Tempt Me at Twilight

by Lisa Kleypas

  Before Leo had inherited the title, the estate had fallen into decay and disrepair, abandoned by many of the tenants. Now, however, it had been turned into a thriving and progressive enterprise, mostly due to the efforts of Kev Merripen. And Leo, though he was almost embarrassed to admit it, had come to care about the estate and was doing his best to acquire the vast amounts of knowledge necessary to make it run efficiently.

  Ramsay House was a cheerful combination of architectural styles. Originally an Elizabethan manor house, it had been altered as successive generations had grafted on additions and wings. The result was an asymmetrical building with bristling chimney stacks, rows of leaded-glass windows, and a gray slate roof with hips and bays. Inside, there were interesting niches and nooks, odd-shaped rooms, hidden doors and staircases, all adding to an eccentric charm that perfectly suited the Hathaway family.

  Roses in bloom hugged the exterior of the house. Behind the manor, white-graveled walking paths led to gardens and fruit orchards. Stables and a livestock yard were set to one side of the manor, while at a farther distance there was a timber yard in full production.

  The carriage stopped on the front drive before a set of timbered doors with glass insets. By the time the footmen had gone to alert the household of their arrival and Leo had assisted Poppy from the vehicle, Win had come running from the house. She flung herself at Leo. He grinned and caught her easily, swinging her around.

  “Dear Poppy,” Win exclaimed. “I missed you dreadfully!”

  “What about me?” Leo asked, still holding her. “Haven’t you missed me?”

  “Perhaps a little,” Win said with a grin, and kissed his cheek. She went to Poppy and embraced her. “How long will you stay?”

  “I’m not sure,” Poppy said.

  “Where is everyone?” Leo asked.

  Win kept her slender arm around Poppy’s back as she turned to reply. “Cam is visiting Lord Westcliff at Stony Cross Park, Amelia is inside with the baby, Beatrix is roaming the woods, and Merripen is with some of the tenants, lecturing them on new techniques of hoeing.”

  The word caught Leo’s attention. “I know all about that. If you don’t want to go to a brothel, there are certain districts of London—”

  “Hoeing, Leo,” Win said. “Breaking ground with farm implements.”

  “Oh. Well, I know nothing about that.”

  “You’ll find out a great deal about it once Merripen learns you’re here.” Win tried to look severe, although her eyes were twinkling. “I do hope you’ll behave, Leo.”

  “Of course I will. We’re in the country. There’s nothing else to do.” Heaving a sigh, Leo shoved his hands in his pockets and observed their picturesque surroundings as if he’d just been assigned a cell at Newgate. Then, with perfectly calibrated offhandedness he asked, “Where’s Marks? You didn’t mention her.”

  “She is well, but . . .” Win paused, obviously searching for words. “She had a small mishap today, and she’s rather upset. Of course, any woman would be, considering the nature of the problem. Therefore, Leo, I insist that you not tease her. And if you do, Merripen has already said that he will give you such a drubbing—”

  “Oh, please. As if I’d care enough to notice some problem of Marks’s.” He paused. “What is it?”

  Win frowned. “I wouldn’t tell you, except that the problem is obvious and you’ll notice immediately. You see, Miss Marks dyes her hair, which I never knew before, but apparently—”

  “Dyes her hair?” Poppy repeated in surprise. “But why? She’s not old.”

  “I have no idea. She won’t explain why. But there are some unfortunate women who start to gray in their twenties, and perhaps she’s one of them.”

  “Poor thing,” Poppy said. “It must embarrass her. She’s certainly taken great pains to keep it secret.”

  “Yes, poor thing,” Leo said, sounding not at all sympathetic. In fact, his eyes fairly danced with glee. “Tell us what happened, Win.”

  “We think the London apothecary who mixed her usual solution must have gotten the proportions wrong. Because when she applied the dye this morning, the result was . . . well, distressing.”

  “Did it fall out?” Leo asked. “Is she bald?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just that her hair is . . . green.”

  To look at Leo’s face, one would think it was Christmas morning. “What shade of green?”

  “Leo, hush,” Win said urgently. “You are not to torment her. It’s been a very trying experience. We mixed a peroxide paste to take the green out, and I don’t know if it worked or not. Amelia was helping her to wash it a little while ago. And no matter what the result is, you are to say nothing.”

  “You’re telling me that tonight, Marks will be sitting at the supper table with hair that matches the asparagus, and I’m not supposed to remark on it?” He snorted. “I’m not that strong.”

  “Please, Leo,” Poppy murmured, touching his arm. “If it were one of your sisters, you wouldn’t mock.”

  “Do you think that little shrew would have any mercy on me, were the situations reversed?” He rolled his eyes as he saw their expressions. “Very well, I’ll try not to jeer. But I make no promises.”

  Leo sauntered toward the house in no apparent hurry. He didn’t deceive either of his sisters.

  “How long do you think it will take him to find her?” Poppy asked Win.

  “Two, perhaps three minutes,” Win replied, and they both sighed.

  In precisely two minutes and forty-seven seconds, Leo had located his archenemy in the fruit orchard behind the house. Marks sat on a low stone wall, her narrow frame slightly hunched, her elbows close together. She had some kind of cloth wrapped around her head, a knotted turban that concealed her hair entirely.

  Seeing the dispirited droop of her slender frame, anyone else might have been moved to pity. But Leo had no compunction about taking a few jabs at Catherine Marks. From the beginning of their acquaintance, she had never missed an opportunity to nag, insult or deflate him. On the few occasions he had said something charming or nice—purely as an experiment, of course—she willfully misinterpreted him.

  Leo had never understood why they had started off on such bad footing, or why she was so determined to hate him. And even more perplexing, why it mattered. Prickly, narrow-minded, sharp-tongued, secretive woman, with her stern mouth and haughty little nose . . . she deserved green hair, and she deserved to be mocked for it.

  The time for revenge was at hand.

  As Leo approached nonchalantly, Marks lifted her head, the sunlight flashing on the lenses of her spectacles. “Oh,” she said sourly. “You’re back.”

  She said it as if she had just discovered a vermin infestation.

  “Hello, Marks,” Leo said cheerfully. “Hmmm. You look different. What can it be?”

  She glowered at him.

  “Is it some new fashion, that wrapping on your head?” he asked with polite interest.

  Marks maintained a stony silence.

  The moment was delicious. He knew, and she knew that he knew, and mortified color was creeping over her face.

  “I brought Poppy with me from London,” Leo volunteered.

  Her eyes turned alert behind the spectacles. “Did Mr. Rutledge come, too?”

  “No. Although I imagine he’s not far behind us.”

  The companion stood from the stone wall and brushed at her skirts. “I must see Poppy—”

  “There’ll be time for that.” Leo moved to block her way. “But before we return to the house, I think you and I should reacquaint ourselves. How are things with you, Marks? Anything interesting happen lately?”

  “You’re no better than a ten-year-old,” she said vehemently. “All ready to sneer at someone else’s misfortune. You immature, mean-spirited—”

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Leo said kindly. “Let me have a look, and I’ll tell you if—”

  “Stay away from me!” she snapped, and tried to dart around him.

/>   Leo blocked her easily, a muffled laugh escaping him as she tried to shove him. “Are you trying to push me out of the way? You don’t have the strength of a butterfly. Here—your headgear is askew—let me help you with it—”

  “Don’t touch me!”

  They struggled, one of them playful, the other frantic and flailing.

  “One glance,” Leo begged, a laugh ending in a grunt as she twisted and jabbed a sharp elbow against his midriff. He snatched at the kerchief, managing to loosen it. “Please. It’s all I want from life, to see you with—” another swipe, and he snagged the edge of the cloth, “—your hair all—”

  But Leo broke off as the kerchief pulled free, and the hair that spilled out was not any conceivable shade of green. It was blond . . . pale amber and champagne and honey . . . and there was so much of it, cascading in shimmering waves to the middle of her back.

  Leo went still, holding her in place as his astonished gaze raked over her. They both gulped for breath, worked up and winded like racehorses. Marks couldn’t have looked more appalled if he had just stripped her naked. And the truth was, Leo couldn’t have been any more confounded—or aroused—if he were actually viewing her naked. Though he certainly would have been willing to try it.

  Such a commotion had risen in him, Leo hardly knew how to react. Just hair, just locks of hair . . . but it was like setting a previously undistinguished painting in the perfect frame, revealing its beauty in full luminous detail. Catherine Marks in the sunlight was a mythical creature, a nymph, with delicate features and opalescent eyes.

  The most confounding realization was that it wasn’t really hair color that had concealed all this from him . . . he had never noticed how stunning she was because she had deliberately kept him from seeing it.

  “Why,” Leo asked, his voice husky, “would you conceal something so beautiful?” Staring at her, nearly devouring her, he asked more softly still, “What are you hiding from?”

  Her lips trembled, and she gave a brief shake of her head, as if to answer would prove fatal to them both. And, wrenching free of him, she picked up her skirts and ran headlong to the house.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Amelia,” Poppy said as she lay her head on her sister’s shoulder, “you’ve done me a terrible disservice, making marriage look so easy.”

  Amelia laughed softly, hugging her. “Oh, dear. If I’ve given that impression, I do apologize. It’s not. Especially when both individuals are strong willed.”

  “The ladies’ periodicals advise to let one’s husband have his way most of the time.”

  “Oh, lies, lies. Only let your husband think he’s having his way. That’s the secret to a happy marriage.”

  They both snickered, and Poppy sat up.

  Having put Rye down for his morning nap, Amelia had gone with Poppy to the family parlor, where they sat together on the settee. Although Win had been invited to join them, she had tactfully declined, sensitive to the fact that Amelia had a more maternal relationship with Poppy than she did.

  During the two years that Win had spent away at a health clinic in France, recovering from the damages of scarlet fever, Poppy had grown even closer to their oldest sister. When Poppy wished to divulge her most private thoughts and problems, Amelia was the one she always felt most comfortable with.

  A tea tray had been brought in, and there was a plate of treacle tarts made according to their mother’s old recipe, strips of buttery shortbread topped with lemon syrup and sweet crumbs.

  “You must be exhausted,” Amelia remarked, putting a gentle hand to Poppy’s cheek. “I think you need a nap more than little Rye.”

  Poppy shook her head. “Later. I must try to settle some things first, because I think Harry may arrive by nightfall. Of course, he may not, but—”

  “He will,” came a voice from the doorway, and Poppy looked up to behold her former companion. “Miss Marks,” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet.

  A brilliant smile broke out on Miss Marks’s face, and she came to Poppy swiftly, catching her in a warm embrace. Poppy could tell that she had been outside. Instead of her usual pristine soap-and-starch smell, she carried the scents of earth and flowers and summer heat. “Nothing’s the same without you here,” Miss Marks said. “It’s so much quieter.”

  Poppy laughed.

  Drawing back, Miss Marks added hastily, “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Yes, I know.” Still smiling, Poppy viewed her quizzically. “How pretty you look. Your hair . . .” Instead of being scraped back and tightly pinned, the thick, fine locks flowed around her back and shoulders. And the nondescript shade of brown had been lightened to brilliant pale gold. “Is that your natural color?”

  A blush swept over Miss Marks’s face. “I’m going to darken it again as soon as possible.”

  “Must you?” Poppy asked, perplexed. “It’s so lovely this way.”

  Amelia spoke from the settee. “I wouldn’t advise applying any chemicals for a while, Catherine. Your hair may be too fragile.”

  “You may be right,” Miss Marks said with a frown, self-consciously reaching up to finger the light, glinting strands.

  Poppy looked askance at them both, having never heard Amelia call the companion by her first name before.

  “May I sit with you both?” Miss Marks asked Poppy gently. “I want very much to hear what has transpired since the wedding. And—” There was a quick, oddly nervous pause. “I have some things to tell you, that I believe are relevant to your situation.”

  “Please do,” Poppy said. Throwing a quick glance at Amelia, she saw that her older sister was already aware of what Miss Marks intended to tell her.

  They sat together, the sisters on the settee and Catherine Marks on a nearby chair.

  A long, supple shape streaked through the doorway and paused. It was Dodger, who caught sight of Poppy, did a few hops of joy, and raced to her.

  “Dodger,” Poppy exclaimed, almost happy to see the ferret. He loped to her, regarded her with bright eyes and chirped happily as she petted him. After a moment, he left her lap and stole toward Miss Marks.

  The companion glanced at him sternly. “Don’t come near me, you loathsome weasel.”

  Undeterred, he stopped by her feet and executed a slow roll, showing her his belly. It was a source of amusement to the Hathaways that Dodger adored Miss Marks, no matter that she despised him. “Go away,” she told him, but the lovestruck ferret continued his efforts to entice her.

  Sighing, she reached down and removed one of her shoes, a sturdy black leather affair that laced up to the ankle. “It’s the only way to keep him quiet,” she said dourly.

  Immediately, the ferret’s chatter ceased, and he buried his head inside the shoe.

  Suppressing a grin, Amelia turned her attention to Poppy. “Did you have a row with Harry?” she asked gently.

  “Not really. Well, it began as one, but—” Poppy felt a wash of heat over her face. “Ever since the wedding we’ve done nothing more than circle around each other. And then last evening it seemed that we would finally—” The words seemed to bottle up in her throat, and she had to force them out in a jumble. “I’m so afraid it will always be this way, this push and pull . . . I think he cares for me, but he doesn’t want me to care for him. It’s as if he both wants and fears affection. And that leaves me in an impossible position.” She let out a shaky, mirthless laugh and looked at her sister with a helpless grimace, as if to ask what can be done with such a man?

  Instead of replying, Amelia turned her gaze to Miss Marks.

  The companion appeared vulnerable, uneasy, turmoil churning beneath the veneer of composure. “Poppy. I may be able to shed some light on the situation. On what makes Harry so unreachable.”

  Startled by the familiar way she had referred to Harry, Poppy stared at her without blinking. “You have some knowledge of my husband, Miss Marks?”

  “Please call me Catherine. I would like very much for you to consider me as a friend.” The fair-hai
red woman drew in a tense breath. “I was acquainted with him in the past.”

  “What?” Poppy asked faintly.

  “I should have told you before. I’m sorry. It’s not something I can speak of easily.”

  Poppy was silent with amazement. It wasn’t often that someone she had known for a long time was suddenly revealed in a new and surprising way. A connection between Miss Marks and Harry? That was profoundly unnerving, especially since both of them had kept it secret. She suffered a chill of confusion as an awful thought occurred to her. “Oh, God. Were you and Harry—”

  “No. Nothing like that. But it’s a complicated story, and I’m not certain how to . . . well, let me start by telling you what I know about Harry.”

  Poppy responded with a dazed nod.

  “Harry’s father, Arthur Rutledge, was an exceptionally ambitious man,” Catherine said. “He built a hotel in Buffalo, New York, around the time they had started to expand the port and the harbor. And he made a moderate success of it, although he was by all accounts a poor manager—proud and obstinate and domineering. Arthur didn’t marry until he was in his forties. He chose a local beauty, Nicolette, known for her high spirits and charm. She was less than half his age, and they had little in common. I don’t know if Nicolette married him solely for his money, or if there was affection between them at the beginning. Unfortunately, Harry was born a bit too early on in the marriage—there was a great deal of speculation as to whether or not Arthur was the father. I think the rumors helped to bring about an estrangement. Whatever the cause, the marriage turned bitter. After Harry’s birth, Nicolette was indiscreet in her affairs, until finally she ran away to England with one of her lovers. Harry was four years old at the time.”