Lady in Red

  Marcus smiled to himself. He’d told one person and one person only that he intended to put a solid twenty thousand pounds into Cassandra’s dowry fund, but it had been enough. Lady Carlisle was not known as the ton’s most gossipy gossip for nothing. She’d been so consumed with the need to spread his secret that she’d cut him short in saying good-bye and had practically run across the room to unburden herself. Marcus had been hard pressed not to laugh aloud.

  Sometimes, things were amazingly simple. But then other times…he thought of Honoria and all desire to laugh faded. That was the problem, the one rub in his otherwise well-run life. Oh, the difficulties of having her sisters and brother in his household had caused most of the chaos that surrounded his life now; he admitted that. But strangely, he rather enjoyed the constant hum of activity that seemed to pervade Treymount House. Whether it was Portia’s raptures over a play she’d attended on Drury Lane, or Olivia’s recounting one of Ned’s colorful letters, or Juliet’s enthused appreciation for Demon, who was quite falling under her spell; Treymount House was no longer the austere, rather somber place it had become. Even little George, in his nankeen breeches, his pockets stuffed with string and bits of rocks and God knew what else, had made Marcus laugh on more than one occasion.

  All in all, it had proven to be a very satisfactory arrangement. Except for one thing. His marriage. Marcus’s smile faded. Honoria was a conundrum of no small order. As passionate as any woman he’d ever been with, she met him willingly between the sheets—and anywhere else he cared to meet her. The truth was, other than when they were intimately involved, Marcus felt that Honoria was holding back in some way.

  He stirred restlessly on the seat, absently holding onto the roof strap when the carriage rocked over a large bump of some sort. Had anyone asked him before his marriage what he thought the perfect comportment for a wife should be, he might well have used Honoria’s current demeanor. She was always pleasant, always composed, and always smiled when he came into the room, even if that smile was a trifle perfunctory.

  However, with her brothers and sisters, he saw Honoria laughing at their jokes and teasing them mercilessly. He watched as she ruffled George’s hair and impulsively hugged Cassandra. And suddenly the words “composed” and “pleasant” weren’t enough. He didn’t want a pleasant companion. He wanted Honoria, as she really was. The one who argued and made cutting remarks. The one who gave an excited hop every time she outbid him at an auction.

  The thought irked him more and more. It wasn’t that he wanted hollow protestations of affection, he thought crossly. He just wanted genuine…what? Emotion? Yes. That was it. He wanted genuine emotion.

  He sighed, leaning his head back against the squabs. He’d thought at first that perhaps her demeanor was due to normal nervousness. But now, two weeks from the day of their marriage, she still seemed reserved, except when he had her in the throes of passion.

  For that reason he took her there as often as he could. And each time, he was left feeling that for a moment, at least, she was with him body, soul, and heart. But as soon as their passion was sated, she’d look at him with eyes so distant…

  Marcus looked out the window at the houses marching by and absently rubbed his chest. Perhaps she felt the changes in her circumstances as much as he. Though he enjoyed the new liveliness her sisters and brother had brought to Treymount House, it sometimes made getting Honoria alone a bit difficult. And added to that, their overly full social schedule left them both more weary than usual.

  Perhaps the ball they were having a week from Thursday would ease things. Anthony had suggested it, and Marcus had decided it would be a good way to formally introduce his wife to society. Plus, it had been years since he’d had a ball at Treymount House, so he was well over due.

  The carriage rolled to a stop and Herberts opened the door.

  Marcus climbed out, consulted his pocket watch, then grinned. “Excellent time! Better than last, even.”

  “Oiye do me best, guv—me lord.” Herberts offered a winning smile, showing all of his broken and brown teeth.

  Marcus fished in his pocket for a guinea. “By the way, I’ve bad news for you. My brother wrote to say he was detained in Italy yet again. It may well be another month.”

  “’Ere now, that’s a horrid thing, it is. Oiye knew he don’t like his wife’s father, but then—”

  “Wait. Did you say that Brandon doesn’t like his wife’s father?”

  “Not at all. And oiye don’t blame him one bit, oiye don’t. The man is a nafter. Why, he’d steal the coins off the eyes of a dead man!”

  “So would you.”

  “Aye, but only if oiye needed the funds. He’d do it fer nothin’ more than a laugh or two.”

  “I wonder why, then, Brandon went to Italy at all.”

  Herberts blinked his surprise. “Why fer the missus, of course! She couldn’t do it alone, not without him. And he loikes it that way, he does. So off he goes, fixin’ things so she won’t be worryin’. Thet way she can put all of her attentions on him, if ye get me meaning.” Herberts gave Marcus a broad wink.

  Good Lord, but the man was incorrigible. Humorous, but incorrigible. “Did you know that I was going to turn you into a proper coachman before I gave you back to Brandon?”

  “But…oiye am a proper coachman!”

  “A better one, then. Now, however—” Marcus slipped his watch back into his the pocket of his waistcoat. “Now I find that I rather like getting where I want to go with speed.”

  Herberts’s thin chest puffed like an adder’s. “It’s a right nafty thing, travelin’ loike a bat outta hell, ain’t it, guv’nor? In fact, oiye’d say—” His gaze, which had wandered past Marcus, faltered, then came to a halt. “Oh ho! Looks as if ye’ve come home to a spider’s nest, ye have.”

  Marcus turned and looked. The front door stood wide open and not a face was to be seen. Normally when the carriage pulled up to the porch, there was a rush of footmen to see to it that doors were opened, parcels fetched, the good port brought out to the library. This time, nothing but silence and the wide open door.

  Marcus’s heart stumbled, lurched, then thudded to a faster beat. “Bloody hell.” He took the steps two at a time, and reaching the entryway, he yelled, “Hello!”

  Almost immediately Honoria appeared in the doorway of the white sitting room. A flood of relief washed over him, and without a thought, he walked up to her, grabbed her to him and kissed her full on the lips.

  She felt so good, so right, here in his arms. He tightened his hold and deepened the kiss.

  The sound of amused laughter from behind her reminded him that in all likelihood, his wife was not alone. As usual. He reluctantly released her, noting that her face was as pink as her gown. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize we had an audience.”

  She gestured rather blindly toward the room.

  He glanced around. Portia, Olivia, Juliet and Cassandra were all there, sitting in various chairs, as pink-cheeked as Honoria. Meanwhile, George stood alone in the center of the room, looking as if he was facing a firing squad. Which he was, in a way. For standing before him, their faces folded in disapproval, was both Jeffries and the chef, Antoine.

  Marcus walked forward. “What’s happened? The front door is wide open, the footmen all gone.”

  “Mon dieu!” Antoine said in a loud voice, his black eyes flashing. “It is a madhouse, this place. I cannot work here!”

  “My lord, it is my fault the door is open,” Jeffries said, a harassed look on his face. “I asked the footmen to assist with something and did not take the time to check the latch.”

  “Where are the footmen?”

  Honoria answered this. “They are searching for Achilles.”

  “The footmen?”

  “Especially the footmen. Several of them had frogs of their own as children and so they have been a great help in assisting George in the past week. But this time, Achilles seems rather determined to remain hidden. We think he may be outside.” She cast
a glance at Jeffries, as if looking for help.

  The butler swiftly stepped in. “My lord, the true crisis is not the footmen. They are in the herb garden now, attempting to find the lad’s frog. The problem is Antoine.” He bowed to the chef, managing to convey both respect and disapprobation. “Perhaps you should tell his lordship of your problem.”

  “Bah!” Antoine threw up his hands. “What good will it do? I will not stay another moment in this house. I have decided and that is that!”

  Portia looked at Marcus. “You can’t let him leave; we have the ball in two days.”

  Olivia nodded. “We won’t have time to find anyone else.”

  “At least no one with Antoine’s way with pastries,” Cassandra added, giving the chef a winsome smile.

  At her violet gaze, the Frenchman seemed to relent. But then George hopped from one foot to the next and drew the chef’s gaze. “You!” the chef cried, pointing his finger at the boy. “You have caused all this! And there you stand, refusing to admit your duplicity!”

  Honoria crossed the room to stand beside her little brother. “George, you must see that you were in the wrong.”

  The boy clamped his mouth together, a stubborn line forming where a grin was usually lodged.

  Antoine’s eyes narrowed and he rounded on Marcus. “When I took this position, I was led to understand that there were no children on the premises.”

  “There weren’t. Then.”

  “Well, there shouldn’t be now. I cannot perform in the kitchen when the house is in an uproar! I cannot!”

  “What happened?” Marcus asked.

  Jeffries looked at the chef. “I believe you should explain why you are so upset.”

  The chef nodded. “But of course. First I am making the pastry bread, thinking to do something special for my lady—”

  “Which I appreciate so much,” Honoria hurried to intercede.

  Antoine bowed, but then glared at George. “And then this one comes running into the kitchen saying I have cooked his fat toad into my dough and he begins to tear up my lovely loafs! All of them!”

  George sent a guilty glance at Marcus. “Achilles likes to hide in the flour bin. He’d just been in there a few moments before and I thought—”

  “Mon dieu! To think of that dirty toad—”

  “He’s a frog,” George said hotly.

  The chef pointed a bony finger. “You knew that fat toad was in my flour bin and yet you did nothing to stop him!”

  George rubbed his ear, glaring defiantly. “He likes it in there. And he’s not a fat toad, but a frog, and a damned fine one, too.”

  “George!” Honoria said.

  “A little hellion, isn’t he?” Marcus said under his breath, so that only she could hear him.

  Her gaze narrowed on him. “If you have nothing beneficial to add, please save your breath for ordering your servants about.”

  “What if I saved it for kissing you?”

  Her color deepened even more and she turned a shoulder his direction and faced the outraged chef. “Monsieur Antoine, George owes you an apology.”

  “More than an apology!” the man snapped. “I demand satisfaction.”

  George’s brow lowered. “Satisfaction?”

  “Aye,” Portia said from where she sat, watching the proceedings with interest. “Georgie, it’s like this—Achilles is your pet, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And he did something wrong, didn’t he?”

  George sent a sly look at the chef. “Maybe.”

  That was enough for Portia. “Then you, as his owner, have to fix things.”

  Marcus quirked a brow at the chef.

  “It cannot be done! That fat frog not only hid in my flour bin, but he jumped into a dish of almond paste and then ate some of it! Then, while I was trying to catch him, he knocked three glass dishes to the floor and broke them all.”

  George’s hands fisted at his sides. “If you had not chased him about with a carving knife, he would not now be lost outside!”

  “If I had my way, I would see him in a pot!”

  George’s face whitened. “With hot water?”

  Antoine snapped his fingers. “And thyme!”

  “No!” George’s eyes brightened in a suspicious manner, his lips quivering.

  The chef began to nod, but then caught George’s fixed gaze. For an instant the two stood staring at one another. A fat tear grew in George’s wide violet gaze. It quivered, then rolled down his cheek.

  Another soon followed.

  “Oh, make him stop,” the chef cried, covering his eyes. “He looks like a cherub!”

  Honoria choked slightly. “George is many things, but a cherub is not one of them.”

  “No,” Antoine conceded. He looked at George again, and sighed. “I was but teasing. Your frog, he is too big to eat. He would be far too tough, even for someone with Antoine’s way of preparing things.”

  George dashed a hand across his eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Ah!” The chef threw up his hands. “That is it! I am leaving this house! I will not be called a frog killer and a liar all in the same day!”

  Marcus rubbed his neck. What a coil. “Antoine, is there a way George can work off the damage done by his pet? Floors to sweep? Pots to scrub?” He glanced at George. “You’re willing, aren’t you, George?”

  The boy sent a cautious gaze at the chef. Then, slowly, he nodded, his hair flopping across his brow. “I will do whatever needs to be done. But you have to promise you will never, ever put my frog into a pot, with or without thyme.”

  The chef found himself the object of three identical pair of hazel eyes, three identical pair of violet eyes, and one rather amused pair of blue ones. “What an impossible situation! Here am I, Antoine du Fraer, master of the kitchens! Yet how can I work my magic in this hodgepodge household?” He looked around, but no one answered him

  Finally, Antoine said, “Bah! I will never understand the English. It is beyond me.” Sighing dramatically, the chef turned to the boy. “Oh very well. The little one can come to the kitchen and make reparations. But only if he will keep that frog out of my kitchen and out of my flour barrel.”

  “Excellent!” Honoria said. “That is very kind of you. We all appreciate your efforts.”

  “And your roast chicken,” added Miss Cassandra, who beamed at him from across the room. “I believe it is the best I’ve ever eaten.”

  Under her lovely gaze, some of Antoine’s irritation melted. “Antoine must be a great chef if even an innocent miss can appreciate his capabilities.”

  A footman entered the room, a very muddy Achilles clutched in his hands. The man’s uniform was a mess, mud streaked from knee to shoulder. But the sight of the frog brought a joyous screech from George.

  As George clutched his frog, Portia eyed the chef with a hungry look. “Antoine, what’s for dinner tonight?”

  “Duck l’orange and roasted brisket and—”

  “Brisket!’ George finally smiled.

  The chef nodded. “You like the brisket, eh?”

  “Oh yes!”

  “Well. I might make a little extra.” Drawing himself up, Antoine bowed. “Now, my lords and ladies, if you will excuse Antoine, he would return to the kitchen to finish his preparations.”

  “Of course,” the marquis said. “Shall I have dinner held back a half hour to give you time to recoup?”

  Antoine appeared offended. “Move dinner? Never!”

  “Sir?” It was George. He stepped forward, a determined look on his face.

  The chef turned to the child. “Oui?”

  “Shall I come with you now? To sweep the floor?”

  “No child! Not now. You have to get ready for dinner. Come to me tomorrow. In the morning. We’ll see what we can find for you to do.”

  “Yes, sir! I will do what I can to keep Achilles out of the kitchen.”

  “I’m certain you will.” Something almost like a smile flitted across the Frenchman’s
face, then left as he turned back to the door and then left.

  “Well!” Portia said, flinging herself back on the settee. “That was certainly amazing. Treymount, I believe your chef was experiencing a change of heart.”

  Marcus’s brows rose. “Oh, I believe you’ll see Monsieur Antoine change his mind about both the child and the frog before the day is up.” He looked around the room. If everyone was in here, then there was a possibility he might be able to get Honoria alone in another part of the house. And if he got her alone…well, there was no telling what might occur.

  He walked to her side and drew her hand through his arm. “Since I’m home and there’s a whole hour before dinner, perhaps you can assist me in the library?”

  Portia jumped up. “I’ll go with you. There’s a book I’ve been dying to get, but it’s on the second floor and I do not trust that ladder. It seems so unstable putting a ladder on wheels. Do you think—”

  “Portia,” Cassandra said hurriedly. “I do believe I need your help in examining the ballroom. Jeffries had it cleaned, but I want to make certain it’s as it should be.”

  “But I—”

  Marcus made good his escape, pulling Honoria out into the hallway, where the footmen were once again reassembling. He ignored them all, pulling her into the library and shutting the door firmly behind them. Marcus kept her hand in his. “Since I didn’t get to say it before, good evening.”

  She smiled. “Good evening. Thank you for assisting with George. He’s really a good boy.”

  There was a bit more warmth in her smile than her usual perfunctory manner. Leaning against the door, he reached up and stole a pin from her hair. “George is fine.” He threw the pin on the floor and freed another.

  A fat curl dropped to her shoulder.

  “Beautiful,” he breathed, taking out yet another pin and watching another strand of hair fall.