by Kelly Boyce
“It is not the Walkerton crest,” he stated with flat finality. “What would I be doing with such a thing?”
Her mind swirled from the unexpected heat of his touch.
“How should I know? You’re the one with the watch.”
“It is not the Walkerton crest,” he repeated. “It is nothing. Is there a reason you’re still here?”
“Heavens, Marcus! Have I done something to displease you?”
He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, exposing the length of his throat and giving Rebecca a clear view of the small V where his shirt opened and revealed a portion of his chest. It rose and fell and she had the urgent need to slip her hand beneath the linen and place it over his heart and feel the steady motion of his breath. She curled her fingers into her palm, the memory of him holding her in his arms still ripe. The emotions his embrace had evoked stirred close to the surface. How easily her girlhood fantasies had resurrected, as if they had been waiting for the perfect moment to do so. But this was not the perfect moment. This was, in fact, a most inconvenient moment.
Marcus opened his eyes. “Forgive me, my lady—”
“Rebecca,” she interrupted.
He ignored her. “I promise to improve my mood immediately. Now—is there anything else I can do for you or shall I escort you back to Ladies Ellesmere and Blackbourne?”
“Given your state of undress, perhaps it best I make my own way back. I just thought I would extend an invitation for you to join us at the garden party tomorrow. Will you come?”
She’d had no intention of asking him when she’d entered the room, but something about seeing him standing there, angry and desolate over some subject she could not pinpoint had made her want to…what? Rescue him? Such silliness. If anyone was in less need of rescue, it was Marcus Bowen.
“I will think about it.”
“Good.” She smiled and though there seemed nothing else to be said, she found herself reluctant to leave him. Reluctant to move away, to put a proper distance between them.
His expression softened and for a brief moment neither of them said anything. Something passed between them. A memory of what had been? A wish for what could be if only things were different? Whatever it was, it moved swift and silent. Rebecca tried to grasp it, to hold onto it long enough to absorb what it meant, but it eluded her, then disappeared.
“You should go,” he said quietly.
“Very well.” Though she preferred to stay. “Promise you will think about joining us tomorrow?”
He continued to look at her and for a moment she wondered if he had heard her, but then he nodded.
“I promise.”
She could hope for nothing more.
Chapter Six
July 29th
The staff has been most courteous. Mrs. Bowen, the housekeeper, has been especially attentive, seeing to my comfort and bringing me mint tea when my stomach upset makes it difficult to even consider anything more. Several times, she has sat at my bedside and read to me. How fortunate I am for her company, as I am certain she has many duties to see to in running the household now that Mother and I have come to stay.
It is difficult to say what will happen. Each day passes into the next and my worry grows. I know what Mother wishes, but I fear my own wants will make this impossible.
Mrs. Bowen has offered such comfort in listening to my woes without judging. What a godsend to find such acceptance during this trying time. I can’t imagine how I could ever repay her kindness.
* * *
“I hope you do not mind my inviting Miss Caldwell to join us,” Lady Rebecca whispered as she leaned against Marcus’s arm. They had taken a stroll along the stone pathway that wound through the extensive gardens of Blyton House. Behind them, Caelie and Miss Rosalind Caldwell trailed at a slower pace.
“Not at all.” Though he did question his own sanity at accepting the invitation she’d issued the day before. For a smart man, he could be a complete fool in some regards. This one in particular.
It had taken him the better part of the afternoon to restore his concentration after she left him standing in his study, the gold watch in his hand and the effect of the gaze they had shared sliding through his body like liquid fire. Her words echoed in her absence.
Walkerton.
The name landed with a dull thud in his mind.
Lord Selward’s father, the current Lord Walkerton, had been absent from London for several years now. Selward had taken on the running of the estates, to respectable results, Marcus admitted grudgingly. But, provided Lady Rebecca’s suggestion proved correct, what business did his mother have holding it in her possession? Mary Bowen had never worked for the Earl of Walkerton, nor, to the best of his knowledge, had even known the man. She lived her life in Cornwall and never ventured far from the town where she had been born. None of the Walkerton estates were anywhere near there.
He could make neither heads nor tails of it.
Nor could he make sense of why he now strolled down the pathway of Lady Blyton’s gardens with Lady Rebecca on his arm when he had told himself countless times after her departure he would not take her up on her invitation. Yet here he was, looking down at her, drinking up her beauty as the sun dappled through the leaves of the spindly trees lining the pathway. The warm rays suffused her skin and she smiled up at him, her appearance almost angelic. The effect on him much less so.
If anything, it more closely resembled his own private hell.
Her hand squeezed his forearm, her touch arresting his wayward thoughts.
“Miss Caldwell is most anxious to speak to you about her charity and I thought it a good opportunity that would cause the least amount of concern. Apparently she has been dropping by homes uninvited and it has caused some talk.”
“Do you feel it a worthwhile cause to give my attention?”
“I do, and she is quite passionate about it. I thought you might be able to assist her.”
“I will do what I can.”
She smiled and returned her gaze to the path in front of them, though for a brief heartbeat her head rested against his upper arm, a small intimacy borne out of familiarity, and though he understood it meant nothing, he held his breath just the same and waited for the connection to end. Longed for it not to.
“I knew I could count on you. You are a good man, Marcus.”
Except he was anything but. At least in this moment, leading her along a pathway to the grotto that waited at its end, wishing for all he was worth that he could pull her off the trail and hold her in his arms as he had only two days prior. That he could lose himself in the sensation and forget everything else that had happened since, as if it would provide him some small amount of salvation.
He really should not have come. Sleep had eluded him once again and exhaustion made it impossible to mask his own needs, or to push them back into the dark recesses of his mind along with all the other things he had no business thinking about.
He needed sleep. Sleep would shore up his reserves, give him the strength to tamp his recalcitrant desires down, box them back up and shove them in a corner where he’d put them a year ago to collect dust. To be forgotten.
Nothing could come of them. She was destined to marry another and he—
Marcus bowed his head. He had no idea what his destiny held. He had started to read the journal, but after only a few entries set it aside. The revelations about his parentage raised too many questions. The lack of answers as to who the author was and what it all meant, tormented him and he had to set the journal aside or risk letting the unknown drive him mad.
Much as the scent of Lady Rebecca’s perfume did now, reaching up to tease his senses.
He changed the subject. “Have you heard from your brother? Has he been delivered of an heir as yet? He promised me the role of godfather and I am anxious to begin.”
She laughed and the sound washed over him like a cool breeze, calming and taunting all at once. “Godfather, is it? Well, I cannot think of a bet
ter role model, but alas, the newest Sheridan has yet to make an appearance, though Abigail’s last letter indicated it should be any day. Ah, here is the grotto. Shall we sit?”
Marcus stepped aside and let her pass. Lady Huntsleigh and Miss Caldwell had lagged behind. Likely Miss Caldwell had set a more sedate pace out of consideration for her companion’s condition, though Lady Huntsleigh showed no signs of needing it.
He ducked his head to keep it from brushing the low lattice and joined Lady Rebecca. She had taken a seat on one of the stone benches, but when he moved to take the one opposite, she stopped him.
“Sit beside me,” she said, patting the spot next to her. He hesitated, a fact she noted and a smile sparked in her silvery eyes. “Come now, Marcus. I promise not to do anything untoward. No stolen kisses and such.”
Her jest surprised him. Before her father’s death, she would never have dared make such a comment. She’d kept her wit carefully under wraps, but in the past year, bit by bit, the teasing nature of her youth returned. It added a lightness to her that had been missing in recent years.
Marcus refrained from answering her jest, however. Better not to dwell on things that could not be changed, nor revisited, though the expression on his face must have indicated his discomfort as she saw fit not to follow his lead.
“Don’t look so shocked,” she smiled. “I have it on good authority that a little teasing does a body good.”
“Who told you that?” He sat next to her, ensuring a proper separation.
“You did.”
“I did?” He could not recall an instance when he would have issued such a proclamation.
“Indeed. I was complaining that Nicholas was teasing me endlessly about the freckles on my nose and you, very seriously, said a body needed to learn to withstand a little teasing so it might learn to laugh at itself.”
“I said that, did I?” He vaguely recollected the conversation. She had been ten at the time and he, Spence and Nicholas had returned from Eton for the holidays. He had found her hiding beneath a desk in the library; teary-eyed that her brother had said something so unkind when she had awaited his return with great anticipation. He had sat next to her on the floor and issued his sage advice. How odd to think a dozen years later his words had stayed with her.
“You did. Which I find most amusing; given your penchant toward seriousness. It’s a shame really.”
“Being serious?”
She shrugged. “Oh, I suppose being serious isn’t such a bad thing. But you mustn’t overdo it. You should laugh a little more. You have a lovely smile, you know. I should like to see it more often.”
Marcus stared at the empty bench across from them, her words soaking into him with less than pleasant results. “You paint a rather dull picture of me.”
“I do not think you dull at all.” Rebecca reached over and touched his arm. Another unconscious gesture. The muscles beneath his jacket shifted in response.
“What do you think of me?” The question left him before he could wish it back.
“I believe you are quite an accomplished dancer.”
Hardly anything to hang his hat on. “Perhaps if Lord Ellesmere decides he is no longer in need of my services I can make my way as a dance instructor to young ladies.”
She smiled and it filled him, that one little movement, nothing more than a curl of her lips. It made her eyes sparkle and his heart beat a little faster. Perhaps she was right. A smile held great power. Hers did, at least.
“You are also a wonderful kisser, though I don’t suggest you hire yourself out on that account.”
“Rebecca!”
Laughter erupted from her and she threw her head back in abandon at his reaction. “Oh, forgive me, Marcus. That was improper, was it not? Mother would be scandalized.”
“As well she should be.”
He gritted his teeth. Hell and damnation. Would she find the matter so amusing if she could see the mental images her teasing conjured? Or if she discovered how much he longed to kiss her again, properly this time, with forethought and intention. He would bury his hands in the mass of her thick, inky waves until they tumbled down her back and the pins scattered on the ground around them. He would capture her mouth in his and slowly ravage it until she gave in to the pleasure and allowed him to coax her lips apart. He would taste the sweetness of her tongue and hear the whimper of desire that erupted deep within her telling him she wanted so much more than a kiss. That she wished him to—
He cleared his throat and promptly looked away before she realized the nature of his thoughts. He blinked until reality resettled around him, its colors far more muted than the mosaic his mind had painted only seconds before.
“Good heavens, I have scandalized you, haven’t I? Forgive me? I promise to behave from here on in.” She smiled at him once again and the power and beauty of it soothed and tormented and despite the anguish of being drawn into something he could never have, his anger failed him.
“I do not mean to tell you how to conduct yourself, it is just that—”
“That everyone wishes me to be the proper young miss, perfect in every way.” Her gaze dropped to her gloved hands where they rested primly in her lap.
“Lady Rebecca—”
She glanced up and shook her head before he could finish. “No. I understand. It is the way of things. But, oh, how I wish I could simply marry and retire to the country, far away from society. Wouldn’t that be grand? I could relieve myself of all the false pretenses and never again worry about being proper and perfect. Doesn’t that sound like a wonderful way to live?”
He did not know what to say. She seemed earnest in her conviction and he found he could not refute the lovely scenario she suggested. In a scenario like that, away from the dictates and expectations of society, perhaps they would have stood a chance. Perhaps when she had kissed him, he would have given in as he longed to, and not ended it so quickly. In a perfect world, she could say to him whatever she wished and he could tell her everything that had lived in his heart for longer than he cared to admit.
Only they did not live in a perfect world, and as much as she wished to escape to the country, when she did, it would not be with him, but in all likelihood with Selward.
But his chance to tell her any of that disappeared with the arrival of Lady Huntsleigh and Miss Caldwell. Marcus stood as the two ladies entered the grotto and took a seat opposite them.
He shoved his thoughts aside. No place existed for them in his world, or hers.
In their world, she would marry a man he considered unworthy of her, yet the rest of society would look upon as the perfect match. And he would go on with his life, much as it was now, dying a little inside with each passing day. Maybe he would marry too, find a lady who would fit the description of what he needed, even though she would never be the one he wanted.
In moments like this, he wondered if he should have simply succumbed to the fever that ravaged his body after being stabbed while saving Lady Franklyn.
Surely, it would have been a less painful fate.
“Ah, shade!” Lady Huntsleigh waved her fan. The fiery curls around her face moved against the breeze.
Marcus turned away from Lady Rebecca, from dreams that were never meant to come true and futures they could not alter. He rested his gaze on Miss Caldwell and tried to find a reprieve from the restlessness Rebecca’s words had disturbed within him.
“Miss Caldwell, I understand from Lady Rebecca you are spearheading a charity you wished to speak to me about.”
Miss Caldwell straightened in her seat as Marcus retook his. Her eyes held a lively glimmer. “Indeed, Mr. Bowen. I find myself most concerned with the soldiers who have returned from the wars.”
“The soldiers?” The war had been over for years now.
“Yes. You see, after their service to this country, many came home to find their situations much more dire than when they left. The jobs they held before their service have been given to others and often they have incurred in
juries that make it difficult for them to find new employment. And yet nothing has been done about it. And why? Is it because we have no further need of them? Because their value has been used up?”
As she spoke, Miss Caldwell’s expression turned from rather ordinary to something else entirely. Her eyes burned with a fire that seemed lit from the inside and color painted her cheeks. Her hands moved as she spoke, punctuating her words. Here was a woman who did not give in to convention. Though, to hear Lady Rebecca tell it, her reputation had not come out of this endeavor unscathed. Was that the future Lady Rebecca feared would befall her if she stopped playing the part of the proper lady?
Marcus shook the thought away. “And what are you doing to combat this way of thinking?”
“The Ladies of Charity and I have recently begun to assist these soldiers. We hope to enlist men such as yourself who are in a position to provide them with a livelihood. It is slow going, I grant you. Many are unwilling to overlook what they deem to be an infirmity, but I have seen what these soldiers can do when given the opportunity and I will not stop fighting for them. It seems unfair, given all they have done for us, do you not agree?”
“I do,” Marcus answered.
“Do you think you can help them?” Lady Rebecca asked.
“What did you have in mind?”
“I know of a gentleman, Mr. Grantham Cosgrove. He is a former steward and quite qualified, but he lost his position after his return from Waterloo and has fallen on hard times. He is a good man and I had hoped you might be able to find a position for him on one of Lord Ellesmere’s estates.”
Lady Huntsleigh nodded her encouragement. “I’m quite certain Lord Ellesmere would have no objection if you were to meet with Mr. Cosgrove and ascertain his skills.”
“I would be pleased to meet with the man.” Lord and Lady Ellesmere were great proponents of charity. Was Marcus not the perfect example of their generosity? It would be the height of hypocrisy to refuse someone what he himself had benefited from.
“Good afternoon. I hope I am not intruding.”
