Miss Amelia's Mistletoe Marquess. Jenni Fletcher
guilty, after all. The chances of Sylvia walking any distance on foot were about equal to those of her flying. She could simply take the carriage she’d doubtless commandeered back to the hall. And who was to say that he hadn’t dreamed the knocking sound anyway? He’d been dozing beforehand so perhaps it really had been a figment of his imagination, although what that implied about his current mental state he didn’t want to consider, not tonight anyway. He’d already drunk far too much port to come up with anything coherent, let alone helpful. No, overall it was far better to leave thinking until tomorrow and then find another reason not to.
Delaying, deferring, dragging his heels—those were the things he’d become good at over the past year. Avoiding subjects he didn’t want to think about had become his speciality. Why else would he be hiding away like some frightened schoolboy in an empty property on the edge of his estate rather than confronting his problems face to face?
At least the gatehouse was warm and dry, two of the most important considerations on a foul night like this one. The temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees just in the half-hour it had taken him to walk up the drive. Now that he was firmly ensconced in his armchair with the aforementioned bottle of port, however, he felt quite cosy. Frankly it was worth the effort just for the peace and privacy, both of which qualities were becoming signally elusive at Falconmore Hall. Given a choice, he might actually have opted to live here instead, but then he hadn’t been given a choice. Not about any of it.
He scowled as the knocking started again, even louder and more insistently than before. This time he definitely wasn’t imagining things and he could hardly pretend not to hear it either. A herd of cattle outside his front door would have made less commotion.
He surged to his feet, muttering a stream of the most obscene words he could think of. What in blazes was wrong with the woman? Didn’t she have any pride? It was bad enough hounding him out of his own house, but to pursue him here in his refuge was too much! This time she’d gone too far. This time he’d tell her exactly what he thought of her and her all-too-obvious intentions. Maybe he’d tell her what his cousin would have thought of her behaviour, too. That ought to be enough to send her and her daughters running away from Falconmore Hall once and for all. To the other end of England preferably!
He grabbed a candle, took one last fortifying swig of port and then strode out into the hallway, an inadvertent glimpse of his reflection in the hall mirror revealing a wild visage and untidy apparel. Which was hardly surprising really. He’d changed into some old clothes in order to clean out and rebuild the fireplace and hadn’t bothered to change back, even after he’d smeared coal across the front of his shirt. All the better, he thought sardonically, running a hand through the dust and then deliberately ruffling his hair to coat the thick, blond strands in black. He was through with behaving like a gentleman. Since Sylvia failed to appreciate subtlety, maybe she’d understand rugged and dishevelled instead!
‘What?’
He flung open the front door, bellowing the word before his port-addled senses had a chance to take in the woman before him. It was…not Sylvia, though as to who else it was… He blinked a few times, searching his memory and failing to find any answer… No, he had no idea who she was. Only she looked somewhat like a snowman. A pretty, red-cheeked and slightly desperate-looking snowman.
‘I apologise for d-disturbing y-you.’ Her teeth chattered as she spoke. ‘But I’m l-lost.’
He looked past her into the night, too surprised to answer. There was no horse, no trap, nobody else in sight, only a raging blizzard and what appeared to be a foot of snow. When had that happened? It had been cold earlier, but he hadn’t noticed any flakes, at least not before he’d drawn the curtains…
‘Would you m-mind letting me inside for a f-few minutes? Just to warm up? P-please?’
‘Yes… Of course.’ He remembered his manners at last, stepping aside to let her into the hallway.
‘Oh, dear.’ A flurry of snow fell from her skirts as she passed him. ‘I should have shaken myself off outside.’ She looked down at the rapidly swelling puddle in dismay. ‘If you have a mop, I’ll clean it up for you.’
‘There’s no need.’ He closed the front door against the freezing air. ‘I’ll deal with it later.’
‘Thank you. I’m s-sorry to barge in on you like th-this. I was on my way to the village, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.’
‘You mean Rayleigh?’
‘Yes.’ She rubbed her hands vigorously over her arms as if she were attempting to restore circulation. ‘Is it f-far?’
‘About a mile down the road. You turn left out of the gate.’
‘Oh.’ A look of chagrin crossed her face. ‘Well, at least I was going in the right direction. Only I didn’t think it was so far and the snow was lovely at first, but then it got so heavy I couldn’t see the carriage tracks any more.’
‘I see.’ He looked her up and down incredulously. ‘Do you mean to say that you were out walking in the dark on your own?’
‘Yes. Not intentionally, but there was a misunderstanding with the carriages and…well…’ she scrunched up her pink-tipped nose and lifted her shoulders, sending a fresh flurry of snow tumbling to the floor ‘…here I am.’
‘Indeed. Here you are.’
He set down his candle on the hall table, mentally reviewing the amount of port he’d consumed over the course of the evening. Surely not enough to make him hallucinate, although the whole situation seemed unlikely. Incredible. Downright unbelievable, in fact, but here she was, his very own damsel in distress, standing shivering in his hallway, asking for help. Which, as a gentleman, he ought to give her. Only, as a gentleman he really ought to have a chaperon, too.
‘Perhaps I might speak to your wife?’ The thought seemed to occur to her at the same moment. ‘So that I can explain to her?’
‘Unfortunately not.’ He folded his arms behind his back. ‘I don’t have a wife, or a maid for that matter. You find me all alone here.’
‘Completely alone?’ Her eyes flickered back to the door, though her expression was conflicted. ‘Then perhaps I should…’
‘Perhaps you should, but considering the weather it might be somewhat foolhardy.’
He tapped his foot on the tiled floor, considering what to do next. However extraordinary the situation, it was hard to be irritated with someone who looked quite so thoroughly bedraggled and he could hardly send her back out into the night. On the other hand, letting her stay didn’t seem like a particularly judicious idea either. She was a young and presumably unmarried lady, though he couldn’t see her ring finger, and he was a bachelor, and they were alone together in a house that contained a bed, at night. Not that society generally required the presence of an actual bed to think the worst, but still the situation could hardly have looked any more compromising. A suspicious man might have thought her arrival some kind of scheme to entrap him, but the way that she’d been shaking definitely hadn’t been play-acting and surely no one, not even Sylvia, would have put themselves into such a perilous situation deliberately. Besides, whoever she was, she had an honest as well as a pretty face and he had enough on his conscience without adding anything else, especially another dead body. Which meant that he had no choice but to let her stay.
Damn it. No choice. Again. The realisation made his voice gruffer than he’d intended.
‘You’d better give me your wet things and come into the parlour.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked somewhat taken aback by his tone, pulling off her gloves and cape to reveal a conspicuous absence of wedding band and a lithe, willowy figure dressed, somewhat incongruously, in an evening gown. Both of which details paled into insignificance as she removed her bonnet to reveal a cascade of long, lustrous and, more surprisingly, loose hair.
‘Oh, dear.’ She put one hand to