chair down the stairs, while Bill Tomkins carried Mr. Bancroft to the ground floor. Maddie followed behind, still fiddling with her hair and muttering a prayer that an April snowstorm would sweep through Somerset before they reached the coach, and cause them to miss the soiree.

“You look ravishing, Maddie,” Mr. Bancroft said appreciatively, smiling.

She looked back up the stairs, another nervous flutter running along her skin. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait for Lord Warefield? If we arrive as fashionably late as they do in London, the ball will be over before we get there.”

“I’m certain he’ll be along before Michaelmas. And Maddie, try not to criticize his attire tonight, if you don’t mind. You’ll have the poor fellow weeping.”

She chuckled reluctantly. “How else is he supposed to learn?”

Only a moment later, unhurried bootsteps sounded in the hall upstairs. Maddie leaned back against the wall and folded her arms. Affixing a look of bored disdain on her face, she kept her gaze on the grandfather clock. He might have caught her off guard once or twice, but the war was by no means over.

“Ah, good evening, Quinlan.” Mr. Bancroft rolled to the foot of the stairs to greet his nephew.

“Good evening, Uncle. I trust I’m not too tardy?”

“Not at all.”

Maddie waited for seven seconds to tick off the clock before she turned around. She’d intended to wait for ten, but she couldn’t quite manage it. “Good evening, my
lord,” she said, curtseying. As she lifted her eyes to his, she nearly lost her balance.

“Miss Willits.”

Quinlan stood looking down at her, a slight, amused expression on his lean, handsome face. She’d expected him to be wearing his black too-formal attire, but apparently he’d learned his lesson. Instead, a rich brown coat cut in a jaunty style cloaked his broad shoulders, while a cream-colored waistcoat and black breeches drew her helplessly attracted gaze once more to his well-muscled thighs.

For the first time in days, his Hessian boots were completely free of mud, and were shiny enough to reflect her own unwillingly mesmerized expression back at her. “My goodness, my lord. However will anyone be able to concentrate on dancing with such a splendid sight before them? I am quite ready to faint myself.”

“Maddie,” Mr. Bancroft warned.

“I think they’ll be distracted enough by you to forget about me,” the marquis said softly. “At least, all the men will be.” He came forward and took her hand, lifting it to his lips. His gaze traveled down the length of her gown and back up again, pausing at her low-cut neckline. “You are lovely.”

Maddie swallowed and swiftly retrieved her hand as a warm, pleasant flush crept from her toes all the way to her face. She took a quick breath, trying to gather her melting, scattering wits back into cohesion. “Not nearly as lovely as you, my lord.”

Mr. Bancroft snorted. “Well, someone compliment me, so we can be on our way.”

Immediately Maddie hurried over and kissed her employer on the cheek. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you getting about so well.” She smiled at him, taking his hand in hers. “Next month,
you
will be dancing.”

When she straightened, Quinlan was looking from one to the other of them, his expression unreadable. “I don’t think I can say it better than that,” he murmured, his gaze stopping on Maddie. “Shall we be off?”

The wheeled chair was strapped to the back of Lord Warefield’s coach, and the marquis lifted his uncle and placed him on the soft leather seat inside. As the coach started off, Maddie caught Quinlan looking at her from the opposite seat yet again, and far too smugly for her peace of mind.

“My lord,” she began in her most deferential voice, “whyever didn’t you wear this magnificent coat to dinner the other night? No one in the world could have found fault with such perfection.”

The marquis glanced away for a moment, his expression distinctly uncomfortable. Barely able to keep from chortling gleefully, she leaned forward and gestured at his boots. “And your valet must truly be a marvel! It’s taken him—what, eight days—to remove the last of the mud from those boots. How in the world did he manage it?”

“Aye,” Mr. Bancroft agreed. “It would be a handy secret to have in Somerset, no doubt about that.”

“Well…it will simply have to remain a secret,” the marquis said rather brusquely, and looked out the window.

Maddie and Malcolm glanced at one another. “Excuse me, my lord,” she said with carefully hidden amusement, “but do you mean your coat and boots are truly some sort of secret?”

He glared at her. “Yes. They are.”

Before Maddie could pursue her interrogation any further, they arrived at the Fowlers’ residence. Light shone from every window and from the lanterns scattered along the drive, which was already crowded with carriages and wagons. Apparently Mrs. Fowler had been as
good as her word and had invited every landowner in the area to attend the marquis’s grand unveiling.

A footman arrived to help Maddie to the ground and then assist the marquis with untying the chair. Once they had Mr. Bancroft settled, Maddie stepped behind the chair and took the handles.

“I’ll do that, Miss Willits,” the marquis said.

“Oh, I wouldn’t hear of it, my lord!” she gasped with mock horror. “However will everyone be able to shake your hand if you are pushing Mr. Bancroft about?”

“Miss Willits, it is not seemly for you—”

“I know perfectly well what is seemly and what is not,” she countered, unable to keep the abrupt anger out of her voice. “Far better—”

“Maddie,” Mr. Bancroft said quietly.

She stopped. “Mr. Bancroft is my employer,” she continued more evenly. “Allow me to do my duty by him.”

His eyes studying hers, Quinlan slowly nodded and stepped back. “Of course.”

The uneven drive didn’t make things any easier, but stubborn determination could do wonders, and Maddie managed to maneuver the chair up to the stairs. Two footmen who’d obviously been primed regarding their duties then took over, lifting Mr. Bancroft and the contraption into the manor house, and then all the way upstairs to the second floor. The marquis fell into step beside her as she followed, and she could feel his gaze on her again.

“1 didn’t intend to offend you, Maddie,” he said.

“It would be an honor to be offended by such a gentleman as yourself,” she replied coolly, hoping the trio of trumpeters she spied at the entrance to the ballroom was there to announce the marquis’s arrival.

“Good God,” he muttered as he, too, noticed them.
“Did you have something to do with this, Miss Willits?”

She put a hand to her breast. “Me, my lord? I would never presume.”

Quin’s eyes followed the gesture, then returned to her face. He slowly reached out to straighten her sleeve, his fingers brushing her bare arm. “What a shame.”

Maddie narrowed her eyes. “What—”

Before she could complete the sentence, the trilling fanfare began. Quinlan looked completely appalled, and Maddie was forced to clap a hand over her mouth to contain her amusement.

Apparently they’d been expected to arrive late. The entire assemblage, dressed in the finest attire Maddie had ever seen them wear, stood lining either side of the doorway. As their party entered, the guests, the footmen, and the musicians in the back of the room bowed almost in unison. Mrs. Fowler came forward, her arms outstretched in a gracious greeting, while her husband followed behind.

“My lord,” she breathed, curtseying deeply. “You honor us again with your presence.”

He smiled dazzlingly as he took her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Fowler. I’m happy to be here.”

“Please, my lord, allow me to introduce you.”

With that the crowd swept forward, surrounding them and making a rather alarming racket. Maddie leaned forward over the back of Malcolm’s chair as they waited, abandoned, in the entryway. “Would you care for some punch, Mr. Bancroft?”