A Marquess for Marigold: The Blooming Brides Book 2 Page 2

  He only looked at her with a raised eyebrow, not responding to her question.

  “I am sorry if I asked a question which you cannot answer,” Marigold said, the man beginning to set her nerves on edge, which led her to speak far too many words, a habit she wished she could do away with. It was an especially bad habit for a woman who would rather speak to animals than humans. “I know that, with the war effort, sometimes there are secrets that accompany such a thing. Particularly if you have come to stay here, where, I believe, we are becoming something of a hiding place for men such as yourself, are we not?”

  He said nothing as Marigold continued to speak while she finished tidying the room.

  Once she had completed her work with the bed, she risked a look back toward him.

  “You have answered your own question,” was all he finally said, and Marigold nodded quickly before beginning to walk to the door, in front of which he currently stood.

  She forced herself to look up at him before she walked through.

  “My apologies for disturbing you,” she said, but now that she was closer to him, she could see the pain that lurked within his haunted blue eyes, and she couldn’t help but begin to reach up to take a better look at his scar.

  “This must hurt,” she murmured. “What happened?”

  Just as her fingers were about to touch him, one of his arms snapped up as quickly as could be, and he caught her wrist within a tight grip.

  “What happened is nothing you need to be concerned about,” he said, his words angry yet his voice not raised. “And I bid you to never, ever attempt to touch me again.”

  Marigold could only nod, for it seemed her voice had entirely fled.

  * * *

  Jacob Rothschild, the Marquess of Dorchester, had actually been looking forward to retiring to this sleepy seaside Southwold inn for a short while. It was, in fact, the first thing he had been anticipating for quite some time. It was far better than returning home to his estate near Cambridge or his manor in London, for there, all that awaited him were memories and ghosts.

  Not to mention many who would take one look at him and likely run away. Even upon his arrival here, he had seen the shock on the faces of the mother and daughter who had greeted him. They had been polite enough, but when they welcomed him and offered tea, he had simply snorted.

  Tea? After traveling all the way from Portugal, they truly thought he would want to sit and have a sip of tea and a bite of pastries? He realized this was England, but come, how provincial could they be?

  He simply brushed past them to what he assumed were the stairs and asked which room was his. The young one stared at him with wide eyes, while the older woman looked as though she might begin to cry at any moment. He fleetingly felt a sense of guilt, but then, this was an inn and the women should be well aware of how to simply assign a room— not every guest was looking for the chance to make friends.

  The younger woman stepped forward as though to lead him up the stairs, but he held up a hand. “Tell me which door and I will find my way.”

  “Third door on the right,” she said, her voice just above a whisper, and he nodded curtly before quickly making his way up the stairs and down the corridor.

  Then he had opened the door to find another woman not only standing there but laughing as she laid out the bloody bed. Were there no men within this inn? These women were everywhere. This one resembled the other from downstairs, though her hair was a bit redder, and when she looked up at him, he was taken aback at the depths of her dark blue eyes staring at him in wonder.

  He could have been patient enough to ignore the idle chatter, for she would be out of this room soon enough. It was when she reached out — as though to touch him — that he’d truly recoiled.

  He had no wish to tell her what happened to him, nor the circumstances surrounding it. The memories were enough — he had no need to share them with anyone else, especially this strange young woman who had already walked away from him and was now lovingly smoothing the quilt which she had already folded.

  “My grandmother made this,” she said, though her voice was no longer quite as friendly and amenable. So why wouldn’t she leave him?

  “Wonderful,” he said sarcastically, despite the fact he knew she was likely expecting some kind of acknowledgment of how lovely it was or something of the sort. But it wouldn’t be forthcoming for he had no wish to continue their conversation.

  “Very well. I will leave—”

  Her words were cut off by a quick yap from the hallway, and Jacob closed his eyes. That better not be a dog. It could be anything in the world — a bear or vermin even, he didn’t care — as long as it was not a dog.

  But the next thing he knew, a ball of white and brown fluff attached itself to his leg, barking as it looked up at him, begging for attention.

  “Oh no!” the young woman exclaimed, bending down to pick up the thing. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry. He wasn’t supposed to leave my rooms but he keeps getting out. How, I have no idea. He’s friendly, however, not to worry.”

  “I do not care if he is friendly or not,” Jacob said, scowling at her without concern of what her reaction might be. “Keep that dog away from me — now and for the remainder of my time here. Do you understand?”

  She swallowed and looked up at him and then back at the dog, as though she couldn’t believe that anyone would ever have harsh words for a sweet and innocent little dog. Of course, it was a cute thing. But he had no wish to have anything to do with an animal.

  She nodded curtly now, picking up the dog who wiggled in her arms something fierce, and then she ran from the room as fast as she could.

  Jacob sighed. If only she had finished her tasks before he had entered, and she had left once she realized he was there, they could have avoided that last nasty sequence. Whether she was stubborn or dense, he had no idea, but he was glad to find himself alone now. He pushed away the guilt that threatened to creep in. He had no time for such emotions any longer.

  Jacob kicked his bag over to the bed then took a seat in the worn chair in front of the empty hearth, for the weather outside was too warm to require a fire.

  He leaned his head back, content for the moment that he was here, alone. And alone he was determined to stay.

  3

  Tears had threatened as Marigold ran down the corridor away from the horrid man and the most terrible manners she had ever encountered. Then Clover reached up and licked her face, and her hurt turned into anger.

  “He looked down at this perfect little puppy with such disgust I could hardly believe it,” she ranted now to her sisters, who looked at her with expressions akin to pity.

  “He was quite rude,” Violet affirmed to Iris, who didn’t seem completely convinced, though Violet was not one to speak ill of someone unless he actually deserved it.

  “I never saw that one,” Iris said with a raised eyebrow. “But I caught sight of the other soldier in the sitting room. He is quite handsome. What does this one look like?”

  Marigold and Violet shared a glance before returning to Iris.

  “It is difficult to look upon someone with any appreciation when he is being so surly,” Marigold finally said.

  “And he is… he is scarred,” Violet said in a very low voice. That captured Iris’ attention.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “His face — it’s as though someone attempted to slice it in two,” Violet said, her eyes, true to her name, widening in near horror.

  “It does look as though it was rather painful, and likely still is,” Marigold confirmed. “I asked him what happened, but of course, I was firmly rebuked.”

  “I can only imagine,” Violet murmured. “I’m surprised he even let you in the room.”

  “I was already there,” Marigold said. “It was Clover who joined us. What does it say about a man if he doesn’t like dogs?”

  The other two simply shook their heads, as perplexed as she.

  “What of the other?” Ma
rigold asked, and Violet shrugged.

  “He seemed affable enough, I suppose, for a man returning from war. Polite, thankful for the room.”

  Marigold nodded, wishing that he was the man she had first encountered, though she supposed she would have to meet each of them at some point in time.

  “Daisy’s next question would be what are they doing here,” she pointed out, and her sisters nodded.

  “Although now we have a much better idea of the possibilities,” Iris noted, and Marigold agreed with her. In all likelihood, they were here due to something related to their roles in the war effort. It had been why Nathaniel Huntingwell — or Nathaniel Hawke, as they had known him — had been staying at the inn, though they hadn’t known it until the time for secrecy was gone.

  “It is interesting and rather romantic,” Iris continued, a spark in her crystal blue eyes.

  They all had brown hair and blue eyes, though in varying shades of each. Marigold had always wished for Iris’ deep, chestnut curls, instead of her own straight red hair. Or besides the red, the gold that the sun brought out in Violet’s hair would also have been appreciated. Her own eyes were a boring blue, while Daisy’s were a blue green, Iris’ a piercing blue, and Violet’s a beautiful shade of blue violet.

  But, alas, there were some aspects of oneself that could not be changed. Iris was the only one of them with the curves that every man appreciated, a fact of which Iris was aware and made full use of. Marigold had no curves of which to speak, and with her soft-spoken manner, there wasn’t much to her that caught the eye of any man in particular.

  She would tell anyone who asked that it didn’t matter, but deep within her, it absolutely did. Marigold yearned to find someone to share her life with, who could give her the same amount of love she would provide. She had plenty within her and she was only waiting for the right man to bestow it upon.

  Who would likely never come. For she already knew every man in Southwold, and it wasn’t as though she was going anywhere anytime soon.

  She sighed as she noted her sisters looking at her, as though they were waiting for her to finish her musings. She forced a smile on her face.

  “Well,” she said. “We don’t have much time until we must have dinner on the table. Who is going to the market?”

  Iris and Violet both looked to the floor, causing Marigold to roll her eyes as she stood to find her basket, little Clover trotting along behind her.

  “At least someone is eager to help,” she said mockingly, then strode out the door, smiling when she heard her sisters’ shocked gasps and giggles behind her.

  * * *

  By the next morning, Jacob decided that he had had enough. He had thought he could spend most of his time sitting alone in his bedroom. But he soon found that even he, a man who had never been particularly fond of an abundance of company, could become rather bored and lonely sitting in one room by himself.

  The previous evening, he had asked for supper to be brought to him instead of eating in the dining room. It was another young woman, a third one now, who had delivered it to him. He could tell she was curious about him, which was why she had likely volunteered for the task. Although, besides that, he had a feeling that after yesterday the other two sisters were in no mind to cater to him.

  She had appeared quite disappointed when he had simply taken the tray from her hand at the door and then shut it between them as he brought the food into his room. He had no wish for any greater discussion with her. Yes, she was what he was sure many men would call a beauty, and she certainly attempted to use her charm on him. But Jacob had not felt any affection for a woman in quite a long time, and that was not about to change from the bat of some eyelashes and a charming smile.

  He still planned to avoid the young women who seemed to populate this inn, but he could use a change of scenery.

  Jacob made his way down the stairs and located the sitting room. He looked around him in wonder, when suddenly a voice cut through his thoughts.

  “It makes you feel as though you are sitting in the midst of a garden, does it not? Though, a rather garish garden, I must say.”

  Jacob turned to the location of the voice, which belonged to the man who had become his traveling companion once he had reached the shores of England. He and Westwood had been stationed in different locations, but both found their way here — to The Wild Rose Inn.

  “It is very… floral,” Jacob said, unable to think of any other word that could describe such a sitting room.

  The walls were covered in paper depicting what he thought were likely lilies, the prints upon them all in various shades and specimens of flora. Each piece of furniture had a various floral print upon it. Some were covered in pink roses, others in yellow… carnations, maybe?

  Westwood laughed, a big, hearty chuckle.

  “That is a kind way of putting it, Dorchester,” he said. “It’s a disgrace.”

  “I suppose,” Jacob said as he took a seat in a darkened recess across from Westwood, who sat in the full light of the front window, “That someone within this inn has a taste for greenery. Or is trying to match the name of the inn.”

  “Definitely the former,” Westwood confirmed. “Have you met the daughters yet?”

  “Somewhat,” Jacob answered hesitantly, not particularly wanting to tell of his meetings with any of them, especially the redheaded one with the dog.

  “They are named Marigold, Iris, and Violet. Oh, and apparently there is an elder girl, a Daisy, who married a duke if you can believe that. Can you? I thought the woman was jesting when she told me of her daughter’s marriage. It was one of the first things she said, as she is obviously very proud of the fact there is now noble blood tied to the family.”

  “Interesting,” Jacob murmured. Which, in fact, it was. That a duke would marry the daughter of an innkeeper from a provincial town like this? It would certainly not be a regular occurrence, of that much he was certain. The eldest daughter must be quite something. As the Marquess of Dorchester, Jacob was well aware of the responsibilities of a man with title as well as that of his wife. The selection of such a woman was not an easy one, as he would know.

  “Well, I am pleased, Dorchester, that you have come out of your rooms. I was becoming rather bored speaking to the wall. Now, tell me, for what reason were you sent here?”

  Jacob shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Nothing particularly noble or interesting,” he said. “Simply recovery.”

  “Oh?” Westwood raised his eyebrows. “From what are you recovering?”

  “A sword ran through me,” Jacob said, willing himself to not allow any emotion to accompany the words but to simply tell the facts as they were. “A few times.”

  Westwood winced as he studied the scar on Jacob’s cheek, now that he knew more about what had caused it.

  “It looks painful,” he said.

  “It was.”

  “Is that what you are recovering from?” Westwood asked, and Jacob shook his head.

  “No. The same sword that sliced through my face went into my chest. Luckily it missed my heart, but the lung I’m afraid…”

  “Your lung?” Westwood repeated with such incredulity that Jacob nearly laughed — nearly. He hadn’t laughed in so long, however, that he had almost forgotten how.

  “Yes,” he nodded as the memories came flooding back. He had thought for certain he was dead as he had lain there while the battle continued to rage around him. What he would never, ever admit to any other living soul was the fact that he had been willing to let go, for the darkness to completely envelope him. For then he would be taken away from the loneliness of his life on earth and be able to find peace again.

  But, alas, it was not to be, as some brave soldier had risked his life to save Jacob’s miserable existence.

  “I shouldn’t even have been out there,” he muttered, as he had been within the wrong unit, on the wrong lines. He had been atop his horse, leading the charge, but then he had seen how his men were struggling
below him and he had joined the fray.

  “The sword went deep enough that it left a lung abscess — fluid continued to build up over time and I could hardly breathe. I thought I was a goner, as did most physicians who saw me, until one.”

  Westwood was leaning forward in his seat now, intent on Jacob’s story.

  “And?”

  “He performed some kind of strange procedure in which he opened up the chest cavity and removed something from the lung — I didn’t want to know what — and was able to reattach everything. I’ve been left with the slightest cough, and he suggested that London’s air might not be the most advisable. He heard of this place through a friend — a General Collins, who I have not yet met — and suggested the sea air may be agreeable.”

  “My word, that’s a story,” Westwood said, then raised an eyebrow. “You are aware that it will be difficult to breathe the sea air from your room?”

  Jacob snorted in response. The man had a point.

  “Yes, and I can assure you that I will find some time to sit outside and enjoy all that the sea near Southwold has to offer.”

  “I thought you would be in a hurry to return home.”

  Jacob shrugged. He had no wish to return home to all that it held for him, but he wasn’t going to tell Westwood that.

  “Do you have a woman waiting for you?”

  Jacob shifted again, looking to the door as though it would magically open and spirit him away. This was a topic he definitely had no wish to discuss any further, though there didn’t seem to be any way to evade the question.

  “I do not,” he said, not looking at Westwood but at the floor in front of him, where a giant rose looked up at him. “Not anymore.”

  “Ah, she left you?” Westwood said with some pity as he shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear it. There are far too many of those stories. You go to war to help your country, come back, and your woman has found someone else. I’m lucky, as—”