Page 49 of To Tempt a Scandalous Lord
Stifling a sigh was painful for his lungs. “They did. What do you make of it?”
Alicia slid her eyes to him. “Grey’s endorsement holds a great deal of weight, and many assumed he would tap Viscount Medlinger as his successor. That the men are now in discord with each other, well…the news makes me decidedly elated.”
He chuckled. “There you go being ruthless again.”
“I’m opportunistic.” She lifted her chin. “The reason for Grey and Medlinger’s falling-out is irrelevant to me. But this rumor could be very useful.”
It could. Already his mind was churning with ways his campaign could capitalize on the tension between the two men. He pushed those thoughts aside, though, for at this moment, he had no interest in thinking about politics. Niall simply wanted to enjoy his wife’s company.
“Perhaps when I am ready to get back to work, you would be willing to share how you think I could utilize the rumor,” he said, studying her face covertly.
Although her gaze remained diverted, a touch of pink shaded her cheeks. “I would be pleased to.”
They were silent again, but the moment was comfortable. When was the last time he had felt at ease in Alicia’s presence? Had he ever?
“You’ve received a good deal of mail over the last week,” Alicia said softly, her eyes amused. “Everyone wanted to send best wishes to the Children’s Hero.”
“The Children’s Hero? Are they really calling me that?”
She pressed her lips together, but couldn’t quite suppress her smile. “I’ve seen it used a time or two.”
“Ridiculous,” he said, knowing his outrage only served to amuse her more.
“Be that as it may, I have set aside some cards and letters I thought you might like to see.” Extracting a small stack of mail from the chair next to hers, she handed it to him solemnly.
Frowning, Niall stared at the stack, his eyes drifting over the handwriting on several envelopes, finding none of them familiar. Uncovering a larger parcel, the lilting script caught his attention for it was Mrs. Simpson’s.
With eager hands, he ripped through the heavy paper until a multitude of smaller notes spilled out onto his lap. With a puckered brow, he allowed his fingertips to drift over them until an envelope decorated with carefully cut yellow daisies caught his eye. Niall opened it gingerly, his gaze tracing over the writing as a lump formed in his throat.
Dear Lord Inverray,
We are sorry we made you ill. You are our favorite person, aside from Cook, and your visits are our favorite part of the day. We hope you recover soon so you can visit us again.
Your faithful friends,
Edith and Eunice MacLean
Niall blinked rapidly, his focus on the card blurring. He was horrified to discover twin fires burning behind his eyes, and he fought the urge to rub them with the heels of his palms. Whatever was the matter with him? Surely it was some residual symptom from his cholera bout. Surely.
“I was told the MacLean sisters went through a dozen different flower cutouts until they were satisfied.” Alicia cleared her throat. “Mrs. Simpson said they were distraught when they learned you had fallen ill. They are very fond of you.”
“And I am fond of them.” For all that Alicia had seen him at his worst and never judged him, he still cringed at his hoarse voice.
Alicia’s hand reached across the table, pressing her palm against his and squeezing his fingers. She might not have said it aloud, but that small gesture seemed to convey that, perhaps, his wife was fond of him. If only a little.
Chapter Seventeen
The soil was damp between Alicia’s fingers.
She should wear gloves when working in the garden, but the gritty texture of the dirt and the earthy scent that permeated the air as she raked her trowel through it soothed her. Grounded her.
It brought forth memories of her mother. Of sunny afternoons spent in the little yard in front of their cottage in Westmorland, where they had laughed and counted ladybugs and cheered when her carefully tended wisteria bloomed bright and cheerful.
Although Alicia had visited several times to tend the garden at Little Windmill House with the children, and had adored their antics, she craved a garden of her own. To work and cultivate. To create and nourish life in ways her real life had so far denied her.
Sucking in a ragged breath, Alicia tilted her head back and closed her eyes, allowing the sunlight that peeked through the boughs above to warm her face.
However, the rays had abruptly lost their warmth as she thought of her next exposition about the Factory Act. The legislation had passed the year before, and a majority of the public assumed it had solved the issue of child labor. But her essay outlined what the Factory Act accomplished, and also all there was left to do to protect children employed in dangerous occupations in often dangerous working conditions.
