He Said Yes

by Patricia Waddell

  "Yes," she agreed. Another necessary debt. If she tried to defend herself, it would turn into nothing more than a plea of innocence that may or may not be believed. Knowing Lady Monfrey's sense of drama, she was going to need someone with oratorical skills.

  Mrs. Grunne knocked on the door, then entered pushing a tea trolley. Evelyn passed a plate of pastries to Mr. Druggs while she poured tea. He studied them carefully, chose one, then smiled before biting into the flaky crust.

  They sat silently for a time, Evelyn unsure how to broach the subject of the marquis. Finally, she decided directness had always served her best. "You mentioned that you worked for the late Lord Waltham."

  "Yes," Druggs said. "A gentleman of the highest reputa­tion. Always kept his affairs in excellent order." Then, sens­ing the true cause of her interest, he continued. "The current lord is very much like his father. I must say, I've been very impressed with him since he acquired the title. It wasn't easy for him. He and his father were extremely close, but he rose to the occasion, accepting his responsibilities without hesi­tation. As I said he is a man of strong temperament. But he has proven to be fair in his judgment and in the handling of family matters."

  A dozen questions came to mind but Evelyn thought bet­ter of asking them. It went without saying that if the marquis trusted Mr. Druggs to be discreet in the handling of her situ­ation, he would display the same attribute when speaking of his employer. Containing her curiosity, she spoke of casual things until Mr. Druggs finished his tea and bid her a good day.

  Marshall arrived at the house on Lambeth street late in the afternoon. He anticipated spending a few hours with Evelyn before going on to Brook's for his weekly card game with the Duke of Morland. Grunne greeted him at the door. Knowing precisely whom he'd come to see, the footman promptly in­formed him that Miss Dennsworth was in the attic.

  "The attic! What the blazes is she doing up there?"

  "I believe she said something about a treasure hunt, milord" Grunne replied with the utmost dignity.

  Peeling off his gloves, Marshall tossed them into his hat, which he then handed off to Grunne before marching up the main staircase. It took only a few moments to find the door to the attic. The amber glow of a gas lantern told him some­one was in residence at the top of the narrow steps that took a sharp turn to the right before disappearing into the loft above the second floor.

  A lantern sat in the middle of the attic, barely illuminating the dusty corners. He saw Evelyn on the far side of the cav­ernous room, near the chimney that broke through the floor and climbed upward through the rafters like a great stone tree. The attic was cluttered with boxes and trunks, stacks of unwanted bric-a-brac. It smelled of dust and cloth that needed to be aired. An empty wicker birdcage hung listlessly from one of the rafters. Evelyn was on her knees, rummaging through an old trunk with her backside high in the air. Marshall watched her for some time, smiling all the while.

  She pulled an unidentifiable bundle from the trunk, dis­covering him when she turned around to place it on the floor. The lamp cast her face in golden shadows. There was a smudge of dirt on her nose and down her cheek, but he couldn't help thinking she grew more lovely each time he saw her.

  "My lord" she said coming to her feet and hastily brush­ing the dust from her skirt. "I didn't expect to see you this early in the day. I hope nothing is amiss."

  "Nothing that a kiss won't cure," he said teasingly, ad­vancing toward her.

  Evelyn stepped backward but the movement put her against the trunk. Another step would have her sitting in it. The first sight of him had brought a disconcerting heat to her body that she was forced to acknowledge as anticipation. The impulse to flee touched her briefly, but his smile van­quished it.

  For a long moment, he simply stood and stared at her, as if he was feeling the same emotional upheaval. If only she could determine what he did feel. If his own heart was at risk, she wouldn't be so reluctant to place hers in jeopardy.

  "I missed you today," he said. The clarity of her blue eyes made him think of open skies and windswept seas; things he missed here in the city. What was it about this woman that enticed him so? She was a puzzling combination of strength and vulnerability, determine-ation and dependence, innocence and maturity.

  A flush of heated pleasure swept through Evelyn. She had missed him, too, had done nothing but think of him since she'd awakened that morning. Mr. Druggs's visit had esca­lated the thoughts, bringing the marquis to the forefront of her mind and keeping him there. She'd come to the attic seeking work for her idle hands, hoping to find another focus for her mind. Now he was here, his dark gaze searching her face, his scent, a pleasing hint of expensive cologne and man, tempting her senses.

  He reached out and touched her cheek, the very corner of her mouth.

  Evelyn knew she should say something, do something, yet she didn't. Her body felt unsettled. His mere presence was triggering things deep within her, things her mind warned her to resist.

  But there was no resistance when he slid his fingers around to the back of her neck, gently caressing her skin. He met her gaze, still smiling. "Have you by chance missed me?"

  Evelyn tried to return his gaze with indifference, but it was impossible.

  Marshall smiled accepting the lack of a response as con­firmation that she had indeed missed him, but was too hon­est to lie about it. He had called thinking to bait the trap a little at a time, to slowly entice her into his arms, but now— having her so close—the strategy was forgotten. He lowered his head and kissed her.

  She stiffened for a moment, then relented allowing his mouth to leisurely search hers, gently at first, then more heatedly, more demanding.

  Marshall felt the sensations begin to build swirling un­hurriedly one moment, the next churning with the intensity of a storm blowing across the Channel. The tenuous control he'd been maintaining for the last few days failed him. He moved his hand from her neck to her waist, pulling her forcibly against him, letting her feel the hardness of his body, the heat of his embrace, the need that was quickly making him forget his well-laid plans.

  The kiss was long and achingly sweet as he took his time, tasting her. She tasted different than other women, Marshall decided then wondered what in blazes had brought the thought to mind. He held himself in check, his experience telling him to go slowly, to entice not tease.

  Her response told him that he'd made the right choice. She yielded her mouth, parting her lips, allowing his tongue inside. Her tongue responded hesitantly at first, then with growing curiosity, wanting to taste him in return.

  Evelyn's knees went weak. She leaned into him, her mind darkened by turmoil, her body singing with entrancing sen­sation. She felt trapped but it was a sweet prison this time, one she loathed to leave. Each time the marquis touched her, she felt herself weakening, her resolve slowly melting under his expertise. But no matter how many times her mind and morals told her it was wrong, her body and heart argued that it felt too right, too perfect.

  Very slowly, Marshall raised his head and looked down at her. Her eyes were closed dark lashes resting against her skin. He allowed his eyes to drink in the sight of her, the tell­tale rise and fall of her breasts beneath the misty blue fabric of her blouse. Some of his control returned, the need to tread gently where this particular woman was concerned. Her in­nocence wasn't that of youth, but of conviction. When she gave herself, it would be with a womanly willingness that he knew would be far more satisfying than any he'd ever felt before.

  He glanced around the attic, looking for a resting place where he could hold her more comfortably. An old Grecian bed stood against the eastern wall. Once colorful with gilt inlaid in the curved headrest and draped canopy, its faded grandeur was all the disorderly attic had to offer.

  "I want to hold you," he whispered, not giving her time to protest as he swept her into his arms and carried her to where the long, narrow bed waited.

  Evelyn eyed the bed with disapproval. "My lord—"

  "Sh
hh," he silenced her. Then he was sitting on the bed, the long cushion sinking under their weight as he sat her on his lap as if she were a child to whom he was about to read a bedtime story.

  He took her mouth again, possessing her senses gently, awakening all the dreams she had fought all day to extin­guish. The images that began to spin inside her head were upsetting: a future that held love and laughter, contentment and security. Evelyn knew she shouldn't dare think of them, but the marquis aroused her imagination as easily as he aroused her body.

  The glide of his hands as they moved up and down her arms, then around to her back, stimulated the dream. His touch was firm. Possessive, but gentle. The heat was incredible.

  Evelyn could feel it flaming deep within her own body. The warmth of his arms added fuel to the rising fire as his hands moved from her back to her waist, then higher. Suddenly his fingertips were moving, teasing the undersides of her breasts.

  She wasn't wearing a corset or a crinoline, nor did she, unless her clothing demanded it. The soft, purrlike sound the marquis made alerted Evelyn to the fact that he'd just dis­covered that her undergarments consisted of a chemise and one petticoat worn under her last serviceable black skirt. She opened her eyes and looked at him, thinking to explain that she had dressed for a day alone, but the amused grin on his face stopped her.

  "You are a delight," he said. "A pure delight."

  Then he was kissing her again with an almost savage ten­derness, devouring her with his mouth, driving resistance from her mind.

  Evelyn felt his hands moving, gently kneading her breasts, making them swell under the muslin of her chemise. The dream was back: the marquis holding her, kissing her, mak­ing her feel special. The warm mating of their mouths and the heat of his hands fired the unsettling anticipation that always came with his kisses. But more so now that he was touching her so intimately. His fingers brushed over her aroused nip­ples, teasing them, making her arch unconsciously.

  Marshall felt the firmness under his hands, the growing heat of her breasts as he forced himself to tease instead of satisfy. Slowly, with the tactical skill of a general on the battle­field he reached for the buttons at the collar of her blouse. He shifted her in his lap, holding back a groan as her weight settled against his arousal. Then his fingers were touching the soft flesh under the starched fabric, sliding gently for­ward and back. His mouth lifted from her lips, damp from his kisses, and moved leisurely down her throat. He inhaled the scent of her, reined his control in tighter, and moved on, nibbling and kissing the skin he exposed as button after but­ton came loose of its moorings.

  Evelyn felt a moment of panic when his breath heated the valley between her breasts, but it felt so wonderful, so amaz­ingly glorious, that all she could do was lean back in his arms and let him enjoy it as well. He traced the swell of each breast, his fingertips heating her skin until she felt as if she were on fire. She'd never imagined a man's gentleness, not in this way.

  Marshall drew a ragged breath, intent now on making her forget all the reasons why they shouldn't become lovers. He kissed her tenderly, slowly building the desire that he knew would rage out of control once she surrendered to the need he was creating within her. He used all his expertise to keep her on the edge, to maintain the sensual trust she'd unexpect­edly gifted upon him.

  He could make the fire blaze; she was close to that point, but instead of fanning the fire, Marshall began to bank it. When he finally had her, it wouldn't be on a dusty Grecian bed in the corner of an attic. He didn't want her going down­stairs afterward feeling ashamed or embarrassed if she en­countered one of the servants in the hallway.

  Evelyn's breath shuddered an audible sign of the shim­mering shivers that were threading through her body. She couldn't think, couldn't reason her way out of Marshall's arms. She knew it was because there was no place she'd rather be. No man she'd rather having touching her.

  His breath was still warm upon her skin, his kisses as light as a feather. Somehow, her mind found its way out of the sensual haze. The marquis was looking at her as he but­toned her blouse. Stopping just short of the last button, he smiled. There was a radiance to his gaze, a reverent quality that made her feel cherished rather than betrayed.

  For a moment, they didn't speak, neither wanting to shat­ter the delicate moment that had happened between them. The realization of what she had allowed him to do should have her running down the stairs, humiliated by her actions, but all Evelyn could manage was an answering smile. She hadn't been prepared for his arrival or this turn of events.

  There was an element of emotion about him this day, an un­predictability that didn't suit a man bent on seduction. It was as disconcerting as his kisses.

  "Would you like to take a walk in the park before din­ner?" Marshall asked, still cradling her in his arms. "It's a lovely day. The evening air should be pleasant."

  "The park?"

  He laughed lightly as he set her on her feet. "There's a nice little square not far from here. I'm sure Mrs. Grunne has some bread scraps about. We can feed the birds."

  A short time later, they were strolling under the wide branches of the sprawling birch trees that shaded the park. The area was devoid of people this time of day, the only busy chatter that of squirrels with their tails curled high over their backs as they scampered from tree limb to tree limb. The sun was low on the horizon, most people inside attending to the end of the day, preparing for dinner, then a quiet evening in the parlor. There was no one about to see the well-dressed gentleman in a coat of charcoal gray and pin-striped trousers, calmly escorting a lady on his arm.

  Evelyn knew the impression they would give anyone who saw them would be an illusion, but she couldn't help but enjoy the alternating shadows and sunshine that added to the natural quietness of the small wooded area. The breeze was refreshing as it blew across the Thames and the greens near Lambeth Palace, only a mile or so to the southwest.

  "Mr. Druggs told me that you were somewhat concerned about the allowance I offered" Marshall said as they stopped so she could toss a handful of dried bread to a gathering of small brown wrens. He watched as the tiny birds quickly scoffed up the offering, then flew away. "Is that what you were doing in the attic? Looking for things, so my pockets wouldn't be strained to purchase them."

  "To some degree," she confessed. "I was looking for a painting or a tapestry, anything to replace that hideous paint­ing in the library. If all battles were so uninspiring, men would soon cease thinking war glamorous and stop trotting off to prove themselves worthy of honor and medals."

  "Are you trying to distract me from the matter at hand by insulting men and their admirable pursuit of a battle well waged" Marshall said laughingly. "If so, then think again, Miss Dennsworth, for I will not allow you to scavenge about the attic like a squirrel hunting nuts for winter. I can well af­ford the few furnishings you seek."

  "The extent of your wealth isn't in question, my lord" she said allowing him to seat her on a wrought-iron bench cir­cling the trunk of a sturdy elm. "I already owe you far more than I can ever repay."

  He frowned at her, his displeasure apparent. "We have had this conversation before. We will not have it again. You owe me nothing," he said firmly.

  "And I am just as stolidly convinced that I do," she re­torted. While she might melt in his arms whenever he kissed her, Evelyn was determined not to yield on this issue. The moment she did she was likely to find herself in far greater danger than the dusty attic had presented an hour earlier.

  "Then we have reached an impasse," he said sitting down beside her. "For I'm as stubborn as a northern gale, or so my sisters keep telling me."

  "My father noted my stubbornness on more than one oc­casion," Evelyn countered. "In fact, he once commented that—"

  "I'm more stubborn," he insisted breaking into her words. "You are free to test the fact if you wish, but I warn you that my patience doesn't have the same stamina. I may be forced to use more persuasive means." His tone was far from braggish. In
stead it was low and slightly amused as if he'd like nothing better than to have her keep arguing with him.

  Evelyn knew he was thinking of the way he had kissed her in the attic, of the liberties she'd allowed him to take.

  "Is that so, my lord?" she challenged refusing to concede to his charms twice in one day.

  Marshall opened his hand spreading a banquet of dried grainy bread over the emerald grass. A flock of birds immediately appeared to pluck the delicacy up and carry it away. He didn't respond to her challenge. Instead he reached into the bag a second time. She watched as more birds, wings flapping and bills pecking, danced in front of them. After several minutes, she accepted the lack of conversation, enjoying the simple act of feeding pigeons and wrens with a marquis who was proving to be somewhat of a puzzlement.

  They returned to the house, speaking only of common things, the speeches in Parliament and the recent speculation that the queen would spend the summer in Balmoral, mourn­ing her lost consort for another full season.

  "I fear my stepmother has taken up the black even more seriously than our monarch," Marshall remarked as they en­tered the parlor. "It's been almost two years since I buried my father, but Constance shows no sign of giving up her paramatta and crepe."

  "Many widows never wear color again," Evelyn reminded him.

  "It isn't her wardrobe that concerns me; it's her attitude. She's growing increasingly dejected. Our family physician called upon her yesterday. After giving his assurance that her health is better than that of most ladies her age, he left, pre­scribing nothing but patience for the family and laudanum if she needed help in sleeping."

  At the mention of his family, Evelyn grew quiet. The wind had stirred his hair, making him look younger, but the serious tone he had used when talking of his stepmother re­minded her that he was a man full grown with heavy respon­sibilities upon his shoulder, including a shop girl whose freedom he had willingly purchased. Not knowing his step­mother, but sensing that she was grieving in all sincerity, Evelyn sought to comfort him.