A Tarnished Heart

by Leslie Dicken

  The carriage rolled to a stop, but Markham refused to let her alight from it. Had he not risked himself for her last night at the ball? As Lucinda confirmed, they continued to discuss the scandal all night. “Why do you say that? Last night—”

  She drew her belongings close to her heart. “You care about society and what they think of you. That’s what motivated you last night. Not protecting my honor.”

  The door opened but Markham waved the footman away and yanked it closed. “I was protecting you from that man.”

  When she finally looked up at him, the shadows darkened her eyes again. “You were preventing further scandal to yourself. You can’t really care for me, or anyone else, unless you can feel…and you have no emotions.”

  Of course he showed no emotions, he was an excellent learner. Emotions led to rash decisions and impulsive actions. He learned that lesson when Emily paid the ultimate price.

  “I have emotions. I just don’t share them freely the way others do.” But did he really? He spent many a hard hour learning not to feel. Sentiment makes you weak. Yes, his father had taught him that well enough, only he didn’t listen as a young man. He would heed the warning now.

  “Oh, have we arrived already?” Lady Harkmoor collected her things. “I wasn’t asleep. Don’t think I wasn’t paying careful attention.”

  Miss Parker sighed. “Please let me out, my lord.”

  Markham moved aside. His stepmother’s cousin exited first and then Miss Parker, taking all vitality and warmth with her.

  His head spun with the need to understand her. He’d need more than careful skill to peel back the layers of her secrets, to find the core of her heart. He would need time and patience.

  But he had neither.

  Chapter Seven

  Markham watched Miss Parker’s hair sparkle with red fire as she marched up the steps of the house. Such a small girl in size and yet she illuminated whole rooms. Not just thatched-roof country houses, but ballrooms and parlors. And apparently she inflamed desire in other men and petty jealousy in women.

  What he wouldn’t give to have this Season over, have his life back in order. To regain control. And yet, did he ever have control?

  He entered the house and started up the stairs, but then paused at a gold-framed portrait upon the wall.

  His young, beautiful mother.

  The drone of normal activity in the house quieted as he stared into those painted, bottomless eyes, the hollow fury gnawing in his empty stomach. Her death robbed him of so much…he could barely remember the warmth of her touch.

  A sharp stab pierced his throat and Markham swallowed. He knew better than to weep. Tears equaled weakness in a man and weakness equaled recklessness. All those years, Markham had thought all oldest sons were stifled and restrained. It wasn’t until the university that he learned of the wild life some his friends lived. It wasn’t until Reverend Parker returned the ring that Markham knew why his father insisted on perfection.

  Would anything have been different had his mother lived?

  “She certainly was beautiful.”

  The sudden voice startled Markham and he swung around to face it. His eyes fell upon the lopsided grin of his stepbrother, Lord Alcott. Blue eyes, rimmed with red, spoke of late night festivities and all other manner of unrestrained behavior. A tick started in Markham’s jaw.

  Alcott raised a brown eyebrow. “It is no wonder your father fell in love with her.”

  A typical sweetening. What would he ask for now?

  When Alcott’s own father left him and his mother with nothing but gambling debts and overdue notes, Markham’s father had graciously paid them off after the marriage. And to this day, Markham was paying for his stepmother and stepbrother’s expenditures.

  “Why does it not surprise me to find you here?”

  “I have to talk to you.”

  Markham nodded his head toward the staircase. Better to get this over with as soon as possible. “To the study.”

  “Right.” They descended the steps. “How is your houseguest?”

  “Why?” Concern flooded Markham’s gut. He didn’t need competition. Winning Miss Parker was hard enough as it was. “Are you interested in pursuing her?”

  “Don’t know really. I doubt she’d be right for me.”

  “Your mother would resist her lack of title?”

  They entered the study, painted a deep red and decorated with hunting pictures and trophies. Alcott shut the door. “It’s not that. She’s a clergyman’s daughter. Prim, proper, pious. You know, everything that I’m not. But she sounds perfect for you.”

  Markham’s mouth went dry. Unfortunately, Miss Parker was exactly the opposite of what his brother assumed and that made her quite unsatisfactory for him. Yet, her spirit and rebelliousness seemed ideal for Alcott. Its irony blossomed a new fear within Markham’s chest. If his brother were to find out about Miss Parker’s uncharacteristic behavior, he might show an interest in her. Markham didn’t need more complications.

  “I need your help.”

  Markham leaned a hip against the desk. “You need to help yourself out of these situations.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “I understand that my father left you with an allowance and you can repay your gambling debt with that.”

  “It isn’t money that I owe.”

  Though Alcott’s face still held the energy and smoothness of youth, purple smudges beneath his eyelashes told the true story of living a life that held far too much recreation. Desperation expanded in those blue eyes.

  “What then? What is it?”

  His brother threw up his hands, gesturing wildly. “There was this horse and I just knew it would win—”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.” Markham snapped. “Just tell me what you need from me.”

  Alcott’s gaze lowered to the carpet at their feet. “Your father’s ring.”

  Markham choked. “Did you say my father’s ring?”

  Alcott’s nod sent a surge of anger to Markham’s lungs, suffocating him. He coughed again, his eyes dampening, until he could regain control of his facilities.

  “You bet the ring on…a horse? It isn’t even yours.”

  “He suggested it and I…I never thought the horse would lose. Besides, you never wear it.”

  “It was only returned to me a few weeks ago. It’s too small, but still it’s mine.” Markham clenched and unclenched his fists, his chest expanding with each furious breath. His father’s ring. The tarnished symbol of his tarnished right to the title.

  Markham swallowed, struggling to keep his voice even. “How did this gentleman know of the ring?”

  “I don’t know. But he described it exactly and said that it was the only wager he’d accept.”

  “But why would he want it? Who is this person anyway?”

  His brother sank into the leather chair behind the desk. “Some marquess who owns a stable. He races his horses at Ascot and the like.”

  “His name, Alcott. What’s his name?”

  “Fallston, I believe. The Marquess of Fallston.”

  Frigid ice rushed through Markham’s blood. Lord Fallston—Lady Fallston’s husband. He’d told that damned silver-haired vixen about the legacy of the ring one night when lust had stolen his reason. Markham had described not only the beauty of the ring to Lucinda, its large center ruby and carved hawks, but also some silly tale about its prediction of true love or some other nonsense.

  Now, just a year later, the bitch used Alcott’s foolhardy gambling ways to seek revenge on him—the one man who spurned her. She knew Markham would never let a debt go unpaid, he’d never allow for any scandal to cross the lips of polite society. Now he must pay with his inheritance—his son’s inheritance. For what purpose, he could only imagine.

  The frozen blood reached his knees and he collapsed into a chair opposite his desk. Hell, his life continued to spiral out of control. Yet another complication he must withstand. Markham cleared his throat. “It�
��s back at Blackhawk Manor. When do you need it?”

  “Soon. He’s already come looking for it.”

  “I’ll leave tomorrow then.” Perhaps he could surprise Lucas with his unexpected return.

  “So, shall I help Mother look after Miss Parker while you are gone?”

  He wouldn’t dare leave the two of them alone together. With Alcott’s careless gambling and Miss Parker’s outrageous behavior, he could not begin to imagine the havoc they could cause together.

  “No,” he answered, a dull ache began to throb behind his eyes. “I’ll take her along. I’m certain she will be delighted to go.”

  The dowager herself made the trip back to Abingdon with them, having some friends she wanted to visit and more items to bring back to London. The carriage dropped Lizzie off first before heading to Blackhawk Manor.

  The moment Lizzie stepped down to her front yard, the sunshine vanished behind layers of darkening clouds. Her blood hummed with the thrill of returning home as she watched Markham’s carriage rattle away. At last, she could see Papa, she could fill her senses with the comfort of home.

  The front gate creaked as Lizzie opened it. She shooed several chickens inside the fence. Taking a deep breath, she climbed the two steps to the small house’s front door. The scent of welcoming blossoms rushed through her, filling her with memories. How she loved spring. She loved being here when the flowers opened, cutting them into colorful displays.

  She blinked, leaning her head against the doorframe. She pictured Rachel skipping around to each garden and choosing one flower. She’d pluck it off, using the utmost care, and bring it to Mama in an assorted bouquet. No matter how tattered the petals, no matter how eaten the leaves, Rachel always found wonder and beauty in the flowers.

  Lizzie’s throat tightened. When Mama died, Rachel brought the collection to her instead. And then the day came that her sister was no more. When Lizzie had failed her duty.

  She hadn’t meant to be gone so long that afternoon. How was she to know Markham’s carriage would be on the road near the path? But during the exchange of her silly question and his careless reply, Rachel awoke from her nap and wandered off. They could only guess it was the lure of a pretty flower on the far shore that led the girl into the water.

  Swallowing the painful sob choking her, Lizzie pushed open the front door. The familiar smells and scene nearly brought the tears back but she straightened her spine. If she allowed herself to dissolve once, it would easily happen again. Then the impassive Markham would breach the fortress of her heart. She could be as emotionless as he, if need be.

  On the sofa, near the fireplace, her father slept. His daily afternoon nap. But it was later than afternoon, in fact, fingers of darkness already encroached upon her garden.

  “Elizabeth? Is that you?”

  “Oh, Papa!” She forgot her anger at the love in his voice. Lizzie ran over to him and sank on her knees before the sofa. She laid her head on his chest, listening to the slow steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

  “This is a surprise, child. Tell me you did not run away from London.”

  “No, Papa, Mar…the earl had a task to attend to and allowed me to come along. Tell me you are well.” She hated not seeing his face each day, not hearing his voice. What if something happened while she wasn’t near? Papa needed her here to look out for him.

  He rubbed his hand on her back. “I’m well enough and quite happy to see you.”

  Lizzie allowed her heart to ease. She’d been gone several weeks and he managed all right without her. The house seemed less tidy than normal but her father was at least well. And alive. “How are things? Do the Sunday School students miss me? What about Mrs. Poole, has she had her baby yet?”

  The deep rumble of his laugh tickled her ears. “Child, you’ve far too many questions for such an old man.”

  She sat back on her heels. “But do you miss me? Does the congregation miss me?” Does Edmund miss me?

  He patted her hand. “Of course I miss you. But we are getting along fine without you. Adjustments have been made in your absence.”

  Just as they were made in Mama’s absence. A vice tightened in Lizzie’s chest. She wouldn’t be forgotten. Not the way they’d forgotten her mother. Oh, there was grief and talk for months after Mama’s death. But then quietly life went on without her. Someone else baked pies for gatherings, someone else read the Bible aloud to the Wester and Ridley families. Within a year it was as if Mama had never been there at all.

  And now they were forgetting her too.

  Lizzie stood, wrapped her arms over her chest, and turned so that her father could not see her aching.

  “What is it, Elizabeth? You must know that everyone is replaceable. Even myself.”

  She swallowed but didn’t answer.

  “Even Queen Victoria has a successor. You have a different life now, it is time you realize that.”

  “I don’t want that life, Papa. I want to live here, the way I always have.”

  “Elizabeth…”

  “Mama told me to go to London so that I could find a husband to help care for Rachel as she grew older, but now she’s gone. They’re both gone. Why must I still go and find a wealthy husband? I’d rather be here, with you. I don’t want to leave your side.”

  She heard him grunt as he got to his feet. “Even with your sister gone, you deserve a better life than this. Have you given London a chance? Have you allowed yourself to find excitement in something new?”

  The trouble was that she had. From the amazing structure of the Crystal Palace to the ancient history of Westminster Abbey to the secret thrill of wearing extravagant gowns. She had found excitement in Markham’s dark glance, the ease with which she could fluster him, in the tortured longing for a taste of his lips. How could she long for both Abingdon and London? How could she want both Edmund and Markham?

  Who was she anymore?

  Lizzie sniffled. She must find her way back into this world. She must believe she still had a place here. She hadn’t been gone that long. “Perhaps in the morning I will take a walk into the village. Do you need me to bring you back anything?”

  He came up beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. “No. I need nothing. Let us have a nice supper together. Tomorrow you can visit Mrs. Estwich, I just christened her son the other day.”

  That was a good idea. A way to revisit with old friends, check in on the daily life here, prove to these villagers that she hadn’t forgotten them as they had forgotten her.

  The night progressed with a comfortable ease that went a long way toward soothing Lizzie’s worries. Still, when the next morning came, her yearning to see the village had not dimmed.

  Lizzie squeezed her father’s hand then pulled on her bonnet. “I won’t be gone long. I hope we can have afternoon tea together before I must return to London.”

  He nodded. “Of course, child. I look forward to it.”

  Lizzie left her cottage and picked her way through the overgrown underbrush behind the house, humming softly. But somewhere deep inside guilt nibbled at her. She had skirted by Edmund’s house without even glancing at the windows. Had he been inside? Why didn’t she stop to see him?

  The copse of trees opened up into a field sprinkled with yellow cowslips. Just over to her right was a hedgerow marking a farmer’s land. Behind the patchwork of fields another hill rose toward the blanket of gray sky.

  Her breath stilled. On the east side of the hill, grand in all its glory, stood the impressive façade of Blackhawk Manor. The view from its veranda must be breathtaking. What it must be like to live under that roof, wake each morning to an already-prepared breakfast, sip tea while scanning the cottages in the village?

  Lizzie gnashed her teeth and lowered her head. It didn’t matter. She’d never live there. She didn’t want to live there. Rachel’s death was God’s omen that she should not have been dreaming of a place she didn’t belong.

  She descended the path and crossed the stone bridge. Ducks and geese paddled be
neath her, occasionally diving for their lunch. Lizzie smiled and her heart slowed. Already, she was comforted by the familiar sights, by the calm splendor of the rows of stone houses. How could those streets of ostentatious, showy houses in Grosvenor Square compare to the serene beauty here in the village?

  As Lizzie neared the last house on the street row, the front door swung open. Two people emerged, deep in conversation. She stood, waiting for them to move on. Finally, after a few close whispers and giggles the woman continued up the street and the man headed straight for her.

  Her heart wrenched. Her stomach dropped.

  Edmund.

  Chapter Eight

  Lizzie swallowed the unease which crept up her throat. She stole a glance behind her. Was there somewhere to hide? Some tree she could slip behind until he passed? She didn’t want to see Edmund. She was too confused by her attraction to Markham.

  Apparently, Edmund was just as surprised to see her. “Elizabeth?”

  Rooted to her spot on the cobbled street, she barely gave a nod of her head.

  He came to join her, his overgrown blond hair swinging past the tips of his ears. His face was young and eager, just as she remembered it.

  He stood before her. “What are you doing here?”

  “Offering my well-wishes to Mrs. Estwich.”

  Edmund grinned. “And why are you back in the village? Has your father finally come to his senses?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  Lizzie took a hard look at him. His hair looked far too light in color, his face too clear and unlined. His height, perfect for her twenty-odd days ago, was now too short. His lips were too thin, his shoulders too narrow, his stare too brazen.

  He was nothing like Markham’s dark good looks and powerful stance.

  The moon had yet to make a full cycle since she’d sworn she’d love Edmund forever. She thought him the perfect husband. Now everything that had been so right about him before suddenly seemed so wrong.

  Blast it, he could not have gone through such a transformation. No, it was her. She was changing. Her stomach took another plunge. She was falling under Markham’s spell again, yearning for a man who was everything she wasn’t.