by Stacy Reid
She glided down the curved staircase. Perhaps today she would sup in the formal dining room instead of requesting a tray in her room. Anything different to break the tedium and silence of the evenings. It astonished her to realize how much of her time had been occupied with helping her family at the vicarage, or her mother as she made the rounds to call upon their parishioners in Biddleton.
Outside of helping Doris to care for Lizzie, there was simply little for Marianne to do. The music room had become her favorite room in the large, four-story townhouse, and it was to there she headed. A fire was always lit, and the light cream-colored wallpaper that contrasted with the darker furnishings gave a welcoming atmosphere. But it was the exquisitely crafted grand pianoforte that commanded her interest.
“May I take your hat and coat, Mr. St. Ives,” the butler said.
At the foot of the stairs, she faltered and glanced down the hallway. Mr. St. Ives? This person was related to the viscount.
“Is she here?” the voice demanded. “Is Miss Ashbrook here?”
Marianne frowned, walking towards the source of that inquiry. They met somewhere in the middle of the hallway, and when the man saw her, he gaped.
“Lucy?”
Marianne froze, a sense of disbelief filling her veins. There had been such pain and wonder in the man’s tone just now. She assessed him, uncaring that she did so in an unladylike manner. This man looked like a softer version to the viscount. Younger, cheeks more rounded, chin weaker, but still very handsome. A great pressure swelled in her chest, shortening her breath. Knowledge suddenly bloomed through her, for this young man, had a closer resemblance to the baby sleeping above stairs. “I am not Lucy,” she managed to say.
“Of course not,” he said with a flush. “Forgive me. I knew that, it is just the resemblance between you both is very striking. But I can now see a clear difference. You…you are a little shorter and…ah…forgive my impertinence. I am the honourable Thomas St. Ives. The viscount is my older brother.”
“Lord Worsley is not here.” She thought it prudent to point out.
Mr. St. Ives raked his fingers through his hair. “I came to see you. May we withdraw to the drawing-room for privacy, please.”
She nodded, a multitude of questions tumbling through her thoughts. Once in the drawing-room, she turned to face him, clasping her fingers together across her middle.
“I…forgive my lack of manners,” he said with an attempt at a charming smile. “I am Thomas St. Ives, Lord Worsley is my brother.” He swallowed as if thinking about what to say.
“You are Lizzie’s father,” she said, cutting straight to the heart of her suspicion.
He closed his eyes briefly, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “I…I am.”
Marianne did not understand the relief which pierced her, but the single thought which eclipsed all others was that she had not dreamed wickedly of kissing the man who had ruined her sister. But Thomas being here presented another fear. “Are you here to take Lizzie away?”
“Good God, no!”
How utterly aghast he sounded, and she stared at him in astonished disbelief.
“I…I wanted to ask about Lucy. I tried to stay away, I did, but I am haunted every night by the memories of our time together,” he said with surprising frankness.
Marianne recalled the loss of hope she’d seen in her sister, and still the desperate love which had lingered for this deceitful man.
“Will you please tell me how Lucy is?”
“Are you to marry her?”
“I…no, of course not!”
Pain and disgust hammered at her and Marianne barely managed to maintain her calm composure. “Are you already married?”
“No. I fear it is frightfully complicated. I am recently affianced to the daughter of an earl, and it was publicly announced. I…just wanted to ask after Lucy.”
“No,” she said quietly. “Any news about my sister must come from her directly. That means you will have to face her and explain why you did not keep your promise.”
A spasm of anguish crossed his face. “I see. I thank you for your time, Miss Ashbrook.”
He turned and walked away, and when he had also crossed the threshold, she asked, “Will you see Lizzie?”
He faltered, his shoulders stiffened, then he clipped, “No.” And disappeared.
Her mother had often instilled that a young lady should never show an excess of emotions, so Marianne breathed deeply to calm the need to race after that odious man and blister his ears. She rushed from the drawing-room and made her way up the stairs to her chamber, where she flung herself onto the comfortable bed. The knowledge of Lord Worsley not being Lizzie’s father, but her uncle, and his beyond kind and tender actions toward her, nonetheless caused a broad smile of astonishment to twist Marianne’s lips. And filled her heart with warmth. She composed a letter to her father in her thoughts;
Dear Papa,
I must confess to you I am not working as a governess for Lord Sanderson, but Viscount Worsley. Nor did I deliver Lucy to the orphanage you had selected, but to the man I thought to be her father. He is not vile or wicked or mean-spirited. The opposite. He is a charmer of course, but he is very kind, beyond what I expected of a man of his reputation. Papa, I think of him daily…and even in the nights when I sleep, to my abject frustration I dream of the viscount kissing me. I taste his lips, a mix of coffee and brandy I might imagine and perhaps a hint of wickedness that will see me surrendering…
With a groan she rolled over and pressed her face into the pillow. It was beyond silly that she should think of the viscount in such an improper manner! Sighing, she sat up. “A long walk to clear my thoughts is what I need,” she whispered, stood and collected her shawl, hat, and gloves. It was a fine afternoon for walking, despite the sharp wind blowing.
Soon Marianne strolled down the avenue of Mayfair assessing the discontent worming through her heart. Being here in town, at the Viscount’s home, and seeing him with Lizzie had awoken a powerful hunger in Marianne’s heart. Yet it confounded her to try and untangle exactly what it was that she wanted. Her thoughts seemed so raveled together as if a kitten had been playing in her embroidery silks, but it was not a kitten tied up in silks that she needed to release from its bindings. No, she was the one secured tightly by threads, and they already bound her to the satin tongue of Viscount Wicked. Wickedness was plentiful within the gentle purr of his voice, its very softness lulling her into dreams she knew would always be unfulfilled. Common sense discouraged her, forcing her to doubt that the Viscount could ever fit into her dreams, for he was a leopard who would never change his spots.
Her gaze skipped over a few fashionably dressed women pushing perambulators. Another walking arm in arm with a gentleman, parasols opened to protect their delicate fair skin. Another striking couple rolled by in a high-perched phaeton, and how that gentleman stared at his fair lady brought a hitch to her throat. Another lady walked a very small but fluffy dog on a leash, and a further lady, dressed in a serviceable gown walked with finely dressed twin girls toward the small park in front of the row of townhouses.
With each person she noticed, the piercing ache in her heart grew deeper and more biting. She had to admit to herself that it was far more than her first kiss that she yearned for. That thought made her shiver, and she wanted it to be proven untrue.
“It is for living,” she said, closing her eyes briefly.
Dear Papa had always encouraged his girls to live a life of strict chaste restrictions and absolute moral correctness. Victoria had been so desperate to leave she had taken the risk to travel far away. Many in Biddleton had openly discussed how scandalous it had been for a vicar’s daughter to travel without a husband. Her father had been censured for allowing her to behave so recklessly and so brazenly. The risk to her reputation and virtue had made Papa often seem utterly disappointed in his eldest daughter’s choice. Marianne wished instead he could have celebrated her bravery in seeking a life of her own, untrammeled by p
rurient morality and stifling social expectations.
It suddenly struck Marianne how much she had prevented herself from experiencing, for fear of Papa’s discontent.
She had been living each moment for her family and their rigid expectations, with little regard for the desires she owned in her heart. Her father wanted her to marry Dr. Grant, it had been evident in his every word and eager stare, whenever they had met. Marianne had known the doctor for over four years, and never once had she wondered what it would be like to press her lips against his own. It was because of that unrequited hope that Papa had resisted so hard and long against her determination to take up a post as a governess. She had hated refusing to submit to her father’s fervent desire to see her marry the doctor, but she knew she would never be happy married to him. Fierce emotions tumbled through her, and she closed her eyes to trap her tears. Papa had always praised her for being his most sensible and levelheaded daughter. And that had encouraged her to bury the whimsy in her heart, but one strand of rebellion had resisted encouraging the doctor, who had made his desire to marry her quite clear.
I want more from life, Papa, and I am willing to find out exactly what I want and to pursue it. Whether I am to be a doctor’s wife, a governess, a spinster, a world traveler, or a woman daring enough to accept her first kiss, I will discover it.
For a moment she could hear only the pounding of her own heart, then she laughed, a weight of that overpowering burden unexpectedly lifting from her slender shoulders. But I shan’t be foolish, she reminded herself staunchly. Especially when it came to musings of a gentleman with a certain crooked smile and a sensually slanted and a very kissable mouth. She especially must be sensible with him.
* * *
On this particular Friday night, Michael departed the club early, trusting the management for the night, especially the fighting pits, to Dorian Martin. There was a deep restlessness urging him to return home, and instead of withdrawing from the need, he followed it. At about two in the morning, he pushed a key in the heavy oak door and opened it.
The distant chime of music reached his ears, and he paused, soaking the delightful sound into his soul. He followed the powerfully haunting sound to the music room, where the door was slightly ajar. Michael slipped inside soundlessly and padded over to the girl seated before the pianoforte. Miss Ashbrook’s eyes were closed, her brows furrowed in deep concentration, spikes of tears on her lashes as she played. He stood, in awe of her talent. Her fingers moved with passionate skill and grace, as she played an exquisite sonata by Pleyel.
Miss Ashbrook was simply impressive.
He stood behind her, not daring to make a sound lest he interrupted the magic flowing from her fingers. Several minutes passed before the delightful sounds petered away, and the tension seeped from her shoulders.
“Why did you not inform me, your lordship, that it is your brother Lord Thomas who is Lizzie’s father?” she murmured without turning around.
“Thomas was here?” he said mildly, moving to sit beside her on the large bench.
“He was. Several hours earlier.”
“I believe I mentioned that I was not Lizzie’s father at our first meeting.”
“I clearly did not believe you,” she said with a soft side. “Please forgive me for not considering your claim.”
He glided his fingers over the keys of the pianoforte. “Your sister believed my brother to be Lord Worsley. He foolishly wanted to impress her with a title.”
“And Lucy would have been impressed with it.”
He cast her a sidelong, measuring glance. There was deep sorrow in her tone, and he realized how painful it must be for her to witness her sister’s fall from grace. The consequences of passion could be very severe for a young girl with little in the way of powerful connections.
“I am sorry,” he said gruffly.
He felt her surprise.
“You are not responsible. And I…I received Lucy’s letter this morning.” She cleared her throat, delicately. “Thank you for your settlement. It will help her in deciding her future.”
Michael sat down on the long bench beside her and started playing a lively glee. He was not sure what prompted him. Miss Ashbrook did not hesitate but joined him, and for several minutes, only the sound of their music swirled in the room. The music came to a sudden halt, and he shifted to see her staring at him. There was an awareness in her eyes which had not been present yesterday. This was new, something had changed, and his heart reacted with a harsh pound.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth for the briefest instant before she looked away quickly.
Dear God, she wanted to kiss him. He fisted his hands above the keys, creating a discordant sound, fighting to resist the sudden, astonishingly fierce urge to touch her face, to draw her against his body, to kiss her without consequences. He leaned close enough to breathe deeply of her, but keeping a respectable distance.
Think, damn it. Say something…anything. “Your playing is mesmerizing,” he said gruffly.
A delighted smile crossed her lips. “Thank you, my lord.”
More than anything, he wanted her to call him Michael. “Your governess taught you?”
“My mother was my music master,” she murmured, her fingers dancing even faster of the keys, creating a sweet yet haunting melody. “I would practice several hours into the wee hours of the morning before the household woke. In Biddleton, I am often asked to play at our neighbors’ country balls, and even at the larger assembly dances. I enjoyed playing of course, but not always for the entire night,” she said with a light laugh. “Sometimes, I feel inspired to dance, but alas.”
How wistful she sounded. “Ah…so you never dance.”
“When I was a debutante, most certainly, but not in recent years.” As if uncomfortable she had confessed such a thing, she sent him an overly bright smile. “You play beautifully, as well.”
“In that, we have something in common. My mother taught me. My father never believed his sons should learn to play a musical instrument. I had a keen interest, so she happily taught me what she knew in secret.”
“In secret!”
“My father had a rigid adherence of what he believed were pure masculine interests and what his sons should be taught,” he said, surprised he had revealed so much of himself to her. With a disconcerted frown, he realized that he’d never had such a simple but complex conversation with any female of his past acquaintanceship.
“Is…is your mother still alive?” she asked tentatively.
“She is,” he said with a chuckle. “She has been traveling for the last several years with her lady friend and companion and is now in Morocco. Her last letter implied she might return home soon.”
“How long has she been traveling.”
An odd pain twisted in his heart. “Almost nine years.”
Her fingers faltered from the keyboard. “Upon my soul! That is an astonishingly long time to be away from home.”
At his silence, she hurriedly added, “Please forgive me for prying.”
How different she was from the other ladies in the haut ton who would have sensed a story they could gossip about and would have delicately started to pry. How interesting you are, Miss Ashbrook.
“My father killed himself,” he found himself replying. “And after mourning for a few months, mother found the gossiping and the ceaseless speculating too much to bear. She fled…and I did nothing to stop her. I had desperately wanted to follow her to escape the responsibilities of an impoverished estate which had been unexpectedly dumped on my shoulders.”
That was the first in ten years he had ever admitted that weakness to another soul. The discomfort of the awareness had him standing and moving away from the pianoforte. “I will bid you a pleasant night, Miss Ashbrook.” And he walked away.
“Your lordship…”
He paused at the door and turned to face her. Her unbound hair rippled in wondrous waves down her back and over the front of her threadbare nightgown. It hid her figure
completely, but that denial of flesh only tempted his baser urges more. What would it reveal should he take her in his arms, and remove that hideous garment? Lush curves, and luscious rounded hips, sweetly curved thighs that would welcome his weight atop her?
Repressing such thoughts, he allowed his gaze to remain only on her face. He huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh. That made no difference. Her loveliness was heart-jerking.
“I’ll not betray the confidence you just shared with me,” she said softly, her green eyes large and a bit pleading.
She didn’t want him to go. His gut tightened in a rush of anticipation. But he must, for both their sakes. “I never thought you would, Miss Ashbrook.”
Then he walked away and closed the door gently.
Good God. How much longer could he resist the temptation of her?
Chapter 8
A party of seven close friends lounged in Michael’s drawing-room the following week. He’d hosted a private dinner which had finished some two hours’ ago, and everyone had withdrawn to the drawing-room for some card playing, and general conversation. Wine, brandy, and port flowed freely, and no-one observed any rigid adherence that they must not drink or smoke in the presence of ladies. Michael thought with some amusement that all his friends were considered somewhat scandalous by the biddies of the ton.
At his home was his good friend, James, the Earl of Maschelly and his wife, Verity. Scandal had followed the couple several months’ ago after James had taken her to the club, where disguised as a lad she had soundly defeated a blackguard who had hurt her in the past. Society had spoken of little else for weeks, but they were not hurt for it, for James and his countess hardly gave a damn what the ton thought of their wildly improper behavior. The only thing that had mattered to the earl was the newssheet had called her ‘brave, daring, a society darling.’ Michael also noted the slight bump below her alluring dark green silken evening gown, the sparkle in her brown eyes, and the tender way James would brush his hand along her hips and linger in a comforting caress. The glow of future motherhood enveloped her and was poignant for him to observe how proud Maschelly was of his lovely wife.
