A Tarnished Heart

by Leslie Dicken

  “You don’t want her unhappy? After the glower she gave me? It seems she’d rather drown in a mud puddle than attend London society with me.” Nor did he relish his return to the dizzying season of balls and parties to pretend to find a new wife. Only last year he claimed to all who would listen that he would not remarry.

  “Hate is closer to love than you think. If she cared nothing for you, she’d have shown you no regard at all,” the Reverend said. “So, can you accomplish it? Can you make my Elizabeth fall for you?”

  He could not predict love, nor did he want to. The girl’s feelings were not his responsibility. But to discover the truth of the reverend’s story was. Markham waved his hand and reached for his hat. “This is not over, Reverend. I will not just accept your word on what happened that night.”

  Her father struggled to his feet. “But there is your father’s letter.”

  Markham pulled on his overcoat and snatched his hat from the stand. He’d had about all he could take tonight on the subject. The quaint house had worn its welcome on his nerves. “My father’s letter consisted of ramblings and excuses.”

  “No.” Reverend Parker grasped the sleeve of Markham’s frock coat. “It is true. Why else would your father have asked you to wait to marry?”

  A muscle ticked on Markham’s jaw. “I don’t know the answer. But I will find it eventually.”

  “Until then?”

  “Until then I will continue as we discussed previously. Have your daughter ready to travel in four days.”

  Markham yanked on his hat and stepped out into the dark, wet yard.

  In four days he must be prepared for the demanding London Season with a girl who dismissed proper etiquette, a blackmail hanging over his head, a puzzling letter left by his dead father and a piece of tarnished jewelry.

  Already drenched, Markham climbed upon his horse. Beneath his gloves, the signet ring, his final inheritance, dug painfully into his pinky finger. He’d not wear it again. Once it had represented hope for the future, now it only served to remind him of secrets, lies and deceit. That was his father’s true legacy.

  Chapter Two

  “I will not get on it.” Lizzie stood on the Curzon Street Station railway platform, voices and shouts from the crowd ringing chaos in her ears. The repulsive odor of oil and coal replaced the fragrant smells she’d left behind. She glanced back at the first-class coach. Black and yellow, it resembled an overgrown bumble bee. She was not getting on that thing. Absolutely not.

  Lord Markham cleared his throat and glanced around. But people just chatted and rushed about. No one paid them any mind. “You will, Miss Parker. I’ve already purchased a ticket for you. The dowager has gone to collect a few items. When she returns, the two of you will board the ladies’ coach.”

  She twisted the straps of her reticule and glanced up at him. He towered over her, especially with that high silk hat. His face remained impassive at her glare.

  Yes, she was afraid. Afraid to leave this village, afraid to leave her father, afraid to be anywhere near this man who once saturated her dreams and crushed them as well. “I won’t ride in that. Take me home.”

  Color crept up his cheeks but then he cleared his throat and all emotion disappeared from his face. He brushed a wayward black curl from his forehead, his gleaming black eyes reflecting her scratchy lilac bonnet. “We are taking the train into London today. Get on it now.”

  Lizzie turned behind her to look at the coaches. They looked like a horse-drawn carriage, except without the horses. Instead that large engine, where men dumped coal into a gaping mouth, would pull them all the way to the city.

  “I’ll not do it, take me home.” Lizzie squeezed her eyelids closed, “or if nothing else, don’t leave me on there alone.”

  Lord Markham’s lips were suddenly at her ear. An exotic scent from India or some faraway land rushed through her senses. Her breath halted, knees weakened. “You will be with the dowager.”

  The dowager. What did she know of that woman? Lizzie had seen her at church, but never spoken with her. No, that woman barely knew who the vicar’s daughter was. How could she possibly spend the next several hours with her? And what of the next several weeks and months? Oh.

  Lizzie whirled to face him, her lips now within mere inches of his. His eyes flew wide then he backed away, fighting to recompose his impenetrable mask.

  “I’ve no wish to be in London. Not now. Not ever. If you want me to go with you on that…that train, you will have to find seats for us all to be together.” Yes, she’d rather endure Lord Markham and the memories he brought forward than to force polite conversation with his stepmother.

  A muscle ticked on his jaw. “We cannot ride together. I have already purchased the tickets for the ladies’ coach.”

  Raindrops sprinkled around them. “Then I suggest you find a resolution.”

  “The resolution is for you ride in that coach where you belong.”

  “I belong at home in my cottage. I left my aging father all alone, chickens inside a broken fence, and a garden in need of planting.” Lizzie wiped a raindrop from her nose and lifted her chin. “Either you bring us all in one coach or take me home.”

  He stared at her, saying nothing. His clenched jaw and tense shoulders screamed his fury and yet he remained calm. Raindrops spotted his coat and her bonnet started to wilt, until finally Lord Markham motioned for her to follow him.

  He led her to a private corner behind the ticket window and lowered his voice to hoarse whisper. “I will switch the tickets but from now on you must do as I say.” He leaned toward her. His dark eyes drew her in, called forth some strange tickle in the pit of her stomach that had nothing to do with fear. “Do you agree to do as I say from now until we reach London?”

  Lizzie nodded, a breath lodged in her throat. “Yes.”

  The tightness surrounding his full lips eased. “I will tell the dowager you fear you will be ill on that part of the train and wish to ride in the carriage where my seat is.”

  She bit her lip, but said nothing.

  The earl straightened his spine, his broad shoulders further emphasizing his power. “Miss Parker, I am not convinced you have any idea of what you face, nor are you prepared for the rigors of London society.”

  The train whistle blew.

  He shook his head and headed for the ticket booth.

  After Lord Markham switched the tickets, Lizzie and the dowager climbed up the steps into the coach.

  “I’ll take the window seat,” the older woman said. She shuffled past Lizzie and sank into the red cushion.

  “The center.” Lord Markham’s voice behind her sent a wave of shivers down Lizzie’s spine. She moved aside, uncertain what to do. “You must be between us.”

  The dowager sniffed. “I like to look out of the window. Just sit her in the middle and stay away from her.”

  Lizzie lowered herself in the center seat, careful to not utter a sound or give a disrespectful glance.

  His face reddened as he uttered a low growl and dropped into the cushion beside her. Immediately, a hard thigh pressed against her skirt. Her pulse quickened, mouth dried. His exotic scent brought girlhood dreams rushing back, when she longed for his fingertips to brush her cheek, his mouth to taste her own.

  She pressed her lips tightly together, but still they tingled with the aching of her want. Almost without thought, she turned to face him, to bring her mouth close to his. But the straps of her bonnet caught on her bodice. Lizzie yanked the scratchy thing off her head and set it on her lap.

  “What are you doing?” his voice rumbled above her head. “You can’t remove that.”

  “It bothers me.”

  “Put it back on, Miss Parker.” He reached for the bonnet, his arm inadvertently grazing her breast. A jolt shot down her legs and she gasped. She clenched her thighs but the tremors lingered.

  He immediately withdrew his arm, his lips parting. Those midnight eyes flared with a brilliant heat.

  Lizzie swallowed and
gathered her wits. Yet, her heart raced faster than a fox after one of her hens. She set her chin, a challenge. “No.”

  Lord Markham looked over her head to the dowager. “Tell her she must keep her head covered.”

  An annoyed sigh was his answer. “Eh, it’s just a bonnet, it’s not as if she’s removed her bodice.”

  A whistle’s shrill prevented any further discussion. There were a few shouts on the platform, then the train lurched forward. The feelings of giddiness and yearning vanished as Lizzie’s breath burst from her lungs. In her fear, she inadvertently grabbed Lord Markham’s hand. He surprised her by capturing her fingers in his.

  But, blast it, it was too late to turn back. The motion of the train signaled an end to the life she knew. And it would be the end of everything she ever wanted if she didn’t do whatever it took to come back.

  Lizzie slid her fingers from his. She shouldn’t be holding Lord Markham’s hand. She should be at home with Edmund.

  “You should rest.” He shifted so his arm was just inches from her cheek. Did he do it on purpose? Did he dare tease her sensibilities with that broad shoulder?

  No, not after his outrage at them having to sit next to one another. She must have imagined it…she fantasized about it…she yearned for it…

  Lizzie’s eyelids fluttered then fell, their weight suddenly too heavy. Her chin dipped forward. The sway of the train bobbed her head to the side until her cheek rested upon fabric.

  A spicy scent enveloped her conscious thoughts like a powerful drug that once hummed through her veins. Lizzie listened to the rhythmic clicking of the wheels and Lord Markham’s steady breathing until drowsiness pulled her under.

  The train wheels clicked to match the thump of Markham’s heart. He stared at the empty plush seat across from him, trying to shift away but it was impossible without waking Miss Parker. The sweet scent of roses drifted up from her uncovered hair. He attempted not to inhale it, not to enjoy it, but that, too, was fruitless.

  His blood stirred, warmth raced to his still-firm arousal.

  The brush across her breast still made his pulse race, his fingers itch to slip across her bosom. But he was too much of a gentleman to molest a sleeping girl.

  Devil, but she was a puzzle. She told her father she had prostituted herself to avoid a season in London. That showed more bravery than half the men he knew, not to mention stupidity if she’d actually done it.

  And yet, the sight of the train paled those freckled cheeks. The idea that she’d have to leave home and ride to London alone left her trembling.

  The whistle blew and the train came to its first stop. Markham expected Miss Parker to awaken, but she slept soundly. And now his stepmother dozed on and off with a book in her lap.

  Markham ached to get out and stretch his legs, to find something to eat from a vendor. But he’d not leave these two women asleep without his protection.

  Another couple headed straight for his door. He’d been a fool not to purchase all six seats and take the coach for themselves. But Miss Parker’s last minute demands made it too late for that.

  A tall, middle-aged woman entered first, her navy skirts brushing his knees as she moved forward and settled herself across from Miss Parker at the center. Before her husband even sat down beside her, the lady spoke.

  “Sleeps soundly, does she?”

  Markham nodded. “Yes, she’s been asleep since the last station.”

  Her face warmed and she smiled. “Ah, yes, I remember those days in the beginning well.”

  “Those days?” he blurted, instantly wishing he hadn’t. No doubt this was one of these women who would chatter all the way to London.

  The woman straightened, suddenly realizing her forwardness.

  The woman’s husband unfolded his newspaper. “Don’t bother the poor man,” he said without looking at her. “He looks worn enough already.”

  But Markham needed further clarification. What did she mean, in the beginning? At the start of the London Season, in preparation of the late nights of dancing ahead?

  “Yes, dear,” she replied, pulling a book from her bag. “I’m sure the girl needs rest, just as her mother does.”

  Markham leaned forward as much as he could without causing Miss Parker’s head to drop. “That’s not her mother…wait, what did you mean ‘those days in the beginning’?” What would he do with her in London if she were ill with some fever?

  The woman blinked, sat back against her seat. She obviously wanted to tell him what was on her mind, but etiquette held her tongue.

  But Markham’s curiosity would not be quelled. “You believe she is ill?”

  A quick shake of the head was the only response the stranger would now give him.

  If Miss Parker wasn’t ill, what else would cause her to be so tired? Suddenly, his thoughts traveled back nearly six years ago to the weeks following Emily’s announcement of her condition. Emily would tire easily at the start of her pregnancy. In fact, her frequent naps were what alerted them to her state.

  Markham felt his face drain of all color, a tic leaped on his jaw. Was Miss Parker with child? It couldn’t be possible. Not so quickly. She wouldn’t be like this already. She-she—

  His lungs tightened. He couldn’t breathe. Damn, this couldn’t be happening. His bride-to-be could be pregnant by the young curate…a mere boy she used to prevent her trip. The scandal it could cause!

  Hell, he’d found nothing but dead-ends in his brief search for answers to the reverend’s claim. And now this? He couldn’t explain the disaster, the debacle, his life had become. And what of dear Lucas? A bastard’s son who would have a bastard sibling.

  His stomach twisted, the knots forced cold blood through his system. His pulse roared in his ears and Markham squeezed his eyes closed.

  The devil to Miss Parker and that bloody Edmund Greene. His unraveling life just might meet an end in their foolish exploit.

  No. He’d not allow for this. He’d not lose Lucas’s future the way he lost everything else.

  Markham took a deep, calming breath. He could do this. He had been trained well enough to handle anything. He could handle his stepmother’s extravagances, his stepbrother’s gambling exploits. He only needed a plan. Yes, a plan.

  The first order of business would be to learn the truth of her condition. And if she had lain with that curate, Markham had no choice but to find his way to her bed and her heart as soon as possible. Because if she were truly with child and the ton began to gossip about it, they’d better believe he’d been the cause.

  And so should Miss Parker.

  The loud shrill of the whistle startled Miss Parker awake.

  “London Bridge Station,” the conductor called.

  She glanced up at Markham with round green eyes that nearly provoked his compassion. In a way, he felt badly. After all, she had little knowledge of the game her father played. Yet, his worst trained hound was more obedient and submissive than she.

  “The carriage will await us,” Markham said. “Please stay close to me. The crowds at the station can be rather overwhelming.”

  She nodded, then stifled a yawn.

  The couple across from them gathered their belongings and stood. The woman peered down at Miss Parker, but said nothing.

  The dowager grumbled, but rose within a few minutes. “Alcott said he would send the carriage, but not to expect him.”

  Miss Parker looked up at him, curiosity in her gaze.

  “You remember my stepbrother, don’t you? I’m sure he made it to a church service now and then.”

  Comprehension brought a nod from her as she retied the bonnet on her head.

  They exited the train and Miss Parker gasped the moment they joined the crowd. He led the women through the station, doing his best to ignore the concern drumming in his blood. Even more, he tried to ignore her sweet rose scent.

  While he seemed to succeed at his first attempt, he failed miserably at the second.

  What happened to his extraordinary ab
ility to control his emotions, his body?

  Miss Parker made him crazed already. He couldn’t quell the arousal that pulsed in his veins. He could only think of that first night he saw her. Round and firm, her bosom was molded by the hugging, wet fabric.

  Since then he’d imagined what her breasts looked like without the clothing. Would her nipples have a pink tinge or something more like a dusky rose? Perhaps they would be coral, like the orange tint to her hair. She would taste like the wild flowers of the countryside, sweet and intoxicating.

  His flesh throbbed. Damn.

  They reached the carriage. Seeing the family emblem relaxed him, set his mind at ease. He needed something familiar to ground him, to lull his anxieties.

  His stepmother climbed inside first, followed by Miss Parker. Markham turned his head away from the sight of her slender back.

  Once the women were settled, he sat across from them on the velvet seat. The carriage lurched forward and into the traffic, the gentle swaying soothing him. He reached over and lowered the window. Anything to erase Miss Parker’s sweet perfume.

  A sigh drew his attention to her sullen freckled face. Miss Parker removed her bonnet again. Fiery hair illuminated the dim carriage. Her gaze, though enraptured with the scenery outside the window, obviously ached for what she did not see. Home.

  It would be better if she spoke. Even that sharp tongue of hers would do better than this strained silence.

  “I believe you will like the house,” he offered.

  She did not respond.

  “There is a small garden patio in the rear.”

  Her vivid green eyes flicked to his. Gardens. Flowers. Yes, her father did speak of her love for them. He would have to remember that.

  A soft snore echoed inside the carriage. The dowager had drifted off to sleep already. Lord, that woman couldn’t stay awake for longer than a few minutes in a moving vehicle.

  Markham sighed and turned his attention back to the girl across from him. “Won’t you speak, Miss Parker?”