The Weary Heart
Page 14
“I’ve noticed you don’t use them more than you have to.”
He cast her a swift grin, and his heart quickened at the instant response in her eyes. “I want to tell you about Dorothea.”
Her gaze dropped at once, and she began to turn away. Hastily, he pushed the glass back into her hand, which at least caused her to glance back up at him in surprise. “What is this for?”
“Your courage, though you won’t need it. I’m saying nothing that will hurt you.” He shrugged. “It may leave you indifferent, though I hope not. I am not engaged to Dorothea.”
Her eyes widened. She lifted the glass to her lips, took a sip, and thrust it back at him. “Perhaps you should tell her.”
“It was a ruse to give me responsibility for Kenneth,” he said impatiently. “And get Lacey off our backs until we can find out what’s really going on.”
She shook her head. “No, there is more than that. There was always more than that.” She gave an impatient little shrug. “But you are hardly obliged to tell me.”
She made to rise, but he caught her arm to stay her.
“I am,” he said fiercely. “Or I cannot hope to make you listen to what I will say next. I made a promise to Ilya Robinov years ago. When he was young and overwhelmed by love and responsibility. He asked me to care for his family if anything happened to him, and of course, I promised wholeheartedly. And then he asked me to promise that I would marry his widow to do so.”
A frown tugged at her brow. “Did either of you discuss this with Mrs. Robinov?”
“I imagine Ilya did, though not until afterward.”
“And you really promised this?”
“Well, sort of. I promised I would if it seemed necessary, if she wished it, and if I were free.”
“And that was why you were going to Russia,” she said slowly. “And then why you rushed to them so quickly when you knew they were here, and Mr. Robinov was dead.”
He nodded. “I had to help if I could—from natural affection rather than semi-drunken promises. Though the promise was on my mind, interfering with what I wished to say to you.”
She searched his eyes, unmoving, then snatched suddenly at the glass. Unsure whether she meant to drink or throw it across the room, he held onto it, covering her hand with his.
“Helen, are we friends?”
She closed her eyes for an instant. “You told me you had things to say not questions to ask.”
“Then I hope we are friends. I hope I am not wrong when I imagine there is more even than that between us.” He let out a breath of laughter, then raised the glass to his lips with her hand still clasped under his. She let him, watching him drink as though fascinated.
“I could not speak before,” he said intensely. “Not at Steynings and not here at first, because of my promise to Ilya, my responsibility to Dorothea and her family. But Dorothea does not wish to marry me. We’ll remain engaged so far as the world is concerned until Kenneth is cleared of this charge, but we will not marry. Her heart is not with me but with Ilya still. And mine was never with her.”
She stared at him, a frightened look in her clear eyes. He raised the glass again, but this time to brush his lips against the side of her wrist. She gasped, but did not try to escape him.
“My heart is with you, Helen. All I ask is a chance to win you.”
The fright in her eyes grew stronger, then vanished. She didn’t seem to be breathing at all as her gaze dropped to his lips. He could wait no longer, but bent his head and kissed her.
Her lips parted in shock. Her breath, sweet and agitated, rushed into his mouth and desire surged. He wanted more, so much more than this gentle kiss of promise. But it was all he took, savoring her soft, yielding lips and the beginnings of her response before he ended it.
“Do we have a chance, Miss Milsom?” he whispered.
She swallowed. “Perhaps.”
He smiled with relief as well as hope. “Then I will spare your reputation further assault and retire until morning.”
It took considerable effort to release her hand to stand and walk across the room. But he achieved it. He would even have left without touching her again, but she made the mistake of following him. And when he turned back to say goodnight, there she was, just in reach of his arms, her eyes shining in the candlelight, her lips parted in a soft smile, perhaps of amusement. But there was need there, too, like a reflection of his own. He could not resist wrapping his arms around her and drawing her against him as he bent his head and kissed her again.
He meant it to be as light and respectful as the first, but this time, her mouth clung to his, and he gave into passion, kissing her deeply and thoroughly. Her hand touched his cheek, and he moved his body against hers in an instinctive caress that made her press closer, her mouth widening under his in total surrender.
God knew where it would have led if a weak voice had not said from the bed, “Behave yourself, Sir Marcus.”
They sprang apart, staring at Carla, who regarded them from her pillows. “Mama will scold you for kissing Miss Milsom in front of me.”
“No, she won’t,” Marcus said firmly. “But in spite of your untimely wakefulness, I am glad to see you back with us. How do you feel?”
“As weak as a kitten,” Carla said. “But I can breathe. And the dreams have gone, I think.”
Helen moved toward the bed to pour her fresh water. “You had better go, Marcus,” she said briskly, though when she glanced at him, her eyes were still soft, her lips full and rosy from his kiss.
There was nothing to do but leave, and yet he did so with a full heart. He had never been so happy in his life.
Chapter Thirteen
When she had first opened the door to Sir Marcus with his brandy bottle, the thought had crossed her mind that he was foxed. But he showed no sign of it. Doubting her judgment in allowing him in, she had never imagined that the next quarter-hour in his company could change her whole life.
But by the time he left, she knew it to be so. His heart was with her. He loved her, not Dorothea, and she could only admire the loyalty with which he had honored his word to Ilya Robinov, and his affection for the whole family. He had kissed her. Twice. And never had there been such kisses, so sweet and powerful and promising such passion that even remembering them heated her blood.
As she made Carla comfortable, giving her water and a little cold soup before settling her down to sleep once more, her mind kept drifting back to Marcus. She even fell into a doze thinking of him, only to wake later to the sound of the bedchamber door opening.
It was Mrs. Robinov, eager to see how her daughter had improved. In a murmur, Helen told her how she had wakened and spoke to her. She did not mention Sir Marcus, though it was possible Carla would tell her later. And that their patient had held the glass of water herself and taken a couple of spoonsful of Mrs. Villin’s nourishing soup.
Before she left to sleep, Mrs. Robinov pressed her hand. “I can never repay you for your help with my daughter.”
“You never need to,” Helen assured her. “I am glad to help.”
As she fell into her bed, she knew that if Carla continued to improve the following day, she would need to return to Audley Park, which seemed, suddenly, a long way from the Hart. She slipped into sleep with the charming fantasy that Lady Overton would invite Sir Marcus and the Robinovs to stay for Christmas. The Marshalls, of course, were nowhere to be seen, and Mr. Lacey was content with the arrest of some passing, villainous robber for the theft of the items mysteriously hidden in Kenneth’s trunk…
She woke with happiness in her heart, washed and dressed, and called first at Carla’s room.
Here, she was delighted to find the girl sitting up against her pillows, exhausted but smiling as she was entertained by her brother and Anne.
“Five more minutes,” Helen said, “and then I think you should let our patient sleep.”
In the parlor downstairs, she discovered Mrs. Robinov reading a newspaper and drinking coffee.
“I should go back now that Carla is clearly on the mend,” Helen said, picking up the letter from the table and breaking the seal. “The children will run wild and get into all sorts of mischief.”
Lady Overton’s note did not command, however, merely inquired after the patient and Helen’s own health before mentioning how pleased everyone would be to have her back. Helen smiled, for she missed Eliza and the boys.
Her heart beat faster. Everything was changing. It seemed that soon she would not need her position there at all.
But this relationship with Marcus was new, much too new to make hasty judgments, let alone take hasty actions. Live for the day, and enjoy it.
She was buttering toast when Sir Marcus wandered into the parlor and sat down with a cup of coffee. She was almost afraid to meet his gaze, to discover she was mistaken, that last night had merely been a dream. But no, the warm smile softening his rather hard eyes, told her the truth.
“Come for a walk after your breakfast,” he invited. “The day is fine for the time of year, and I doubt you have had any fresh air since you arrived.”
“No, but I should return to Audley Park today.”
“Then I will drive you there,” he offered. “After our walk.”
“The exercise will be good for you,” Mrs. Robinov pronounced, almost like a blessing.
So, when she had finished eating, Helen was glad to fetch her cloak and walk by Marcus’s side into the cool winter sunshine. They passed several people collecting firewood from the forest or busy about other business, but Helen didn’t mind. Sir Marcus made no effort to take her deeper into the woods or to steal kisses.
Nor did they talk of love or the future. It was as if, now that their barriers were down at last, they needed this time to get to know each other, to talk of impersonal things and just grow used to the love, acknowledged and growing between them.
Helen adored the novelty of walking so primly by his side, while her whole being tingled with awareness of his presence, with the knowledge that he shared this awareness.
Only when they returned to the inn did the pleasant enchantment break into an odd feeling of anxiety, for a carriage had halted in the yard, and Philip and Phoebe Marshall were emerging from it with regal dignity.
“Oh, no,” Helen blurted. “This will cut up our comfort.”
“Only if we let it,” Marcus said. “They have probably come to take Anne back with them to wherever they’re going. I can’t imagine Overton putting up with them much longer.”
“I expect so.” Nevertheless, the twinge of dread remained with her.
*
As Philip handed his wife down from the carriage at the Hart, she swore beneath her breath.
He sighed. “What now, my angel?”
Her gaze flickered beyond him, and he turned, following it to the couple crossing the yard toward them. Dain and Helen.
“Well, it’s not Anne,” Philip murmured. “But at least it is not the Robinov woman!”
Phoebe smiled at the approaching couple. “Are you blind?” she demanded between her teeth.
Philip had no idea what she meant and no time to ask. In truth, his wife’s skewed view of the world frequently annoyed him and led to his discomfort. So, he was glad to walk forward and bask in Helen’s uncomplicated calm.
“How is your patient?” he asked after shaking hands most cordially with both her and Dain.
“The doctor has not seen her again yet, but we believe her to be much improved,” Helen replied. “Of course, her mother will not want to move her for a few days, but I believe I can return to Audley Park without causing Mrs. Robinov much hardship.”
“Excellent,” Phoebe said. “Then we can take you back with us. Lady Overton will be delighted.”
Helen’s unexpected lack of delight was not lost on Philip. Neither was her quick, almost instinctive glance at Dain. Was that what bothered Phoebe? Seeing them together? His wife was a fool sometimes. Governess Helen Milsom was no more a rival to Anne than Dain was to himself. Sir Marcus was a wealthy landowner, of course, but the fellow was hardly handsome and certainly had no address. Abrupt and frequently sardonic, he clearly had no idea how to speak to the fairer sex.
“Let us go in,” Philip suggested. “I hope my Anne has been of assistance to you?” Although he addressed the words to Helen, it was Dain’s answer he wished to hear. Surely Anne’s soft heart and delicacy would have penetrated his notice by now?
“Of course,” Helen said.
Dain said nothing, merely held open the door for everyone to enter the house, then strode across the passage to the parlor door. Philip noted that he knocked before he entered, though he didn’t hear what he said.
To his annoyance, Anne was again in the company of the Robinov boy. Clearly, the discovery that he was a thief—which had seemed a splendid plan of Phoebe’s at the time—had not been enough to give either Anne or Dain a disgust of him. The daughter’s illness was a piece of bad luck, of course, preventing the family from leaving the scene of their disgrace. But he did not like to see his daughter so happy in the boy’s company. Nor did he care for the way she more or less ignored Sir Marcus as she jumped up to greet her parents.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a quick exchange of glances between Dain and Mrs. Robinov before the woman welcomed them civilly and asked the maid who had followed them in to bring tea and luncheon.
As they made polite conversation, ate and drank, Philip realized it had been a mistake to leave Anne here, for while she certainly seemed to have lost her terror of Sir Marcus, she treated him now much like a familiar uncle. She even made the odd joke with him, but the bulk of her attention and her smiles were for the damned thief, Kenneth Robinov.
Well, honesty compelled Philip to admit to himself that Kenneth was not a thief. But Anne did not know that. In truth, Philip was tired of the affair. There had to be easier ways of extracting money from people. Phoebe could find another wealthy man who wished for a young bride, and they would simply marry Anne to him. This plan of waiting for Dain to propose had failed from the outset, and Philip did not fancy his chances of forcing Dain to anything, let alone marriage. No, this had been Phoebe’s idea, so she could sort it out. He needed a different sort of comfort.
Helen.
During and after the informal luncheon, everyone popped in and out of the parlor for various reasons—to look after the invalid, or speak to the innkeeper, or take a turn around the yard—so it was easy enough to catch Helen alone.
He contrived to meet her at the foot of the stairs after she had taken something or other to the Robinov girl. Oh, yes, there was something about this older, more independent Helen that fired his blood. She had a quiet, intense beauty he had been foolish to pass over in his youth, and as she descended the stairs, still unaware of his observation, she seemed almost to glow with life, with happiness. He hoped his presence had something to do with that.
His confidence took a slight knock when her gaze finally fell on him, for her foot faltered for an instant and a flash of something that looked like dismay crossed her face. However, this might merely have been maidenly modesty, for the expression vanished in an instant, and she said calmly, “Mr. Marshall. Might I help you?”
“Yes, as it happens,” he replied smoothly. “I need to talk to you. In private.”
She hesitated, no doubt thinking of her position with Lord and Lady Overton. It was sweet, really.
“Look, the coffee room is empty, and we’ll leave the door open,” he said to reassure her.
She glanced at him, then walked briskly across to the coffee room. “Very well, but just for a minute.”
Fol
lowing her, he admired her neat figure, the alluring movement of her hips beneath the drab gowns she always wore now. She had not been drab at the Steynings ball, though. Her beauty that night had been a revelation to him, the seed from which this idea, this new life, had grown.
“How can I help you, sir?” she asked distantly.
“You could begin by calling me by name. However,” he added, holding up his hand in surrender as she opened her mouth in clear objection, “we shall not quarrel over your preferences at this stage. No, the point is, Helen, I wish to help you.”
She regarded him warily as she sat on the edge of the chair he indicated, her back ramrod straight. “I was not aware I needed help.”
“Perhaps not need. But certainly deserve.” He threw himself down on the chair next to hers. “My dear, it pains me to see you as drudge to someone else’s children, at the beck and call of other people, a mere servant to them and their friends.”
“I have always received every civility from Lord and Lady Overton. I am quite content with my position.”
“What if you didn’t need the position?” he asked eagerly.
A faint, enigmatic smile flickered across her face. Then she said, “But I do need it.”
“No,” he said, leaning forward. “No. What if I were to offer you a way out? A new life in a cozy little house of your own, with new gowns, friends, a life where you could do exactly as you pleased. Where you and I could be together at last.”
The bafflement in her eyes changed in a blink to understanding and then to quite unexpected fury. She rose abruptly. “You offer me, in effect, a carte blanche,” she said with contempt. “Though I have no idea what I have ever said or done to make you imagine that I would not be insulted by such a proposal.”
He stood with her. “Be reasonable, my dear, it’s all I can offer you. At least while Phoebe lives. Please, don’t run away from me, don’t be offended. I lay at your feet my abject admission that I made a mistake all those years ago. My wife does not have your sweet, loving nature. In short, she does not love me.”