She knew no more until she opened her eyes again to full daylight. Stretching, she took a deep breath. When her skin slid against the sheets, she came fully awake. She was naked. She had never slept naked before, and it felt wickedly decadent.
Her body was well used, but he was right, she did not hurt. She was to marry him, to become a duchess! The notion did not seem possible. How could that be? From governess to duchess in one night? More importantly, she had given herself to him and he accepted her. Given himself back.
Sitting up, she threw back the sheets, nearly tripping over the valise someone had dumped by the washstand. She had not unpacked it yet, since it contained her oldest, shabbiest clothes. Her old straw hat was perched on the back of a chair, silently reminding her of where she came from and how far she needed to go. She would keep it, as a reminder.
Perhaps she would write to her parents today. They should know she was about to marry. First she needed to wash.
The scent of their lovemaking clung to her, musky and unmistakable. She picked up the luxuriously large sponge by the washbasin and picked up the enamelled can. The water inside was warm. That meant a maid had been in and delivered it. She’d have tidied up Ruth’s clothes too, Ruth realised belatedly when she noticed the things she’d worn yesterday neatly folded and piled on the sofa by the window.
Her body heated in embarrassment. Whoever it was would have seen Ruth’s state of undress and smelled the redolent aroma, and probably come to the right conclusion. They would be gossiping in the kitchen.
Shyness assaulted her. Perhaps she would not go to breakfast. She would not starve if she missed a meal. The thought of all those stares from the servants daunted her. While she would have to grow accustomed to gossip and stares, she need not do everything at once. Today she would enjoy the memories of last night and try to absorb what was to come. If she took it one step at a time, she would get there. Whatever else happened, she would not become a millstone around Marcus’s neck. She would make him proud of her.
Smiling, because she could do little else, she dressed in one of the gowns she had made over from the collection upstairs. She could use more now, would need to because of her new status. The servants would return here to make the bed and tidy the room properly. With the new compliment of maids and footmen, Ruth could hardly avoid bumping into one of them.
Except in one place.
The silver hairbrush gleamed in the sunlight as she plied it on her soft, light brown hair. Whatever did Marcus see in her? He’d called her beautiful, but the mirror told her otherwise. She would easily pass unnoticed anywhere she was not known, with only her unusual height to differentiate her from anyone else in the crowd. She possessed some pretty features—her eyes, for instance—but not enough. No clear-cut profile or heart-shaped face. Marcus loved her.
As she loved him.
Grasping a handful of pins, she drove them deeply into the bun she coiled tightly at the back of her head, ensuring not a curl would escape. She would appear perfectly neat, her usual self in fact, nothing to encourage even more gossip. Perhaps it was ill-bred of her to worry so, but she would not deny that part of her. One of her mother’s constant sayings was, “What will people think?” That concern led her to disown Rhea, and eventually to Ruth’s defection. How would they take her news? She would write to them today, as was her duty, but perhaps she would not send the letter immediately. Let her absorb the news for herself first, before her parents descended on her.
She left her room on a shudder. To her relief nobody lingered in the corridor outside, so she made her way hurriedly to the library. Nobody came there. She could spend the next few hours—until Marcus spoke to the ladies and probably to d’Argento—in solitude, using the excuse she needed to write letters to her people.
This wing, being the old part of the house, was not frequented by many, but someone had come and dusted recently, so maybe they would leave Ruth alone here. Going to the desk where Marcus usually sat, she took up a pen and a knife, sharpening it with quick movements, and found the ink. There was a writing desk in her new room, but she did not want to lurk there while a maid cleaned around her.
Ruth disliked attention. She was not used to it, and she did not yet know how she would cope, except she would have Marcus by her side. She sucked the end of the pen, wondering what to say before she pulled a sheet of paper towards her.
Used to economising on paper and postage, she kept her message short.
Dear Mother and Father,
I am at the house of the Duke of Lyndhurst, where I ensured your grandchildren were being cared for. Although I planned to travel to London and seek employment as a governess, my plans have changed. I will be marrying the Duke, as soon as he may arrange it. You are welcome to visit if you wish, but we decided to keep the ceremony small and private, to be held in three weeks at the local church.
It occurred to her she did not know the date of her marriage, so she left the letter open. She would add that as soon as she knew and then dispatch the letter. Had they worried about her, looked for her? Or merely shrugged her off, the way they had with Rhea? They had daughters to spare. Surely if they wanted to find her they would have sent a message here?
Her spirits depressed by the reminder of what she’d left behind, Ruth folded the letter and put it in a drawer, ready for her to add the date and ask Marcus to frank it for her. Peers, being members of Parliament, did not pay postal charges. Only people of lesser status did that.
She could go upstairs to the nursery, but she would much rather face people after Marcus made his announcement. Then the household would know for sure of her new status and she would feel more certain. Steadier. Besides, she wanted to dream. Lord knew she had no opportunity in the general run of affairs. She would indulge herself.
After taking a totally frivolous book from the shelves, carefully avoiding the horrors of Pamela, Ruth made her way to her favourite alcove. If she lifted her feet and tucked her skirt tightly around her, she could draw the curtain and make her own, private room. She sat back against the soft cushions with a contented sigh and started to read.
She was three chapters in before she heard the door open. Her first instinct was to reveal her presence here, but when she heard a voice, she stayed put.
“How could he do this?” Lady Nerine demanded.
“He has a free choice,” her sister responded. “Nerine, control yourself, otherwise you will deter him forever. We should not be disturbed here.”
A breeze, more sensed than actually felt, passed through the room. Ruth stiffened. She had never noticed draughts in here before and today was sunny. Not a breath of wind stirred the roses outside. The old glass in this mullioned window made them sway when she moved, but apart from that trick of optics, they were perfectly still.
A fluke, it must be, or a bird in the chimney, something of that nature.
Lady Damaris continued to talk to her sister. From the sound of their voices, they were standing at the other end of the room, but Ruth heard them perfectly. Lady Damaris possessed a clear, bell-like voice, while her sister’s tended to the shrill, especially now, when she was agitated.
“You should make him,” Lady Nerine said. “Tell him, Damaris, we are meant for each other. That was what you told me and that was what I expected. Nerine marries Mars. It is always that way.”
“Last time—”
Lady Damaris spoke. “Last time it was not you and it was not him. Last time Mars was French, and his Nerine was Greek. They died together in the explosion. I thought you would never return, but you have. In a way.”
“What do you mean, in a way?” Nerine demanded. “Surely he is or he is not.”
Lady Damaris spoke slowly and carefully, obviously in an attempt to calm her sister. What on earth were they talking about? Mars, Nerine? Ruth glanced down at her book. She’d picked up a translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, legends of gods and godd
esses turning into other objects, trees, birds, stags. People, sometimes, going into mortal world in disguise. Stories, myths, that was all they were. Perhaps “Mars” was a nickname Nerine bestowed on Marcus. Ruth knew enough mythology to recognise the name of the wife of Mars. Or in some legends, his sister or his daughter.
Was Lady Nerine deranged and Lady Damaris attempting to console her and calm her? Had Marcus made a better escape than he supposed?
“Nerine, nymphs are not reborn. When they die, they are gone. When you were born, we called you Nerine in her memory. Oh yes, you are a nymph, and a sea nymph at that, but you are not that Nerine born again.” Lady Damaris spoke as if she was explaining something perfectly natural. She must be as insane as her sister.
“You mean I’m not destined to marry him?”
“Not if one of you doesn’t wish it.”
Ruth would stay where she was and pray they did not discover her. God knew what these two would do to her if they discovered her here.
Lady Nerine came closer to Ruth’s hiding place. She held her breath while the lady spoke again. “All my life you told me we were destined for each other.”
“I might have been wrong,” Lady Damaris admitted. “You are young, in truth as well as in the eyes of the world. We can go to London, find you someone else.”
“Someone who wants a nymph?” Lady Nerine cried bitterly. “Who, pray, would that be?”
“D’Argento opened the Pantheon club for immortals like us,” Lady Damaris said.
D’Argento was involved in this insanity?
“Does that mean other gods are there?”
“Yes indeed. He is gathering them back together. Because the explosion happened here, it means most of the Olympian gods are British. They are here, so it makes sense he should come here.”
“He’s one of the old ones, is he not?” Lady Nerine stood so close to the curtain, surely she could hear Ruth trying to control her breathing? If she held her breath, eventually she would have to gasp when she ran out of air. She could not risk that, so she worked hard, thanking the powers that be that she had put on her old, comfortable stays instead of the new, stiffer ones.
“Yes,” Lady Damaris said in answer to her sister’s question. “He is probably five hundred years old. Maybe older. There are too few of them left. Boscobel has a lot to pay for.”
Boscobel? There was a duke of that name, purportedly too ill to appear in public these days. They must mean somebody else. That name was so unusual it stuck in Ruth’s mind.
“He will continue to pay,” said a voice at the door. “Are you certain we’re alone in here?”
“I scanned the room,” Lady Damaris said.
That breeze returned. There must be a draught after all. Ruth marked it in her mind to mention to Mrs. Brindlehurst later.
D’Argento closed the door. “Then you will ensure we continue to be alone.”
“Did you know of this?” Lady Nerine’s skirts swished as she walked across the room.
Ruth breathed out slowly.
“No, but I suspected. If you did not notice the way Lyndhurst looked at Miss Simpson at dinner last night, you are truly blind. Use your human senses instead of your immortal ones. Look, listen and think. He is in love with her.”
“He’d need to be.” That came from Lady Damaris, followed by a laugh. “She’s a mouse of a woman.”
“Only someone of your height would say that,” d’Argento said dryly. “We will come about. Listen to your sister, Nerine. Come to London.”
“How did you know I said that?” Lady Damaris demanded, but her next tones came softer. “Oh, of course. You were listening before you arrived here. D’Argento, you will teach me that trick.”
“Diana, I would be delighted.” He voice came from two places, as if he’d bowed to her. If he had, it would be a mock bow. He’d called her Diana. What was this madness? Ruth needed to talk to Marcus as soon as possible.
“You should come to London. I’ll find your sister a husband. You too, if you should wish it.”
Lady Damaris gave a scoffing laugh. “I am over thirty, in the counting of men. In truth. You cannot find me a husband.”
“You’re also a wealthy woman. Venus has newly married.”
“She was a widow. In the eyes of the world, I’m a spinster.”
D’Argento laughed, and his tones held no mockery. “You are a goddess, and you are an aristocrat. You are also lucky. Now is the time to progress, to develop your future, to be what you should be.”
“What is that? How can I marry a mortal who will die in a few decades? How can I do that?”
“You could marry a god. You could join with me to discover the others. We have only just begun. Where are Ceres, Proserpina, Neptune? I do not know. Do you?”
A pause fell before Lady Damaris said, “You may have the right of it. I may know where one of them is, but I’m not sure.”
“That is why I established the club. It’s a rallying place. Gods are safe there. No Titans are allowed inside and I placed strong barriers to protect us.” His feet clicked as he crossed the old wooden floor. Ruth breathed shallowly before he turned around and walked back in the other direction. “Let Mars take his woman. He loves her. He may be able to convert her to our side. She could become immortal.”
Ruth clapped her hand over her mouth to stop her scream escaping. These people were mad indeed. Her silence might be her only safety. Heaven knew what they would do to her if they discovered her.
The door slammed open, and Marcus’s voice boomed across the space. “What are you doing here?”
Lady Nerine gave a small scream, and Lady Damaris hushed her. “There, my dear. Do you see what an escape you had?”
“No, I do not!” Lady Nerine sounded tearful. “He is mine. I want him. He is mine, you said so!” She burst into a storm of weeping, the sound muffled. Her sister must be holding her. Or someone else, perhaps, although even now Ruth could not imagine the perfectly turned-out Lord d’Argento letting anyone cry all over his impeccable waistcoat. She did not need to see him to know he was wearing one.
“We came here because it was quiet. How did we know you would all follow? I wanted to talk to my sister in peace.” Lady Damaris’s voice throbbed with emotion. “Can you not see how affected she is? Have a heart, sir.”
“I thwarted Nerine’s ambition, not her heart,” Marcus commented. His voice sounded wry. “She doesn’t love me. Not like—”
“Your governess,” Lady Nerine sneered, still tearful. “You just want someone to control. She’s mild as milk. You’ll have no trouble with her. Nerine is too spirited for you.”
Ruth bit the back of her hand to stop herself crying out. She possessed spirit, if not the kind Lady Nerine seemed to want. Terror rippled through her when she thought of the danger Marcus could be in from these madmen.
“Speak of her with respect. I mean to marry her.”
“A mortal?” Lady Damaris said, sneering. “You cannot marry one of those. For God’s sake, you’re Mars!”
Ruth sucked in a breath, waiting for his response. It came quickly. “I own a mortal side too. I am Marcus as well as Mars. That side of me hears her and wants her. I plan to convert her.”
“What if she isn’t suitable?” d’Argento rapped out.
Ruth’s head spun. Was Marcus humouring them? Was that it? Blinking hard, she stared out of the window, more to control her fluttering heart than to see anything. The sun had gone and rain pattered on the roses. She watched it dully, counting the drops.
“Then I will renounce what I am. I will live and die with her as a mortal. I never relished the immortal part of me, in any case. Why should I? It was given to me, I had no say in it.”
“Your mother lay alongside mine in that hellish nursery,” Lady Damaris said. “I had no more choice than you, but I embrace the chance to change affairs f
or the good.”
“We change nothing,” d’Argento snapped. “We fight to keep events as they are. Or do you not believe in free will, free choice?”
Oh God, what was going on? Why did they not leave?
“Wait.” Warmth swept through her head, as it sometimes did when Marcus was by.
The curtain was ripped back. Marcus stood in front of the alcove, staring at her, pale-faced.
Chapter Fourteen
“What did you do to her?” d’Argento demanded.
Marcus felt her pain. Once he’d opened his mind and sensed her presence, he came straight to her. It could be too late. “I blocked her mind,” he told his colleague. “I wanted our happiness to be ours alone, and I knew she disliked sharing. She’s a private person. It was all she had at one point in her life.”
“So a god is brought down by love,” Lady Nerine said. “He gives in to his mortal.”
“Be quiet!” When Marcus reached for Ruth, she shrank back. His heart ached. “What did you hear?” Frantically he wondered if he could turn this into something else. Maybe they were planning amateur dramatics. Perhaps they could get away with a story like that.
He rejected the notion immediately. He wanted to marry her, convert her in time. A story like that would destroy any hope. They promised not to lie to each other. True, it was in the context of a game, but the game served its purpose. She had come to trust him. She would not trust him now.
Stepping back to give her some space, he held out his hand. “Come with me. Let me talk to you.”
Ruth stared up at him, eyes wide. She’d been crying. Teeth marks marred the back of her hand. The claws around his heart eased when she reached out one trembling hand and grazed his fingers.
“Let her go,” Lady Damaris said. “She’s better without us in any case. Let her think we are insane. Let her think we’re planning a play. Anything. Wipe her mind and let her go.”
Ruth snatched back her hand, and Marcus cursed silently. “Look at me, Ruth. You know I won’t hurt you. Take my hand and let’s go somewhere else.”
War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5 Page 20
