Page 8 of Bound By The Christmastide Moon

A throat cleared behind her at the dining hall door, and Mallory’s shoulders tensed.

The Tetbery butler stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

His pinched expression did not bode well for what he’d come to announce.

Could it be that the duke meant to rescind Felicity’s offer of lodging while they remained in Bocka Morrow?

“What is it?” Aunt Hettie grunted as if the servant, simply doing what he gained his wage for, was irritating her by his mere attendance. “Out with it!”

The man’s eyes widened, and his bewildered stare jotted to Mallory.

“Tolsworth,” Mallory attempted to smooth the situation. Peculiar her father was overly worried about Mallory’s decorum in social settings—he’d gone so far as to send Hettie with her to Bocka Morrow, after all—but it was her aunt’s gruff attitude that might very well jeopardize their success. “Do come in. We were finishing our meal. It was lovely, by the way. Is there something that needs our attention?”

The butler’s apprehension intensified. “You”—he glanced at Hettie before addressing Mallory—“you have a guest. He is waiting in the front receiving room off the foyer.”

“A guest?”

“Yes, he gave his name as Lord Lichfield,” the servant confirmed Mallory’s fear.

She glanced down at her ink-stained hand and simple, grey frock. Not how she’d envisioned meeting her future husband; however, there was no need to put the matter off any longer. Once she was satisfied that he was neither a corrupt nor offensive man, she and Aunt Hettie could return to Blenheim Park and await the coming nuptials.

“Then I suppose we shan’t keep Lord Lichfield waiting.” Mallory notched her chin, hoping the action would infuse her with assurance. Giving in to her trepidation would solve nothing and only lead to increased probing by her aunt. This was what she wanted: a home, a husband, and children of her own. Things that could not be taken from her no matter how peculiar she was or how desperately she avoided society. “Shall we, Aunt Hettie?”

“I suppose.” Aunt Hettie hefted herself from her chair, the thing nearly tipping completely backward. If not for the attentive footman, it might have put a hole in the wall. “Though it is rather impolite to appear out of thin air without sending notice.”

Mallory had the same opinion; however, she was not as eager to cast a negative light on Lord Lichfield. There were obvious reasons he had arrived unannounced, not following the instructions that he, himself, had outlined in his letter to Mallory’s father. Did he deem himself above such things?

A frightening thought, indeed.

“Are you certain you do not wish to freshen up before meeting with Lord Lichfield?” Hettie did her utmost to keep up with Mallory as she departed the dining hall. “Mayhap change your gown or have Miss Felicity’s maid re-pin your hair?”

Mallory paused, her aunt colliding with her shoulder at the sudden stop.

She’d dressed that day as she did each morn. The gown she wore had been specifically packed because it highlighted her ample curves and hid her not-so-narrow waist. The ribbon woven through her long, brown curls was of a deep plum that complemented her grey gown. Her shoes were half-boots, sturdy enough for a walk about Tetbery Estate. Except for the ink marring her hand, Mallory appeared as she always did.

Poised. Modest. Genteel.

Everything the daughter of a marquess was raised to be.

That she was anything but poised on the inside was of no consequence, so long as she did her utmost to keep those around her blissfully unaware.

Her talent as an oracle—or a clairvoyant—did not define Mallory. In fact, she was determined to prove her family wrong and live a normal life. That she’d need refrain from touching others—and most objects—did not deter her from believing a normal life could be hers.

“I need not freshen anything. If my simple frock and daily coiffure is not to Lord Lichfield’s liking, then imagine if he learned of my talents.”

“You are not to speak of it,” Hettie hissed. “Your father would—“

“My father would die of apoplexy if I embarrassed him in any way,” Mallory finished. “Think you I am opposed to this match? I assure you, I do.”

Mallory squared her shoulders and marched into the foyer, pausing only to allow the butler to open the parlor door and announce their arrival.

“Lady Henrietta Hughes and Lady Mallory Hughes,” Tolsworth proclaimed, giving Mallory a reassuring nod as she swept past him and into the room.

She was vaguely aware of her aunt entering the parlor behind her and the butler pulling the door closed after stating tea would arrive with all due haste; however, Mallory stood rooted to the spot.

She hadn’t thought about what Lord Lichfield would look like, nor considered his age when she’d been told of the potential match. He could have been plagued with a hunched back or vertically challenged, but she hadn’t questioned that.

The man who stood to greet them was not what she’d envisioned in an arranged marriage.