Pistols at Dawn (27 page)

He stopped and slowly turned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Fear," repeated Lucien doggedly.

Ajax let out a little
woof
.

"What are you afraid of?" continued his nephew. "The fact that Miss Kirtland might say yes?"

Marcus stood still as a statue, fixing Lucien with a basilisk stare of silent shock and consternation. The young man didn't bat an eye.

"She won't," he finally said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "Not after the hash I made of things last night."

"Would you care to talk about it?"

"No." Marcus quirked a wry grimace. "But that would be rather cowardly, considering the fact that I held your feet to the flaming coals."

"Trial by fire," quipped Lucien. "If you survive, you do tend to come out stronger."

"Thank you for the encouraging words," he replied dryly. "I've been roasting myself all night, and I can't say it's made me feel anything other than burned to a crisp."

Lucien approached, and after a quick glance at coal-black shadows under the earl's eyes, he took his uncle's arm and led him to the path that wound through the grove of trees. "You're right—you're not quite ready to greet the sun this morning. But perhaps I can help you see the light."

Bemused by this new steely show of confidence in his nephew, Marcus let himself by guided beneath the fluttering canopy of leaves.

"So, you think you've made a muddle of things with Miss Kirtland?" asked Lucien.

He nodded. "A hopeless muddle. She thinks I'm a scoundrel."

"Then change her mind."

Woof.

"I..." He found himself faltering. "I'm not sure I can."

"Oh, show some bottom, Uncle Marcus. Ye gods, if
I
can manage to win the hand of the lady I love, so can you."

Marcus blinked, then felt a smile curl on his lips. "You think so?"

"I know so. Meredith and I are quite sure that Miss Kirtland's heart is yours, if only you will ask for it."

"Ha." He expelled a harried sigh. "I started to, but she misunderstood—"

"So go back and try again," cajoled Lucien. "Or would the Black Cat rather slink away with his tail between his legs."

"Ouch," he murmured. "Since when have you developed such teeth and claws?"

"Since a certain someone challenged me to be more than I believed I could be."

Crunch, crunch.
As their steps moved through the dead leaves on the path, Marcus felt new hope bloom in his heart. "She might not listen," he mused. "She's stubborn and willful." A laugh. "But so am I."

"You see—you are exceedingly well-matched." Lucien picked up a stick and tossed it into the tree. As Ajax went bounding after it, he added, "I think you would regret it for the rest of your life if you don't dare to go after her and make her say yes. Love is worth the risk."

Love.
That word again. It was terrifying, and yet it was also...

Marcus stopped abruptly. "I think I shall leave you here and return to the Manor. I have much to accomplish this morning and would prefer not to waste any more time."

"But of course," murmured his nephew. "Good luck. But hen again, the Black Cat is accorded to be a very lucky feline."

"Yes, well, let us hope my luck holds."

* * *

Eliza looked around her familiar workroom in Rose Cottage and then took a seat at her desk. She aligned her pens in a neat row beside the inkwell. She straightened the stack of ledgers and squared the sheaf of foolscap.

Everything was in its place, she thought as she stared down at her blotter. And like the blank sheets of paper, her life was ready to write a new chapter.

Turning to a fresh page.

In another week or two, once the earl had procured a special license for the happy couple and the marriage ceremony was over, she would be returning here, to her old familiar things.

Her old, familiar life.

Eliza knew she ought to be feeling elated at the prospects for the future. Meredith was in alt over her coming nuptials with Lucien, and she had no doubts that the new couple would suit each other in every way. The young man had also made it clear that he meant to see to the care of Rose Cottage and her ailing mother. So she would no longer have to bear the financial burden of looking after her family.

Her worries lifted, her independence assured—what more could she want?

Tracing her fingertips in random circles across the well-worn blotter, Eliza told herself she now had the freedom to do exactly as she pleased.

So why did the prospect look as black as the blot of ink beneath her thumb?

With a flick of her hand, she knocked all the nibs askew.
Hell's bells.
Her feelings were refusing to line up as they should. That her old routine suddenly seemed so empty, so...

"Eliza?"

Blinking the wetness from her lashes, she slowly turned around.

"I saw the door open and thought I would stop in and check that nothing is amiss."

"No, Ned, everything is back to the usual," she replied, trying very hard to keep her voice from sounding hollow.

His brow furrowed. "Actually, a good deal had changed."

She managed a smile. "Yes—and no. My life shall go on much as before."

Her neighbor shuffled his feet. "As to that..." Fisting his cap, he cleared his throat. "Might I speak... as a friend, Eliza?"

"Why, of course, Ned. You know I respect your opinions." Her lips quirked. "Even if I don't always agree with them."

A ghost of a smile flitted across his features. "Aye, you do have a mind of your own."

"I take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one." He was back to looking very serious. "I could add a number of others, but I am a simple man, not much given to flowery speech, so I shall come straight to the point. I should like to ask for your hand in marriage."

"Marriage?" Eliza gripped the back of her chair. Lud, her whole world seemed intent on turning topsy-turvy this morning. "This is rather sudden."

He nodded. "Forgive me for not wooing you with a more formal courtship, Eliza. But you must know I admire you, and given the circumstances—"

"What circumstances are those?" she asked softly.

"You know how people are. They gossip, and even though any sensible soul in these parts knows you are not guilty of any impropriety, there are some unpleasant things being said about you and the Earl of Killingworth." He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the tips of his muddy boots. "To be blunt, your reputation has suffered, and so I thought it best to waste no time in offering you the protection of my name."

Eliza was not sure whether it was anger or embarrassment or compassion—or a sparking of all three—that had her cheeks afire. "That is thoughtful of you, Ned. But as I have never given a fig in the past for what people have said, I have no intention of letting current whispers upset me in the least."

"We would have a comfortable life, Eliza," he went on doggedly. "My farm is a modest one, but with the improvements you suggested it is turning more profit. And I respect your judgment and value your counsel. I think we whould suit."

Her own gaze slanted back to her desk. "On paper it might appear a good match, Ned. But I cannot accept your kind offer."

"Why?"

"Because..." Eliza turned to face him. No matter how hard a task, she could not duck away from the truth. "Because I do not wish to marry for mere comfort or convenience. Because I would not truly make you happy. Because..."

The rest of the words died on her lips as the sound of bootsteps scuffed down the corridor.

"I had not realized you had company, Miss Kirtland." Marcus hesitated in the doorway, the capes of his coat flapping against the molding. His windblown hair curled around his ears, softening the planes of his face.

Her heart fluttered in her chest.

"I do hope I am not interrupting anything serious."

"No—" she began.

"Actually, I was asking Miss Kirtland to marry me," announced Ned with a scowl.

"Allow me to be the first to offer felicitations," drawled Marcus, his brows taking on a sardonic tilt.

The farmer's fists clenched at his sides. "How kind. I would rather you give me a bit of privacy, milord."

Eliza was finding it difficult to draw in a gulp of air. Why the two men had taken such a dislike to each other was a mystery to her, but their growls of animosity was rubbing her already sensitive nerves raw. She felt stripped of all dignity, like a bone being clawed over by two terriers.

Caught between that which she didn't want and that which she couldn't have—the irony of it was suddenly too much to bear.

"Stop it—both of you!"

The men fell silent, Ned looking earnest, Marcus looking... enigmatic. His amber eyes, half hidden by a shock of dark hair, flickered with an inscrutable light as he folded his arms across his chest.

"Please leave." She knew she sounded perilously close to bursting into tears and didn't care. "If you don't mind, I would like some time to myself, to put my things in order."

"Of course. Whatever you wish, Eliza. These have been terribly trying times for you." Ned shot a dark look at the earl. "I am not pressing you for an answer now. All I ask is that you will consider my proposal."

She nodded, not having the heart to tell him her answer would be the same whether she thought on it for a day or a decade.

Marcus stepped aside to let the farmer pass. He lingered, his hooded gaze not quite meeting hers. She couldn't help but notice the smudge of shadows beneath his eyes, as if he, too, had passed a night plagued by bad dreams.

Making herself look away, Eliza moved to the side table and began to sort through a stack of pamphlets. After several ticks of the mantel clock, she heard him retreat into the corridor and quit the cottage.

Tears prickled against her lids, but she blinked them away.

It was time to turn the page, she reminded herself as she moved on to the stack of books beside the pamphlets. And leave her girlish longings in the past.

* * *

An hour later, after numbly moving her work materials from one spot to another with no awareness of what she was doing, Eliza gave up trying to concentrate on agricultural treatises and accounting ledgers. Making her way to the kitchen, she took up a willow basket hanging on a peg by the back door and headed out to the herb garden.

Camomile, thyme, rosemary
—as she gathered a handful of cuttings, the soothing fragrances help calm her unsettled spirits. Moving on to another section of greenery, she paused to finger a delicate plant—

"Arnica for healing bruises."

Eliza spun around. "I—I am surprised you have learned something of medicine, sir."

"I have learned a great deal about a variety of subjects over the last few weeks," replied Marcus.

Eliza didn't reply, but broke off a twig of juniper. The tangy pine scent filled her lungs. It was, she knew, reputed to lift the spirits.

So why was it was only making her feel more blue-deviled?

It might have something to do with the earl's closeness, she admitted, and his own subtle male essence.

"Don't," he murmured, stepping closer.

Confused, she looked up from crushing the needles between her fingers.

"Don't marry him."

"W-why shouldn't I?" she whispered.

"Because you won't be happy," he answered.

That he was echoing her own feelings made her feel even more miserable.

"What you really mean is, he won't be happy with me." Eliza scraped a sleeve across her eyes. "You are right. Who would want to marry an aging, opinionated shrew?"

His mouth gave an odd little twist. "Me."

For an instant she thought the mockingbird's twitter was playing a teasing game with her. But the rippling in his amber eyes made the breath catch in her throat.

"I... I am not sure you have thought this out clearly," she croaked. "When you add up all the differences between us—"

Marcus placed a finger to her lips, silencing her stammering. "I have become very good at a mathematics," he murmured. "For I've had a most excellent teacher."

His touch lit a spark of hope in her chest.

"Yes, we have our differences and our flaws. But when you add up the things that really matter—friendship, trust..." He swallowed hard, "...and most of all, love, the answer seems very clear. We are good for each other, Eliza."

At that moment, even a croak seemed beyond her power. Her throat was too tight.

"I love you," said Marcus. "I love your strength, your intelligence your compassion, your courage." His expression turned oddly vulnerable. "Dare I hope you could learn to love a reformed rascal? For I am reformed, thanks to your help, and will do my best to always be worthy of your regard."

Eliza placed her palm against his stubbled cheek, reveling in the warmth that suffused her skin. "Your worth is beyond words, Marcus. You are strong, honorable, kind, humble—"