Loving Lady Marcia (44 page)

“Lucky fellow.” Pippa sighed, her fist perched on her hip, and tried to be glad for Mrs. Dodd’s brother-in-law’s cousin.

A thick silence descended over them.

Mrs. Dodd, her eyes soft with concern, looked up from the cheese tray. “You’ll need to find a husband who understands you, the doting kind who’ll let you make as many sugar sculptures as you want in your own lovely kitchen.”

“
Mrs. Dodd
,” Pippa gently chastised her friend. “I’m not interested in marriage. Really.”

An unwelcome image came to her: she as a married woman creating sugar sculptures and stacking them high on a kitchen worktable—useless, unseen by anyone but herself and her kitchen staff. There’d be no joy in that.

And she’d seen what had happened to her mother. God forbid she ever look the way Mother had tonight … the way she looked every day now.

“You’re not your mum.” The cook read Pippa’s mind. “Not every marriage is like hers.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Pippa lingered over the castle, gently pushing open a miniature door which had melted shut.

Mrs. Dodd clucked and gave her a light nudge on the back. “I know when my words are falling on deaf ears. Off with ye now. To the drawing room.”

“But I’m not quite ready,” Pippa protested.

“It’s time.”

“All right.” Reluctantly, Pippa took off her apron and hung it on a hook by the kitchen door and turned slowly around. “I don’t want to go,” she whispered.

There was a second’s silence as she locked gazes with Mrs. Dodd.

“It can’t be easy,” the cook said plainly. “Lord Westdale is quite the intimidating presence.”

Pippa nodded, relieved her friend understood.

“I think you didn’t tell me everything about your wildest aspirations, did you?” Mrs. Dodd gazed fondly on her.

“No,” said Pippa, blushing. “I did leave out a part. But it can’t be. I can’t have it all. Especially when part of me can’t abide a certain … someone. He’s truly the last person I want to see on earth. And even if I did want to see him, and he suddenly changed from being shallow and bad to sincere and good, he’d ruin everything, everything I want. Which is not marriage. No.” She scratched her temple, effectively putting an end to her awkward speech.

“Don’t judge.” Mrs. Dodd wagged a wooden spoon at her. “And don’t go inventing rules for yourself. You’re not daunted by mere mortal men, are you?” Her eyes shone with challenge. “Not the girl who’s going to find happiness by hook or by crook.”

“Certainly not.” Pippa felt huffy at the thought and drew herself up. “Thank you, Mrs. Dodd.”

“You’re welcome, my lady.”

*   *   *

When Pippa rounded the shadowy corner and peeked in the drawing room of her uncle’s country estate to spy on his birthday-dinner guest, her whole body reacted with a suffusion of heat. In the soft glow of early evening candlelight, Lord Westdale was deep in conversation with her uncle and Mother, while Pippa’s stepfather Sir Harold glowered in the corner, alone.

But then Lord Westdale saw her, and the edge of his mouth tilted up. He stood, eyeing her as if she were the only woman in the world.

Pippa pretended she hadn’t stopped to stare at him and walked in with all the sangfroid she could muster.

“There she is.” He grinned. “My gorgeous, charming,
cheeky
little sister.”

Damn him. Damn him for so many reasons! She wasn’t his sister in the least. And as for
gorgeous
and
charming
, she could debate him on those, too. He’d been right on
cheeky
, but she only gave as good as she got.

“Lord Westdale, how are you?” Her voice was throaty, an obvious giveaway that he’d gotten to her in more ways than one.

She found she had to gather her wits when he bent that head of glossy black hair over her hand.

“So good to see you again,” he murmured smoothly.

Liar
.

She refused to let the warm, bold pressure of his fingers on her own disconcert her. “It’s been rather a long while,” she returned, striving for cool.

He stood tall again. “Not more than our usual year,” he teased her with a twinkle in his eye. “I’m flattered you thought it longer.”

“A year is still a year,” she choked out. “An awfully long time.”

What a stupid thing to say. It sounded as if she’d pined away for him—the last thing she wanted him to think.

“Don’t you remember?” he goaded her. “I left for America the morning after Uncle Bertie’s party. I wouldn’t miss it. I never do.”

She knew that. His unceasing loyalty to Uncle Bertie was the primary reason she put up with him. “And how was that … that tour?” she asked faintly.

Another inane bunch of words spilling from her mouth.

He shot her a devastating grin. “You’ll be pleased to know it was marvelous. I connected with several good friends from Boston to Richmond to Savannah and managed to see quite a number of the country’s best architecture, as well.”

Huh. He’d probably done much more so-called connecting in America than he had studying architecture.

Just last week, Pippa had seen the cartoon of his homecoming in one of the papers Bertie had brought back from a trip to London. Lord Westdale had been striding down the gangplank of a ship—shirtless, mildly drunk, a lovesick young lady of the
ton
on either side of him, a lustful look in his eye, a scrap of paper with a draftsman’s sketch of a fragmented heart upon it in his hand, and a banner above his head proclaiming, “The Ignoble Architect of Disappointed Hopes Returns.”

The message was clear: Respectable young ladies were not to risk falling in love with the heir to the Marquess of Brady unless they were willing to be disappointed. Lord Westdale was far more interested in carousing than in settling down with a wife, and as for his chosen profession of architecture, it appeared to hold his attention far more than any one woman.

I’m ahead of the game
, Pippa told herself now.
I already
do
stay away from him.

Which perhaps wasn’t exactly accurate. It could very well be that he stayed away from
her
. They were forced to see each other at Bertie’s annual birthday dinner, of course, in the country, but in Town, she, er, occasionally used to follow Lord Westdale to design lectures and tried to gain entrance by pretending to be his male secretary. Not that he ever knew—until last year in a hideously embarrassing unveiling which led to consequences she’d never forget.

But she wouldn’t dwell on it now, not with him acting as if nothing had ever gone wrong between them. She would do the same, for Uncle Bertie’s sake.

In a great scarlet chair facing a modest fire, her uncle sat with his stocky legs apart, his back straight, his stomach protruding like a pillow, all because he refused to remove the corgi sleeping behind him. After a few more minutes of desultory conversation, his mouth drew down and he lowered his brows at Lord Westdale.

It was his recitation mode.

Pippa braced herself.

“Lady Pippa’s latest admirer—” Uncle Bertie began in a ponderous tone.

“An unsuspecting fool from Scotland,” interjected Sir Harold in that nasal whine of his from his station in the corner.

“—is young Laird Dunwallop of Perth,” Uncle Bertie finished.

Pippa was unnerved that her uncle didn’t rebuke Sir Harold for his rude remark, but then the corgi popped out onto the floor from behind him, and she chalked it up to his being distracted.

“Dunwallop’s coming to London”—Uncle Bertie wriggled his great girth back into the chair—“presumably to lecture on the merits of sheep farming and to please his mother by attending a few balls. But I know what he’s really after. My money and—” He angled his head at Pippa.

Uncle Bertie!
Pippa almost sank through the floor. Her uncle winked at her and chuckled, which meant—

She must gird herself for even further humiliation, of the absolute sort. Slowly, she sank onto a chair, her toes curling in her slippers, her stomach taut with tension, her head dizzy with apprehension. Mother pulled at her pearls, her face ashen-white.

“Never heard of Dunwallop.” Lord Westdale took his seat again on the sofa next to Mother. His brow furrowed, then cleared. “But he’s a lucky man if he wins Lady Pippa.”

Sir Harold chortled.

“You think so?” Bertie lifted a quizzing glass to his eye and pointedly studied his godson.

“Of course.” The earl crossed one leg over the other and stared right back.

Suddenly, Pippa was angry. Irrationally, stupidly angry at Lord Westdale. Couldn’t he be the least bit uncomfortable at this predictable plotting by her uncle?

But it’s not his fault
, she reminded herself.
It’s
not.
It’s Uncle Bertie’s
.

She inhaled a slow, calm breath that didn’t work. Her heart still pounded too fast; her thoughts, bitter and furious, jangled. Every year she had to go through this awful scenario, and it only got worse. It was like having a perpetual headache and someone shouting in your ear one year, playing the cymbals the next, and the following year, firing off a cannon.

Bertie leaned forward and pushed at Lord Westdale’s knee with his hammy fist.

Oh, dear. The push.
Pippa bit the inside of her lip. The push meant the excruciating moment had finally arrived.

“You ought to ask for her hand yourself,” Uncle Bertie told the earl. “I’ll see her settled before I die, and with the right man.
You’re
the right man, godson, and you’ll never do better than my Pippa.”

Dear God!

She wished she could be grateful—a tiny part of her heart was always touched at this speech of Uncle Bertie’s—but instead, she felt a great affinity with the corgi by the hearth scratching his fat, bald hindquarters and whining.

Lord Westdale looked calmly into his godfather’s eyes. “Bertie—” he began.

Uncle Bertie’s face took on a stubborn look. “It’s my birthday wish, young man.”

“Bertie,” Lord Westdale said again in a perfectly calm manner, although he didn’t look at her. “Lady Pippa is lovely, yes, but—”

“She bolts,” supplied Sir Harold. “Three times now.”

“Only twice from the altar,” Mother protested.

The beleaguered corgi at the hearth gave up his self-ministrations and approached Uncle Bertie’s leg. Her uncle shooed it off, a rare event. “I’ll see it happen,” he announced to the whole room, his tone determined. “These two will marry. The sooner the better.”

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KIERAN KRAMER

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The Impossible Bachelor
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