The tiny square patch transformed from black to cobalt and finally to a familiar shade of silver gray, the gray of a man’s eyes shining in firelight.
When the Marquess of Blackthorne arrived at church in his chaise-and-four the following morning, not a female in the room failed to take note. The kitchenmaids whispered at how villainously shiny and black his hair appeared in contrast to the blond locks of his younger brother. The housemaids murmured their observations on the massive firmness of his chin, the wondrous breadth of his shoulders, the disdainful expression of his mouth, and the immense height to which he rose as he strode down the aisle toward the family pew.
The merchants’ wives and daughters commented among themselves on the fine cut of the marquess’s blue coat, its M-notched lapels, shiny brass buttons, flapped pockets, and French cuffs. The mayor’s daughter and her friends regarded with admiration his double-breasted waistcoat of striped valencia, his cream-colored trousers, and his fine leather boots.
The landowners’ daughters and their mothers took note that the future Duke of Marston had returned to England with his skin scandalously tanned and his attention no more fixed upon them than it ever had been. They observed, however, that in spite of his rakish manners and dangerous air, he had returned all the same and was as eligible as ever.
Anne Webster, seated beside Miss Watson in the second row from the back, saw only one thing. The Marquess of Blackthorne had tied beneath his high, stiff collar a cravat of the finest and most elegant silk Honiton lace.
Almost deaf with fury, she heard little of the vicar’s rambling sermon. Instead she watched Blackthorne as he whispered some comment to his brother, chuckled at a tidbit of humor the vicar put forth, and ran his finger around the inside of his collar. Unable to quell it, she had the unchristian wish that her lace would come to life and strangle the man.
After the service, the Chouteau family exited the church first, followed by the inhabitants of their duchy. The duke and duchess departed for Slocombe House in their carriage, while Sir Alexander joined some town friends for a ride on horseback. When Anne emerged into the springtime sunshine, the marquess stood at the bottom of the steps deep in conversation with the vicar.
Miss Watson grabbed Anne’s arm. “Do not say a word! I met Lord Blackthorne at breakfast. Despite his wild appearance yesterday and his abominable reputation, he is very noble and will inherit both title and land from his father. No one can speak boldly to him without dire consequences.”
“But he is wearing my lace. Do you see?”
“You cannot be sure it is yours.”
“It is mine, Miss Watson.”
“Then let him have it. It bears his crest, and you will never prove you made it.”
By the time Anne reached the marquess, it was all she could do to hold her tongue. She crossed her arms, lowered her head to hide her face with her bonnet, and took a deep breath. She was almost past him when he touched her elbow.
“Your Majesty, Queen Anne,” he said in a low voice tinged with mock servitude. “How well you look this morning.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Anne managed through gritted teeth.
“I am happy to see you again today, as well, Miss Watson,” he continued. “You cannot mind if I join you.”
“No, of course not, Lord Blackthorne,” Prudence chirped as the man nodded to the vicar and joined the two women in their walk across the drive toward the road. He slowed his long stride to match theirs and tipped his hat at acquaintances they passed, as though strolling with a tradesman’s daughter and a maid were a perfectly acceptable pastime for a marquess. Anne knew Prudence would bolt given half the chance, so she caught her elbow and hung on.
“Your gown is fetching, Your Highness,” he remarked, obviously speaking to Anne and ignoring her mistress altogether. “Such a subtle shade of fawn
When the Marquess of Blackthorne arrived at church in his chaise-and-four the following morning, not a female in the room failed to take note. The kitchenmaids whispered at how villainously shiny and black his hair appeared in contrast to the blond locks of his younger brother. The housemaids murmured their observations on the massive firmness of his chin, the wondrous breadth of his shoulders, the disdainful expression of his mouth, and the immense height to which he rose as he strode down the aisle toward the family pew.
The merchants’ wives and daughters commented among themselves on the fine cut of the marquess’s blue coat, its M-notched lapels, shiny brass buttons, flapped pockets, and French cuffs. The mayor’s daughter and her friends regarded with admiration his double-breasted waistcoat of striped valencia, his cream-colored trousers, and his fine leather boots.
The landowners’ daughters and their mothers took note that the future Duke of Marston had returned to England with his skin scandalously tanned and his attention no more fixed upon them than it ever had been. They observed, however, that in spite of his rakish manners and dangerous air, he had returned all the same and was as eligible as ever.
Anne Webster, seated beside Miss Watson in the second row from the back, saw only one thing. The Marquess of Blackthorne had tied beneath his high, stiff collar a cravat of the finest and most elegant silk Honiton lace.
Almost deaf with fury, she heard little of the vicar’s rambling sermon. Instead she watched Blackthorne as he whispered some comment to his brother, chuckled at a tidbit of humor the vicar put forth, and ran his finger around the inside of his collar. Unable to quell it, she had the unchristian wish that her lace would come to life and strangle the man.
After the service, the Chouteau family exited the church first, followed by the inhabitants of their duchy. The duke and duchess departed for Slocombe House in their carriage, while Sir Alexander joined some town friends for a ride on horseback. When Anne emerged into the springtime sunshine, the marquess stood at the bottom of the steps deep in conversation with the vicar.
Miss Watson grabbed Anne’s arm. “Do not say a word! I met Lord Blackthorne at breakfast. Despite his wild appearance yesterday and his abominable reputation, he is very noble and will inherit both title and land from his father. No one can speak boldly to him without dire consequences.”
“But he is wearing my lace. Do you see?”
“You cannot be sure it is yours.”
“It is mine, Miss Watson.”
“Then let him have it. It bears his crest, and you will never prove you made it.”
By the time Anne reached the marquess, it was all she could do to hold her tongue. She crossed her arms, lowered her head to hide her face with her bonnet, and took a deep breath. She was almost past him when he touched her elbow.
“Your Majesty, Queen Anne,” he said in a low voice tinged with mock servitude. “How well you look this morning.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Anne managed through gritted teeth.
“I am happy to see you again today, as well, Miss Watson,” he continued. “You cannot mind if I join you.”
“No, of course not, Lord Blackthorne,” Prudence chirped as the man nodded to the vicar and joined the two women in their walk across the drive toward the road. He slowed his long stride to match theirs and tipped his hat at acquaintances they passed, as though strolling with a tradesman’s daughter and a maid were a perfectly acceptable pastime for a marquess. Anne knew Prudence would bolt given half the chance, so she caught her elbow and hung on.
“Your gown is fetching, Your Highness,” he remarked, obviously speaking to Anne and ignoring her mistress altogether. “Such a subtle shade of fawn
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