Page 5 of Marquess of Mistletoe
She was Lady Drew Semple now, widowed, and of means and consequence.
So why was her heart pounding if she were a seventeen-year-old girl on the eve of an elopement?
Chapter Two
Of all the ambushes in all the villages in all the hinterlands, coming upon Marielle Redford at the same hostelry where Leo had last heard her declarations of undying devotion was the most diabolical.
Surely, only a very, very naughty fellow deserved that blow on Christmas Day, though Leo had been nearly a monk where the ladies were concerned.
Marielle was prettier than ever—another blow—but she’d lost an ebullience that had come through even when she’d sat quietly and read. Marielle had been like the sun, bringing light no matter how cold the day, and a determined optimism Leo had missed brutally as he’d marched through years of war.
Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a tidy chignon, and her brown eyes bore a woman’s sense of self-confidence. She’d become altogether more impressive for acquiring a faint air of restraint, but he missed his impetuous Marielle.
As much as Leo wanted to resent the lady before him, he could not. A woman made her way in the world as best she could, and clearly, Marielle’s way now was adequately smoothed with coin. She was in good health, in good looks, and expensively attired. Her cloak was velvet, doubtless lined with satin, and cut in the latest style.
“I’ve ordered toddies and toast,” Leo said as he escorted her across the inn yard. “Will you join me?”
Marielle paused outside the main door. They were sheltered from the wind, and all around them, holiday decorations conveyed yuletide good cheer. And yet, the bleakness that assailed Leo was bone deep and colder than a winter night.
He’d lost her. He’d accepted a commission, convinced she’d spurned him. The girl he’d known had been impetuous, passionate, and not always sensible—who was at seventeen?—but she’d been unfailingly kind. Perhaps Marielle had thought sending him off to the glamor of an officer’s life was a kindness, though the romance of soldiering and the reality had been only distantly related.
“Marielle, I’m sorry.” The young man in Leo was also furious with her—joining a war when he’d planned to attend his own wedding had been a horrible coming of age—but his regrets were genuine too. “I’d like to know why you did what you did, but mostly, I’m sorry we couldn’t be together.”
She had grown formidable with the passing years. Widowhood could do that. Marielle had tossed Leo aside to marry some aristocrat, and she had to have loved her husband fiercely.
Maybe more fiercely than she’d loved Leo, though in all humility, he hadn’t thought such a thing possible.
“Youwant answers fromme?” she replied, looking him up and down as if he’d arrived to a fancy dress ball in muddy boots. “That’s rich, Leopold, when you were the one who preferred war to wedded bliss. A gentleman holds a door for a lady.”
Leo bowed her through the door. “A gentleman also doesn’t argue with a lady, but clearly, I’m about to have a rousing disagreement with you. A private parlor is in order, don’t you think? I’ve known you since you gave up sucking your thumb. We can share a plate of toast without offending the dictates of propriety.”
As a younger woman, she might have dressed him down sorely, and he’d have caught her in his arms and jollied her out of her temper.
In the inn’s foyer, she turned her back to him, as the lady of the manor turns her back in expectation of the butler removing her wrap. Leo obliged, and folded her cloak over his arm. The scent of Christmas spices wafted from her garment—cinnamon, cloves, a touch of mace. An expensive and unusual perfume.
“I will oblige you with the disagreement you seek,” she said, taking her cloak from him. “We were friends once, so I’ll not kill you without a fair hearing.”
She stalked off into the common and had the maid scurrying forth from the kitchen and disappearing up the steps with the cloak.
Well.If Marielle wanted a battle, Leo would show her exactly what a soldier knew about winning a war, even a war of words. For ten years, he’d been held hostage to her memory, and clearing the air before he took a bride only made sense.
So why was he looking forward to his disagreement with a past love far more than he was to tomorrow’s introduction to his potential fiancée?
* * *
Unfair, unfair, unfair… Marielle sent that protest heavenward, to whatever unlucky angels presided over the fate of thwarted lovers.
Leo was no longer a boy. In every way, he’d matured into the promise Marielle had seen in him as a young man. He was handsome, self-possessed, and apparently had found financial success. When he hung his caped great coat on a hook by the common’s front windows, he revealed riding attire that was bang up to the nines. His cravat was tied in some fancy knot and sported a gold pin adorned with a tastefully discreet sapphire. His left little finger bore a signet ring, and his posture was militarily impressive.
He had to be married. No man with that much to recommend him would have gone unclaimed. Leo’s family had been gentry—meregentry, according to Papa—but their fortunes must have prospered over the past ten years, or perhaps plundering Spain had left Leo well to do.
Papa had said Leo would never amount to anything. Marielle was delighted to see Papa had been wrong.
Marielle was happy for him, but she was also… quite sad, for she’d been right about Leo, and she’d let him go with barely a whimper.
Leo crossed the common to one of the private parlors and again held the door for her. A fire crackled in the grate, and a table had been set immediately before it. The room also held a settee, and there Marielle did take a seat.
“You’ll let out the heat if you don’t close the door,” she said. “I’m widowed, and need not shiver for the sake of my chastity ever again.”
