Blackwood's Lady. Gail Whitiker

in the hopes of achieving two goals. One, that she will accept my suit and agree to become my wife. And, two, that we may put an end to this matrimonial fussing once and for all!’

      ‘Alistair, you really are becoming quite impossible!’ Nicola scolded gently. ‘How do you expect to win Father over if you keep on misbehaving like this?’

      The eyes gazing up at Lady Nicola Wyndham—while unquestionably bright and endearing—were patently devoid of contrition, and, recognizing that, Nicola shook her head in resignation. ‘Very well. I can see that I am not making any headway with you, so I’ll not waste my breath further. It would break my heart if we were to be separated, but we both know that Father will turn you out in a trice if your behaviour does not improve. Now, be a good boy and do not try to escape again.’

      Fine words, Nicola thought ironically. A lot of good they were going to do a fox!

      Picking up the wooden bucket, Nicola tipped fresh water into Alistair’s drinking bowl, shut the cage door and locked it, and then stood back to watch him. It was hard to believe that this glossy, bright-eyed creature was the same pathetic, shivering animal she had found close to death in the woods last year, his front leg having been cruelly broken in a trap. Now, after Nicola’s faithful ministering, the leg was all but healed. Even the fur had grown back, though for some strange reason it had come back white, serving as a permanent reminder of his injury.

      Unfortunately, Alistair—as Nicola had affectionately named the cub—was showing no signs at all of wishing to return to his life in the wild. Rather, the little imp had become quite adept at getting out of his cage and turning up in the gardens near the back of the house—a situation which could only bode ill for both of them. After all, it was perfectly understandable that, as an avid hunter, Lord Wyndham believed the only place for a healthy fox was in the field. And, while he had long since resigned himself to the endless stream of small birds and injured animals she was forever bringing home, he had tried to draw the line at a fox cub—until Nicola had reminded him that her mother had never turned away any animal in need.

      At that point, the argument had been as good as lost. Lord Wyndham had adored his beautiful wife, and had denied her nothing. Nor, it seemed, could he deny his only daughter, who was showing definite signs of having inherited both her mother’s affinity for, and skill with, animals.

      ‘Now, be a good boy, Alistair, and perhaps I shall come and see you again before I go riding this afternoon,’ Nicola told the young fox as she collected her supplies and made ready to return to the house. ‘No doubt I shall be in need of a diversion after my visit from the Marquis of Blackwood.’

      Giving the fox’s silky ears an affectionate tweak, Nicola started back towards the house, her mind drifting ahead to the upcoming meeting with Lord Blackwood. She knew why he was coming, of course. Her father had already hinted at the marquis’s intentions, and, all things considered, she was not opposed to the match. She had always longed for a home and children of her own, and at her age she had almost given up hope of such things coming to pass.

      But to think that the Marquis of Blackwood might actually be the man to make them happen…well, it was all but unthinkable. As a nonpareil and pink of the ton, Blackwood could have had his pick of any number of younger and—to Nicola’s way of thinking—eminently more suitable girls than herself. Why, then, would he choose to wed the countrified daughter of a widowed earl, who spent far more time in the country than she did in Town?

      And what would the exceedingly correct marquis say, Nicola wondered, if he were to discover that his future wife was tending a menagerie of wounded animals, which at the moment included two silky black puppies she had found half drowned by the edge of the river, an assortment of injured birds—including a falcon with a broken wing—and a wily fox named Alistair? Somehow, she could not imagine him being pleased.

      Wives of the nobility simply do not indulge in such pastimes, Nicola could almost hear her stodgy old governess saying.

      Well, maybe they didn’t, but, if an alliance between the two of them was what he wished for, Nicola would certainly listen to his proposal. Her father seemed favourably disposed towards the match, and Nicola knew that he would never approve of a suitor who was not acceptable in every way. Clearly, Lord Blackwood had earned her father’s approval.

      Now, all he had to do was earn hers!

      David set out upon his mission of matrimony in a spirit of amiable resignation. Resignation because, to him, marriage was a necessity of life—an obligation one undertook for the good of the family. And to David Penscott, Marquis of Blackwood, Earl of Winsmore and Viscount Huntley, obligation was a duty that went before all.

      His feelings of amiability stemmed from the fact that he believed his selection of Lady Nicola Wyndham to be a judicious one. Her past was unblemished, and if she had spent somewhat more time in the country than most young ladies of her class it did not seem to have affected her adversely. Certainly her manners were all that he could have wished. She neither laughed too much, nor too loud, she was lovely enough to suit his rather exacting standards, and, by all accounts, she was not prone to vapours. If these were qualities to be gained by sacrificing the first blush of youth, it was a sacrifice David was more than willing to make.

      Reaching Wyndham Hall just before three o’clock, David was greeted at the door by the steadfast Trethewy—an elderly retainer who had been with the Wyndham family for over forty-five years—and relieved of his hat, gloves and whip. From there, he was shown into the spacious green salon where, as expected, Nicola’s father was waiting to greet him.

      ‘Ah, Blackwood, good to see you again,’ Lord Wyndham said in a rich voice that carried easily to every corner of the room. ‘Ready to do the deed?’

      ‘I am, my lord, though I admit to being somewhat anxious as to your daughter’s reply.’

      ‘Anxious? Good Lord, man, there’s no need for apprehension. Nicola didn’t seem at all unhappy when I informed her of your intentions. Once she had recovered from her surprise, that is.’

      Surprise? David wondered ruefully. Or shock?

      ‘Now, before Nicola joins us, might I interest you in a glass of wine? I have just received a shipment from France and I would welcome your opinion on this particular Bordeaux.’

      Already familiar with the size and quality of the earl’s cellar, David nodded in anticipation of a rare treat. ‘I should be pleased to, thank you.’

      ‘Splendid. I’ve not a bad nose for wine, but it doesn’t hold a candle to a connoisseur’s like yours,’ Wyndham said as he poured out two glasses. ‘Right, then, your good health, Blackwood.’

      ‘And yours, my lord.’

      The wine proved to be of excellent vintage, and David was persuaded to enjoy another glass before Lord Wyndham resumed the conversation.

      ‘No, my Nicki’s not at all like those other flibbertigibbets at court. She’s a sensible lass, always has been. Takes after her mother in that regard. There were always rumours about her, of course, but I never paid them any mind.’

      ‘Rumours?’ David repeated cautiously.

      ‘Aye. Superstitious fools. Thought she was a witch.’

      ‘Lady Nicola?’

      ‘Nicola?’ Lord Wyndham frowned. ‘Good Lord, no. Nicola’s not been bothered by any rumours in that regard. At least, not yet.’

      David cast a surreptitious glance at the older man. Yet?

      ‘No, I was referring to Elizabeth. Personally, I could never understand what all the fuss was about,’ the earl continued blithely. ‘Just because the parson’s wife saw Elizabeth feeding a wild buck at the edge of the common was hardly reason to think her odd.’

      David’s hand stopped the glass halfway to his lips. ‘A buck?’

      ‘Aye. Magnificent beast. Twelve pointer, as I recall.’

      ‘And you say that Lady Wyndham was feeding it…by hand?’