The Wicked Marquess by Maggie MacKeever Page A

presence only and not from her place.
    Sir Kenrick had been kind to compliment her. Perhaps Miranda’s concoction of distilled water and flower of garden bean, intended to clean the face of spots and wrinkles, had been used to good effect. Nonie placed no great faith in such ministrations, but tried to accept them with good grace.
    Miranda believed that if a gentleman truly loved a lady, he would not regard her lack of wealth. Miranda was very young.
    She was also very aggravating. Ever since Miranda had suggested the possibility of a romantic connection, Nonie had been unable to banish the fantasy from her brain. Though she might be ambivalent about acquiring a husband, she thought a little masculine attention might be nice.
    Such air-dreams were folly. Unlikely, despite all Miranda’s beautifying potions, that Nonie would attract the interest of a gentleman. Not only did she lack a dowry, she had achieved that advanced age at which a female was considered an antidote, an ape-leader, a fubsy-faced old maid. It had been ungrateful of her, after the sacrifices made by her family to arrange a London season, to fail to make a match. It was equally ungrateful of her, or so she had been told, to refuse to live upon her siblings’ charity as an unpaid nursery maid.
    Nonie gazed unseeing at her lap. Unbidden came into her mind an image of the young man she had admired so very long ago. He had settled down quite comfortably, from all reports, with an agreeable little heiress and their ever-increasing brood.
    Nonie tried to imagine what her life would have been like if she had run off to Gretna Green. She might be living in Somerset with her husband and children instead of sitting in Sir Kenrick’s study and feeling like a fraud in pilfered finery.
    She shuddered. If her experience with Miranda was any indication, Nonie could not regret not having acquired offspring.
    Kenrick sat down in a rosewood chair. “Well-a-day! I suppose we must persevere. Tell me, who do you fancy among all those young sprigs?”
    Who did she fancy? Nonie realized that Sir Kenrick meant for Miranda, not herself. “I would have to say Mr. Atchison,” she stammered. “I believe he will soon declare himself. Probably he would have already done so, did Miranda but encourage him, which she does not. Nor does she show a preference for anyone else. Your gardener is the only male she speaks of with any favor, though he must be all of sixty years old.”
    Her employer uttered an oath. Nonie bit her lip. Even worse than Miranda’s raising of false hopes was her own recently developed tendency to critically evaluate each unmarried gentleman who crossed her path.
    Sir Kenrick was an unmarried gentleman. He possessed property and wealth, if a less than amiable temperament, and more than passable good looks. “About the gardener,” said Nonie. “I spoke in jest.”
    There was an odd note in her voice. Could Antoinette fancy Atchison herself? If Antoinette did fancy Atchison, her hopes were destined to be dashed, and she might well sink into a decline, and then where would they be? Kenrick said, irritably, “It’s not natural for a young girl to be so hard to please.”
     “If I may speak frankly?” Nonie waited for his nod. “I wouldn’t trust any of Miranda’s current admirers – including Mr. Atchison – to prevent her from taking the bit between her teeth. She has not yet met the gentleman who can manage her, I think.” Nonie realized that her employer might consider himself included in that number. “Pray don’t take offense.”
    Kenrick sighed. “None taken. I know I’ve been too easy on the girl. You are right in saying she’s not likely to be kept in check by some besotted young pup. This is exactly the sort of thing I meant when I said you had good sense.”
    Embarrassed by this praise, Nonie bowed her head. Despite the almost continual aggravation caused her by Miranda, she wished the best for her charge. However, after Miranda’s