Mary and the Marquis

by Janice Preston

  Lucas laughed. ‘Touché. That will teach me to make assumptions. If you are cold, you must of course remain by the fire.’

  ‘Why, thank you, kind sir.’ Mary smiled at him, a mischievous glint in her eye as her cheeks dimpled. ‘It is very magnanimous of you, I am sure—’ she pulled at the bedside chair as she spoke, swivelling it around so she was facing the bed ‘—but I now find this chair is more to my liking.’ She sat and folded her hands in her lap.

  He felt a warm glow inside at the return of Mary’s usual good humour. ‘Minx! Was that a subtle way of reminding me to consider the comforts of others when I make requests?’

  ‘Requests?’ Mary’s fair brows arched further. ‘I should rather describe them as demands. But it does remind me that I have a request to make of you.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Go on, Mary.’

  She inhaled, then let the words out in a rush. ‘As I said earlier, Dr Preece has advised that you remain in bed for a few more days, but he also admitted you are unlikely to heed his advice. He also stressed how important it is that you do not attempt the stairs before you are much stronger. Trant is already convinced you will refuse to listen and that you will fall and injure yourself all over again and it will be his fault.’

  ‘How could Trant hope to stop me if I was determined to do such a thing?’ Lucas demanded.

  ‘Quite,’ Mary replied. ‘He cannot, but that would not prevent him blaming himself—or the rest of us for feeling some degree of responsibility, too. That is why I should like your word that you will remain in bed until the doctor pronounces you fit enough to rise.’

  Her teeth worried at her bottom lip. ‘Well?’

  Why was she now on edge again? Fear over how he might react? No wonder she had gabbled her words. It had taken courage for her to speak out as she had.

  ‘I cannot promise that, Mary. I am already sick of the sight of these four walls. Rob would have me cooped up here in bed for a month if he had his way. As I said before, he is like an old...’ Lucas registered the snap of Mary’s brows ‘...an old man, always fussing!’

  Their eyes locked and they laughed in unison.

  ‘At least give me credit for learning,’ Lucas said.

  ‘Oh, I always give credit where it is due,’ Mary said. ‘Now, about the doctor’s instructions...’

  Lucas laughed again. ‘You are a determined negotiator, Mary, I grant you. Unfortunately, you have nothing to bargain with. I, on the other hand, do—for you have revealed your hand all too soon. I will promise to remain in bed until, say, midday tomorrow on the condition you bring the estate ledgers to me tomorrow afternoon.’

  Mary’s eyes gleamed and her lips twitched. She had the air of one who had won the point.

  ‘You look entirely too smug, Mary Vale. What trick do you have up your sleeve?’

  ‘I shall agree to bring you the ledgers if—and only if—you give me your solemn promise not to even attempt the stairs until Dr Preece has agreed you are strong enough.’

  Lucas gasped. ‘I was right. You are a little minx. You tempted me to reveal my hand and all the while you had a hidden ace.’ He shook his head in disbelief as her mouth stretched into a glorious smile. ‘Very well, I concede. I shall give you my word, although I will not promise not to use every means at my disposal to persuade my good friend, Dr Preece, to see matters my way.’

  ‘Hmmph.’ Mary tried, and failed, to look stern. ‘I shall bring the ledgers to you tomorrow afternoon, but I shall also reserve the right to encourage you to remain in bed for as long as possible...’

  ‘And how do you propose to do that, sweet Mary?’

  A delightful blush bloomed in her cheeks, but Lucas saw her bite back another smile.

  ‘I might inform Mrs Lindley that the doctor has instructed you are to remain on gruel for the next week,’ she said tartly.

  ‘Trant would...’

  ‘Trant can do nothing about the food you are offered, without Mrs Lindley’s co-operation. And I can be most persuasive if I choose.’

  ‘I have no doubt on that score, Mary, none at all, but I ask again: how will you ensure I am fully entertained whilst I lie in this bed?’

  A variety of images chased through his brain, none of which he could share with Mary. He held her gaze, read the passion swirling in the depths of her dilated pupils. His skin prickled as his loins tightened. Curse his injuries! What wouldn’t he give to haul her into his arms right now and make love to her?

  Mary frowned, tearing her gaze away. ‘We can play cards,’ she stated. ‘And then there will be the ledgers to occupy you tomorrow afternoon. We can go through them together and, if you have any instructions, I will convey them to Shorey and Hooper.’

  ‘Mary, sweet Mary, is a game of cards the only way you can think of to save me from boredom? I had thought a worldly-wise widow such as yourself might—’

  He stopped short, registering Mary’s scowl.

  ‘I told you this afternoon: I may be a widow, but that does not mean I am available to pass the time for a bored gentleman. Or for any man, for that matter.’

  Lucas bit his tongue. Would he never learn? Had he forgotten so soon the consequence of a similar innuendo earlier that day? At least this time she had stood her ground. That might be construed as progress. He knew he was only teasing—Are you sure?—but Mary clearly did not appreciate such banter.

  He adopted a light tone. ‘I seem doomed to spend my time apologising to you, Mary.’

  Her brow smoothed. ‘You do indeed. Mayhap you might claim your wits are still addled as a consequence of your injury?’

  ‘Addled wits? Hmm, I am not sure I like the sound of that.’

  ‘Temporarily, of course.’ Mary chuckled. She paused, then said, ‘I shall strike a bargain with you once more, sir, if you will? I shall agree to believe the addling of your wits is a result of your being shot—and thereby not your usual state of mind—if...’ She paused, a speculative glint in her eyes.

  ‘If...?’

  ‘If I might borrow Trant in the morning?’

  ‘Trant?’ Lucas could not mask his astonishment. ‘What on earth would you need Trant for?’

  ‘Aaah.’ Mary pursed her lips, her eyes sparkling as one brow arched. ‘That is a surprise.’

  ‘I do not care for surprises. What are you up to, Mary? And why ask my permission? Why not just ask Trant directly? How would I know what he is doing, confined to this prison of a bed as I am.’

  ‘I have been here long enough to know Trant’s routine. The morning is for cleaning this room top to bottom.’

  ‘I know it,’ Lucas grumbled. ‘I have no choice but to lie here with nothing to do other than watch him.’

  ‘Ungrateful wretch,’ Mary said, with a laugh. ‘Trant takes great pride in looking after you and your belongings.’

  She was right, Lucas knew. He acknowledged her scold with a wry smile. Mary took his hand and he fought to conceal his surprise, certain she had acted without conscious intent.

  ‘Well? Will you tell him he must do as I ask tomorrow morning?’

  ‘I can see my final hours stuck in this bed will be even more of a trial, if both you and Trant are off on some secret mission. Why can you not tell me?’

  ‘I told you; it is a surprise.’

  ‘Very well, I will tell him he is to put himself at your disposal.’

  Lucas shifted lower in the bed in a bid to get more comfortable. He suddenly felt very weary. He felt a yawn fighting its way to the surface and struggled to suppress it.

  ‘You are tired. I will leave you to rest.’

  Lucas couldn’t deny sleep sounded most welcome at this point, despite his enjoyment of Mary’s company. His eyelids were getting heavier by the second.

  He tried, and failed, to stifle another yawn. Mary’s hand was still resting upon his and he turned his hand over and closed his fingers around hers.

  He longed to gather her into his arms and hold her but he contented himself with a squeeze of her hand, w
hich he then released. He shifted lower still in the bed, ready for sleep.

  ‘Let me help.’

  Her soft voice lulled him as her scent enveloped him. He lifted weighty lids a fraction to see her leaning over him, her eyes caring and kind. His eyes drifted shut as a gentle arm beneath his neck lifted him and his pillow was smoothed. He felt a cool hand smooth his hair from his brow and—though he could not be sure he did not imagine it—he tasted warm, sweet lips as they lightly brushed his.

  * * *

  The next morning he was no more certain whether or not that kiss had been a dream.

  Trant had helped him freshen up and brought in his breakfast as usual, but had then disappeared. There had been no sign of Mary and his only other visitor had been Ellen, come to collect his breakfast tray. He had asked her where Mary was, but she had just shrugged, grinned and hurried away. As a distraction from the money worries he could do nothing to resolve at the moment, Lucas had set his imagination free to roam with the enigma that was Mary Vale. He revisited their conversations and relived the kiss he could be certain of: their kiss on the night he had been shot. The brush of her lips the night before, however, remained a mystery.

  Then reality had returned with a crash—a literal crash that startled him out of his daydream.

  ‘What the...?’

  The door cracked open and Mary’s face appeared.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Sorry about the noise. Nothing to worry about. Don’t forget your promise.’ She gestured towards the fireplace, beamed and then disappeared before Lucas could gather his wits.

  Promise? What promise? He glared at the fireplace as though it might provide some answers. What was going on? Listening intently, he caught whispered voices; scuffling and scraping on the landing outside; doors opening and closing. And, at one point, a man’s hacking cough. That wasn’t Trant, he was certain. He would never deign to cough in such an inelegant manner.

  On the verge of shoving the bedcovers down so he could get out of bed and go and see for himself what was happening, Lucas paused.

  His promise.

  Midday.

  The clock showed quarter past eleven. Gritting his teeth, he settled back to wait, arms folded across his chest.

  Not knowing what was happening within his own household tested Lucas’s patience to its limits, but the wait gave him time to think. Mary had told him it was a surprise.

  For him.

  That knowledge infused him with warmth and a sense of humility. Not so long ago his response would have been to snap at everyone, demanding to be told what was going on. Mary’s occasional caution around him, however, had stirred his conscience. He already suspected the servants had warned her about his unpredictable temper. He reminded himself again that his father’s debts were nobody else’s fault.

  * * *

  On the stroke of twelve, the door opened again and Mary strolled into his bedchamber.

  ‘Good gracious; still in bed, Lord Rothley?’

  Her voice brimmed with suppressed laughter, her cheeks were flushed and her hair dishevelled.

  He lifted his chin and deliberately looked down his nose at her. ‘I never break my promises,’ he said, in a superior tone. ‘I said I would stay in bed until midday, did I not?’

  Mary bit her lips, but was unable to prevent the corners of her mouth from curving up. ‘Indeed. I am glad you take your word so seriously.’ She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Come on in,’ she called.

  Trant came into the room and went to the wardrobe to fetch a nightgown and a pair of slippers. Mary walked over to gaze out of the window.

  ‘Allow me to help you, my lord,’ Trant said.

  ‘Are either of you going to tell me what is going on?’ Lucas asked, as Trant helped him to sit on the edge of the bed and put on his robe.

  Lucas pushed his feet into the slippers as Mary crossed the room.

  ‘Patience,’ she said, before beckoning at someone outside the door. ‘All right, we’re ready now.’

  Shorey and Hooper shambled into the room, looking slightly discomforted and out of place, bringing with them the smell of the stables. Lucas breathed in deeply. The mixed scents of horses and hay, leather and saddle soap prompted an urge to be out of doors and active. Lucas vowed there and then that, as soon as he was mobile, the stable yard would be his first point of call. Hooper carried a chair that Lucas identified as one of his dining chairs: a carver, with arms. But he was more interested at this moment in his men, whom he had not seen since his fever.

  After exchanging greetings, he asked, ‘How are the animals? Are they all accounted for?’

  ‘Aye, milord. Looking bonnier by the day,’ Shorey said, as Hooper set the chair down.

  Trant and Mary placed themselves either side of Lucas and grasped one arm each. Lucas looked from one to the other and raised a brow.

  ‘Do you intend to use words to communicate or am I expected to guess what happens next? Or is this, perchance, some modern game of charades designed to entertain me?’

  Even Trant cracked a smile as Mary stifled a laugh. ‘The chair is for you,’ she said. ‘We are merely here to steady you, as you have not been on your feet for several days. It would never do for you to fall.’

  What on earth were they up to? Lucas eyed the chair with misgiving.

  ‘Forgive me, but I quite fail to see the attraction of that chair when there is a perfectly serviceable—and far more comfortable—chair by the fire. I am certain I can walk that far, with a little assistance.’

  ‘You will see the attraction in a very short while, I promise,’ Mary said. ‘Shall we see if you can stand?’

  Lucas—to his annoyance—found it took two attempts to rise to his feet and, even then, he feared he might have toppled back on to the bed had it not been for Mary and Trant’s support. The muscles in his legs quivered as he shuffled forward and it was with a sense of relief that he lowered himself into the chair. No sooner was he seated than the chair tipped precariously back and, before he realised their intent, Shorey and Hooper had hoisted both him and the chair into the air. He grabbed hold of the arms.

  ‘What?’

  He looked round wildly, ducking his head as they manoeuvred the chair through the doorway. Trant hovered on the landing, directing the two grooms. A glance over his shoulder revealed Mary, following behind, biting at her lip. Her sunny smile had faded and her brow was furrowed. Lucas had no time to wonder at her change in mood, for the men now carried him through the door into a disused bedchamber, always known as the Blue Room, along the landing from his own room.

  He gazed around with a sense of wonder. It was no longer a tired, dust-covered, unloved bedchamber but had been transformed. It was fresh and clean. The windows sparkled and every surface was polished. A fire burned merrily in the grate. No longer dominated by a huge four-poster bed and a monstrous wardrobe, it now boasted two comfortable chairs, set either side of the hearth, and a chaise longue had been placed by one of the windows. The men carried him across to the chaise longue—which he now recognised had come from his mother’s private sitting room—and lowered the chair to the floor.

  ‘There ye be, milord,’ Shorey panted. He nodded at Mary. ‘Just send word when ye need us to take his lordship back to his bedchamber, ma’am,.’

  ‘Thank you, Shorey, and you, too, Hooper.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, thank you both,’ Lucas said, still in a state of disbelief.

  He pushed himself out of the chair and, with Trant steadying him, he sat on the chaise longue. ‘And thank you, too, Trant. You have worked miracles in here.’

  He lifted his legs up and Trant produced a blanket to cover him.

  ‘It was a joint effort, my lord. Now, if there is nothing further you need, I will go and see to your bedchamber.’

  Finally, Lucas was alone with Mary. She stood rigidly in the centre of the room, her blue eyes filled with doubt, her slender fingers twining together in front of her. He longed to sweep her into his arms and reas
sure her. He felt a surge of...what? Not lust, although that lurked ever-ready below the surface. Protectiveness: that was it. It was an uncomfortable realisation. He could barely protect those who were already his responsibility. He had no wish to add to their number. But...she had done all this...for him. She had seen his need and had set out to satisfy it. That knowledge did, indeed, humble him.

  ‘I have changed my mind,’ he said. ‘I have decided I do like surprises after all.’

  * * *

  Mary felt her tension dissipate. She had been so sure Lucas would like her idea, right up until the time Shorey and Hooper had been carrying him, like an ancient king upon a litter, along the landing. Then the doubts had assailed her. What if she had misread him? What if he was furious? What if he objected to her rearranging his house and interfering with the servants’ chores?

  ‘I am glad you approve.’

  She had so wanted to do something special for him, to help relieve his boredom. She felt a warm glow at the undisguised pleasure on his face. She moved nearer to him and looked out of the window.

  ‘I chose this room because it is a corner room and you have a choice of views.’

  She was standing so close she could hear the steady huff of his breathing and his scent—male, familiar, exciting—pervaded her senses. Unable to resist, she stroked her hand across his shoulder as she leaned forward to indicate the landscape: the Cheviots—dark and threatening under the clouds—loomed in the distance. He started at her touch and she quickly tucked her hand down by her side, flattening her palm against her skirt.

  ‘It is a pity the weather is not better.’ Her throat felt tight and her voice was strained.

  ‘You cannot help the weather, Mary. I do not mind. I love the changeable moods of the hills—the very best days are the showery ones, with the sun breaking from behind the clouds. The shadows on the hills make a dramatic moving picture—vastly more entertaining than the wallpaper in my bedchamber.’