Page 50 of The Best Marquess

Another knock sounded, sharp this time, and Finn swore under his breath.

“Enter,” he barked.

A maid poked her head around the door. “Begging your pardon, my lord, my lady, but the physicians ask you to come at once.”

Icy cold tendrils shot down his spine and tangled around his heart.

No. Please God no.

“We’ll go together,” said Pippa, taking his hand and lacing her fingers with his, once again providing him strength.

Hand in hand, clad only in dressing gowns, they left his bedchamber and walked down the hallway to his father’s room. His temples dripped with sweat, the food he’d just eaten churned in his belly, and he had to force his feet onward; every step felt spiked yet slippery as though closer and closer to purgatory.

As soon as they entered the room, the stench of camphor and impending death hit him like a sickly slap. Smothering his senses. Paralyzing them.

No. Please God no.

His mother flew over to him, her face twisted in tearstained agony. “Finlay…do something. They say soon. Don’t let Pinehurst die. Help him.”

Finn staggered over to his father’s bedside, but even before he got near, he knew nothing could be done. That rattling, choking breathing…those hands twisted into claws, those sunken, unfocused eyes…

His vision grew blurry as he fell to his knees. Fuck. Fuck.

The final moments of this man, this heartless monster who had carelessly and cruelly hurt others his whole life, should not provoke any emotion other than relief and elation. And yet Finn found himself reaching for that twisted hand. Holding it.

Pinehurst stared at him, his gaze focusing momentarily. “Weak,” he hissed. “Be better.”

Then his father exhaled in a rush, his eyes closed, and his hand grew limp. One of the physicians leaped forward, bending down to place his ear next to the marquess’s mouth. Next, he snatched up Pinehurst’s wrist and pressed two fingers to it. But eventually, he gently set it back down.

“It is my sad duty to inform you, Lord Knighton, that your father the Marquess of Pinehurst has passed,” he said gravely. “May God have mercy on his soul.”

Evangeline screamed and collapsed onto the floor, her wails of grief echoing in the bedchamber and clawing at his ears.

Black dots danced in front of Finn’s eyes, and for a horrible moment he thought he might faint. He was cold. So damned cold, like he’d walked for hours in a snowstorm. Then slender arms wrapped around him, holding him tight.

“Breathe, my lord husband,” Pippa said, stroking his hair so soothingly he tilted his head to get closer. “In and out. In and out.”

But destiny and duty had caught him. He was heir no more, and soon would officially be Marquess of Pinehurst and all that entailed.

Oh fuck.

It was the calm before the mourning storm.

With more patience than she thought she possessed, Pippa stood on a cushioned stool in her mother-in-law’s bedchamber and held up her arms so the modiste could take measurements of her bust, waist, and hips. She would have been quite content with one black gown that could then be accidentally set on fire by a rogue spark, but as she had to wear black for the next three months before moving into the mauves, browns, grays and whites of half-mourning, she required more than that. Damn it all.

She utterly resented this display for the cretinous late marquess, as did poor Finn, who had lived under his control for so long. But ignoring propriety would only lead to gossip. Besides, at least it wasn’t a year as the dowager marchioness would have to do. Nor had they been forced to venture into town for their new wardrobe; the modiste had been delighted to make a house call for such an exalted lord’s widow.

“What do you think of this pattern, Pippa darling?” asked Evangeline, holding up a fashion plate.

“Lovely,” she replied, trying not to stare longingly at the door.

“I’ll have that in black, and perhaps lilac for my daughter-in-law—”

“Not lilac,” said Pippa shortly.

Evangeline looked at her in surprise. “You don’t like lilac? With your fair hair it would certainly suit.”

She shifted uncomfortably on the stool. Even the thought of wearing the color Grandmother wore each day like a badge of honor made her recoil. She needed no reminders of the dowager Lady Kingsford in her wardrobe. None.