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The older man shook his head. “I merely carried out your husband’s request. The idea was all his.”
She turned to Daniel.
“You worried so about society,” he said simply.
“You said you didn’t care.”
“But you did. And that Pratt creature made me mad as fire when she snubbed you. I hope she sees every moment of your success. From the outside.”
“I never expected anything like this,” murmured Penelope. She knew it was a silly comment, but she was feeling overwhelmed.
“The government rather owed you something after the way you were treated,” said Macklin.
She gazed at the older man. “I’m not sure you always thought so.”
“Once I got to know you, I saw that you were the just the woman to make Daniel happy.”
“Hear, hear,” said Daniel.
Penelope turned to him. Her eyes blazed with love, and she saw it reflected back with equal strength from her husband’s gaze.
With his customary tact, Lord Macklin slipped out of the room.
Order Jane Ashford’s next book in
The Way to a Lord's Heart series
How to Cross a Marquess
On sale August 2019
Read on for a sneak peek at the next book in Jane Ashford’s charming series, The Way to a Lord’s Heart
One
Roger Berwick, Marquess of Chatton, urged his horse to greater speed on the firm sand at the verge of the waves. A good gallop could always relieve his feelings. And late July was surely the best time for it here at the edge of the North Sea. The Northumberland wind still had a bite, but the sun was warm on his back, and there was no sign of rain. The stone pile of Chatton Castle, with all its attendant responsibilities, receded behind him. The shore stretched ahead. For an hour or so he could be solitary and carefree.
And so, of course, a figure on horseback appeared ahead, riding toward him. The mount’s glossy gray coat and the rider’s neat silhouette told him who it was. Roger muttered a curse. His luck was out today. “You’re on my land,” he said when their paths intersected.
“Not according to my father,” replied a haughty young lady in a fashionable riding habit. “He would say that you’re on his.”
“The deuce. Is this that stretch?” Roger looked around and realized that he’d come farther than he’d noticed. He was on a piece of land at the edge of his estate that was the subject of a border dispute, started by his father and hers some years ago. The ham-handed way the two men had tried to settle the matter had roused a world of troubles.
“You know it is,” she said.
Roger looked at her. In one sense he’d known Fenella Fairclough all his life. They’d grown up on neighboring estates and met at various children’s parties in their youth. In another sense, however, he hardly knew her at all. A female had no right to change so much between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three, Roger thought. She’d been a gangling tongue-tied girl when she left for the north five years ago, after the fiasco of their rejected betrothal. She’d been fearful and retiring, the sort of female one was surprised to hear had been present at a soiree or assembly. And she’d come back the opposite of all those things—forthright, impatient, alarmingly astute. Not to mention far more curvaceous. The first time he’d seen her again, on her return to the neighborhood, he hadn’t recognized Fenella.
She had the same pale red hair and blue eyes, the same pretty oval face, but the expression was far different, and the words that issued from that full-lipped mouth could sting. How well he knew that! “You’re out alone, without even a groom?” he asked. She’d scarcely ridden in their youth, finding horses large and intimidating as he remembered it. The gray she was on now would have terrified her then.
“As are you,” she said.
“A completely different case,” Roger said.
Her eyes flashed. “I suppose I can ride as I like onour ownland.”
“Hah!” It was a distinct hit. Almost amusing, if circumstances had been different. “You’re all too ready to ride anywhere, even through a tempest.”
Exasperation tightened her jaw. “Please tell me that you’re not going to start with this again. I thought you’d given up that stupid story at last.”
