Page 8 of The Marquis, the Minx, and the Mistletoe
As though she could feel his attention settling upon her, her eyes opened a crack, only long enough to meet his gaze before she sank back into restful slumber. It made him chuckle, enough of a reminder of the here and now to scatter his memories of the war and all those verdant, endless fields they had sullied under the boot of man's petty conflict.
He leaned his head back, resting it against the soft cushion behind him, and watched the light blossom from purple to orange to pink, until the sun had risen high enough to push against the curtain in a persistent, heated blot, announcing the arrival of the day.
The timing was as perfect as ever, and Sheldon could feel the wheels of the carriage shift. The Yorkshire countryside's hard, packed earth roads gave way to the crunch of gravel as they neared the gate of the Somerton estate. Echo yawned and stretched her paws forward as an accompaniment of birdsong chimed out from overhead.
Sheldon was itching to disembark by the time the carriage stilled near the Somerton stables, and he pushed the door open on his own, without waiting for his frowning driver, who never quite rebuked him for this behavior, but obviously disapproved.
It was still very early, the light dulled with a filter of opalescence as the morning dewdrops began to flee back into the sky. Nonetheless, a stable hand was at the ready, already barking orders to a subordinate to see to Lord Moorvale's luggage and particulars as the horses were untethered.
Sheldon nodded to the grooms, familiar enough at Somerton to bypass any questions or formalities, and showed himself through the stables to the path that led to a side entrance to the estate. It was early yet for breakfast, but he expected Gideon was already awake and crisply dressed, seeing to some business or another.
He passed through the halls behind the kitchens, Echo close at his feet, and let himself into the foyer and through to the sitting room, a brilliantly bright corner room with large, paned windows that invited in as much sunlight as a room could possibly manage.
Despite the early hour, two young maids were already at work lighting fires and polishing furniture. Both chirped a cheery good morning to Sheldon, addressing him formally but with a warmth earned from years of familiarity, and he greeted them back, each by name.
Echo whined, stopping abruptly in front of the hearth and making a dramatic business of sniffing the rug there.
"Ah, she smells her pups," one of the maids said wistfully as Echo sighed and lay down on the spot she had found. "They like to lounge by the fire too."
Sheldon frowned, a flicker of something like envy in his chest. "I'll leave her there, then, if you don't mind. Is Lord Somers in his study?"
"Oh, no, My Lord," the same maid responded, a ruddy-cheeked lass with a strong Liverpool accent. "He's had the grippe something awful, some days now. Lady Somers has forbidden him from all manner of stress and effort. He may be sleeping a while yet."
He raised his eyebrows, surprised to hear that Gideon Somers would allow himself to be felled by something so common and undignified as a little cold, and perhaps even more surprised that his wife had effectively convinced him to rest rather than attempt to disapprove of the illness fiercely enough that it made itself scarce, which was far more along the lines of Gideon's general approach.
"I'll send for tea, just until breakfast, if you like, Lord Moorvale?" the elder maid said, reaching down to scratch at Echo between the ears. "We were finishing up anyhow."
"That would be just the thing. Thank you," Sheldon replied, tugging off his scarf and tossing it onto a coat stand, followed by his heavy overcoat. He threw his weight into one of the chairs and considered his dog, whose eyelids were already sagging again, opposite the warmth of the fire.
What was that spark of jealousy he had felt? Had it been envy that his dog's attention was taken elsewhere? After all, he would not preclude himself from such a silly sentiment. Or perhaps the more disturbing and likely explanation was that he was jealous that she had pups to visit, a legacy and a family of her own.
She did seem to keep her nose close to the rug, as though she could smell the warm bellies of her puppies who had rested there some hours before. She breathed deeply and heaved a contented sigh, rolling onto her side, where the morning sunlight streamed over her in a sort of doggy halo. She did not stir when the tea arrived nor when Sheldon dressed his cup and lifted it to his lips; she seemed content to sleep on this familiar, cozy floor after so many hours in the bumpy carriage.
He had thought he would be married by now, of course. What man didn't think these things simply worked themselves out? He had watched love and marriage and family seemingly settle upon his friends without any planning or manipulation on their part, like the universe simply deemed it time for the natural course to begin, and so it did.
Hell, if someone had told him five years ago that Alex bloody Somers would be married before he was, he'd have pulled a muscle laughing. Not just because Alex was over five years his junior, either. If someone who danced through life like that, without a single care in the world, had found his path to stability, then what in the blazes of hell was Sheldon doing wrong?
Unbidden, a flash of raven-dark hair and skin as fair as alabaster flashed into his mind, the taste of one stolen kiss, heady as cranberry wine. He frowned, shaking his head to dispel the memory, though it refused to vanish entirely. It was too late to pine for that particular girl. Miss Tatiana Everstead had gone off and gotten engaged to some statesman last Season. Was probably already married by now, wasn't she?
That kiss had been over a year ago. He wasn't some sot who chased uninterested girls around, was he? And despite the potency of that one stolen kiss, she had been adamantly disinterested in him, as though he'd done something to offend her.
If he had, she'd never told him what it was.
He had been looking forward to seeking her out in London last summer, hoping to find ways to rekindle whatever spark had fired in that little moment, and perhaps begin a proper courtship. Sadly, he had arrived too late. He didn't depart Hawk Hill until late April, and by the time he'd gotten to Mayfair, her engagement had already been announced in theStandard.
He had insisted to himself that it was no bother. He had scolded himself for the sudden stab of loss in his chest when he'd read that announcement. He told himself he was being ridiculous, that London had an endless supply of young, beautiful,eligibleladies, eager as ever to snare a titled man.
He had resolved to have a wild and flirtatious few months in the thick of Society, but instead had departed soon after, having found women who only seemed dull and shadowed in comparison to what he had envisioned those months might have been.
He knew it was ridiculous. What did he really know about Miss Everstead anyhow? She was beautiful and had a mind for the esoteric. He had listened to her sing and watched her dance and listened over dinner to the stories she shared with her friends, but every effort he had made to get to know her had been rebuked in such a dramatic, flouncy fashion that it only further motivated him to try again.
All autumn they had danced that same coquettish waltz, and he had never so much as gotten through one private conversation with her, never managed to coax a single secret from her garnet-red lips. He sighed and told himself yet again that he had created a fantasy that reality could never match up to. That scolding voice he kept inside, the one that had raised him with a sterner rule set than his Da ever had, chimed in again, telling him to buck up and begin his day, and he knew it was right.
He stood, giving his head a shake and glancing at the large grandfather clock that kept time in the corner. Breakfast would be soon. He resolved to go freshen up and restore his good spirits before greeting the Somers clan.
It would not do to be dark and brooding at the start of the Yuletide season, after all. He was simply out of sorts due to sleeping in the carriage. A shave and a change of clothes would set him to rights.
He left Echo snoozing by the fire. After all these years, she knew the way to his Somerton bedroom just as well as he did. He could navigate there in his sleep.
