Miss Amelia's Mistletoe Marquess. Jenni Fletcher

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       Chapter Two

      Cassius Whitlock, the thirteenth Marquess of Falconmore, stretched his legs out in front of the fire and refused to open his eyes. It was the only way to pretend that the knocking he could hear on his front door was a figment of his imagination and not what—or more precisely who—he suspected it was.

      The blasted woman had followed him.

      After half a minute or so the knocking stopped and he slid deeper into the comfort of his armchair, breathing a sigh of relief and ruthlessly suppressing any feeling of guilt. There was no need to feel guilty, after all. The chances of Sylvia walking any distance on foot were about equal to those of her flying. She could simply take the carriage she’d doubtless commandeered back to the hall. And who was to say that he hadn’t dreamed the knocking sound anyway? He’d been dozing beforehand so perhaps it really had been a figment of his imagination, although what that implied about his current mental state he didn’t want to consider, not tonight anyway. He’d already drunk far too much port to come up with anything coherent, let alone helpful. No, overall it was far better to leave thinking until tomorrow and then find another reason not to.

      Delaying, deferring, dragging his heels—those were the things he’d become good at over the past year. Avoiding subjects he didn’t want to think about had become his speciality. Why else would he be hiding away like some frightened schoolboy in an empty property on the edge of his estate rather than confronting his problems face to face?

      At least the gatehouse was warm and dry, two of the most important considerations on a foul night like this one. The temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees just in the half-hour it had taken him to walk up the drive. Now that he was firmly ensconced in his armchair with the aforementioned bottle of port, however, he felt quite cosy. Frankly it was worth the effort just for the peace and privacy, both of which qualities were becoming signally elusive at Falconmore Hall. Given a choice, he might actually have opted to live here instead, but then he hadn’t been given a choice. Not about any of it.

      He scowled as the knocking started again, even louder and more insistently than before. This time he definitely wasn’t imagining things and he could hardly pretend not to hear it either. A herd of cattle outside his front door would have made less commotion.

      He surged to his feet, muttering a stream of the most obscene words he could think of. What in blazes was wrong with the woman? Didn’t she have any pride? It was bad enough hounding him out of his own house, but to pursue him here in his refuge was too much! This time she’d gone too far. This time he’d tell her exactly what he thought of her and her all-too-obvious intentions. Maybe he’d tell her what his cousin would have thought of her behaviour, too. That ought to be enough to send her and her daughters running away from Falconmore Hall once and for all. To the other end of England preferably!

      He grabbed a candle, took one last fortifying swig of port and then strode out into the hallway, an inadvertent glimpse of his reflection in the hall mirror revealing a wild visage and untidy apparel. Which was hardly surprising really. He’d changed into some old clothes in order to clean out and rebuild the fireplace and hadn’t bothered to change back, even after he’d smeared coal across the front of his shirt. All the better, he thought sardonically, running a hand through the dust and then deliberately ruffling his hair to coat the thick, blond strands in black. He was through with behaving like a gentleman. Since Sylvia failed to appreciate subtlety, maybe she’d understand rugged and dishevelled instead!

       ‘What?’

      He flung open the front door, bellowing the word before his port-addled senses had a chance to take in the woman before him. It was…not Sylvia, though as to who else it was… He blinked a few times, searching his memory and failing to find any answer… No, he had no idea who she was. Only she looked somewhat like a snowman. A pretty, red-cheeked and slightly desperate-looking snowman.

      ‘I apologise for d-disturbing y-you.’ Her teeth chattered as she spoke. ‘But I’m l-lost.’

      He looked past her into the night, too surprised to answer. There was no horse, no trap, nobody else in sight, only a raging blizzard and what appeared to be a foot of snow. When had that happened? It had been cold earlier, but he hadn’t noticed any flakes, at least not before he’d drawn the curtains…

      ‘Would you m-mind letting me inside for a f-few minutes? Just to warm up? P-please?’

      ‘Yes… Of course.’ He remembered his manners at last, stepping aside to let her into the hallway.

      ‘Oh, dear.’ A flurry of snow fell from her skirts as she passed him. ‘I should have shaken myself off outside.’ She looked down at the rapidly swelling puddle in dismay. ‘If you have a mop, I’ll clean it up for you.’

      ‘There’s no need.’ He closed the front door against the freezing air. ‘I’ll deal with it later.’