“No!” a girl shouted from within the stable yard. “He’s no skinflint, I tell you.”
“Is so,” a lad retorted. “The steward says he wants Widow Brockbank out her house within a month. Not her fault her eldest broke his leg with that old tiller.”
“I’m sure he just doesn’t know that. He’s not a skinflint, just…just careful.”
Dear heaven, and Marcus closed his eyes as his ward defended him as best she could.
Why did she bother?
He wasthe curmudgeon who was going to leave Dinah alone for Christmas. Who’d asked his secretary to choose presents for her birthday.
“Pah,” said the lad. “He’s a tightfisted–”
“No! My father said he was the kindest boy at school. One who fought the bully-ruffians and…and–”
“Tightfist. Penny-pincher. Muckworm,” jeered the lad before…
A splash and…
“Oy, yer little bitch, I’m gonna–”
Marcus tore around the corner and hauled the drenched lad from the horse trough before he could lay one finger on Dinah.
“Away with you,” he hissed. “And never use such language with ladies.”
The young lad scowled but Marcus released him and he scarpered.
Dropping one knee to the muddy courtyard in front of Dinah, Marcus patted her ruffled curls and flushed cheeks. “Are you well? Did he touch you?”
“No, Cousin Marcus. I-I didn’t mean to push him in the trough.”
He crushed her into a hug. “I’m not worth it, Dinah,” he whispered into her hair.
“But…but…” She drew back and patted his shoulder. “Papa said you were good and kind, and Papa was always right. But he’s not here anymore so you need someone else to stand up for you.”
Damnation, he felt tears burn at the back of his eyes. “You mustn’t…” He cleared his throat. “I’m not worthy of any…”
“To us you are, Marcus,” came a soft voice from behind. “Come, the both of you, before we miss the special mince pies Luke has baked.” They both twisted to Charlotte who smiled. “Or miss the jug-bitten uncle who’s about to make a speech. Or miss the search for the bridesmaid who’s disappeared…as has the best man. Or miss Fred and Kitty who are to dance their first jig as a wedded couple.”
Marcus got to his feet, breeches besmirched, boots likewise, cravat skew-whiff and hair doubtless at all angles.
But he held out a hand to Dinah. “Shall we, my lady?”
She giggled and lifted her skirt hem, even though it was soiled and sodden, to give a dainty curtsey. Then she reached out to clutch his hand.
Marcus turned and thrust forth his other hand, bare and somewhat soiled also.
Charlotte clasped it and his fingers curled around hers.
“Let us ‘do nothing but eat and make good cheer,’” he said with a smile. “For time is precious and fleet for us all.”
And Marcus led them both from the cold and into the welcoming warmth of the inn.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Every one of us may, and does commit mistakes in judgment, memory, and perception.”
PRIVATEEDUCATION:APRACTICALPLAN FOR THESTUDIES OFYOUNGLADIES.
