The Christmas Kittens Read Free Page B

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