The Dutiful Rake (7 page)

What the hell was he thinking of? He was supposed to be giving her a bath to warm her! Not thinking about taking her to bed! Although the way he was feeling, that would certainly warm her…Swearing audibly now, he picked her up again and strode towards the bath.

‘Marc? What are you doing?’ She was terrified, not least by the fact that she couldn’t force her body to struggle any more. If Marc were about to ravish her, then she…Her fears were put abruptly to rest as he dumped her with an unceremonious splash in the hip bath.

‘Oh! Oooooh…’ Her gasp of shock was transmuted to a sigh of pleasure as warmth began to steal back into her body. Beyond caring about the impropriety of her situation, she closed her eyes in utter bliss and leaned back against the bath. A moment later she felt water being tipped over her and opened her eyes. Marc was
kneeling beside her, soaking up water in a sponge and squeezing it over her shoulders and breasts.

It felt simply marvellous. Not only was she actually getting warm, but Lord Rutherford seemed to have disappeared completely, leaving Marc in his place. She smiled at him, the horrors of her afternoon receding into the haze of steam rising from the water. Later on she would have to face the ghastly reality with Lord Rutherford, but just at the moment she had Marc to care for her and she might as well sit back and enjoy it. Blissfully she allowed her mind to drift away with the clouds of steam.

Marcus shut his eyes to block out the sight of that trusting, endearing smile. Not to mention the sight of her body with the soaking, transparent cotton clinging to every contour, except for her legs. The petticoat floated around them, revealing the long slender limbs in a teasing, shadowy way. Grimly he thought that if Mrs Garsby ever heard about this, then the only place for Meg would be the nearest Magdalen. Despite Meg’s gallant lie, he had absolutely no doubts as to why she had been turned away.

He cleared his throat. ‘Are you warmer now, Meg?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Her response came on a sigh of sheer sensual delight which seemed to ripple through her entire body. Marcus didn’t like to think about the devastating effect such a sigh would have on his already beleaguered senses in other circumstances. His own body was already rebelling furiously against his brain which was keeping the reins tight.
For God’s sake, she’s little more than a child! She’s still sick and she’s in quite enough trouble without you getting her into more!

Abruptly he stood up. He couldn’t trust himself to dry her. Long strides took him to the bellpull. He would
send for Mrs Barlow, as in fact he should have done ten minutes ago. He couldn’t imagine what had come over him not to do so. He had just been conscious of an overwhelming tenderness and desire to look after her himself. It had not even occurred to him to summon other assistance. It had seemed perfectly natural and right to do it himself.

Now, as he stood shaking with his back to her, he realised his mistake. Lord! And he’d thought that youth and innocence held no allure for him. He couldn’t have been more wrong. A knock at the door interrupted his churning thoughts. Barlow. He went to the door and opened it a fraction.

‘You rang, me lord?’ Barlow looked very puzzled to see that Marcus had not yet availed himself of the bath. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Yes,’ said Marcus baldly. He hesitated and then said, ‘Miss Meg has returned. I’ve dumped her in my bath. Mrs Garsby refused to take her in and she walked home in that storm. Could you please ask your wife to come up and dry her and help her get into some dry clothes?’

Barlow’s jaw dropped and his lined old face worked for a minute. All he could say was, ‘That
bitch!’

‘Quite,’ said Marcus in savage agreement. ‘In fact that…’ He added a number of colourful epithets to describe Mrs Garsby which left Barlow in no doubt that his lordship was quite as angry as he himself was.

‘I’ll fetch Agnes right away, me lord. An’ she walked home? In that storm? Poor little lass.’

Barlow was gone and Marcus turned back into the room. Meg’s portmanteau caught his eye and he opened it. And swore violently. It was soaked through and everything in it. She didn’t have a stitch to wear thanks
to Mrs Garsby’s callous disregard for common human decency.

Cursing under his breath, he went to his chest of drawers and found a nightshirt. It would swamp Meg’s slight frame, but at least it would be warm. His dressing gown of heavy red silk lay across a chair. That would help too…and…He cast his eyes about the room…ah, yes! His driving coat…and a couple of blankets, and she could sit up and have something to eat in reasonable modesty. From his point of view, the more clothes she had on, the better! He studiously avoided looking too closely at Meg as he went back and forth.

Agnes Barlow entered the room without even bothering to knock. ‘My lord! Just what—?’ She broke off as she caught sight of Meg dozing in the bath. Her gentle old eyes seemed to blaze. For a moment Marcus thought she was going to say something, but she just went and dropped to her knees beside the bath and shook Meg’s shoulder. ‘Come along, dearie. ‘Tis time to get you dry, afore you gets all wrinkly!’

Marcus felt his heart turn over at the gruff tenderness in her voice. Was this the only kindness Meg had known in the last ten years? And she had been lucky. He shuddered to think what might have been her fate in a more fashionable household where the servants took their tone from their employers. At least here she had been in the care of the Barlows, dour, independent country folk who thought for themselves and formed their own opinions on the evidence before them.

Agnes turned to him. ‘I’ll get her out now, me lord. If so be you’ll remove yourself! Which I’ll take leave to say you should have done in the first place! A bath might be just what Miss Meg needed, but you had no
call to strip her!’ Her voice echoed with indignation at his lack of propriety.

‘Her…her things are all wet,’ said Marcus awkwardly. It was a measure of his embarrassment that he felt no annoyance at having his actions called to account by one of his servants. ‘You can put these on her.’ He held out his peculiar collection. ‘If her bed is still made up, put her in there. Otherwise she can have my bed and another bed can be made up for me.’

He paused at the door. ‘Tell Miss Meg that I will see her in the morning to discuss her situation. I will tell Barlow to send up some dinner.’

‘Aye. You do that, me lord,’ said Agnes absently as she helped Meg out and wrapped a blanket around her.

‘You’ll stay with her tonight?’ Marcus asked hesitantly. The damage was already done, but he was damned if he wanted to make things worse for the child. As it was, he could only see one solution to Meg’s problems. In any case he didn’t want her to wake up alone and scared during the night.

The glare which sizzled from Agnes Barlow’s eyes suggested that he would have received short shrift had he attempted to make any other disposition. She softened the glare by saying, ‘She’ll do well enough, me lord. An’ I’m sure I beg pardon if I spoke out of turn, but I’m that worritted about the lassie…an’ what’s to become of her now?’

She finished softly, as though speaking to herself, but Marcus found his thoughts echoing her question. What, indeed? He went down to his own dinner in thoughtful contemplation of the way in which the fates had arranged his future.

Over a meal consisting of a raised rabbit pie, a baked trout and a duckling served with a platter of vegetables
and removed with an apple pie, he considered the options before him carefully.

He could settle money on Meg as he had originally planned and trust to his sister’s influence to establish the girl creditably. Or he could ask Di to find her a new position if she were steadfast in refusing to accept money from him. The only problem was that if Mrs Garsby could turn Meg away, then so could others. No doubt the tale was all over Yorkshire by now that he had seduced the daughter of Robert and Caroline Fellowes. And it would travel, no doubt about that. If she had been anyone else, they might have been able to carry it off. Unfortunately her background, not to mention his reputation, made that impossible.

Which left marriage. To himself. Looked at dispassionately, the idea did not disturb him in the slightest. From the social viewpoint he had no qualms. He was Rutherford. His pre-eminence in the fashionable world of the
ton
would be sufficient to protect Meg. And as far as her background was concerned, he couldn’t have cared less. People had ridden out worse scandals. And he would derive immense, if cynical, satisfaction in forcing the fashionable world to accept his choice. Especially Sir Delian Fellowes and his top-lofty wife.

On a personal level he was as happy to marry Meg as any other female. He actually respected her. Liked her gallant determination to stand alone. Liked the outrageous way she had tried to circumvent his dictatorial management of her future. His little Meg hadn’t wasted time on arguing with him, she had just quietly gone ahead with her plans as though he had nothing to do with them. In which she was completely and utterly mistaken, of course, but that did not cancel the determination and courage.

As for the physical side of things…no problems there. He would positively enjoy undertaking Meg’s education in her marital duties. Her beauty was not the obvious sort, but rather a subtle elegance tempered with an engaging innocence. Her face had character with its deep blue-grey eyes and the strongly marked brows. She dressed appallingly, but that was doubtless due to necessity not inclination and could be remedied easily enough. Marcus knew enough of women to be tolerably certain that she would be only too happy to be let loose amongst the fashionable modistes and milliners of London. The thought of Meg sheathed in shimmering, clinging silk had a very definite appeal to what he freely admitted to be his base masculine sensibilities.

He spared a brief thought for Lady Hartleigh and shrugged as he helped himself to apple pie. No doubt she would be a trifle disappointed, but it was not as though she needed to marry or fancied herself in love with him. Theirs would have been a marriage of convenience.

As would, of course, his marriage to Meg.

The fact that he did not know her terribly well did not concern him. Except for his mother and sister, he had never known any woman terribly well, apart from in the biblical sense, and he did not intend to start with his wife. No, a marriage of convenience, in which they would pursue their fashionable, separate lives, would suit the Earl of Rutherford to a nicety.

There was little point in pretending that he was in love. She would never believe it even if he did know how to counterfeit an emotion he was not entirely sure he had ever indulged in. No, she was an intelligent girl, to judge by the varied reading matter he had found beside her bed. Better just to put it before her as a business
transaction. In return for heirs and her discretion he would give her the protection of his name and all the indulgence she had so far been denied in her barren existence. Viewed logically it seemed a fair enough bargain to him, with no danger of hurt for either of them. In addition to Fenby House, which he didn’t need, it looked as though he had also inherited a bride, which he most assuredly did need.

He ignored the niggling little voice that suggested the Earl of Rutherford might be biting off rather more than he could comfortably chew, and that Marc had better look out for himself.

Later that night Meg lay on her stomach in her battered tester bed, trying very hard to cry silently into the pillow. She did not wish to disturb Agnes, snoring comfortably on the other side of the bed, did not wish to acknowledge to anyone the depth of despair and hopelessness to which she had now plummeted. Desperately she buried her face in the lumpy old pillow with its worn and darned slip. Her slight shoulders shuddered with the effort to muffle her sobs.

In the morning she would have to go to the Vicar and ask for his help in finding a job, but if Mrs Garsby’s self-righteous attitude was anything to go by she thought that she might as well enter the workhouse in York immediately. Granted his lordship had offered assistance, but that was before he knew who she was. Besides, she had refused his offer and could hardly turn around now, expecting it to remain open.

The future stretched out remorselessly before her, bleak and terrifying. Now even the prospect of earning a living looked grim. Fear rose before her in the darkness, black and threatening. She fought it down before
it could take control. Above all, when she saw Lord Rutherford on the morrow, he must not see how frightened she was. No one must know what a coward Meg Fellowes really was.

Except Marc, she thought as she finally drifted towards sleep. He probably wouldn’t pity or despise her. He was kind and practical, dumping her into his own bath and lending her his nightshirt. She was still wearing it and she snuggled down into it, pretending he was holding her. Marc would have had some solution for her problems…

D
espite her exhaustion Meg awakened quite early the following morning. Agnes Barlow was bustling quietly around the room and Meg watched her through half-closed eyes. There was no need to get up yet. It was pleasant to lie quietly, later in the morning she would have to give some thought to the future, but not now. At the back of her mind loomed the knowledge that she was facing disaster, but just now she was comfortable and safe and she meant to enjoy it.

Eventually Agnes slipped out of the room, evidently convinced that she had not disturbed Miss Meg. Which was fair enough, because Miss Meg drifted back into a deep and dreamless sleep very readily. When she surfaced again the light in her room told her that it was past time to get up. Her rumbling stomach reinforced the impression that it was well past time for breakfast. She looked around for her portmanteau, but it was nowhere in sight.

Frowning, she tried to recall what she had done with it, but all she could remember was that his lordship had stripped her gown off and bathed her. She blushed, not so much at his behaviour as at her own pleasure in it.
Perhaps Mrs Garsby had a point…was she a wanton? Was that how you were meant to feel? Or was there something wrong with her? She had never realised that her breasts were so sensitive, could feel as though they were on fire, sending tongues of flame throughout her body…She had better stop thinking about it…her body was starting to tingle again…

What must he have thought of her? He had done it as though it were the merest commonplace and she had made not the slightest effort to stop him! She would be well served if he did think her a bit of muslin.

And where the hell
was
her portmanteau? Glancing down at herself, she realised that she was wearing his nightshirt…Why in the world…oh heavens…of course! All her clothes had been soaked. All she had was this nightshirt, a dressing gown—belonging to his lordship—and a driving coat with about a dozen capes, also courtesy of his lordship.

Damn him! Not only did he have to strip her in that shameless way, but apparently he was also going to dress her! It seemed she was always having to be grateful to someone for their beastly charity! Furious and embarrassed, Meg scrambled out of bed and pulled on the dressing gown which was draped across a chair. The driving coat was there too, but she thought that trying not to trip over the absurdly large dressing gown would be difficult enough.

Clutching the skirt of the dressing gown around her, she made her way down stairs. No doubt her clothes were drying in the kitchen. She would go and eat her breakfast there as she had always done, while she waited for them to dry. Agnes might even have a job for her which would take her mind off what lay ahead for a brief space.

Tapping gently on Meg’s door a few moments later, Marcus was surprised to receive no response. Perhaps she was still asleep. It was after ten and he had breakfasted over an hour ago but no doubt the poor girl had been exhausted. Hesitantly he opened the door and peered in.

The bed was empty, the covers flung back. She had gone down already, probably still in his nightshirt and dressing gown. Very well, he would go and find her. It was most improper, but he admitted ruefully that the situation had gone a long way beyond the proprieties.

As he went back down, he thought carefully about the best way to deal with Meg’s pride and scruples. Obviously this was one female who would not submit to being ridden roughshod over as he had attempted yesterday. He suspected that had he dealt with her more gently, she might have told him her whole story. She seemed to swing unnervingly between confiding trust in him and a stiff reserve, sometimes calling him Marc, sometimes my lord or Lord Rutherford. Very well. He would have to try to encourage her to trust him, treat her gently, listen to her.

Now, where the hell was she likely to be? Probably the breakfast parlour. She must be hungry.

He drew a blank there. And in the library, the parlour and everywhere else that he looked in the next half-hour. Surely, she hadn’t bolted again! Not in a nightshirt and dressing gown. She must have collapsed somewhere! Frantic, he rushed back to the library and tugged the bellpull vigorously.

When Barlow arrived in response his lordship did not mince words. ‘Barlow, where the devil is she?’

Barlow blinked at the panic in his lordship’s face and
voice. ‘Miss Meg? Why, she’s in the kitchen with Agnes, me lord. Eatin’ her breakfast.’

‘In the kitchen?’ Marcus said. ‘Why not in here? With me! Where she belongs!’ Relief flooded through him. He hadn’t thought of that.

‘She’s…she’s still in your lordship’s nightrail,’ explained Barlow, trying not to laugh. ‘Likely she thought it better to wait for her clothes to dry…Me lord, no! Agnes won’t even let me in there!’

He stared in consternation as the master left the room, a steely glint of determination in his eyes. Surely his lordship wasn’t going to brave Agnes’s kitchen? Even if he was the master, she’d have a fair bit to say about that! Very protective of Miss Meg was Agnes, especially after yesterday. Like a hen with one chick, so she was!

His lordship was indeed going to brave the kitchen. He entered very quietly, without even bothering to knock and so came upon a scene which shook him to the core.

Meg was sitting at the big table, an empty plate in front of her and a small earthen coffee pot. Her face was buried in her arms on the table top, her shoulders shuddering with suppressed sobs. Agnes Barlow was leaning over her, holding her, murmuring gently.

‘There now, dearie, just you have a good cry. Vicar will know what you should do. Never you fear! ‘Twill all come out in the end.’

Marcus stood as though rooted to the floor. Never in his life had he seen a woman cry like this. As though she were desperately trying not to. Most women he knew made play with wet eyelashes quite happily in unavailing attempts to move his sensibilities. He had
seen so many artful female tears that they generally had not the slightest effect on him. Except to bore him.

Not this time. He felt something tear deep inside him at the sight of his little Meg’s utter despair. He was certain that she would not have allowed him to see her fear and misery at what faced her. No, she would have hidden it. Just as she had no doubt glossed over the full reasons for Mrs Garsby’s behaviour. Just as she had hidden her full tragedy from him yesterday morning.

Suddenly aware of his presence, Agnes Barlow looked up and gave a startled gasp. Meg lifted her head and the tear-drowned eyes stared up in dawning horror. Making a valiant effort at self-control, she stifled her sobs, catching her underlip between her teeth.

‘Meg.’ He kept his voice very gentle. ‘I need to speak to you privately, if you have finished your breakfast.’

‘Now?’ It came on a hopeless gulp. Marcus thought he had never heard a more despairing acceptance of fate.

‘Miss Meg’s clothes…’ began Agnes, frowning direfully.

The look on his lordship’s face stopped her. ‘Mrs Barlow, you need not have the slightest fear for Miss Meg’s safety at my hands. In any way whatsoever.’ His eyes were gentle as they rested on Meg and he came to her side.

Reluctantly Agnes stepped back, and he swung Meg up into his arms with easy strength. She gasped and clung to him in shock. What was he about? He had guaranteed her safety so he couldn’t mean to…yet there was something so tender and possessive in the way he was holding her. Shaken, she recalled the pleasure she had felt in his touch the previous night. Had it been
apparent to him? Did he think that with her history and after what had happened that he might as well take her?

Shame and bitter disillusionment swept through her, with anger treading hotly on their heels.

‘I can walk!’ Breathless and indignant, Meg wriggled as he kicked the kitchen door shut behind them. And felt those iron muscles tighten around her again.

‘I dare say you can,’ agreed Marcus mildly. ‘But you aren’t going to.’

Nothing more was said as he carried her back into the main part of the house to the library where he placed her in a chair beside the fire and tucked a rug around her. He met the nervous glance she stole up at him. Every line of her body proclaimed her mistrust. She put up a shaking hand to push her hair back.

It didn’t fool him in the least. He saw instantly the surreptitious attempt to wipe her eyes and his heart clenched in his chest. Proud as the devil, he thought admiringly. Without a word he produced a handkerchief and dried her cheeks with it before tucking it into her hand.

He straightened up and asked quietly, ‘May I know what your plans are now, Meg?’ Take this slowly, he told himself. Don’t rush her now, any more than you would in bed! And wished he hadn’t thought of that particular analogy.

Drawing a shaky breath, Meg answered. ‘I…I shall walk into the village and see the Vicar. He may be able to find me another situation since Mrs Garsby has…is already satisfied…’ He wondered if she did that often, concentrating on the practical issues, hiding the paralysing fear behind her polite façade.

He demolished that façade effortlessly. ‘Since Mrs
Garsby has accused you of being my mistress and kicked you out to walk home? Is that what you mean?’

She looked up, startled into the truth. ‘Who told you…how can you possibly…? I mean, no!’

‘Meg.’ Despite the seriousness of the situation, a note of amusement came into his voice. ‘I am not stupid. And I know my reputation and the ways of the world. No one had to tell me. It was obvious, you silly child.’

‘Oh.’ Plainly she hadn’t thought of that. ‘Well, I…I dare say it doesn’t matter very much,’ she lied valiantly. ‘I’m sure someone will employ…’

She was interrupted firmly. ‘No, Meg. They won’t. Take it from me. You stand as much chance of gaining respectable employment now as you have of flying. And I am not going to permit you even to make the attempt.’

‘But…I must…’

He continued relentlessly. ‘Tell me, Meg. Why did you wish to be a nursery governess?’

She was silent a moment and he wondered if she were seeking another polite lie with which to protect herself.

At last she said softly, ‘I thought…well…if I couldn’t have children of my own…that at least I could be with children.’

‘I see.’ He kept his voice very light. This, he had no doubt, was the truth. ‘Then you would prefer marriage and children?’

‘Please, my lord…’ Her voice shook with anguished intensity. ‘Please don’t mock me!’

He stared at her in shock. Mock her? She could think that he would mock her? Had no one ever listened to her desires before? He felt suddenly exultant that he was going to make her happy, enable her to realise her dream. But his voice was carefully controlled as he said,
‘Then I think my solution to our problem will meet your approval.’ He smiled down at her as she looked up in amazement.

‘You…you have a solution?’ Her voice was breathless.

‘Mmm. You’re going to marry me, Meg.’

The world turned upside down and then miraculously righted itself. Marry
Marc?
For it was Marc offering her marriage! For one mad, golden instant, joy surged through her and she nearly yielded to temptation. He would be kind to her, might even come to care for her a little, he would give her children…because he felt obliged to. At that inescapable fact, all her joy turned to dross.

She couldn’t do it. Marguerite Fellowes was no fit bride for the Earl of Rutherford even if he wanted to marry her, which was patently not the case. And she could not think of one single reason why he should wish to do so. It wouldn’t even be convenient. On the contrary, it would be a scandalous alliance for any gentleman, and for the Earl of Rutherford it was unthinkable. And for the kind friend who had tended her so carefully it was doubly unthinkable. She would not allow Marc to ruin himself for her.

‘No.’ It was said quietly but with finality.

‘Will you at least listen to my reasons for offering you the protection of my name? After your refusal to accept any charity yesterday, I did not expect you to leap at my offer.’

The diffidence in his voice reassured her. He would not attempt to ride roughshod over her again. She nodded. It could do no harm. Her mind was made up. His reasons were perfectly clear. They did him honour. But
she would not accept an offer made under duress. An offer made out of pity.

Or so she thought. As she listened to him she began to wonder.

‘To start with, Meg, I have to marry,’ he stated. ‘It is my duty. The cousin who is my heir neither wants, nor is fitted, for the responsibility of the title. If he were, I would probably never have considered marriage.’

He went on. ‘You are thinking that your background will be a problem. Forget it. The Earl of Rutherford can marry whom he damned well pleases!’ A little strong, but his credit would certainly survive an alliance with Meg Fellowes.

‘My only requirements are that my wife should be well born, reasonably attractive and should desire children. And that I can respect her. You meet all four requirements.’ His words sounded cold and cynical. Hardly an encouraging proposal of marriage, but she forced herself to meet his eyes, expecting them to be hard and uncompromising.

She swallowed hard. ‘N…no!’ His voice and words might sound cold, but his eyes were still oddly gentle. He was offering marriage out of pity and obligation, not because he wanted to for any of his stated logical and practical reasons. She would not accept that sacrifice under any circumstances and especially not when she had nothing to offer in return.

He sighed. ‘Meg, rid yourself of the idea that in marrying you I am performing the supreme sacrifice. I dare say it must look like it to you, but I assure you it is not the case.’ He smiled at her widened eyes. ‘Oh, yes. I know what you are thinking. And you are partially right. Marriage is the only way in which I can adequately protect you from the consequences of this business. And
technically, yes, I do
have
to marry you. But believe me, I am offering you a fair bargain. In return for my name and protection, you will give me your discretion and children.’

‘My discretion?’ Meg was puzzled. She could not think what he was talking about. Did he mean that she must not get into scrapes all the time and must be a model of propriety? If that was what he meant, then she wouldn’t have the slightest idea of how to go on. Who had there ever been to tell her? And as for his second stipulation…