Blackwood's Lady

Giving the fox’s silky ears an affectionate tweak, Nicola started back towards the house, her mind drifting ahead to the upcoming meeting with Lord Blackwood. She knew why he was coming, of course. Her father had already hinted at the marquis’s intentions, and, all things considered, she was not opposed to the match. She had always longed for a home and children of her own, and at her age she had almost given up hope of such things coming to pass.

But to think that the Marquis of Blackwood might actually be the man to make them happen…well, it was all but unthinkable. As a nonpareil and pink of the ton, Blackwood could have had his pick of any number of younger and—to Nicola’s way of thinking—eminently more suitable girls than herself. Why, then, would he choose to wed the countrified daughter of a widowed earl, who spent far more time in the country than she did in Town?

And what would the exceedingly correct marquis say, Nicola wondered, if he were to discover that his future wife was tending a menagerie of wounded animals, which at the moment included two silky black puppies she had found half drowned by the edge of the river, an assortment of injured birds—including a falcon with a broken wing—and a wily fox named Alistair? Somehow, she could not imagine him being pleased.

Wives of the nobility simply do not indulge in such pastimes, Nicola could almost hear her stodgy old governess saying.

Well, maybe they didn’t, but, if an alliance between the two of them was what he wished for, Nicola would certainly listen to his proposal. Her father seemed favourably disposed towards the match, and Nicola knew that he would never approve of a suitor who was not acceptable in every way. Clearly, Lord Blackwood had earned her father’s approval.

Now, all he had to do was earn hers!

David set out upon his mission of matrimony in a spirit of amiable resignation. Resignation because, to him, marriage was a necessity of life—an obligation one undertook for the good of the family. And to David Penscott, Marquis of Blackwood, Earl of Winsmore and Viscount Huntley, obligation was a duty that went before all.

His feelings of amiability stemmed from the fact that he believed his selection of Lady Nicola Wyndham to be a judicious one. Her past was unblemished, and if she had spent somewhat more time in the country than most young ladies of her class it did not seem to have affected her adversely. Certainly her manners were all that he could have wished. She neither laughed too much, nor too loud, she was lovely enough to suit his rather exacting standards, and, by all accounts, she was not prone to vapours. If these were qualities to be gained by sacrificing the first blush of youth, it was a sacrifice David was more than willing to make.

Reaching Wyndham Hall just before three o’clock, David was greeted at the door by the steadfast Trethewy—an elderly retainer who had been with the Wyndham family for over forty-five years—and relieved of his hat, gloves and whip. From there, he was shown into the spacious green salon where, as expected, Nicola’s father was waiting to greet him.

‘Ah, Blackwood, good to see you again,’ Lord Wyndham said in a rich voice that carried easily to every corner of the room. ‘Ready to do the deed?’

‘I am, my lord, though I admit to being somewhat anxious as to your daughter’s reply.’

‘Anxious? Good Lord, man, there’s no need for apprehension. Nicola didn’t seem at all unhappy when I informed her of your intentions. Once she had recovered from her surprise, that is.’

Surprise? David wondered ruefully. Or shock?

‘Now, before Nicola joins us, might I interest you in a glass of wine? I have just received a shipment from France and I would welcome your opinion on this particular Bordeaux.’

Already familiar with the size and quality of the earl’s cellar, David nodded in anticipation of a rare treat. ‘I should be pleased to, thank you.’

‘Splendid. I’ve not a bad nose for wine, but it doesn’t hold a candle to a connoisseur’s like yours,’ Wyndham said as he poured out two glasses. ‘Right, then, your good health, Blackwood.’

‘And yours, my lord.’

The wine proved to be of excellent vintage, and David was persuaded to enjoy another glass before Lord Wyndham resumed the conversation.

‘No, my Nicki’s not at all like those other flibbertigibbets at court. She’s a sensible lass, always has been. Takes after her mother in that regard. There were always rumours about her, of course, but I never paid them any mind.’

‘Rumours?’ David repeated cautiously.

‘Aye. Superstitious fools. Thought she was a witch.’

‘Lady Nicola?’

‘Nicola?’ Lord Wyndham frowned. ‘Good Lord, no. Nicola’s not been bothered by any rumours in that regard. At least, not yet.’

David cast a surreptitious glance at the older man. Yet?

‘No, I was referring to Elizabeth. Personally, I could never understand what all the fuss was about,’ the earl continued blithely. ‘Just because the parson’s wife saw Elizabeth feeding a wild buck at the edge of the common was hardly reason to think her odd.’

David’s hand stopped the glass halfway to his lips. ‘A buck?’

‘Aye. Magnificent beast. Twelve pointer, as I recall.’

‘And you say that Lady Wyndham was feeding it…by hand?’

‘As though she were holding out crusts of bread to a lamb. Amazing woman,’ Lord Wyndham said in a tone of mild bewilderment. ‘But a witch? Rubbish! And so I told them, for all the good it did me. Thick-headed bunch,’ he muttered as he crossed to the bell pull and gave it a tug. ‘Still, no point in standing here reminiscing; you’ve important business to get on with. Ah, Trethewy, there you are. Would you tell Lady Nicola that Lord Blackwood is here and ask her to join us?’

‘Very good, m’lord.’

When the butler had gone, Wyndham gruffly cleared his throat. ‘Sorry about that, Blackwood, didn’t mean to ramble on about my wife. It’s just that Elizabeth was very special to me. We were blessed, the two of us, and not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. But then, I’m sure you can understand what I’m talking about, given your father’s second marriage to Madame de Charbier. Now there was a love match if ever.’

The proffered statement—well intentioned as David felt sure it was meant to be—caused the words of condolence he had been about to offer Lord Wyndham to die on his lips, and he turned towards the window, fighting down his resentment. Stephanie de Charbier had been a beautiful young Frenchwoman who had come to England shortly after Napoleon’s banishment to Elba. The widow of an influential Parisian diplomat, she had been left a wealthy young woman, and had purchased a charming house on Green Street, where, along with a small staff brought with her from Paris, she had set about re-establishing her life.

Stephanie had been twenty years younger than his father, but her age had made no difference to either of them. They had met quite by chance at the Royal Art Gallery and had fallen in love almost immediately. They had been married a mere three weeks later.

To be fair, David had no doubt that Stephanie de Charbier had loved his father. She had not been deceitful by nature, and, given her great beauty and genteel background, he knew that she could have had her choice of any number of titled English gentlemen. Certainly enough of them had danced attendance upon her.

But it was Richard Penscott whom she had chosen. And that he’d loved her in return, David did not doubt either. One had only needed to listen to the sound of his father’s voice to know that he’d adored his beautiful French émigré. But what David had never been able to come to terms with was the fact that his father—whom he had loved and respected more than anyone else in the world—had perished because of that love. That on the day Stephanie de Charbier had died from a raging fever Richard Penscott had died too. By simply refusing to go on. By giving up on life.

That David could never forgive the young Frenchwoman for. Not even in death.

Moments later, blissfully unaware of her visitor’s agitation, Nicola walked into the room and hurried to her father’s side. ‘Good afternoon, Papa. I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, but I stayed rather longer at the stables than I meant to.’

‘You did not keep us waiting, my dear,’ Lord Wyndham assured her. ‘Lord Blackwood and I were just discussing your dear mother.’

‘Ah, then I dare say it is a good thing I came when I did, for it is a subject upon which you could converse for hours,’ Nicola said, a silvery ripple of laughter accompanying her words. ‘Good afternoon, Lord Blackwood, how very nice to see—’

The rest of the greeting came to an abrupt halt as Lord Blackwood turned and Nicola was given a glimpse of eyes that were so black, so…distant that they froze the laughter in her throat and caused her to take an involuntary step backwards. Good Lord, whatever could have happened to make him so angry? The tension was etched into his handsome face like lines carved into granite, and even under the impeccably fitted jacket Nicola could sense the rigidity of his broad shoulders.

A swift glance in her father’s direction provided no clue as to Lord Blackwood’s state. If anything, her father seemed blissfully unaware that anything was wrong. What, then, was the cause of it? Was the marquis unhappy about the deed he had come to enact today? Or was he—as a stickler for propriety and punctuality—displeased by her own tardy arrival?

‘Lord Blackwood, pray…forgive my delay in arriving,’ Nicola apologized uncertainly. ‘I fear I…lost track of the time.’

Her apprehension was palpable and, recognizing that he was the cause of it, David swore softly under his breath. How stupid of him to have allowed his emotions to get the upper hand, especially in front of her.

He quickly forced a smile to his lips and bowed over her hand. ‘On the contrary, it is I who should be offering you an apology, Lady Nicola. I did not give you a great deal of notice as regards my intention to call this afternoon.’

His words were all that were polite, but Nicola was not convinced that he had recovered from his anger. Whatever had caused his anger in the first place must yet be lingering in his mind. Still, he was obviously making an effort to be civil, which meant that the least she could do was to accommodate him. Her mother’s training had been too deeply instilled to be ignored.

‘Thank you, my lord, but certainly no great notice was ever required. I am always at home and happy to receive visitors. And you did advise my father of your intention to call, so I am not at all put out.’

It was a most gracious acceptance of his apology, and David bowed again, admiring the finesse with which she had handled his momentary lack of civility.

Here, then, was the woman he hoped to marry, the lady his uncle had referred to as a dark horse, and whom society deemed a mystery. How ridiculous, he thought contemptuously. There was nothing in the least dark or mysterious about Nicola Wyndham. She was unaffectedly gracious and warm, yet possessed of a lively good nature which would make for the kind of companion David could imagine spending the rest of his life with. And, most assuredly, in the fetching silk gown which suited her complexion and richly coloured hair to perfection, she was as lovely as he could have wished.

‘Well, now that the pleasantries have been exchanged, I shall leave the two of you alone,’ Lord Wyndham announced into the silence. ‘Don’t need me at a time like this, eh, what?’

Impulsively, Nicola reached up to press an affectionate kiss to her father’s cheek. ‘On the contrary, I shall always need you, Papa.’