His long-legged strides drew to a slow halt, and he turned back around. His midnight black cloak whipped about his feet. The marquess folded his arms across his chest.
“You should have a speaking to with their mother,” she said, lest her confidence desert her. “Their mother should know the manner of children that—”
“We don’t have a mother,” the golden curled, little girl blurted.
We don’t have a mother. Patrina curled her toes into the soles of her serviceable black boots. A pang of hurt for the troublesome children tugged at her breast. They were motherless. Which of course explained their less than desirable behavior. After all, hadn’t the Tidemore sisters behaved much the same way after the death of their father long ago? “I am so sorry,” she said softly. “I…” feel like an unmitigated ass. “I didn’t mean…” to be a big bully. “Forgive me,” she finished lamely.
The Marquess of Beaufort stormed toward her. Fury snapped in the green, nearly jade irises of his eyes. She took a stumbling step backward, and then remembered herself. She might feel regret for the harsh words she’d spoken about their motherless state, but she would not be cowed by this fiend. He stopped a hairsbreadth away. The tips of his gleaming black Hessians brushed the tips of her boots. “My children do not need your pity, miss.”
By the fury etched in the harshly beautiful planes of his angular face, Patrina realized this wouldn’t be the time to point out she was in fact a ‘my lady’. Instead, she tipped her chin up a notch. “I was not pitying them. Or you.” No, she’d experienced too much of that undesirable sentiment to ever turn it on to another.
The marquess lowered his head, so close she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, and snarled, “Good. Because we do not want such sentiments from one such as you.”
From one such as her? Humph! “Well, then,” she said, wishing she didn’t have on the silly red bonnet as it lessened the effect of flouncing one’s curls.
He spun on his heel and marched back toward his children.
Patrina stood staring after him, and hated herself for being a weak ninnyhammer at her relief over his departure.
In fact, the more she stood there studying his broad back, the angrier she became. At him. At Albert Marshville. At herself. But mostly, herself for allowing a gentleman to make her feel so singularly unimportant. How dare he come and interrupt the peace and solitude she’d managed to steal for herself? Before she knew what she intended, she started after him. The snow crunched noisily under her boots. Somewhere along the way, she’d ceased to care about the absolute dunderhead’s cool treatment and had shifted to the rage she’d carried over Albert Marshville’s deception. “You,” she called after him. “I said, you!”
The marquess drew to an elegant, deliberate halt, then turned to face her. He leaned down and murmured something to the boy. Bothersome Boy’s mouth tipped downward in a frown, and he glared at Patrina a moment, then with obvious reluctance grabbed the little girl’s hand and stood in wait for their father. “What?” he snapped when Patrina reached his side.
“I’m not a miss,” she blurted, and immediately heat flooded her cheeks. His eyebrows lowered. “You called me a miss,” she went on, when it became apparent the laconic marquess had little to say on the matter. “And I’m not a miss. I’m a lady.” Polite Society would disagree. She jerked her chin up a notch. “I am Lady Patrina Tidemore.”
He said nothing for a long while, and she scuffed the tip of her boot along the ground, wishing she’d perhaps spent just tad bit more time considering what she would say to the insufferable lout who’d doubled back to confront her. She waited for the flash of awareness, the dawning realization of the scandalous miss before him.
“Is that supposed to mean something, my lady?”
Patrina angled her head.
“You say your name as though I might have an idea of just who you are.”
And she realized—he didn’t have a dashed clue who she was. “You don’t know who I am?” she blurted. An involuntary smile tugged the corners of her lips.
He scoffed. “What is so remarkable about you, my lady, that you think I should know you, prior sight unseen?”
She expected she should be offended. Nay, outraged. The kind of outrage that had young ladies slapping rude gents across smug faces. Except… Patrina’s smile widened. This great, insufferable, overbearing, condescending gentleman had no idea who she, Lady Patrina Tidemore was. A giddy sensation trilled through her body, as the marquess suddenly became vastly preferable.
“Has something I said amused you, my lady?”
“Er…no…I…”
“And was there a reason you’ve called me back here? To perhaps condescend my children further and throw your snowballs?”
She pressed her lips into a tight line to keep from delivering a nasty set-down. His children were the ones who could certainly stand a lesson in proper behavior. “I called you back to apologize. I’m sorry for my callous statement regarding your children’s mother. It wasn’t my intention to be cruel. I’m sorry for your loss.”
And she was. He might be a pompous gent, but she’d not wish this sadness on anyone. Well…mayhap the dastard who’d ruined her good name. But she’d draw the proverbial line there.
The marquess eyed her overlong, and she resisted the urge to keep from shifting on her feet like a small child caught slipping ink into her governess’s tea. “Don’t be,” he said gruffly.
She wrinkled her brow. “Don’t be what?”
“Sorry, my lady. I certainly am not.” With a curt bow, he spun back on his heel and took his leave.
It took a moment for the marquess’ words to register, and by that point, he’d made his way back to his waiting children. Her breath caught at the absolute viciousness of such a statement, and as the winter flakes snowed down upon her, she wondered what had caused such a gentleman to become so heartlessly cold.
CHAPTER 2
Weston Aldridge, the 4th Marquess of Beaufort, resisted the urge to steal a glance back at the spirited, if tart-mouthed young lady he’d left behind at the edge of the Serpentine. With her sinfully black curls hanging past her shoulders and the creamy white of her skin, she put him in mind of all manner of things improper.
Which made very little sense. With Lady Patrina Tidemore’s diminutive frame and nondescript plainness, she was nothing like the lush beauty he’d always preferred in his late golden-haired, tall, graceful wife. His gut tightened. Then, after Cordelia’s great many betrayals, mayhap he’d found himself attracted to a wholly different beauty.
Charlotte tugged at his hand, and he slowed his steps. “Pick me up, Papa.”
“Pick me up, please,” he corrected automatically.
Charlotte giggled. “I can’t pick you up, Papa. You’re too big.”
Daniel scuffed snow at her skirts. “He means you’re supposed to say, please, you ninny.”
“Don’t call me a ninny,” she cried and kicked snow back at him.
They proceeded to speak over one another in a flurry of unkind words that made Weston wince. “Enough,” he barked.