Page 2 of Convincing Marianne (The Widows of Lavender Cottage #2)

Chapter Two

H er first day in her new cottage began with a shriek. Again. Only now they were in Somerset, at Lavender Cottage. It seemed, some things would not be any different here than in Willow Brook Manor in that regard at least.

A shriek not from Lady Marianne Linfield herself—though she was tempted—but from the peacock, of course, who had taken up residence atop the garden wall and decided to unleash his full-throated opinion of country life just as the village vicar passed by.

Reverend Dunley dropped his prayer book into a puddle.

"Clarence," Marianne called sweetly, holding up a seed biscuit like a peace offering. "We do not scream at clergymen. It's simply not done."

Clarence flared his magnificent tail, screamed again, and flapped indignantly toward the rose trellis. Behind Marianne, a goat bleated in agreement. Or protest. It was difficult to tell with goats.

Welcome to Lavender Cottage.

After precisely seventeen minutes in residence, Lady Marianne Linfield was beginning to suspect her quiet new life might be less quiet than anticipated. Still, it was hers , and that made all the difference.

Her late husband—may his racehorse-obsessed soul rest in peace—had left her with a more than modest inheritance, a less than modest social reputation, and a collection of animals so odd and insistent they'd followed her straight out of Berkshire.

Now, she stood at the weather-worn gate of Lavender Cottage, skirts muddied from a wayward goose attack (Lord Featherstone was in a mood again), watching the good vicar retrieve his soggy book while the parrot recited: " Unhand me, you beast!

" followed by, " Fetch the port and nobody gets stabbed! "

“The parrot was my husband’s.” This felt important to clarify.

"Lady Linfield?" a voice called crisply from across the lane.

Oh no.

She turned slowly to find him —Lord Henry Alton, her new neighbor and, by all local accounts, a man of impeccable discipline, unimpeachable manners, and absolutely no patience for nonsense.

He stood stiffly outside his tidy estate, arms crossed over a perfectly tailored coat, watching the peacock shriek, the parrot threaten, and the pug attempt to court a hedgehog.

"I do hope your morning is going well," Marianne said with a bright smile that had once scandalized half of Mayfair.

Lord Alton did not smile back.

"I believe your goat is in my lavender bed," he said dryly.

Marianne turned. "Is he? Good taste, that one."

The goat bleated. The peacock screamed again.

Lord Alton looked skyward, as if beseeching divine intervention. "May I suggest fencing?"

"You may," she replied pleasantly. "Though I've found it rarely stops anyone—or anything—that's truly determined."

He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and turned back toward his house. The pug—Wellington, though he only responded to the sound of the biscuit tin—trotted after him with a hopeful snort.

"Oh no, you don't," Marianne muttered, scooping up the dog and earning a squeaky wheeze in response.

As she trudged back toward her front door, skirt hem dragging through damp soil, she took a deep breath of the Somerset air. Fresh, green, a bit goat-scented.

Yes, this would do.

It was not the life she'd been raised to expect. It was not quiet, nor orderly, nor particularly well-behaved. But it was hers. And for the first time in a long while, that was more than enough.

Until Clarence stole the vicar's hat.

The hat—a rather fine black felt with a modest band—went sailing through the air like a discus, propelled by Clarence's impressive wingspan and what Marianne could only assume was his deep-seated resentment toward organized religion.

"Clarence, no!" she called, but it was too late. The hat landed squarely in the duck pond with a satisfying plop, sending Mrs. Quackers and her brood into a frenzy of indignant splashing.

Reverend Dunley stood frozen, his thinning hair now fully exposed to the morning breeze, watching his hat sink slowly beneath a layer of pond scum.

"I am... so terribly sorry," Marianne began, hiking up her skirts to wade into the shallow water. "He's still adjusting to country life. We all are, really."

"It's quite all right," the vicar said weakly, though his expression suggested otherwise. "I have another."

She had to appreciate his averted gaze. "Nonsense. I'll fish it out this instant." She took another step into the pond, immediately regretting her choice of footwear. Her boots were meant for drawing rooms, not duck ponds, and the mud was proving remarkably tenacious.

"Perhaps I could assist—" Reverend Dunley ventured.

" All hands on deck! " squawked Napoleon, the parrot, from his perch on the cottage windowsill. " Batten down the hatches! "

"He was a naval officer's bird before he was my husband's," Marianne explained apologetically, lunging for the hat as it drifted past a particularly aggressive-looking duck. "He has... opinions about maritime protocol."

She managed to snag the hat just as Lord Alton reappeared at his gate, drawn no doubt by the commotion. His expression was carefully neutral, but she caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that might have been suppressed amusement.

Or horror. It was difficult to tell with proper gentlemen.

"Reverend," Lord Alton said with a respectful nod. "Lady Linfield." His tone was considerably cooler for her.

"Lord Alton," she replied, attempting dignity while standing knee-deep in pond water, holding a dripping hat, and trying to discourage a particularly bold duck from investigating her skirts.

"I see you're... settling in well."

"Swimmingly," she said, then grimaced at her own word choice. "So to speak."

The duck chose that moment to grab a beak-ful of her petticoat, tugging with surprising determination. She stumbled, windmilled her arms for balance, and somehow managed to stay upright while the hat went sailing again—this time directly toward Lord Alton.

His reflexes were admirable. He caught it neatly, despite its soggy condition, and stood there holding it at arm's length with the sort of expression one might wear when handling something particularly unsavory.

"How remarkable," Marianne said brightly. "You have excellent hands, my lord."

The moment the words left her mouth, she realized how they might be interpreted. Lord Alton's eyebrows rose incrementally, Reverend Dunley made a small choking sound, and even Clarence stopped his preening to fix her with what appeared to be an accusatory stare.

"That is," she said quickly, "your reflexes are... quite... athletic."

This was somehow worse.

"I merely meant to compliment your... coordination." She was digging herself deeper with every word. "In catching things. Which fall. From the sky."

Lord Alton cleared his throat. "I believe what Lady Linfield means to say," he said with exaggerated formality, "is thank you."

"Yes," she said gratefully. "Precisely that."

He extended the hat toward Reverend Dunley, who accepted it with visible resignation. Water dripped steadily from the brim.

"Perhaps," the vicar said diplomatically, "I might impose upon you for the use of your kitchen, Lady Linfield? To... dry it properly?"

"Of course! Though I should warn you, the kitchen is currently occupied by a rather territorial rooster who has decided the warmth near the stove is ideal for brooding. Which is peculiar, as he is decidedly male, but Gerald has never been one to let biology dictate his life choices."

Reverend Dunley blinked. "Gerald?"

"The rooster. He came with a perfectly respectable name—Champion Royal Thunder—but he's far too sensible for such dramatics. Gerald suits him much better."

As if summoned by his name, a loud crow echoed from within the cottage, followed by what sounded like the crash of pottery.

"Oh dear," Marianne said. "I suspect he's discovered the cream pitcher again. He has rather progressive views on breakfast."

Lord Alton pinched the bridge of his nose. "How many animals, exactly, have taken up residence with you?"

Marianne considered this seriously. "Well, there's Clarence, obviously, and Napoleon, Wellington, Lord Featherstone—he's the goose—Mrs. Quackers and her ducklings, Gerald, the goat..." She paused. "What did I name the goat again?"

"Beelzebub," supplied a dry voice from behind the cottage gate.

They all turned to see a sturdy woman of middle years emerge from the garden, her graying hair pinned back sensibly and her apron liberally stained with what appeared to be jam.

"Mrs. Smith," Marianne said with visible relief. "My housekeeper," she explained to the men. "And the only reason any of us survive from day to day."

"The goat's name is Beelzebub," Mrs. Smith repeated firmly, "because he's a devil, and that hedgehog hiding under the roses is Prudence, though she's anything but. There's also Miss Whiskers—the cat who thinks she's a duchess—and Hamlet."

"Hamlet?" Lord Alton asked, despite himself.

"The pig," Mrs. Smith said matter-of-factly. "He's prone to soliloquies. Especially when he's hungry."

As if on cue, a contemplative grunt echoed from the direction of the vegetable garden.

"I see," said Reverend Dunley faintly.

"And that's not including the ones who visit," Mrs. Smith continued.

"There's a family of rabbits who've decided our lettuce patch is a public dining establishment, several mice who hold regular conferences in the pantry, and a bat who roosts in the eaves and provides running commentary on the weather. "

Lord Alton stared at Marianne. "You've created a menagerie."

"It created itself, really," she said defensively. "They simply... followed me. I can hardly turn away creatures in need."

"Even when those creatures steal clergymen's hats?"

"Especially then. That shows initiative."

Another crash from the kitchen punctuated her words, followed by Gerald's triumphant crow.

"Right," said Mrs. Smith briskly. "Reverend, you'd best come through the back entrance if you want to avoid Gerald's territory. Lord Alton, your goat?—"

"My goat?" he interrupted.

"The one eating your hedge. Beelzebub's found a gap in the fence and has decided your privet is superior to our grass."

Lord Alton closed his eyes briefly. "Of course he has."

"I'll fetch him," Marianne said quickly, squelching out of the pond and leaving muddy footprints on the path. "He's usually quite reasonable if you approach him with proper respect and a suitable bribe."

"What constitutes a suitable bribe for a goat?" Lord Alton asked.

"In Beelzebub's case? Your morning newspaper. He has a particular fondness for political commentary."

"He eats newspapers?"

"Only the editorial section. He's rather discerning."

Lord Alton looked between Marianne, still dripping pond water, and his hedge, where a brown and white goat was indeed making short work of what had once been a perfectly manicured barrier between their properties.

"Lady Linfield," he said with careful precision, "may I suggest that country living might benefit from... certain boundaries?"

"Oh, I quite agree," she said cheerfully. "But Beelzebub has never been one for boundaries. Rather like his namesake, really."

Another crash from the kitchen, this time accompanied by Napoleon's helpful commentary: " Fire in the hole! All hands abandon ship! "

"Mrs. Smith," Marianne called, "perhaps you might show Reverend Dunley to the sitting room instead? I'll bring tea once I've negotiated with Beelzebub."

"Right you are, my lady. Mind the peacock on your way round—he's taken exception to the color of Lord Alton's waistcoat."

Indeed, Clarence had begun strutting along the garden wall again, his magnificent tail fanned in full display, eyeing Lord Alton's perfectly respectable gray vest with unmistakable hostility.

"What does he have against gray?" Lord Alton asked.

"It's not sufficiently dramatic," Marianne explained. "Clarence believes life should be lived in full color at all times. Your restraint offends his artistic sensibilities."

"My restraint?"

"Oh yes. You're very restrained, aren't you? All neat lines and proper everything." She gestured vaguely at his immaculate appearance. "Clarence finds it personally insulting."

Lord Alton stared at her for a long moment. "I am a gentleman, Lady Linfield. Restraint is rather the point."

"Is it?" She tilted her head, studying him with frank curiosity. "How terribly limiting that must be."

Before he could respond, she had squelched off toward his hedge, calling: "Beelzebub! Come away from the nice lord's shrubbery. There's a perfectly good thistle patch by our back gate."

Lord Alton stood watching her go, this mud-splattered, pond-soaked woman who spoke to animals as if they were rational beings and seemed to find chaos not only acceptable but preferable.

Everything about her was wrong for a proper widow.

She was too bright, too unguarded, too..

. present. She took up space without apology, spoke without careful consideration, and appeared to find genuine joy in the sort of disorder that would send most ladies of quality straight to their smelling salts.

It was absolutely maddening.

It was also, though he would never admit it aloud, the most interesting thing to happen in his perfectly ordered life in quite some time.

" Land ho! " Napoleon called from his windowsill perch. " Steady as she goes! "

From the hedge came the sound of successful negotiation—Marianne's laugh, bright and unrestrained, followed by Beelzebub's contented bleat.

Lord Alton looked down at his waistcoat, then up at Clarence, who was still regarding him with magnificent disdain.

"Gray is a perfectly respectable color," he informed the peacock.

Clarence screamed in response and flapped away toward the cottage roof, clearly having the last word.

As it appeared he always would, Lord Alton realized, as long as Lady Marianne Linfield was his neighbor.

The thought should have been alarming.

Instead, as he watched her successfully coax his hedge-eating goat back toward her own garden with what appeared to be a wilted cabbage leaf and a stern lecture about property rights, he found himself almost... curious about what tomorrow might bring.

Almost.

But that was quite enough curiosity for one morning.