The Dutiful Rake (6 page)

She would go straight to the Vicarage…no, it was fifteen miles. Fenby Hall was only ten. Even if she got a lift part of the way, she couldn’t possibly go to the Vicarage tonight. She would go home and slip into the house for the night. No one need know that she was there. She could go to the Vicar tomorrow.

Plodding on down the increasingly muddy road between the dry stone walls, she gradually became aware that she was crying, her tears mingling with the rain on her cheeks. Never in a life of loneliness had she ever felt quite so abandoned. At least this morning she had had the prospect of employment in a respectable household. Now she was literally out on her own.

Briefly she considered going to Lord Rutherford, only to reject the idea. No, she had refused his offer of assistance. She could not now go back and beg. Besides, in the past ten years she had not confided in anyone. She wouldn’t even know where to start. A sensible little voice suggested that she was being rather silly. After all, she liked Marc…he was kind…gentle…he would look after her…Perhaps he wouldn’t care about her history…her parents…?

She thrust the thought away. How could he not care? Besides, Marc was really Lord Rutherford. He did not exist beyond her feverish imaginings. She plodded on, pretending that the salt mingling with the rain was seawater. She had never seen the sea…but she had heard it was salty.

A yell from behind her broke in on her gloomy reflections. She swung around hopefully and saw a farm cart with a familiar field hand driving it. At least she wouldn’t have to walk the whole way home.

Marcus came in late from his day’s business, his heavy frieze cloak dripping. It had kept out the rain, but he was definitely chilly. He went to the parlour and rang the bell for Barlow, thinking that he would have a bath and then see Meg. Try and talk some sense into her. He’d been too abrupt with her earlier, too dictatorial.

A fire had been lit and he stood in front of it, warming his hands. Meg’s determination to make her own way impressed him as much as it surprised him. Not many girls in her situation, he thought, would have refused what he had offered. Cousin Samuel must have really rubbed in her status. Parsimonious old curmudgeon!

Barlow appeared and started talking immediately. ‘Thank God you’re back, me lord! It’s Miss Meg!’

A chill stole through Marcus’s heart. What the hell was wrong with Meg? Was she ill again?

‘She’s gone.’

‘Gone!’ Marcus exploded. ‘What the devil do you mean? Where has she gone?’ Then he realised. He’d thought she was just a bit too meek this morning. Obviously she had decided to act before he could inform her employer of any change in her plans. She had thought thereby to forestall him, putting herself beyond his reach. Well, she would learn her mistake! And then, stealing through his anger, came a surge of admiration for the little vixen. She’d hoaxed him completely with her agreement that there was nothing more to be said on the matter of her future. Little devil, he thought ruefully.

Barlow watched him in some trepidation. ‘Aye. Gone to Mrs Garsby. Agnes and I knew nowt. She slipped out and got young Judd to drive her over in the gig. I’m that sorry, me lord! She sent this back for you.’ He held out the letter.

Marcus took it. ‘Thank you, Barlow. Is the water ready for my bath?’

‘Aye, me lord. Shall I draw it?’

Marcus had already opened the letter and simply nodded, beginning to read as Barlow withdrew.

Marcus stared at the letter, his emotions in turmoil. Robert and Caroline Fellowes’s daughter! Good God! No wonder none of the good ladies would have anything to do with the chit! He remembered the scandal quite well. Sir Robert’s suicide after catching his wife and a lover
in flagrante delicto
and murdering the pair of them had been the talk of the town for months ten years ago. He had never heard there had been a child, though. Certainly Sir Delian and Lady Fellowes had never mentioned it. And she had been here with Samuel the whole time.

He shook his head, dazed. What to do now? He considered his options. He would have to go after Meg, of course; but should he leave it until morning or go at once? Little fool! Why the hell hadn’t she told him? Surely she hadn’t thought he would turn his back on her! He grimaced. Perhaps she had. He’d purposely been cold with her as he was with most people. And no
doubt plenty of people did shun her. Indeed, her own cousin had refused to assist the orphaned child. This must be the reason that no one had come to help her.

Blast old Samuel! If he had done the right thing by the girl, then her story need not have been such a liability. As it was, it had been allowed to take hold in the popular imagination until it had assumed ridiculous proportions.

He read the letter again. Too cowardly? He shook his head. That was the last thing Marguerite…no…Meg…Fellowes had to reproach herself with. Too proud was more like it. Too proud to accept his offer made in ignorance of the truth and too proud to tell him and perhaps have to see him turn away in disgust, or worse, pity her. And the letter itself! A more unemotional,
uninvolved,
explanation of a tragic situation, he never wished to see. The most personal part of the letter was her brief acknowledgment of his care of her!

He thrust away the thought that this was his own usual way of dealing with the world. That he had, in fact, tried to deal with Meg in that way—with disastrous results.

Now what to do? Go after Meg in the morning or have his bath and go tonight? He thought hard. He hated the idea of leaving her until morning, but the weather would make going at once impossible. Besides, she was probably exhausted and would be the better for a night’s sleep. If he fetched her tonight, she would not be in bed before midnight. No, he’d go and fetch her in the morning.

Well, now that all that was taken care of, he could go up to his room and enjoy a nice luxurious soak. After dinner he would write to Di, warning her to expect an
indefinite houseguest. Surely between the pair of them they could launch Meg and get her safely established. What the girl needed was a husband. Someone who didn’t give a damn what people thought. Someone who would treat her kindly and make sure others did so. Someone she could trust.

As he went up the stairs, Marcus vowed that he would take a close look at anyone who wanted to marry Meg. He was damned if he’d have her used as a drudge again! He was running over possible
partis
in his mind, and dismissing them all out of hand, when his attention was caught by a sudden rustle.

He stopped just at the head of the stairs and looked around but could see no one. Yet he was sure someone was there. All his senses were on the alert, screaming that he was being watched. Had someone slipped into a room? He didn’t think so. All the doors squeaked and creaked atrociously. The curtains over the window at the far end of the hall caught his eye. There was an embrasure behind them, deep enough to hold someone.

Determinedly he walked towards it.

Terrified, Meg stood as still as possible, watching through a small rent in the curtain as that tall, leonine figure stalked towards her hiding place. He mustn’t find her now! He had her letter in his hand! He would think it was all a take in! That she was trying to engage his sympathy! Worse, he might think, given her parentage, that she would welcome another sort of offer. The sort to which Mrs Garsby had referred.

He was coming closer. His powerful frame loomed nearer. She couldn’t think straight, she was so bitterly tired and cold and her cloak was so horribly heavy. All she could think was that Marc might hold her again, comfort her, perhaps let her cry on his shoulder. In her
exhaustion, she could not imagine what else such broad shoulders could possibly be for. But no, it was Lord Rutherford, not Marc. He would be disgusted, would inquire coldly just what Miss Fellowes thought she was doing in his house.

She would not be found cowering like a frightened cur! She wouldn’t! With her head held high, she stepped out from behind the curtains, clutching her sodden portmanteau, to meet his startled gaze.

‘Meg!? What on earth are you doing here?’ He strode forward and caught her in his arms. ‘My God, you’re soaking! You silly child! They told me you had gone, gave me your letter.’ His keen eyes took in her exhaustion, her muddied cloak and the even muddier hem of her dress showing beneath it. ‘You did go! Meg, what happened?’

It was Marc! Not Lord Rutherford. It was Marc who had found her. Marc, whose worried eyes held that look of tender concern. She could tell Marc what had happened. At least…no, she couldn’t! Not all of it. If he found out what had been said, then he would feel obliged to offer for her—at least Marc would…she wasn’t so sure about Lord Rutherford. Confusion fogged her mind.

‘She had already…filled the position. She couldn’t wait…’ It was probably true; Meg consoled herself with the thought that it wasn’t an outright lie. And he was holding her again, enfolding her against his big frame, warming her, his arms a barrier against the world and its bitter chill. She leaned against him, barely conscious.

‘And you walked home? Ten miles!’ Horror stabbed through him at the thought. Ten miles in the pouring rain! She had only got out of bed for the first time that morning. What sort of woman would kick a girl out like
that? Mrs Garsby was going to be the recipient of a very nasty letter on the morrow. And if she ever showed her face in London, he would have very great pleasure in letting her know exactly what the Earl of Rutherford could do to anyone who crossed him!

In the meantime he yelled loudly for assistance. None was forthcoming. The Barlows were well out of earshot. Increasingly worried, he scanned Meg’s face. Her teeth were chattering and there was a blue tinge about her mouth. Her slight frame sagged against him helplessly and her flesh felt stone cold through the soaking garments. Damn it! She shouldn’t even be out of bed! She was still sick and if he didn’t get her warmed up quickly, she was going to suffer a relapse! Swearing under his breath, he swung her up into his arms. Desperate straits called for desperate remedies.

Meg’s brain began to function again as he lifted her. She must be soaking him. And it was Lord Rutherford, after all. His eyes had gone icy again. She must not call him
Marc
in that familiar way.

‘Please, my lord, I must change.’ She would feel better once she was dry. Warm would be nice too but she’d settle for dry. She did not think that she would ever be warm again. Unless, of course, Marc continued to carry her down the hall like this. That might warm her up…Carry her? What on earth was he doing? And this was his room! Why was he carrying her into it?

Suddenly frightened, she began to struggle. And discovered that Marc’s powerful arms were more than sufficient to subdue her efforts to escape. They were like iron bands clamping her to his chest. She heard the door bang shut behind them and panicked. It must be Lord Rutherford after all! He had a dreadful reputation…Where was Marc?

‘Take your clothes off.’ She was standing on her own two feet again.

‘N…no!’

‘Meg…’ Lord Rutherford was beginning to sound like Marc. Or was Marc sounding like Lord Rutherford? Whichever it was, he sounded exasperated. ‘Meg…take your clothes off and get into that bath at once! Before you catch your death of cold!’

Stupidly she stared at him. She couldn’t undress in front of him! She might be ruined in an academic sense, but she wasn’t
that
dead to shame.

With a muttered curse Marcus caught her to him and began to undress her. Shocked, she tried to push him away, but she was feeling far too weak and confused. One large hand caught both her wrists and held them imprisoned behind her back while his free hand continued to make short work of the buttons of her high-necked spencer and then the ties of her gown.

Despite his efforts not to touch her as he stripped her, his fingers inevitably grazed across her soft skin, searing into her and circumventing her struggles more surely than his grip on her hands. Bemused, she stood helpless as his light, accidental caresses burnt into her trembling body. Indeed, she was no longer sure whether she was shaking with cold—or pleasure at the tantalising touch of his long fingers.

In no time the gown was off, landing on the floor with an audible splat, and she stood shivering in her chemise and petticoat. Marcus found to his horror that his body was showing definite signs of interest in the procedure. And in her undoubted response to his unintentional advances. She was staring up at him with a completely bemused expression, her delicate lips slightly parted, presenting him with an appalling temp
tation. In addition, the soaking undergarments revealed what he had suspected, and steadfastly managed to ignore, for two long nights. Namely, the manifold charms of Miss Marguerite Fellowes.

Stifling a groan and shackling his sudden desire, he shut his eyes momentarily to block out the sight. And then opened them again. Good God, the girl was literally soaked to the skin, her cotton chemise and petticoat clinging to her slim body; every curve, every nuance was laid bare to his heated gaze. He swallowed hard. Two creamy, rounded breasts, their peaks puckered with cold, thrust from under the thin material. A sinuous waist and the long lovely line of her thighs! God, she was beautiful! What would she be like to lie with? To taste? To love? He could imagine it…soft…yielding…utterly entrancing…