What the Marquess Sees (20 page)

Eventually he pulled back and looked at her. He couldn’t resist running his hands through her hair in an attempt to straighten it. He watched his hands as they disappeared into her thick blonde tresses. His fingers caught in a particularly tangled knot. He tugged and picked at it a moment, then he caught her smile out of the corner of his eye.

He looked down, into her eyes, and they both burst out laughing.

“Don’t even bother trying to fix it. I know I’m a mess. Always have been. Always will be. My father always claimed nothing could help.”

“I hope you didn’t believe him.” She looked somewhat bothered by his remark, and he was both astonished and angry to see it. He never would have believed this strong, beautiful woman could doubt herself. Even for a minute. Ah, but she was a complex woman…with hidden vulnerabilities and insecurities. They made her real even though he didn’t like the thought of her feeling that way.

He wanted to kill her father all over again for making her doubt herself, thus he didn’t think before he blurted out, “How can you think that when you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on?”

Her mouth fell open. It would have been funny, if he wasn’t red-faced with sudden embarrassment. “You think…”

“Ah, hell, I didn’t mean to say that.”

* * * *

In a Nearby Village…

The cloaked man paced the floor of his room, desperate to hear news of Dansbury’s reaction to his latest gift. He’d spent all night dreaming of the many possible outcomes—vivid, fantastic dreams. Dreams that made him excited to the point that he’d spent himself in bed. The idea of his foe in fear was indescribably titillating. A fantasy come true, one he’d harbored for years.

He paused by the room’s lone table. It was scarred and wobbled persistently. His finger traced a particularly deep groove, carved by a small knife. Just that light touch was enough to cause the table to rock, the far leg hit the wooden floor with a clunk.

He clenched his fists in anger at the thought that he had to stoop to sleeping in such low class accommodations. Such squalor. Hell, he would hardly classify the room as an accommodation; it wasn’t fit to house rats.

He should be living in gilded splendor. And it was all Dansbury’s fault that he wasn’t, damn the man. It was comforting to know that their roles would be reversed soon enough. He would have it all. As he should. As he deserved. Soon.

One wooden chair sat behind the table, facing the door. He decided it would be best if he were sitting when the traitor arrived. It wouldn’t do to have the man see him pacing the floor, as if he were anxious. Or concerned. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

He sat in the chair and clasped his hands together on the table. He forced his body into perfect alignment, to exude calm confidence. Manly poise. Both feet firmly on the floor. Head lifted…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

His hands tightened in reflex, and his cock hardened in his breeches. This was it. This was the news he’d been eager to hear.

“Enter.”

He was proud his voice conveyed patience and self-assurance. He knew it was so. He was nothing if not confident in himself.

The turncoat entered the room and stood before the table, his hat in his hands. A sign of respect. Good.

The cloaked man forced his hands to relax and not clench in anticipation of the news this man carried. He studied the man before him. Took time to note his stance and appearance. He’d always considered himself good at reading people. And he knew making his hirelings wait worked to increase their anxiety. It was a calculated trick.

The traitor had a peculiar smirk on his face. One the cloaked man did not like at all. It caused him to lose a bit of his self-control. That was his excuse for blurting out, “Out with it. What happened? Spare no detail.” He rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation, losing all sense of his need to demonstrate patience.

“Aye, well. He saw it, and he was angry,” the conspirator replied.

The cloaked man stopped rubbing his hands. That was it? “Just angry?”

“Weel, irate, then. Er, absolutely crazed with anger.”

“But just angry? Not worried? Scared? Or better yet, terrified?” He tried desperately not to sound too fervent, but he was quite quickly growing alarmingly frustrated. Yet at the same time, he still salivated over the idea of causing Dansbury fear. He’d dreamt of it. It must have happened that way. It couldn’t be any other way.

“Oh, aye. He was most definitely terrified.”

The cloaked man grinned. Ah yes. Of course. It was exactly as he’d imagined. He practically drooled over the thought. He nearly allowed himself to get caught up in his fantasy of how Dansbury must have looked, drowning in his fear. He cleared his mind. Later, he’d allow his mind its freedom to imagine the scene. Over and over again. When he was alone.

He narrowed his eyes on the man before him.

Was there a touch of humor in his eyes? Was the man playing with him?

He looked harder, but the man blanked his face, hiding his thoughts. A skill he also employed when needed.

“So where are they headed now? Do you know?”

“Aye. I do.”

“Of course. Excellent. So? Out with it.”

“They’re headed to his aunt’s estate. Lady Harriett. Just outside Bath.”

“You know this, how?”

“I know Clifford Ross.”

“Nothing weighs on us so heavily as a secret.”

― Jean de La Fontaine

Bloomfield Place

Country Home of Lady Harriett Ross, Dansbury’s Aunt

Near Bath, England

One Day Later…

Lady Harriett Ross, Dansbury’s aunt, was a delightful, loveable…dragon. Indeed, she was colorful and wiry and altogether far too outspoken. Yea, candid was her middle name and today was no exception. In fact, Dansbury entered her drawing room with more than a little hesitation about what to expect from her unpredictable tongue. He traveled with a notorious woman. Without chaperone. Surely, she’d have something to say about that.

“Well, you fool, it’s about time you bothered to come see me. I didn’t think you’d simply run off and hide, but I was beginning to wonder.”

Ah. He was delighted to know he wouldn’t be disappointed.

He bent to kiss her cheek. “And how do you know we were running anywhere?” He said it with a smile in his eyes and laughter in his voice despite the seriousness of his question. Between their assumed traitor and Aunt Harriett, did everyone know what they were about? It was an alarming thought to contemplate.

“Um, well, I don’t know…let me see.” She held up her hands to tick off her points, sarcasm all but dripping from her lips. “One. You send me an urgent missive telling me to retire to Bloomfield Place with all haste. In the middle of the season, no less.” She took a moment to lean forward and adjust the pillow behind her, then sat back and continued reciting her list. “Two. Lady Beatryce and Stonebridge disappointed more than a thousand guests waiting at St. George’s to witness THE wedding of the season. A grand, ducal wedding…those don’t happen often, you know. And without so much as a single, reasonable or even gossip-inducing explanation for calling it all off. I was there, you know, though I can’t say I was disappointed. Stonebridge isn’t the man for our gel; his heart belongs to someone else, as we all know.”

She threw him a knowing look, while Beatryce sat across from him and chuckled lightly. Aunt Harriett looked over at Bea and winked. Winked!?

And what was her meaningful look supposed to imply? And for that matter, what did she mean by “our gel”? Had Aunt Harriett finally lost her wits? Since when was Beatryce “our gel”? He ignored the traitorous voice that shouted
she’s my gel
in the deepest recess of his mind.

“Third.” She continued, as if she hadn’t just been sending odd and confusing signals with her eyes. “Lady Beatryce all but disappears from society and does not attend her own father’s funeral.” She looked over at Bea again and added, “Not that I blame you, mind. In fact, I applaud your strength. I wouldn’t have gone either, were I you. Why your stepmother even bothered to attend was beyond me. She could barely keep a straight face the entire time, or so I’m told…I didn’t go either, I must admit. But from what I have heard, she kept having to stifle her laughter. I can only imagine why.”

Bea looked stunned.

“Anyway, I can only assume…” Aunt Harriett paused then and took a sip of her coffee. She cleared her throat. “Now, then, need I say more?”

Dansbury shook his head as he said, “No ma’am.” He wasn’t surprised at her conclusions for she was a clever and precocious woman. More to the point, he was curious to know what she had intended to say, but didn’t. What did she assume? He would normally question her on it. They were used to being frank with each other. But this time…

He looked over at Bea, who was still sitting there, stunned, likely over Aunt Harriett’s praise of her strength. Which was spot on, though she probably didn’t realize it. Or, more likely, didn’t expect others to realize it. He was ashamed to note that he’d never noticed. Perhaps that had been her intention?

And why should he have noticed? She had more than a few character flaws that overshadowed that strength.

Aunt Harriett cleared her throat again, then sighed a definite sigh of resignation. Her tone was far more subdued when she spoke. He’d never heard her speak with such a tone; it prompted him to sit up and take note. This was important.

“I suppose I knew this day would come. Though I dare say, I had hoped it would not.” She stared into her coffee cup while she spoke. As if the darkened liquid would offer some sort of assistance or guidance. He grew alarmed at her unusual, pensive behavior.

“Auntie…perhaps we should speak of this in private.” He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she was going to say. The child in him didn’t want to lose his ignorance. And he knew whatever she had to say would change his life forever. Did he want Bea to be here to witness such an event?

Aunt Harriett looked up, surprised. Her voice held its usual strength. “Pshaw. That gel deserves to know. You need her to know. She can handle it. The question is, can you?”

He stood on impulse. Surprised she would question his fortitude. Never mind his own earlier doubts.

“Oh, sit down, boy. You know I don’t really doubt you for a moment. I was just trying to make a point.”

Aunt Harriett placed her coffee cup back on the table before her, then sat back and gathered the edges of her colorful shawl. Her wrap was bright orange, and crocheted; she didn’t care for knitting. It was so her, and he smiled a moment with fondness despite the seriousness of their conversation. She certainly was a colorful lady. Her orange shawl complemented her ginger hair. And her green and violet dress was most…uncommon. She had a turban on her head, in pink. He shook his head with fondness.

Yea. Aunt Harriett certainly liked to make a statement. And it fit her personality to perfection. It felt like home, seeing her dressed with her usual flair. And he allowed that thought to ease his mind somewhat.

He retook his seat as she began talking.

“First, I want you to know that your mother was everything that was kind. I loved her like a daughter. Like a best friend. Like a sister. All of them rolled up in one. Her death brought me more grief than I could ever have imagined. You, dear boy, and your need of someone, was the only thing that kept me from wallowing away in my own sorrow. You needed me. Hmmm. We needed each other.”

She put a hand on his knee and squeezed before pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbling at her eyes. “Forgive me.”

There was nothing to forgive. He knew she knew that. He waited while she composed herself once again. He felt his own eyes burning, but he ignored the sensation. And he couldn’t speak; his throat was closed up tight. He held a taut leash on his control as he braced himself to hear this story. His family’s story. His history.

It wasn’t long before she continued; she was the perfect example of a woman with superior inner strength. It was no wonder she’d recognized the like in Lady Beatryce.

“M-my brother, on the other hand, was…” She sighed as she seemed to search for the right words to use. “…misguided. He was a man of strong, moral character…else your mother would never have married him…but sometimes…” She struggled with her words, and he was amazed. Aunt Harriett was never tongue-tied. “Well, sometimes things happen. Conflict. Horrible things that should never be, but happen anyway…God only knows why.”

Aunt Harriett reached for her reticule on the seat beside her and pulled out a miniature painting, faded and worn. She handed it to him with obvious hesitation. He looked down to see an infant with a thick crop of wavy, blond hair. The hairs on his arms stood on end.

“You see, your father and mother had a son. Born a few years before you. His name was George.”

He stood at the news, stunned, still holding the likeness of the brother he’d never met. He’d never known. He’d never heard an inkling of this news. He began to pace the floor. This time, Aunt Harriett didn’t ask him to sit, as if she knew he needed to walk this off. His emotions were churning…dread being the predominate mood that now flooded his veins.

“Your mother hired a nursemaid for him, a girl she knew from the nearby village. A-an Irish girl…”

Beatryce gasped while trepidation churned within him. The Society was against anyone not born of England…especially the Irish. Oh, he now knew where this was headed, as did Bea. And it was awful.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever know what really happened. But your brother was killed. He was only t-two.”

Aunt Harriett took a deep breath.

“Your father blamed this young Irish woman. I don’t know if she was guilty—if his accusations were true. Perhaps she was. Or maybe he was led to believe she was through the poisoned words of others. For sure, George was in her care when the accident occurred…” Aunt Harriett sighed again. Words were difficult to speak. She would have mourned his loss as well; George was her nephew, after all. She swallowed and continued on, “She’d seemed such a sweet soul, but then she fled, making her guilt seem obvious to those who wanted to believe it.”