Page 16 of Marquess of Mistletoe
Rafe stomped through the door, shaking snow from his greatcoat, scarf and mittens.
“A room,” Leo said, “and a good meal for Mr. Jones and myself. We’ll be off at first light, though, unless the weather prevents it.”
“The weather will prevent it,” Rafe said. “And so will my frozen jewels.”
To Leo’s great frustration, the weather proved Rafe absolutely correct: No sane man would venture forth into a storm that showed no signs of letting up.
Chapter Five
Marielle watched the steady dripping from the icicles hanging beyond her parlor window, each drop landing on her last nerve. Christmas had been five days ago, and she’d not had a word from Leo.
“We should leave for Paris, Petunia, before the spring crowds.”
The seat of Leo’s marquessate was far to the north—Petunia had recalled that much about the Cadeau title—and Leo might well have gone directly there after receiving Marielle’s note at the solicitors.
“His lordship might not have received the note you left him, milady,” Petunia replied, threading her needle with green silk. “The weather did turn up powerful bad.”
Leo might have been caught in the storm while journeying north. “I find Leo after all these years, only to lose him.”
Marielle had been hoping he’d return to the Ox and Ass, for that was the logical place to rest his horses on the way to his family’s Whitbyshire holding.
And it was there he and she had lost each other, and found each other again, and there where he’d know exactly where to find a confidential note from her.
“The roads will soon be passable again, milady. Perhaps we ought to travel out to that inn and see if his lordship left word for you.”
Marielle was tempted to do just that. “I’m the daughter-in-law of a marquess. Leo can find me easily enough by making inquiries among his peers.”
Except that Leo had had the title for less than year, and hadn’t taken his seat in the House of Lords. He wouldn’t know the Semple family, or any other titled aristocrats unless the connection was through the military.
Maybe Leo would never find her. “Drew wasn’t acquainted with many officers.”
Petunia readjusted the portion of fabric in her embroidery hoop. “Beg your pardon, milady?”
“Nothing of any moment. I’ve become fretful. I can’t stand doing nothing, Petunia.”
Patient blue eyes looked up at Marielle. “You have become increasingly impetuous since Lord Drew died, but Paris isn’t going anywhere, and a winter crossing is seldom easy. If you are determined to leave for Paris, then I will arrange to spend time with my sister in Dorset.”
Good heavens, rebellion in the ranks. “I’m being impossible,” Marielle said, taking the place beside Petunia on the settee. “I’m sorry. Seeing Leo upset me and all my fancies have turned to fears.”
Seeing Leo had given her hope, and reconnected her with the young woman who’d loved passionately. To lose Leo now…
“I would love to see Paris,” Petunia said, drawing the needle through the fabric, “but I also like that Mr. Jones. You can afford to wait a bit for the roads to clear, can’t you, milady?”
Petunia was embroidering a figure of green, white, and gold mistletoe onto a white linen handkerchief.
“Is that for Mr. Jones?” Marielle asked. “It’s gorgeous, Petunia.”
“Let’s just say it’s for my trousseau, should ever I need one.”
Petunia was not a young woman, though she wasn’t ancient either. She’d waited decades for a man who could pry her loyalty from her dear, departed Charles, while Marielle was railing against a few days of silence from Leo.
“We’ll wait,” Marielle said. “We’ll wait until after the new year, and then reassess our situation.”
The new year wasn’t even a week off. Surely even Marielle could wait that long?
* * *
“Stop fussing at me,” Leo snapped. “I’m calling on an old friend, not making my bow before the sovereign.” That farce had been tended to within a week of Leo’s return to England.
