Once Upon a Marquess (The Worth Saga 1)

They were concentrating on the table where a small orange cat, wrapped in a blanket, lay mewing softly.

Theresa dabbed at the cat’s leg with a small cloth. “It’s just a little scratch, Caramel,” she said in a soothing voice. “It will be all right.”

Caramel was one of the four cats they already owned. Thank God.

“That cat that hurt you?” Theresa was explaining. “He was just hungry, not mean. With a little chicken—”

“No.” Judith closed the door behind her.

Caramel jumped, wriggling in the blanket, freeing herself to escape down the hall.

“Judith.” Theresa stood, brushing short, orange hairs from her bodice. “How good to have you home.” She curtsied almost perfectly, proof that the deportment lessons had not been totally useless.

Judith had done an excellent job teaching her sister precisely how to manipulate her.

“One curtsy is appropriate at the beginning of a dance, or perhaps upon presentation to a social superior,” Judith said. “Not when you’re asking your sister to let you have another cat. Especially not when said cat is feral.”

“Oh, please.” Theresa gave up all pretense of manners. “Please, please. We don’t have to keep him. Just feed him.”

“Feeding is keeping.” Judith spoke from long experience. “We can’t feed every cat in London, you know. Four is enough.”

Theresa switched smoothly to another tack. “You never let me do anything.”

“No,” Judith said with a sigh, “I don’t. It’s because I’m a terrible ogre. I mean that literally. There’s no point trying to keep you happy when I intend to grind your bones into flour in a week anyway.”

Theresa’s nose wrinkled. “Disgusting.”

Judith rubbed her stomach and winked. “Delicious.”

They both laughed at that, and Benedict managed a minuscule smile, too. Judith did her best not to pounce on him.

You smiled. Are you feeling better? Who hurt you, and how can I stop it? It had been scarcely three days since he’d come home. She had well over a month to solve the problem. The least she could do would be to wait until his lip was healed before probing painful wounds.

She settled for a simple inquiry. “And how was your day, Benedict?”

He shrugged. “Better. Theresa showed me how to hold a cat and give it stitches.”

“Blankets,” Theresa put in matter-of-factly. “Wrap anything in a blanket long enough and it will eventually feel better.”

If only that would work for her. If only Judith could find a massive down comforter and hide from what she had to do. If she could cower under the covers and have her sisters’ trusts appear as if by magic, there would be no need for Christian at all.

“How convenient that you should speak of blankets,” Judith said. “It’s time for bed. Go get ready.”

Theresa was too sly to pout. She looked over at Judith and said, craftily, “I can’t go. I haven’t dusted yet.”

“How surprising.” Judith shook her head. “How convenient. The only time you mention unfinished chores is to avoid bedtime. Go; I’ll take care of it. I’ll be up in a few minutes to join you.”

Her brother and sister made a show of grumbling, but eventually, she sent them up the stairs.

She wiped down the sideboard, the table. She stopped at the hutch. It contained all their china. Judith had purchased them, piece by piece. Those dishes represented hours of work on her part, trying to find sets that were mostly a little bit matched. If one squinted. They were a kind of promise to her brother and sister: Things were different, but they would survive.

But it wasn’t the china that stopped her tonight. It was the shepherdess.

She’d sold everything she could after her father’s conviction—everything that had belonged to her outright. Gowns for her upcoming season had gone first. Then jewelry. A carpet. The resulting funds had been enough to take this house for ten years with a scant fifty or so pounds left over.

She hadn’t sold Christian’s clockwork shepherdess, even though the figurine had been hers. It had been a gift, one she should never have accepted.

Judith’s own mother had died when she was an infant. The second Countess of Linney had come into her life when she was four, and Judith had never known the difference.

The countess had been much given to laughing, even though—possibly even especially because—her husband was rarely in England. She’d adored bright colors. When she’d taught Judith to embroider, she had forever been encouraging her to add reds and yellows, bright blues and vibrant oranges.

Judith had been seventeen when she passed away. She’d fled the company that had gathered after the funeral, overwhelmed with sadness and fury. Her stepmother would never have wanted a sober, quiet gathering. She would have hated having the house draped in black crepe. If she had been alive, she would never have made Judith wear a black gown. And she would have winked at Judith and whispered that she should absolutely cheat with dark burgundies and welcoming browns.

But she was gone, and in a month’s time, Anthony and her father would be gone, too. They were escaping the cloying black crepe that had been hung in the windows for a trip to China.

Judith had hidden in a curtained window seat, curling into a little ball. Her stepmother was gone; her father was leaving; Judith wasn’t going to come out in society after all. Instead she’d have to go stay with her staid, sober uncle in the country for two years. Her entire life had altered in a blink, and it wasn’t fair.

She had been seventeen; she was too old to feel sorry for herself. She was telling herself precisely that when Christian peered into the room. He’d looked about, left the door open, and come in. He’d had a box under one arm, and he had set this on the table.

She hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself, but he was leaving, too. With Anthony gone, he’d have no reason to visit during the holidays.

They had talked, that summer. A few times a week.

Not that it meant anything. He was two years older than she was, and besides Judith wouldn’t be out, not while she was still in mourning. They were friends. Just friends.

At least, they were friendly.

At least… At least, she recognized mockingly, he was friendly to her. She had too many friends who made the mistake of mooning after their brothers’ acquaintances, only to have hopes dashed. No point in getting ideas herself.

“Judith,” he had said. “I’ve been looking for you. How are you?”

She glared at him. “If you tell me that I’m a big, strong girl to be so stoic, I will tip a bookshelf on your head.”

He touched his head. “Well. I’m not wearing any armor, and I’m not an idiot. So it looks like I’m safe on two counts.” He shifted from foot to foot. “Would you be averse to a little discussion?”

“Please.” Judith turned to him. “All these people here are so silent and grieving. T

he countess would be laughing at them all. She would hate this entire affair.”

He nodded. “In that case, then, I’ve come to give you something.”

She’d glanced at the hall. The low murmur of talk indicated that guests were still here. Her stepmother had been buried literally hours before. “That might not be appropriate.”

He shut the door behind him, and she swallowed. That wasn’t done, shutting the door. Not even for a boy—a man, really—who was a family friend. Not even one she had known since she was seven.

“Well,” he said with a lopsided smile. “This would be inappropriate at any time, really. This gift falls on the wrong side of improper.”

She hadn’t known what to say. “Do you mean that in the sense of your arguments with Anthony? About how propriety is all useless claptrap?”

He looked upward. “Not all propriety is useless claptrap. Much of it serves a purpose. A prophylactic purpose.”

She’d peered at him suspiciously. “Prophylactic? The last time you argued prophylactics with Anthony—”

His ears had turned red. “Did you overhear that? Ha, ha. Fancy that! Never mind. In this case, prophylactic means a rule that is designed to protect quite broadly. For instance, think of pistols.”

“What sort of pistols?”

For some reason, this had made him blush even more. “Never mind the pistols. But if you’re going to carry one, there’s a rule you must learn—never point a gun at a man unless you wish him harm. It’s one of the most important rules, even though most of the time, if you point that gun, nothing will happen. It’s a rule that’s meant to protect everyone for that one time out of a hundred when something horrible happens. Maybe you’re jostled and you pull the trigger. Maybe that’s the instant a spider drops on your head. Whatever it is, the only way to prevent horrible accidents is to never point a gun at a man in jest.”