Pistols at Dawn (26 page)

Her skin began to prickle.

"Or perhaps not." Marcus punctuated his words with a long swallow of the amber spirits.

Snapping the ledger's cover shut, she pushed back her chair. "You're right—this isn't a good evening for work. So if you will excuse me, I'll leave you to your revelries."

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Stay for a moment. I was hoping we might... talk."

Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.
Every instinct was telling her to flee, but she didn't wish to appear a coward. "Very well. What is it you wish to converse about?"

"All business, I see," he murmured under his breath.

"We
do
have a business arrangement, sir," Eliza pointed out.

"I am damnably aware of that." His tone turned tight. "Just as I am aware that you are back to using the formality of 'sir' and 'milord' when we—as you put it—converse."

"I am simply trying to maintain proprieties."

He let out a brusque laugh. "From the moment we first met and you aimed a pistol at my heart, there has been nothing remotely proper about our relationship."

"It was aimed a touch lower," said Eliza, trying to defuse the strange tension crackling through the air around them.

"Ha! You see," he responded. "No proper employee would dare to make sport of my nether regions."

"I..." Her gaze darted down to his breeches, which fit his contoured thighs like a second skin—and suddenly she found her throat too constricted to speak.

"Eliza." He shifted his big body and scent of brandy mixing with his earthy masculine essence nearly made her swoon. "Have I done something to offend you or upset you?"

Nothing—save to make me commit the horribly foolish mistake of falling in love with you.

She shook her head.

Marcus frowned and finished off his brandy. "Damnation," he muttered softly. His speech was turning a bit slurred. "If you insist on talking in business terms, let me say that I hope we can come to some other arrangement that simply employer and employee."

His dark eyes were now shrouded in shadow, making them impossible to read. "That is, a more intimate understanding between us."

Her emotions were already unsettled, but his oblique words caused her heart to skip a beat.

Was he suggesting that she become his mistress?

Blinking back tears, Eliza stepped back. "No doubt there are legions of ladies who would find such an offer enticing, milord. But I am not one of them."

"Eliza, you—"

"Please, sir," she interrupted, before he could go on. "This conversation is unwelcome and unwanted. I know my recent actions have make me appear rash and reckless, but I have not lost all of sense of right and wrong."

His brow furrowed. "I—I don't understand..."

"Then let us leave it at that." Hugging her arms to her chest, hoping to hold what little dignity she had left, Eliza quickly skirted around him and hurried for the door. "Good night, milord."

* * *

"Bloody Hell." Marcus jabbed a poker into the glowing coals and stirred them to life. After adding several fresh logs to the fire, he slumped into the nearby armchair and took his head in his hands. His wits were a bit fuzzed from the brandy—but not fuzzed enough that he didn't recognized what a hash he had made of the encounter.

Cursing his stupidity, he stared blankly at the wagging tongues of flame, each one seeming to whisper a silent reproach for his clumsy words.

Had Eliza really thought he was offering her a tap on the shoulder?

A ragged sigh slipped from his lips. She had little reason to think otherwise, he admitted, given the way he had recently pawed over her glorious body and ravaged her lush mouth. Self-loathing squeezed at his chest, and for a moment, Marcus was tempted to down his sorrows in another generous splash of brandy.

But some shred of sense remained, and he stayed seated, hoping the bright blaze of the burning logs might help dispel his black mood.

Love.
He had been delighted by Lucien's announcement. Seeing the young couple flushed with such happiness had been heartening, and he was sure the match would flourish. But as he had watched Eliza throughout the meal, his spirits had plummeted. She looked so serious, so solemn. He didn't doubt that she approved, too. No, it hadn't been disapproval in her eyes, but rather a certain sense of longing.

Had she been in love and suffered a disappointment?
he wondered.

The thought made him itch to bloody the offending fellow's nose—and then take Eliza in his arms and kiss the look of hurt from her face.

"But she doesn't want your kisses," he muttered to himself.

What a mull! She seemed to think he had had been annoyed at having to rescue her from Hastings. When in fact, his heart had nearly stopped beating when he saw the knife press to her throat.

Love.
Eliza might not have pulled the trigger of her ancient pistol, but she had managed to shoot Cupid's arrow deep into his flesh. Yes, he loved her, but as she didn't seem to return the sentiment, he would simply have to yank out the barb, no matter how much it hurt.

With that depressing thought in mind, Marcus rose and headed upstairs to his bedchamber. But he doubted that sleep would come anytime soon.

* * *

A soft knock on her door roused Eliza from her brooding reveries. It was followed by Meredith's muffled half whisper.

"Are you awake?"

Much as she wished to be alone, Eliza didn't have the heart to ignore the query. Tightening the sash of her wrapper, she rose from the cushioned window seat and clicked open the latch. "Of course—who could possibly sleep, what with all the excitement bubbling through the manor house?"

Her sister smiled. "You are right to tease me, for no doubt I have been acting like a silly, moonstruck schoolgirl all evening. But I can't help it, I feel as if I am floating on a cloud of spun-silver starlight."

"As well you should." Eliza enveloped Meredith in a fierce hug. "If there is anyone who deserves to be happy, it is you."

"I
am
happy," answered Meredith. "Deliriously so. And I just wanted to share the moment with you, just the two of us, before retiring."

"I am glad you did," she murmured.

The two of them stood with their arms around each other for a sisterly interlude, no words necessary to express their feelings for each other.

"Dear me," Eliza finally broke away and dabbed her sleeve to her cheek. "With all this overflowing joy, I fear I am in danger of turning into a watering pot."

Meredith let out a soulful sigh. "I never dreamed such joy was possible. Lucien is so kind, gentle, caring, compassionate—"

"You need not exhaust yourself reciting all his sterling qualities," interrupted Eliza with a fond laugh. "I am in complete agreement that he is worthy of your hand."

"Thank you," said Meredith quietly.

"Not that it would make a whit of difference if I didn't approve," she added dryly.

Amusement sparkled in her sister's eyes. "You know me too well. But I never doubted that you would perceive the goodness in him. You have always been a very good judge of character."

Eliza gave an inward wince. "I do, on occasion, make mistakes," she murmured.

"Yes, but you're always wise enough to see the error of your ways." Meredith took a seat on the edge of the bed and smoothed at her skirts. "Take the earl..."

She closed her eyes for an instant, trying not to imagine his chiseled face dappled in red-gold firelight.

"The two of you—"

"This evening is all about you and your betrothed, not me and my employer," interjected Eliza.

"My happiness is assured," said Meredith. "Now it is your turn."

"What makes you think I am not happy?" she demanded. "I have my work, I have my independence, I have you and Mama, and the prospect of being a doting aunt."

Meredith dismissed the listing with a scornful snort. "Don't think to gammon me. As if I can't tell that you have something weighing on your spirits."

"Perhaps I do," she admitted. "But I am not ready to talk about it, if you don't mind."

"You don't have to," murmured Meredith. "I think I can guess what is troubling you, but since you have asked, I shall stay silent on the matter for now—save for one observation." She slid down from her perch. "Reason and logic are all very well, but sometimes it is better to listen to your heart, and not your head."

"I'm afraid both of them are speaking gibberish at the moment," quipped Eliza.

"Oh, I think Love has a very clear voice. You just have to listen very carefully to hear it."

Love.

She swallowed the rising lump in her throat, unable to think of a clever retort.

Meredith planted a quick kiss on her cheek. "Good night. And sweet dreams."

As the door clicked shut, Eliza blew out the candles with a heavy sigh, enveloping herself in the black velvet shadows of midnight. Sweet dreams were for couples whose hearts were joyfully entwined.

Her own reveries promised to be naught but a dark tangle of confusion.

Chapter 17

Drawing a deep breath, Marcus crossed the garden terrace and descended the stairs to the sloping lawns leading down to lake. He felt like Hell—a myriad tiny devils seemed to be jabbing red-hot pitchforks into the back of his skull—but perhaps a brisk walk in the bracing air would help clear his head.

An early morning mist lingered in the rising sunlight, shrouding the trees and hedges in a silvery shimmer. The grass was damp with dew, muffling his steps as he made his way past the herb garden, and somewhere close by, a morning dove was twittering a soft song.

The sound made him wince.

"Damnation," he muttered, pressing his fingertips to his throbbing temples.

The pounding became more pronounced as a cheerful whistling cut through fluttering leaves.

Beethoven's Ode to Joy.

He didn't need to turn around to know who was approaching.

"You're up early, Uncle Marcus," called Lucien. "A lovely morning for a walk, isn't it?"

He grunted in reply, hoping the accompanying scowl would encourage his nephew to go away. Given his current mood, a besotted lover was the last sort of company he wanted.

But Lucien seemed oblivious to the message. Falling in step beside him, the young man fixed him with a quizzical look. "You look a little peaked. Is something amiss?"

Marcus bit back a caustic reply. No need to snap at those around him because of his own foul humor.

Lucien's brows rose a notch, but he refrained from further questions. "Fresh air, mellow sunshine, vigorous exercise," he murmured. "I always find that problems tend to untangle when one does not keep them cooped up in a deep, dark hole."

As their steps rounded the orchard fence, his nephew suddenly left off the Beethoven's melody to give three sharp whistles.

"Do stop that infernal racket," growled Marcus.

"Sorry." Lucien paused to greet his hound, who had come bounding out of the bushes with his tail wagging—and tongue lolling.

Marcus didn't react quite quickly enough to evade Ajax's muddy-pawed jump and slobbering kiss.

"Sorry," repeated his nephew, smothering a grin.

Looking down at his bedraggled breeches, he chuffed a reluctant laugh, feeling it would churlish to stay all snaps and snarls in the face of such high spirits.

"Forgive me for not being in a more playful frame of mind," he said, ruffling his fingers through the hound's silky fur. "I don't wish to be like a storm cloud, scudding in on an ill-wind to darken your day. So perhaps it is best if you—and the Maestro's magnificent music—go on along this path, and I shall cut back through the copse of oak trees."

"Ah, is that because you wish to sulk through the shadows?" asked Lucien.

"As a matter of fact, yes." Marcus started walking away. "The sun is making my head ache."

"My guess is it's not the sun, or the moon, or the stars," called his nephew. "It's fear."