Loving Lady Marcia Read online

  Mama arched a delicate brow. “He was old and in poor health. Sometimes desperate men delude themselves into believing that a pretty face will make them youthful again.”

  “Well, we know how well that plan didn’t work,” Marcia said wryly. “Her harping is probably what sent him to an early grave. But it’s my job to keep her happy. It’s my job to keep everyone happy: parents, students, and teachers, too. In fact, if I were a man, I suspect I’d have made an excellent member of Parliament.”

  She and Mama exchanged grins.

  “My dear, you can’t sit in Parliament but you’d take London by storm if you ever decided to join us during the Season.” Mama’s eyes sparkled with romantic plans for her daughter. “The Duke of Glennaron is a fine figure of a man. He’s been asking after you.”

  “Mama.” Marcia wagged a finger at her. “What am I again?”

  “A headmistress,” her mother squeaked, her cheeks turning pink.

  “Exactly,” Marcia said fondly, and checked her hair in a small, oval looking glass. “The Duke of Glennaron can jump in a lake for all I care. Now wait here so I can tell you everything when I get back.” She winked over her shoulder and walked swiftly down the stairs to the elegant drawing room.

  * * *

  Seated on the very edge of an Egyptian-style chair, Lysandra was a petite young lady, all ebony hair, high cheekbones, and large, heavily fringed lavender eyes. She looked exactly like a doll in a shop window, the kind that every young girl walking by would covet. She spoke rather like a doll, too, in a soft, childish voice that led one to believe she was quite helpless.

  But she was the opposite, Marcia knew. She was clever and ambitious, two traits Marcia could admire if only they came with a dose of empathy or humor. It didn’t seem possible that Lysandra lacked both, considering she’d come from humble beginnings and had risen to great wealth, but Marcia knew, having had a foot in both worlds herself, that fortune, or lack thereof, could take neither credit nor blame for one’s response to life and its vicissitudes.

  It was something deeper, some mystery of the heart, that shaped one’s view of the world, and she couldn’t pretend to understand what that was, especially in Lysandra’s case.

  When the widow turned her stunning head from the window, Marcia felt a jab of alarm. Lysandra’s eyes gleamed with her usual pique, and her plump rosy mouth was pursed in the expected disapproval. But today she’d reached a level of severity in her expression Marcia had never seen before, in stark contrast to her eye-catching, extravagant appearance.

  The viscountess was now out of mourning entirely. It was difficult to believe it had been a whole year since the viscount had died. Outfitted in something that could have come straight from the pages of La Belle Assemblée, Lysandra wore a bold goldenrod-yellow silk gown with neat rows of contrasting forest-green scallops on the hem. Her dainty matching slippers and sleek parasol picked up both colors beautifully, as did her smart silk bonnet, tied neatly with a wide goldenrod-yellow ribbon under her chin.

  Marcia had to restrain herself from looking down at her own gown, which she sternly reminded herself was perfectly presentable, and advanced a step forward. “Good afternoon, Lady Ennis.” She made sure to adhere to Lysandra’s demand that she address her formally. “I stopped by for a brief visit with my family before heading back to the school. It’s good to see you, as always.”

  “You won’t think so after I’m done with this interview,” her former classmate said in that breathy voice of hers. “I’m here merely to tell you that you’re dismissed from your position as headmistress, effective immediately.”

  Marcia’s whole body stiffened.

  “Did you hear me?” Lysandra’s dark brows rose beneath her bonnet’s brim.

  “I couldn’t possibly have heard you correctly, my lady. There’s nothing mere about being told you’re dismissed from your position.”

  “You did hear, then.” The viscountess straightened out a crimp in her skirt and then looked back up at Marcia as if she were discussing something as inconsequential as the weather.

  Marcia blinked, so shocked that she pulled a Chippendale chair from a corner and sat down without Lysandra’s permission. “But … what have I done to displease you?”

  Lysandra tossed her head. “You broke a rule. I no longer need your services in any way, so don’t ask if you can hang on as a teacher.” She stood. “And now I must go.”

  “A rule?” Marcia abandoned the chair. “What rule? I’m the one who oversees the following of the rules, my lady, and I do an excellent job of it. This is a most confusing accusation.”

  “Did you take the charity girls on the outing to Brighton?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That’s strictly against the rules.”

  “I—I didn’t think you’d care, as long as I paid for their traveling expenses.”

  “You didn’t think to ask, did you?”

  “No.” Marcia swallowed.

  “Which is why you’re dismissed.”

  “But I’ve never broken another rule, ever. And to tell you the truth, the late viscount always allowed the charity girls to go on the Brighton excursion. What harm is there in it?”

  “What harm is there? Who are you to question me?”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but I find it difficult to believe that you don’t realize how demoralizing it would be to the charity girls to be left behind.”

  “You impertinent girl.” Lysandra’s voice quivered. “How dare you show such disrespect to your employer?”

  “I’m sorry you’re upset. I thought you’d understand. It felt like the right thing to do at the time. And it still does.”

  “I don’t care,” Lysandra flung back. “My word is final. You are dismissed.”

  Marcia put a palm to her forehead and wasn’t surprised to see it shaking. “Surely I can stay until … until the end of the term?”

  “No. I’ve already arranged a replacement. Miss Finch.”

  Oh, thank goodness for that. Deborah Finch, the maths teacher and Marcia’s closest confidante, was of the same inclination as she: They both adored the school and its pupils beyond measure.

  “We’ll conduct interviews over the summer for a permanent replacement,” Lysandra pronounced. “Someone who knows how important it is for everyone to adhere to their proper places in the social order.”

  “So you and I may tamper with society’s expectations, but no one else may?”

  Lysandra’s eyes flashed with anger. “There will always be victors and losers. Clever victors protect their spoils.”

  “That’s hardly the generous perspective of a benefactress,” Marcia said coolly. “Education is a more reliable way out of a tight corner than luck or charm. I’d think you’d applaud other girls who could wring advantages for themselves using the skills they’ve acquired at Oak Hall—not hire a stiff-rumped headmistress to quash them.”

  The two women stared at each other, the animosity between them almost palpable. Marcia would have liked to drag the widow by the hair out of her parents’ house. But she was a lady. Not that she always remembered to be.

  “I—I’m sorry, Viscountess,” she said quietly. “That was harsh of me to say, and I hope you’ll forgive me. It’s just that I know I have the girls’ and the school’s best interests at heart. Please … let me stay on.”

  Lysandra lifted and dropped a shoulder. “It’s too late.”

  “Why do you dislike me so?” Marcia swallowed a lump in her throat. “You always have.”

  “I never disliked you.” Lysandra lifted her tiny chin. “I was simply the only classmate who wasn’t in awe of you.”

  Marcia’s cheeks burned. “No one was in awe of me.”

  “Really? Everyone was ‘Marcia, this. Marcia, that.’ And you didn’t discourage them.”

  “I’m not self-centered, Lysandra. I’m a leader. Believe me, so many times I haven’t wanted to be. So many times I’ve wished—”

  “Despite your modest beginnings, you
became the perfect girl from the perfect family.” Lysandra’s brow was smooth. “You had perfect manners, perfect beauty, and perfect prospects. Which you squandered.”

  Squandered.

  She spoke as if Marcia had committed a horrible crime.

  She didn’t know what else to say. She’d been running on reserve strength for years, and at this moment, when she needed it most, that strength had deserted her.

  Lysandra seemed to sense her advantage. She went to a small looking glass and adjusted the bonnet bow beneath her chin. “You may have been a leader once, but now you’re verging on ape leader.”

  Inside, Marcia flinched, but she’d never show it. “I’m hardly a spinster yet,” she said, “and even if I were, it’s none of your concern.”

  “Oh?” Lysandra turned back to face her. “I saw the headmistress at Greenwood at a Venetian breakfast last week. She had her Season in London, and although she never took, her lineage is impeccable and she acts as if she knows that. She wore a stunning bonnet straight from Paris. But you—”

  She raked Marcia with a scathing glance.

  “I dress as a headmistress should,” Marcia said, her face heating. “I’ve no need to put on airs. Greenwood is a fine school in its own right, yes, but you have much to be proud of at Oak Hall. We’re special, don’t you see? There’s love—”

  “I don’t care about such sentimental folderol.”

  “Your husband did.”

  “He was a fool.”

  “How could you say so? He was kind and good and—”

  “Oak Hall is a wallflower among schools, thanks to you and my late husband.” Lysandra flicked an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve. “I had your things packed up, and they’ll be delivered to this address tomorrow morning, along with a month’s wages. My solicitor has already delivered the news to the staff and students.”

  Hot tears pushed at Marcia’s lids, but she refused to let them fall. “I can’t abandon the girls—”

  “You must. It’s my school. You were an employee. Nothing more.”

  “Oh, yes I was. I was a student. With you. Do you have no feeling? Think of all the times I tried to befriend you, Lysandra—”

  “Don’t dare call me Lysandra. I reserve that privilege for my inner circle, of which you are no part.”

  And then it dawned on Marcia. “You didn’t need any green silk for the choir, did you?”

  “No.” Lysandra’s tone was smug. “And don’t bother trying to contact me, either. I’m off to Cornwall this week to stay at Kitto Tremellyn’s, an extremely eligible widower. We have much in common, and I can’t have any distractions.” She paused. “Don’t feel sorry for yourself, Marcia. You can rest in the bosom of your family now. But some people’s work is never done.”

  And then she stalked out.

  When the door shut behind the viscountess, Marcia put her palms to her cheeks. The windows in the drawing room loomed: crazy, sideways panes of glass that blurred into a kaleidoscope of angles.

  Her life. Her precious life that she’d cultivated with great care …

  A low moan threatened to spill from her throat.

  “Marcia? Dear?” Mama’s voice came to her a few seconds later.

  Somehow, between sobs that racked her so that she could barely breathe, she was able to convey to her mother what had happened. Mama pulled her up the stairs to her bed and gave her something hot—her tea from the cozy sitting room, with something added to it that made her eyes heavy.

  She remembered nothing sequential after that. Just images and feelings.

  The beloved stair railing at the school, the one leading from the main hall to the second story, where most of the girls slept.

  Pain. Gut-wrenching despair threatening to double her over.

  Daddy’s voice, low and grave.

  The special hum that filled the air when all the girls and their teachers were in their classrooms.

  Susie, Gretchen, Holly … her three oldest students, who were so excited to graduate and were busy writing their speeches.

  Rosa and Georgina, the youngest girls and identical twins, both beyond thrilled about their upcoming roles carrying bouquets to the Daisy Queen and her runners-up in the spring festival.

  Marybelle, the newest staff member, who was shy and only now coming out of her shell, all because she excelled at charades and had won the faculty contest.

  The aging Mrs. Blalock, who pretended to be gruff but whom all the girls adored. She’d been Marcia’s own maths teacher.

  And dear God, Deborah … a tireless support to her and an amazing teacher in her own right.

  Ellen, Katie, Sharon, Priscilla, Emily, Christina, Rebecca, Suzanne, Emma, and all the other girls—they were like flowers to her … a beautiful, lush bouquet.

  Their faces and names seared her heart.

  Chapter Four

  Duncan had been earl four years, and after a miserable start in which seduction, death, and childbirth had loomed large, he’d had a revelation—it had happened on the docks in Southampton, the morning he’d almost sent baby Joe off to live with strangers in Australia. When he’d stepped on the gangplank, Joe bundled in his arms, all his weighty problems—at least the problems he’d thought were weighty—had ceased to bother him anymore.

  Looking into Joe’s infant face, at those large gray eyes which had stared so steadily back at his own, he’d had a life-changing thought: To the devil with society’s expectations. He had his own to meet, and his standards were far higher.

  Now he and Joe were a pair, and Duncan was home, the home in London he’d created especially for the boy—and he was determined to put a cheery face on things, despite the fact that he’d been miserably rebuffed by the vastly intriguing Lady Marcia Sherwood only an hour before. He was used to having certain members of society give him the cold shoulder, but this particular snub had stung deeply.

  He wasn’t quite sure why. It would require some thought, a brandy before the fire that evening. Not that he wanted to revisit the awkwardness of the encounter—

  Oh, very well, he did. He wanted to think of her marching along, her profile clean and strong, her figure lithe and supple beneath the practical gown and simple spencer. He wanted to remember the way her lips had pursed when he’d demanded to know more about her—the way, for a split second, her sideways blue glance had given away her interest in him when she’d crossed the street to leave him.

  Her interest. In him.

  It was there.

  That was what he really wanted to think about tonight before the fire, and if he weren’t careful, he’d get lost in a haze of lust that would find no relief any time soon. He’d no mistress in London. There was a pretty widow in the country—a woman who never wanted to marry again as her squire husband had left her comfortable. But she was far away, and although she was amusing, his nighttime antics with her were wearing thin.

  “Greetings, Jenkins.” He handed his hat to the waiting butler. “Where’s the little heathen?”

  Jenkins tilted his head. “In the drawing room, my lord, with Aislinn and Margaret.”

  Duncan held a tightly wrapped package under one arm. “Summon everyone for an impromptu party, please. Warren’s probably shining my favorite boots for the umpteenth time. And Rupert is currying Samson. Tell Lizzie not to forget to bring Gulliver’s Travels from the mantel shelf in the kitchen. I’ll read a chapter to everyone before dinner. It’s been three days of boring sessions with solicitors”—and one awkward encounter with an unforgettable young lady—“and I’m anxious to get back to the Lilliputians.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Jenkins did his best to feign indifference, but he took off at a distinctly unbutlerlike speed, striding down the hall as if his tailcoat were on fire.

  “Faster, Jenkins!” Duncan teased him, and watched the butler slow down to his usual lugubrious pace and disappear round a corner in the direction of the kitchens.

  Now it was time for Joe.

  Duncan felt all his tension disap
pear when he threw open the door to the drawing room and saw the two maids hiding behind chairs.

  Ah, he’d interrupted a game of hide-and-seek.

  One of the girls looked up at him and winced. It’s all right. Don’t move, his expression told her, and he put a finger to his lips.

  With a pleased twinkle in her eye, she went back to hiding.

  The little heathen—better known as Joe—spotted him and forgot all about the game. “Papa!” he cried. As he ran by the chair, the maid reached out and grabbed him.

  Good God, the shrieking!

  With a laugh, Duncan swooped down and pulled Joe from Margaret’s arms. “I’ve brought you something,” he said when the boy had calmed down a bit.

  Duncan put him back on the floor and joined him there, sitting on his haunches to watch him unwrap the brown paper package. It contained brightly painted wooden circus animals he’d seen in a shop window.

  The boy held a yellow giraffe aloft like a trophy and laughed when Duncan extended his hand to try to take it.

  “It’s mine,” Joe said, pulling his hand back, then changed his mind. “But you may play with it, Papa.”

  “Not until you’ve had your turn.” Duncan grinned. “But thank you.”

  Joe dropped the wooden figure and made a wicked face. “Aarrrrr!” he cried, and slashed at him with an invisible sword.

  It was their usual game. Duncan fell back and placed his hand over his breastbone, pretending to be mortally wounded. “Now look what you’ve done,” he groaned, and felt a familiar pang near his heart. It was especially fierce on Joe’s birthdays.

  Guilt.

  Prone on the floor, he inhaled a careful breath and snatched up the freckle-faced mischief maker, trapping him beneath his arms. If only he hadn’t been so naïve, Duncan thought when Joe yelled with delight. If only he’d figured out that Finn had had a reason—a bad one—for leaving so soon for America.

  Duncan would have attempted to right the wrong his brother had done Joe’s innocent mother. He’d have found her in time and married her on the spot, even though he’d met her only once.