The Marquess (24 page)

She walked away while she still could. Her legs trembled
like jelly. She feared she would fall on her face before she reached the door.
He said nothing, did nothing to stop her. She opened the door and walked out,
closing it carefully behind her. She still couldn’t stop trembling. She
waited for a roar of rage, a smashing of glass. She heard nothing.

He must be considering it. Dillian forced her shaking legs
up the front stairs to the main bedchamber, the lord’s chamber that
occupied the better portion of the front hall in the older part of the house,
where the ghosts walked. She felt like a ghost herself. She couldn’t
believe she’d done this.

The chamber loomed dark and icy as she entered. A huge
mahogany tester occupied the raised dais at the opposite end of the room. A
fireplace filled the left wall, but no warm fire welcomed her. Perhaps she
should start one. Perhaps she should run like hell and get out of here.

She’d left Blanche’s silk robe upstairs. She
wished for its protection now. What did one wear on an assignation? She had
only this one gown, and she couldn’t afford to have it torn from her back
if the marquess entered in a steaming rage. She didn’t think he would,
but he had a temper she couldn’t predict. She’d caught him by
surprise. He just hadn’t pieced together all the details yet. He would.
Then she would see if he took it as insult or temptation.

With frozen fingers, Dillian unfastened her gown and hung it
in the wardrobe. She had no corset or chemisette, just her chemise and
stockings. The stockings were too fine to risk. She carefully unrolled them and
looked around for somewhere to store them. She didn’t like leaving her
undergarments lying about. They should be washed, but she didn’t want
them dripping somewhere he could see.

She finally placed them in the wardrobe with the dress, then
crawled into the immense bed and pulled the covers up around her. Perhaps she
should find a flint and light a lamp. She couldn’t bear facing what she
planned. She left the lamp dark.

Shivering in the damp air, Dillian waited for the sound of
footsteps on the stairs. The old house creaked and groaned as it settled down
for the night. She thought she heard the wind sigh through the passage behind
the walls. A faint light beat of rain pattered against the windowpane.

The spot where she lay grew warmer. Dillian tried imagining
what the marquess would do to her, but the room held enough ghosts without
creating more. She had never meant to marry anyway and had always been curious
about what happened between a man and a woman. She could salve her curiosity
and save Blanche at the same time.

Virginity was a dispensable commodity she couldn’t
afford forever. She liked the idea of giving it to someone who made her feel
like a woman and not an object. It was much better done this way, with desire
on both sides. Far better than selling herself as wife for a thousand pounds a
year and the respectability of a name to a man she couldn’t respect or
admire much less desire. Once Blanche deeded her the Grange, she wouldn’t
need a husband at all. This would work. She knew it would.

She was still trying to convince herself of that as she fell
asleep with the tower clock on the landing wheezing midnight.

* * * *

In the room below, the marquess heard that same wheezing
chime, only he could gain nothing so restful as slumber. With the heat of lust
racing through his veins, he would find no sleep tonight, not even with the
help of the brandy bottle at his side.

Just the image his mind conjured of chestnut curls spread
across lacy pillows made his blood boil. He needn’t continue the torture
any further by imagining the bedcover slipping off a creamy bare shoulder,
revealing glimpses of those soft globes he longed to touch so much that his
fingers actually tingled.

Tingling fingers didn’t compare to what happened to
the rest of him. Gavin adjusted his position in the hard chair for the fiftieth
time that evening, seeking some relief from the discomfort.

He’d been without a woman too long, his loins told
him, but he’d quit listening to that part of himself long ago. Fingering
the scar on the side of his face, he stared into the dying flame of the lamp.
She’d grown up surrounded by randy young soldiers. She had as much as
admitted that she was no longer innocent. She had offered herself. Why
shouldn’t he take her up on the offer?

But it was just that offer holding him back. He’d seen
the fear and courage, the determination to protect her young companion at any
cost, even at the sacrifice of her reputation. Gavin wanted to believe that he
scorned human sacrifice, but the truth was that he admired her courage too much
to accept it. His admiration created this ridiculous urge to protect her, if
only from herself.

He knew the urge to be ridiculous. Dillian Whitnell needed
no man’s protection, certainly not his. But just for a little while, he
pretended that she needed him, and him alone. Just for a little while. His
better sense would return soon enough.

The sun streamed in Blanche’s window when Dillian
finally made her appearance there the next morning.

Verity brushed her mistress’s hair, and the light
shone like spun gold through it. Dillian felt a veritable dowd beside her
cousin’s elegance, but then, that feeling was nothing new. The odd
feeling that she fell beneath her cousin’s contempt, however, was
completely alien to her.

Dillian looked around for any sign of the marquess or the
odious O’Toole, but they had mysteriously absented themselves.

After she had soiled and humiliated herself by offering to
become his mistress, the damnable marquess had not come to his room to accept
her offer.

The worst part of it was that she would do it again.

In saving Blanche, she would lose her cousin forever.
Dillian didn’t harbor any foolish illusions that she could hide the fact
that she had become a man’s mistress. But she wouldn’t think about
it now, in the bold morning light. He hadn’t come to her. Perhaps he had
decided she wasn’t worth the invasion of his privacy. Perhaps she had
misunderstood him entirely, and he didn’t desire her at all. In that
case, she must find alternative plans.

“Where is everyone?” she asked as casually as
she could, taking a seat at the table and helping herself to tea.

“O’Toole rode out early this morning. I
haven’t seen the marquess.” Blanche turned her head in her
cousin’s direction. She wore the scarf O’Toole had given her over
her eyes, but Dillian saw it was thin enough to allow light and shadow. “What
will we do, Dill?”

Dillian took a sip of tea and stared out at the lovely
morning. Even the overgrown brambles seemed appealing in the sunlight. The
hideous rows of towering evergreens hiding all traces of civilization beyond
seemed more like a friendly hedge in this light. A patch of sunlight between
drive and house beckoned for a bed of roses. She’d never been much of a
gardener, but she found the idea appealing right now, more appealing than what
she’d offered to turn herself into.

“Wait on the marquess and O’Toole,” she
finally answered with a certain amount of gloom. “There must be some way
of persuading them to let you stay here while I go into London. Did
O’Toole give no hint of how we might manage it?”

Blanche rested her chin on her hand while Verity rolled her
hair into an elegant knot on top of her head. “He gave no hint that we
would have to leave. Do you really think the marquess will throw us out? He
seems a little gruff, but not exactly heartless.”

“You haven’t seen him swing a sword capable of
beheading three people at once,” Dillian grumbled. “Do you recall
the vines beneath your windows at the Grange? He climbs them as if
they’re a ship’s rigging. The man climbed down inside a burning
house to rescue two children he didn’t know. He’s not heartless.
He’s insane.”

Blanche’s mouth turned up in amusement. “And
this is the man you think I should marry?”

Dillian shrugged. “He could certainly protect you, but
no, you’re right. You ought to have someone aristocratic and
sophisticated, someone who can stand up to Neville on his own ground, not just
beat him into a pulp. Although the latter does hold some appeal.”

Blanche sat back and sipped at her cup of tea, an
accomplishment she managed quite gracefully despite the blindfold. “I
rather had an impression of the marquess as an aristocratic, extremely reserved
gentleman. Do you tell me he’s a ruffian?”

Dillian stared out the window. She could see him now in
gentleman’s waistcoat and frilled linen, again in open-necked shirt and
trousers, or with a black cloak streaming behind him as he rode a
massive— stolen—stallion. She shook her head in despair of ever
describing him. “He’s not like anyone we’ve ever met.”

“Neither is Michael,” was Blanche’s
surprising answer.

Dillian looked up sharply. “Michael is a conniving
varlet and most likely a Captain Sharp as well.”

“He visits me every day and brings me roses that I can
smell and touch. He thought of this scarf. He teaches me how to play cards and
make coins disappear. Want to see a penny disappear?”

A purely rhetorical question, Dillian assumed, since Blanche
promptly lifted the coin from the table, covered it with her fist, then opened
her empty palm. A quite clever trick, one she might have questioned at another
time, but not now, not with her impending doom hanging over her head. And
Blanche’s, from the sounds of her praise of O’Toole.

Blanche was not easily impressed. Leaving her young cousin
in the company of a charming rogue when she was extremely vulnerable had not
been a wise thing to do. She would make O’Toole leave with her when she
traveled to London. Better that Blanche fall for the man with a title than his
wayward servant.

“Make Neville disappear like that, and the two of you
will have accomplished something,” Dillian responded unhappily. “In
the meantime, be sensible, Blanche. He’s a charmer, not an eligible
suitor.”

Irritably, Blanche shoved away from the table. “I know
that. Why can’t Neville be more like Mr. O’Toole? Why do all the
nice men have to be unsuitable?”

Now, that was an interesting question. Because the suitable
ones were spoiled rich boys? What did that make the marquess?

“You haven’t met all the nice men yet,”
was all she said. “Give it time.”

Blanche’s slender fingers drifted to the raw burns
upon her cheeks. “I’m not certain I have any time left,” she
answered sadly.

* * * *

Blanche’s reply haunted Dillian’s thoughts the
rest of the day. She had more than enough to think of while simultaneously
trying to find the marquess and avoid him, without wondering what the wretched
O’Toole was up to now. They were supposed to have had some discussion
today on how to get those papers. Why couldn’t men keep promises?
Probably because they weren’t as important to them as to herself.

Complaining didn’t make the day pass any faster.
Dillian built card houses with Blanche and explored the manor further while
Blanche napped. She listened for the sound of the marquess’s voice
wherever she went but found no trace of him. She tried not to think about Blanche’s
plaintive words, but they played over and over again in her head whenever she
let her mind wander.

Blanche with all her wealth and beauty had been the target
of every fortune hunter in the kingdom in the past. Scarred, she would still be
no less a target, but also an object of pity. The thought revolted Dillian.
Blanche had a brilliant mind, a sunny character, and impeccable morals. Any man
would be blessed to have her without the wealth or looks. Maybe that’s
what they should do, disguise Blanche as a poor woman.

Then she would go unmarried for the rest of her life,
Dillian thought savagely. Any way she looked at it, Blanche must buy herself a
husband. She ought to at least have the opportunity to buy one she liked. The
ignoble thought did not make Dillian any happier with herself.

Frustrated at her impotence, Dillian cleaned the master
chamber, added a few more paintings she scavenged from the rest of the house,
and wandered into the walled garden in search of roses. She didn’t know
if the servants could see her from here. From what she could tell, they
primarily stayed in the kitchen on the other side of the house. At this point,
she didn’t care what they thought.

Dillian helped Verity steal dinner from the pantry that
evening, and they feasted royally on the meal neither man returned to eat.
Perhaps the servants thought the marquess crept into the pantry at night to
clean out the larder. Whatever the reason, the roast came to the table almost
warm, and the potatoes melted in their mouths. They had even stolen a bottle of
wine from the cellars and lifted their sagging spirits considerably by
polishing it off between the two of them. Verity rightfully refused to drink
any. She would have to guard her mistress through the night.

Half a bottle of wine didn’t exactly make her foxed,
but Dillian felt considerably better than she had all day when she traversed
the dark halls to her room that night. Not until she reached the third floor
and the bed where she had thrown the silken robe did it occur to her she had promised
the marquess to sleep in the main chamber. What if he came home tonight looking
for her?

That thought nearly paralyzed her into inaction. The wine
soured in her stomach, and she glanced desperately around the candle-lit room
to make certain he didn’t lurk in the shadows. She had made an offer, the
only offer she could make considering her nearly penniless state. Could she
renege on it? Could she afford to let any chance of saving Blanche get by?

She couldn’t. Blanche had ruined her life to save
Dillian and the rest of her household. Blanche had delayed her marriage to
promise her homeless cousin a future once she held her inheritance in her
hands. Dillian simply couldn’t take and take and never give. She could do
this one simple thing to ensure her cousin’s safety.