The Christmas Kittens (2 page)

Karis picked her way through the overgrown garden at the back of the house. Arriving at the kitchen door, she knocked. While she waited for the friendly housekeeper, she peeked in at the kittens nestled in a pile in the center of the blanket sound asleep. She hoped the cold journey would do them no harm.

After several minutes passed without an answer, Karis bit at her lip wondering what to do. She couldn't return the kittens to Westwood or her aunt might have Daniel do something dreadful to them. It was too cold to simply sit the basket beside the door, hoping Mrs. Shelby would find it.

Karis deemed it unusual for the housekeeper to be from home. Perhaps the woman was merely somewhere deep inside the house, for she did her best to maintain the interior alone. If she were upstairs she couldn't hear the knock. Karis tried the handle. The door swung inward. She stepped inside the warm kitchen and closed the door behind her. “Mrs. Shelby, are you here?”

The room smelled of spiced apples and Karis saw a pie cooling on a table beside the large old fireplace. Clearly Mrs. Shelby was somewhere near. Karis made her way to the door that led to the main hall, then opened it and called, “Mrs. Shelby, are you here?”

Still there was no answer. Karis hesitated a moment for she had never gone beyond the confines of the kitchen. Knowing there would only be Mrs. Shelby about, Karis ventured into the narrow passageway that led to the Great Hall.

Stepping into the large antechamber, she paused in awe. Unlike the more modern Westwood House or the small cottage at Oxford where she'd grown up, Whiteoaks was huge. The cavernous hall was filled with suits of armor and old free standing iron candle stands. The walls were covered with beautiful tapestries and ancient weapons. It was like taking a step back in time.

Remembering she was an intruder, she again called “Mrs. Shelby, `tis Karis Lockhart. Are you here?” Her voice echoed back at her, but there was no other sound. About to return to the kitchen, she noticed a door open on the far side of the hall.

Going to the portal she peered in and discovered a large, well-stocked library. She was only vaguely aware of a fire crackling in the fireplace, for her interest was centered on the books. It was a room that she thought existed only in her imagination.

Realizing the library was unoccupied, she hesitated only a moment. She gently placed the basket of sleeping kittens on a table in the hall then entered the room. Taking a deep breath, her lungs filled with the wonderful scent of old books. Sheer heaven, she thought, for the thing she'd missed most about her life in Oxford was her father's extensive library. But that had all been sold to pay their debts.

Karis knew she shouldn't be here. Aunt Flora would disapprove of her ogling the vast literary treasure. She had declared that both Karis and her sister, having been raised by only their Greek scholar father, were well on their way to becoming bluestockings. The baroness had forbidden both girls the use of the small library at Westwood, saying they would be wise to use Dorinda as their model and pursue more feminine arts.

Looking guiltily over her shoulder at the empty Great Hall, Karis decided Mrs. Shelby wouldn't object if she took just a moment to inspect the books. What harm could there be in that? With an unladylike eagerness, she advanced on the shelf directly in front of her.

Derrick Kenton, tenth Marquess of Marsden, tied the reins of his horse to the rear of his carriage. Walking round the vehicle he called to the coachman. “Jock, how much farther?”

The coachman pulled the red woolen scarf from over his nose and mouth saying, “Recken it's another twenty miles, milord.”

Marsden noted the red nose and watering eyes of the fellow. It had been a cursed cold journey into Warwichshire and he didn't want his servant to pay for his fit of temper against his grandmother and her infernal matchmaking. “Do you need to stop at an inn to warm yourself?”

“Not I, sir. I'll wait till we get to Whiteoaks.” Jock repositioned the scarf to protect his face and tugged his cap to the marquess.

Marsden entered the carriage quietly so as not to disturb his sleeping daughter. Settling with his back to the horses as the coach lurched forward, he inquired, “How is Lady Rosalind?”

The young nurse, a pink-cheeked country girl of barely twenty, hesitated a moment before she answered her new employer. “Been sleepin' most of the way, milord. But she seems right `appy to be away from Marsden `ouse. Says she ain't seen much of your lordship since her mama up and died.”

Guilt washed over the marquess. He knew he'd indulged his anger after the death of his wife last year. “No, she hasn't, but that will all change, Binx.”

He'd wrapped himself in a cloak of indifference to cover the humiliation of having his wife run off with a wealthy prince of foreign birth. Rachel had always done the least expected thing. But the ill-fated flight had cost the pair their lives when their ship had gone down during a storm.

His youthful marriage had been a mistake from the beginning. Rosalind was the only good thing to come from the union, but he'd forgotten that for a time.

With Bonaparte safely exiled for a second time, Marsden had wandered aimlessly about on the continent for nearly a year, hoping to avoid the whispers of Society. On his arrival in London at the end of the summer, his grandmother had convinced him to let Lady Rosalind remain with her where the child had resided during his absence. He now realized the woman was only interested in giving him the freedom to reenter the social whirl, to do his duty and remarry.

In October, he'd returned from the country and made the attempt to get back to his old life. But he'd been besieged by every match-making momma in the ton. No less than three young ladies had made the attempt to get him alone and declare themselves compromised. One had actually come to his townhouse and tried to gain entry. Now by December, he'd taken to avoiding the company of any unmarried female below the age of thirty.

Even worse, his own grandmother engaged in deceit of the worse kind. Harriet, Dowager Marchioness of Marsden, was determined to see him married again. His man, Elsworth, had fortunately stumbled upon the plot to force him to propose to the daughter of their neighbor during Harriet's Christmas house party. The dowager knew he would not miss being with Rosalind for the holidays and would be in residence.

But Marsden was not a man to be manipulated. He'd warned his grandmother to stay out of his affairs when she pushed several young ladies in his path over the past months but she'd only reminded him he had no heir. Why did all Society think he must be married? After all, he was only thirty.

Looking at the pale face of the sleeping child, he realized just how much his daughter needed him. He would never again surrender her care to another relative. He knew his grandmother must have been furious to return from her morning visits to discover that he'd fired the governess she'd employed and whisked his daughter away from her rigidly run household. Angry at her machinations, he'd left no word about their destination, only his apologies that he wouldn't be staying for her Christmas house party. With the help of Elsworth, the marquess had arranged to slip away to the one place no one would think to look, Whiteoaks, his late wife's abandoned home, leaving the valet behind to misinform all who inquired about his direction.

Lord Marsden had no intention of rushing back into marriage. He'd barely been twenty-one when he'd wed the first time. He'd been completely bewitched by a pretty face and spent the next nine years paying the price for his foolishness. He didn't need a wife at this period in his life. There was time enough to worry about an heir later.

His unexpected isolation from his family would give him time to concentrate on getting Rachel's old home in order. It was his daughter's legacy from her mother. He was certain Rachel, who'd retained possession of the estate in the marriage settlements, hadn't spent a farthing on the place in years. He needed to use this time to get reacquainted with his child as well.

“Hello, Papa. I did not know you had joined us.” The child's voice startled him from his contemplate of his life. A pair of sky blue eyes looked at him from a thin, pale face framed by dark brown curls. The dowager had cut the child's hair fashionably short, but the style only emphasized her thinness.

What bothered him the most was that Rosalind spoke to him almost as if he were a stranger, but then hadn't he been for the past year? Well, no more. “Good afternoon, Rosebud.”

A grin brightened Lady Rosalind's countenance and she lurched forward in the rocking carriage to throw her arms around her father's neck. “Oh, Papa, I have missed you and missed being called Rosebud.”

Pulling the child onto his lap, he kissed her. Her unexpected display of affection warmed his heart. “And I missed you. Can you forgive me for being away so long?”

“I forgive you. But promise you won't go and leave me with Grandmama again, Papa.”

“I promise and will seal the bargain with a kiss.” Holding his young daughter felt so right.

Lady Rosalind gazed lovingly up at him, absently asking, “Where are we going to spend Christmas, Papa?”

“I am taking you to Whiteoaks. Your mother left it to you and I want you to help me fix it up.”

“Can it be like it was when I was young and you would come to see me and take me for rides?”

The marquess told her he had much to do in Warwickshire, but he promised to take her with him when weather permitted.

Father and daughter talked as the carriage rumbled through the countryside. Derrick kept the tone light, enlivening his daughter with amusing tales about his journey, for she seemed to have lost much of her old spirited enthusiasm for life. He wanted to see the sparkle back in her blue eyes.

 
At last the vehicle slowed to make the turn up the drive to Whiteoaks, passing between two stone lions blackened with age and barely visible beneath the encroaching ivy. The marquess felt a sinking in his stomach at the state of the small gate lodge. Clearly they would be in Warwickshire until the spring, if the house was in such disrepair.

The carriage rolled up the weed-infested drive to the house. Beyond the glass he could see the gardens were an over-grown jumble of brambles and weeds choking the surviving plants. As the carriage turned on the circular drive, Derrick got his first look at Whiteoaks.

What a fool he'd been to drag his daughter out to this desolate ruin and expect her to enjoy her Christmas. His only hope was that Mrs. . . er . . . Shelby, that was it, had gotten his hastily sent message and was prepared for them in some small way.

The carriage drew to a halt. The marquess exited, and then helped his daughter and her nurse down. The trio stood gazing up at the sinister-looking manor, reluctant to enter.

“Papa, the house looks angry,” Lady Rosalind innocently remarked.

The marquess laughed. “Angry? I think I would call this unbounded fury in that case.”

Placing her hand in her father's, the eight-year-old wisely observed, “Then we will make it very happy by living here.”

Smiling down at the child, the marquess realized that the house wasn't important only them being together. “Shall we go in?”

Thankfully the door was unlocked. They stepped into a Great Hall that was excessively dark, but the clean smell of beeswax and turpentine pleasantly filled the air. At least the inside had been maintained, he thought with relief. While Nurse and Lady Rosalind stood observing their new surroundings, Lord Marsden strode to the open door to the left end of the Hall.

He immediately checked at the portal. Sitting in front of the fireplace was an unknown young woman pretending to read one of the books. Certain this lovely was not the aged housekeeper, he mentally cursed. How the devil did a designing female find out he was coming? Could he not escape the pursuit of marriage-minded ladies even here in the wilds of the country?

“Madam, who are you, and why are you in my house?”

Karis started guiltily from the chair. She hadn't heard anyone enter, she'd been so engrossed with the story. Now she found herself being glared at by a tall aristocratic gentleman with mahogany brown hair, an angular face and dove grey eyes full of hostility. “I beg your pardon, sir. I am Miss Lockhart from Westwood House come to find Mrs. Shelby. I-I did not think the owner was in residence.”

“And did you think Mrs. Shelby was hiding between the pages of that book?”

“Sir, I know this must seem strange, but I was looking for the housekeeper and got . . . distracted by your extraordinary library.”

Marsden's gaze swept the room and even he had to admit it was an impressive collection. His wife had spoken of her father's intellectual pursuits, but he'd never met the gentleman since he'd been long dead before she'd come to Town. Still, the marquess was suspicious of this young woman proclaiming an interest in books. His experience had proven that the prettier the face the emptier the head.

His gaze came to rest on the intruder whose cheeks now flamed red. There was nothing of the fashionable chit about her. Her green woolen gown was rather plain and unstylish. Rich blond hair was parted in the middle and pulled into a neat chignon and a few wisps of curls had escaped to frame her heart-shaped face. By the
ton
's standards she couldn't be called beautiful, for her mouth was too generous. But her deep green eyes were definitely an enticing feature.

“And what was your business here at Whiteoaks, Miss Lockhart?”

Karis's shoulders sagged. Suddenly, she realized that if the owner, whoever he was, had arrived then Mrs. Shelby would not be able to keep the litter of kittens. “Well, sir, I . . . er . . . that is I brought--”

Childish squeals of delight interrupted Karis's rather disjointed explanation. In the hall, she could now see a girl no older than Anthea pointing and laughing at a spot beyond her view. Karis dashed past the glowering gentleman and turned to discover that all seven kittens had awakened and escaped from the wicker basket.

Two climbed up the tapestry behind the table. One was settled lazily in an empty cut glass bowl intrigued with his own tail. Another was climbing down an embroidered table runner to join the three who scampered loose on the marble floor, making their way determinedly towards the young child. Clearly by the grin of delight on her thin face, the girl was enjoying their antics.

“Oh, dear, I am sorry.” Karis ran forward and tugged the two kittens from the tapestry, placing them back in the basket. Then she went in pursuit of the three scurrying across the floor. She grabbed up two of the three by the nape of their necks and took them back to join their siblings. But this time, the first two in the basket had again climbed out and were running down the table away from her. She stuffed the captive pair from the floor into the basket, then went after the two escapees. Grabbing them before they started down the runner, she took them back to the basket only to discover it was again empty. Slowly, she started collecting the kittens, keeping them in her arms this time.

Lady Rosalind laughed delightedly as she watched the young lady chase down the lively kittens only to return each time and find the basket again empty. Finally the woman gathered them all in her arms, until she held all seven.

“Do they belong at Whiteoaks, Papa? Can we keep them?”

Arms overflowing with squirming kittens, Karis turned to the gentleman whose eyes had softened as he smiled at his daughter. A ray of hope for Mrs. Damon's progeny and something else undefinable shot through her. “Sir, it would be a great favor to my sister if the kittens could remain at Whiteoaks, for my aunt has ordered them gone from Westwood.”

“Papa, please may I keep all the lady's kittens?” Lady Rosalind ran to her father, tugging excitedly on his hand.

Marsden couldn't resist Rosalind's request, for he liked the spark of happiness he saw in his daughter's eyes. “Very well, Rosebud, you may have them all.”

The child ran to Karis. “Do they have names?”

“Yes, but I fear you will have to ask my sister what they are. I cannot keep them straight. Would you mind, Mr. . . “ Karis paused, hoping to learn the name of their cat's benefactor.

“I apologize, Miss Lockhart for not making proper introductions sooner. Allow me to present my daughter Lady Rosalind, and I am the Marquess of Marsden.” A hint of a smile lightened the gentleman's features making him appear quite handsome.

Karis gave an answering smile. “Would you mind if my sister came and paid the kittens a visit, my lord?”

Marsden's hand tightened into a fist. No doubt the sister was some ravishing beauty that Miss Lockhart was hoping to promote. Coldly he replied, “As you can see, we are not ready to entertain company at Whiteoaks.”