Docia rushed in, blonde curls escaping the chignon at her nape. The taffeta silk she wore—marigold—caught the sconced lighting with a subtle sheen. The fabric whispered softly with understated elegance. Her sudden appearance brought him upright. Sheneverentered his laboratory, having mentioned on more than one occasion it was like stepping back into the MiddleAges with the narrow windows, smelly chemicals, and dungeon-esque atmosphere.
To which he always replied, “That’s because it used to be a dungeon.” For some reason, he always returned to his ten-year-old self when she was about. Marrying her did not seem wise. But Stonemare was isolated and, at times, was quite lonely.
“He’s dead.”
Noah blinked away the cobwebs, but that didn’t clear the confusion and she did have a way with dramatics. “What?”
Baldric, the old stablemaster, who was a hundred if he was a day, ambled in behind her. Polar opposite of theatrical. Unflustered—that described Baldric—yet tense—that did not describe Baldric. “His lordship.” His voice was as gravelly as his skin was wrinkled.
Noah came to his feet, disoriented and disbelieving. “I don’t understand.”
Docia was standing before him, clutching his lapels. “Your. Father. Is. Dead.” She spoke pointedly. Succinctly. Knowingly.
Her hands had to be the only reason he was still standing. Noah hadn’t seen his father in months. As long as he could remember, one minute he’d been there and the next, he’d disappeared with no word, rhyme, or reason anyone could fathom.
Docia led him to his makeshift desk and pushed him to sitting.
An instant later, Baldric thrust a glass of brandy into his shaking hands.
After tossing it back, Noah looked up into Baldric’s black eyes, vaguely noting his tightly compressed lips. “But how? Where?”
“On the moors. Not far from where yer grandfather was found.”
That sounded too much of a coincidence to be believed. The details regarding Grandfather’s demise were sketchy at best, but the whisperings were that he’d frozen to death. Ancient history, having happened long before Noah and Lucius had come along. “How?”
“Stabbed. In the heart.”
Docia spun around, facing Baldric, and gasped.
“Fletcher and Hicks are gittn’ the body now,” Baldric finished. “What do ye want me to do wi’thm?”
“The parlor.” Noah’s voice shook. “Contact the magistrate—” No. His father was the magistrate. He hauled in a breath and started over. “Contact the parish constable. Dear God.” He stood, took Docia’s arm, and urged her out the door and up the stone steps. In the study, he moved behind the desk and pulled out a sheet a vellum to write the first of many missives. He took up his pen, then blew out a harsh breath and then dipping it, he scrawled out the first and most important one.
To the new Earl of Pender: his brother Lucius.
*
An hour orso later, Noah pulled off his spectacles. He flexed his cramped fingers and looked up. Docia sat in one of the wing-backed chairs near the fire. He’d forgotten her presence—not all his fault, surely, as she usually chattered like a magpie. Yet, she hadn’t uttered a word since Baldric’s departure. He rose from the desk, poured out a couple of brandies, sauntered over, and handed her one. “You’re especially quiet.”
Docia’s curls gleamed like the sun in the fire’s light. Her frock was of the brightest marigold, cast orange reflecting the embers from the hearth. She was a year older than his twenty-nine years. She should have married years ago; instead, she’d counted onmarrying Lucius, none of them having realized Father’s reckless actions when Noah, Lucius, and Docia were but children.
“If we are to marry, it will have to be now and in Scotland. To call the banns will take too long and no parson will marry us now. Not when word gets round that your father’s perished. Let alonehowhe perished.” She turned dark-blue eyes, pooled with tears, on him. “Then, perhaps that was your intention all along.”
Noah shoved a hand through his hair. “That’s not fair.”
She shrugged then leaned back to where her profile was hidden from him, raising her glass for a dainty sip. She never gulped. Everything about her was feminine, above convention. Except for this blasted proposal.
“I never promised to marry you, Docia.” A bitter smile escaped him. “If I recall correctly, you said marrying me was a step down for you.”
“I spoke the truth. But I also said, such a union was a step up for you.”
She had indeed. He’d been ten at the time. So pretentious she’d been. What could he say?Fine, we’ll leave for Scotland first thing in the morning? He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He didn’t love her. He wasn’t certain he could love anyone. Inside, he was just… empty.
The chair moaned and her face appeared around the chair’s wing. She glared daggers.
“All right,” he said, capitulating. “One week from today. We shall escape to Scotland. That should allow me enough time to have Father’s body prepared for viewing. I daresay that doesn’t give the family enough time to arrive to throw a wrench into the works.” His lack of enthusiasm left him guilt-ridden, but she was getting what she wanted, wasn’t she? It was the most he could muster at the moment.
Her features softened and a smile curved her lips. “Thank you.” She finished her brandy, stood, and handed him heremptied glass. She shook out her elaborate skirts, leaned in, and brushed his cheek with soft lips. “I’ll be ready.”
