Page 3 of Marquess of Mistletoe
The holidays made Marielle angry. She’d taken years to figure that out. “I have both fond and difficult memories of this time of year. I’m going out.”
The shortbread didn’t make it to Petunia’s mouth. “But the weather!”
“Is simply weather. I won’t be gone long.”
Petunia didn’t offer to accompany her, which was fortunate. Marielle wanted to be alone when she revisited the place where she’d last kissed Leopold Drake, the same place she’d waited for him until the bitter weather had given her a lung fever from which she’d nearly died.
* * *
“Go inside and secure us rooms under your name,” Leo said, taking Wellington’s reins from Rafe. “And order us a double round of toddies while you’re about it. Mind you don’t mention the title, or we’ll be charged a king’s ransom for a night’s lodging.”
“At once, your highness,” Rafe said, saluting. “On the double, despite the fact that my old bones are nigh frozen to death. I live to serve, and—”
The entire point of the exercise was to get Rafe’s old bones indoors before lung fever stalked him. “I can no longer court martial you, Raphael, but I can sack you.”
“And put coal in my stocking too, sir. A dire fate for such a loyal—”
Leo took Rafe by the shoulders and gave him a small shove in the direction of the inn, for Rafe would hover over both Leo and the horses like an anxious guardian angel.
“Two plates of cheese toast,” Leo said. “And some victuals for our next leg of the journey.”
Rafe was as solid as a barn door, but couldn’t be moved half so easily. Leo had rank, two inches of height, and some muscle on the older man, all of which he applied as gently as he could.
“There will be no next leg of the journey for me,” Rafe said. “Not today. Here I shall bide, for it’s Christmas—”
“March, Raphael.”
Rafe trudged off, pausing long enough to pitch a snowball at one of the dodging, shrieking boys. The children were happy—todaywasChristmas—and once, long ago, Leo had been such a boy, grateful for a holiday and a playmate.
“Come along,” Leo said to the horses. “There’s a warm stall, hay, and a rest for you both. I’ll ask the grooms to take the chill off your water, and they’ll think I’m daft, but a soldier learns things. Can’t charge into battle on a colicky mount.”
Can’t make babies cuddling up to wealth and a title.Rafe’s words followed Leo into the relative warmth of the stable. A stable lad swaddled in mittens, scarf, and gloves greeted them at the door, though Leo would see to his own horses. A marquess probably wouldn’t be allowed that courtesy in Merry Olde England, but a soldier would.
A former soldier.
Leo waved the groom away, and sent Welly into the first empty loose box. Beowulf got the one beside it because comrades should be billeted together when possible.
“A guest is in the saddle room,” the groom said. “I’m up the steps with the coachmen, if you need anything, sir.” He tugged his cap and went scampering up wooden steps that lead to the hayloft, and apparently, to winter quarters for the stable help.
Within minutes, Wulf and Welly were dispatching their hay with the steady munching of hungry equines. Leo stacked his saddle over Rafe’s and carried both down the barn aisle to the saddle room. He couldn’t open the door to the saddle room with arms full of gear, so he set the saddles on a rack and pushed the door open.
The guest in the saddle room wasfemale.She sat on a trunk, her back to the door. Beneath a lovely red velvet cloak, her shoulders were hunched with what could only be dejection. Leo considered turning tail and retreating, but a thought stopped him: The lady was quietly weeping, and she was alone. A gentleman, be he a soldier or a marquess, would not leave a damsel in distress without offering his aid—especially not on Christmas.
* * *
The memories assailed Marielle like so many blows to her dignity. Waiting and waiting in this same small, tidy space, the scents of horse and leather twining with her hopes as the minutes, then the hours crawled by.
Leo had left her here alone in a deepening winter chill to face his abandonment and to face her future.
Before that, on many occasions Leo had kissed her here and promised her the world. They’d done more than kiss—a lot more—and only Leo’s honor had prevented them from anticipating vows that had never been uttered.
As a girl of seventeen, Marielle had spoken those vows in her heart. Whether Leo had left her a maid out of good sense, honor, or an unstated plan to leave her for an officer’s life, she didn’t know. She’d bitterly regretted never having made love with him—he might have at least shared that much with her—but now, for the first time, she could thank him.
She’d gone to her husband a chaste, if unenthusiastic bride, and Drew had been a good husband.
Marielle had convinced herself that the friendship she and Drew had developed was a far more trustworthy basis for a relationship than the passion Leo had inspired, but a decade later, her tears were hot and heartfelt.
She and Leo had been so young and so in love, and the whole world had thought them daft—the whole world being their parents—but such a love had deserved a chance.
