by Stacy Reid
“Might I join you, Marianne,” the low drawl had come from a dark corner in the library.
She had not seen him and now her entire body had come alive. An unexpected shiver of anticipation had cascaded down her spine, but she had composed herself admirably. “Yes,” she had murmured.
And he had sauntered over, with a drink in his hand, bruises on his knuckles and chin; he lowered himself to the ground, not commenting on the fact she was sprawled indecorously on her stomach. A deep silence, fraught with intimate peril had lingered, and they had played for over an hour with that quietness surrounding them.
“You’ve been fighting,” she had said after a very long time.
“I needed the distraction.”
They had stared at each other then, and she had numbly thought reading and spending more time with Lizzie was hardly a diversion for her.
“Perhaps I need to take up bare-knuckle boxing too,” she had muttered, feeling aggrieved.
A dark smile, almost cruel in its sensual slant had shaped his mouth. He had taken a sip of his drink, his expression held a hint of mockery.
“Checkmate,” she had murmured a few minutes later.
He had lifted his glass in a toast and downed the drink in one swallow. His expression had shifted and the libertine had peeked at her, his insolent gaze sweeping over her body, his mien taunting and derisive.
She had eyed him in uncertainty, feeling that in some strange way he was eluding her. Something about the viscount—the charmer, the kind and thoughtful gentleman, the dastardly reprobate—evoked confusing emotions within her. She fancied it had been his gray eyes which had stared at her so enigmatically that caused the ache inside her, the desire to partake of the wickedness lurking deep within them. Marianne had jumped to her feet. “Goodnight, your lordship,” she’d said, and tried to walk away with some measure of serenity.
At the threshold, he had replied, “Goodnight, Miss Ashbrook. I hope your sleep is pleasant and restful.”
He had not meant it, and she had flushed and hurried away.
And now, she glanced down at the sheets of music he had left for her on the lid of the pianoforte. The thoughtful charmer was back. Perhaps after reading The Knight of St. John, she might play for an hour or so.
“Please, Sir, I am begging you. Is the viscount in?” a shrill voice cried.
With a frown, she carefully lowered the sheets of music and exited the music room.
“Please, Sir, do not close the door!”
The desperation in the unknown girl’s voice arrested Marianne’s movement.
“My lord is not in,” the butler replied frostily, and once again attempted to close the door in the woman’s face.
Gripping her book tightly, Marianne headed down the hallway, more curious than anything else. It was after eight in the evening. Who would come to call at such a scandalous hour and without an invitation?
The woman had thrust her hand forward, preventing the door from being closed.
The butler spluttered, outrage darkening his craggy countenance.
Marianne cleared her throat to garner their attention. “Is all well?”
He glared at her before his features smoothed. Impressive.
“A friend of yours perhaps, Miss Ashbrook?”
“No,” she said with faint shock as she took in the woman’s appearance.
Or more like a young girl, dressed in a garish pink dress with red ruffles and lace, with a plunging neckline. She had been caught in the rain, and rivulets of water ran from her hair to her neck, and there was an odd purple bruise around her throat and another on her cheek.
“Is that blood on your lips?” Marianne demanded, clutching the book even tighter to her chest.
The girl's lips trembled, and she sent a desperate glance behind her. Marianne moved closer and peered out in the sleeting rain. There was no-one else outside, but the girl’s fear implied something else.
“Please, close the door,” she said staunchly glancing at the butler.
He closed it with some firmness, clearly irritated by her command.
“Please, I must see Lord Worsley,” the girl said a bit fretfully, twisting her hands together.
“Please, come with me,” Marianne said. “There is a fire to warm yourself in the drawing-room.” She glanced at the butler. “If you’ll please ask Mrs. Barrett to arrange for some towels and tea, I am sure it will help miss…”
“I’m Evelyn,” the girl hurriedly supplied with a smile that wobbled.
Soon they were in the drawing-room, the girl standing by the fire to dry her clothes and warm herself. She appeared increasingly frightened and kept glancing at the door.
“Lord Worsley is not here,” Marianne said.
Evelyn closed her eyes in apparent defeat. “I…I am in trouble, and he…he said I could come to him if I was ever in trouble.”
“I see.” It was not hard to decipher that she was a lady of disreputable reputation. “How did you meet Mic…Lord Worsley?”
The girl shrugged. “I tried to service him last week.”
Marianne frowned. “I do not gather your meaning.”
The girl stared at her with eyes that belonged to a woman twice her age. “You know how,” she whispered, as if ashamed.
Marianne certainly did not know how, but she suspected it was in ways that might lead to a child. Feeling uncomfortable she said, “Perhaps you might return tomorrow. I will tell him that you came by before he leaves for the day.”
The girl nodded, but she made no attempt to move. An expression of agonized doubt mixed with terror filled her face.
“What is it?” Marianne asked.
“I…If I go outside, I won’t live to see the morning.”
Marianne flinched, shock icing through her veins, her gaze once more settling on the bruises around the girl’s throat and on her face. “That man who did this to you is outside?”
“No. I ran from him.”
“Then—”
“But I have nowhere else to go. I lived at a boarding house run by him in Soho Square. I cannot go back, and…and Lord Worsley offered me employment at his club.” She waved his calling card. “He gave me this so…I came here.”
Marianne took the calling card from the girl. It bore the address of the club. “Why did you come here?”
“I…I followed him that day and saw that his carriage took him here. I…when I ran just now this is where my head took me. Stupid,” she muttered harshly. “I should have gone to the club.”
“How old are you.”
“Sixteen.”
Marianne stared at the girl. Her youngest sister was sixteen and to think of her alone and in such a position was heartbreaking. But now she ran from one danger to another. The viscount’s club was a place of wickedness. “Is there no other employment you could secure…instead of going to…to that place?”
The girl’s eyes flashed. “Not many nobs would give a damn about girls like me. He promised respectable employment serving drinks only. I wouldn’t…would not have to lift my skirts for anyone.”
“I see.” Marianne handed her the card. “I will call for the carriage to take you to the club.”
She knew that earlier the viscount had walked when he left the house, so the equipage should still be in the mews. Relief lit in the girl's eyes, only to be quickly replaced with fear.
“Would you…would you accompany me, Miss?”
“Most assuredly not.”
The girl nodded her understanding, but her expression remained bleak. She was keenly aware of the girl’s fear and vulnerability. “Why do you wish my company?”
“Maybe he followed me. I could not tell for sure in the rain.”
“Then I would argue the safest place would be for you to stay here until the viscount arrives home.”
“Will that be soon,” she asked eagerly.
Marianne took a deep breath. That she could not promise. Sometimes he did not return until noon the following day. “I am uncertain, perhap
s a room—”
A throat cleared and she glanced up to see the butler standing in the doorway.
“This person cannot spend the night, Miss Ashbrook, not with Lizzie under the roof. It is unseemly. I am certain his lordship would never approve of such a thing!” he was affronted and scandalized.
Yet Marianne could not turn the poor girl away.
“If you will summon the carriage, Carlton,” she said crisply. “I will accompany Miss Evelyn to the viscount’s whereabouts. If you will have two or three footmen with us as well.”
The butler looked at her as if she had lost a few of her senses, but he made no protest.
“Oh, thank you!” the girl said, clasping her hand before her.
“I’ll not come inside with you. I shall merely show you to the front door.”
The girl nodded.
Marianne smoothed the non-existent wrinkles from her dark blue gown with its high white lace collar. Certainly not a gown suitable to attend a club, but she had no intention of going inside so it would have to do. She hurried to her room and selected a hat with a black lace veil trimming that could be turned down to hide the top half of her face. She put on her dark pelisse and buttoned it tightly, she shivered at the thought of going out in the dark stormy night with possibly a violent man lurking out there.
She then went into the viscount’s library and collected a silver-handled saber, and a large umbrella. If someone dared try to take this young girl on the trip from here to Mayfair, they would have to face her wrath and determination.
Making her way back to the drawing-room, she spied Evelyn scarfing down tea and sandwiches. She blinked at the saber and a small smile curved her lips.
“We must depart now.”
“Yes, Miss!” the girl jumped to her feet and followed Marianne who felt as if she were going into Hades and not just to the Devil’s front door.
Chapter 14
Michael’s evenings since that night, had consisted of dinner in the private hall, at his club, accompanied by a cigar, and a few drinks. He’d had these alone, ignoring the presence of his brother, his friends, and a few ladies who had sent him inviting smiles to join their tables. Nothing had moved him, except thoughts of Miss Ashbrook, which he refused to permit himself to indulge. The very memory of their encounter forced a groan to whisper from his lips. He had control…and he would damn well start to exercise it over his passions. After supping, he had spent a few hours going through the ledgers with Thomas, ignoring all his attempts at conversation, preferring the chill of silence. After that, he had retired to his private chambers on the third floor. However, the tranquility of his apartments had become tedious and irked him. He stood by the windows overlooking the streets, watching the carriages stop and pass by. Michael frowned, immediately identifying his own carriage as it pulled up outside his club. A footman jumped down and lowered the steps. A young girl, who glanced around her surroundings with a desperate air about her climbed out of the carriage.
He recognized her—It was the young girl who had tried to proposition him a couple weeks’ ago in St. James’s Square. He had given her a few banknotes and his business card, hating those who ruthlessly took advantage of poor girls in such a manner, trapping her into a harsh and painful life. She had taken the money, his card, and had melted away into the velvety dark. At times, he had felt as if she was following him, perhaps to try and lighten his pockets, but whenever he’d turned around, she had been hidden.
What in God’s name was she doing in his carriage?
Another figure alighted, and he stepped closer to the window, every part of his body suddenly coming alive. Marianne. It was unpardonable, the heart-pounding reaction she roused in him. In her hands she gripped a saber and glanced around the poorly lit streets. Even from where he stood, Michael identified the determined set to her chin and the militant manner in which she gazed about. Whatever the hell was going on, she had ventured out prepared to do battle.
“Good God,” he muttered, scanning the roads from his bird’s eye view. He detected no immediate danger. An odd urgency coiled in his gut. He gripped the glass of brandy he’d been nursing, lifted it to his lips, and with one long swallow finished his drink, his gaze never leaving her.
Setting the glass down on the rosewood table, he exited his private apartments and bounded down the stairs to the lower floors. Michael ignored the undulating ripple through the crowd and those who called his name trying to capture his attention. His purpose was single-minded. Find out what had happened to cause Marianne to come to his club at this late hour. He glanced about and caught the eyes of Dorian Martin and two of his employees. Immediately they understood they should follow him, and to anticipate the unexpected.
Without waiting to see how quickly they were complying with his silent orders, Michael loped ahead and burst through the front doors of his club out into the streets without even bothering to don his coat. Miss Ashbrook gasped when she saw him, her lips parting, relief softening her mouth visibly under some sort of veil she was wearing. Pleasure warmed him from the inside out, but he composed his reaction and looked about. Still, the awareness lingered inside warming him with the knowledge that she had felt safe upon his arrival.
The young girl was staring at him, as if unsure how to proceed. Miss Ashbrook marched forward.
“Christ, is that a saber?” Dorian demanded from somewhere behind him.
Michael contained the rush of prideful amusement. “Miss Ashbrook is not the undecided, hysterical sort.”
A low, suggestive whistle echoed from the man. “She is…stunning.”
Her face was partially hidden, and from the roughness of Dorian’s tone, Michael assumed it was her wonderfully lush and curved figure the man admired.
“So what sort is she?” he asked.
“The sort that is under my protection,” Michael replied, just as she arrived in front of him.
Except from me…nothing can protect her from me.
She peered up at him. “Miss Evelyn showed up at h…your house, dreadfully afraid. It seems someone is out to hurt her.”
The girl who hovered behind of her nodded, her eyes wide and fearful. She held out his card to him. “I am glad you came,” he said softly. “Let’s get off these streets and inside, you can tell me what has happened, but whatever it is, you can be assured of my protection.”
“What…what if he comes to take me away?” the girl said fretfully.
Before Michael could reassure her of his power in these parts, Dorian stepped from behind him.
“He’ll have to get through me first, Miss, and that is not likely to ever happen,” he said with satisfied menace.
Few would ever consider tackling that giant wall of a man. Dorian had a soft spot for wounded birds, despising men who hurt the fairer sex in any manner. And from the way he was scanning the bruises on the girl’s face and throat, the pain and fear in her eyes, even if that man did not come looking for her, Dorian would go hunting for him.
“If you’ll come with me,” he said gently. “You can go inside and eat something warm and quite delicious. The chef here is a Frenchie and believes he is a god. Then we can see about finding you a proper dress.”
She clutched her throat and stared at him for several minutes, searching his face, and whatever she saw there, calmed her. For she took a deep breath and the fear all but leaked from her entire body. Dorian shrugged from his evening jacket and handed it to her. She slipped it on, though it swamped her tiny form and walked away with him after sending Michael a quick searching glance.
He nodded to show her that it was perfectly safe to go with Dorian, even though he suspected she knew that already. The other two men who had followed him outside walked off down the street, no doubt to assess if any of the carriages waiting in the queue had an enemy lurking within.
“She seemed so very afraid,” Marianne said, biting her lower lip.
That nervous gesture set him on edge.
“Come inside,” he said gruffly. “Un
til my men have ensured there is no danger about or anyone following you or the girl.”
Through the thin material, he could see how wide her eyes had widened.
“Inside?” she squeaked. “In there?”
Exasperated humor rushed through him. “You sound like a little mouse.”
She gasped in affront. “I do not! Nor will I go into that…that…place!”
“Fine. At least come into the hallway and allow me to gather my coat, hat, and walking stick. I will escort you home.”
She glared at the hand he held out to her, and then at the large door behind him. Her fingers tightened on the saber. “There is no need for that, I—”
“There is every need,” he said a bit forcefully. “I must see to your safety.” Always. Then that devil in him whispered again…except from me.
She tapped a boot on the cobblestones. “Perhaps I might wait in the carriage.”
“No, you may not.”
She glanced about, and there came that biting of her lower lip again. “My reputation—”
His lips twitched. “Is safe. You are properly disguised, I assure you, Miss Ashbrook.”
“Very well,” she said primly. “Only as far as the hallway.”
An odd sort of triumph slithered through him. She skirted around him and walked toward the door.
With a smile he followed her, leaned around and opened the door, allowing her to precede him inside. He let the heavy oak door to slam shut behind him. A din of laughter, screams of excitement, and music enfolded them. The majordomo reached for the umbrella, and she handed it to the man, but when he reached for the saber, she held it close to her chest.
“I believe I shall keep this with me.”
“There is no danger in here,” Michael promised her.
She gave him a pointed glare as if to say he was the danger.
Unable to halt the desire, he allowed the tips of his fingers to trail along the line of her jaw to the buttoned-up collar at her throat. Her pulse beat wildly against his thumb like the frantic wings of a captive bird. Would there ever be a time he looked at her without needing to touch?
