Page 47 of To Tempt a Scandalous Lord
“An anonymous source tipped off the papers.” Alicia raised a shoulder. “Numerous articles have been written about the marquess who refused to leave his young orphaned charges when they fell ill with cholera, until he succumbed himself.”
“You told them about the outbreak here?” Shock and a spark of outrage threatened to burn through his reason.
“Did I?” She linked her hands together at her waist, a picture of piety. “All I know is that the home has been praised for recognizing the symptoms of cholera and quarantining the sick before they could spread the disease. Your and Mrs. Simpson’s quick measures ensured every child survived the dreadful affliction.”
Any ire he felt seeped from his body. His wife, his quick-witted, tactic-minded wife, had taken what could have been a disastrous situation and produced a harvest. An overwhelming wave of humbleness, of gratitude, crashed over him, the wave leaving his soul wrecked just as cholera had wrecked his body.
All he could manage to say in return was, “Thank you.”
She nodded her acknowledgement, and then departed. Niall experienced a pang in his chest at her loss, and if the last few days had taught him anything, it was not to shy away from the sensation.
Chapter Sixteen
The clock dinged in the formal parlor. Every chime resonated in Niall’s bones where he sat situated on a plush leather armchair Alicia had insisted he utilize if he wanted to leave his bed and work in his study. And since she had proven herself to be a petite general in stylish day gowns, he hadn’t argued.
It had been three days since the doctor deemed him well enough to leave his sick bed at Little Windmill House for home, yet some sluggishness remained and he tired too easily from the easiest of tasks. Niall hated feeling this frail. And although he tried to mask his aches, he suspected Alicia was aware of his every wince and grunt.
His wife—bless her—didn’t say anything directly about his condition, but she ensured the maids brought him regular tea trays, each laden with foods he liked. Several times she had entered the study, a cloak in hand, requesting he take a turn with her about the garden.
No matter how tired, Niall had not denied any of her requests.
Alicia was a pleasant conversationalist; she was witty and knowledgeable, but she didn’t feel the need to talk simply to fill a silence. She seemed just as comfortable in the stillness of the verdant gardens as she did exchanging droll repartee in a crowded Belgravia drawing room. Her presence by his side had quickly become necessary, and Niall had no notion of how he thought he’d be able to live in the same house with her and not want to claim her as his wife in truth.
A knock sounded on the door, and he sat up straight, smoothing a hand over his cravat. “Come in,” he called.
The Dukes of Ashwood and Darington, as well as Firthwell, entered in a single file, like an unholy trinity of fallen angels. Niall barely managed to stifle his sigh.
“It is good to see you on your feet, Inverray, although you still seem a bit annoyed,” Ashwood quipped, easing onto an armchair a healthy distance away and propping a foot on his knee.
“I suspect it’s because he expected his esteemed wife rather than our ragtag contingent.” Firthwell grinned, even as he inspected the liquor bottles on the sideboard on the other side of the room.
“In fact, I was not expecting you, but that does not signify I’m not pleased you’re here,” Niall allowed.
Darington leaned forward in the seat he’d selected next to Ashwood’s, his gaze sharp on Niall’s face. “But you would have been much more than pleased if your lady wife was here instead.”
Niall looked away, not at all willing to discuss his feelings regarding Alicia. Not when he was still sorting them out himself.
“The man doth protest too much, methinks,” Ashwood murmured.
When Niall sent him a withering look, the men burst into laughter.
“The nature of our visit was not to harass you about the state of your marriage, although you’ve provided us with happy news to report to our own lady wives on that topic.” Firthwell wiggled his brows.
Niall wanted to throttle him.
“We’re here to inquire if you’ve heard the news,” Darington said.
“What news?” Niall blinked. Surely Alicia or Murray would have informed him of any vital bit of information making the rounds.
“There has been talk Medlinger may withdraw his bid.”
“What?” Niall jerked his head back. “Whyever would he do that?”
Firthwell set two glasses of brandy on the table in front of the dukes, but when he delivered a glass to Niall, it contained only water. He met the viscount’s gaze with an annoyed glare, and the man shrugged unapologetically.
“There have been different stories circulating about, and honestly, we can’t vouch for their validity,” Firthwell said, sliding onto his own seat, “but the most prevalent rumor is that he and Grey have had a difference of opinion.”
That made sense. As the sitting Prime Minister, Grey possessed much sway with party leadership, and if he was unhappy with a candidate, it would certainly be enough to ruin the man’s bid. Still, Niall wanted to know what the difference of opinion stemmed from. What did this estrangement mean for his own bid?
