The Marriage Masquerade

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  “Look at me.” She did. Sam’s expression was hard with determination. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s wrong. I know it wasn’t the kiss. You wanted me to kiss you. You asked me to.”

  “I know, Sam. It wasn’t the kiss, and yet it was. Just … please don’t say anything else. Not now. Please.” She hated the ragged emotion in her voice. Hated the frown of concern on his face. Why did she have to care so much? Why? She’d been here only three days. Three intense days. But never before, with any man, had she involved her heart. But now, with this man, it was already too late. And it was awful.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see that Sam held a hand out to her and that he’d taken a step toward her. She turned on him, much like a wounded animal striking back. “Stop, Sam. Right there, I beg you.” He did. Yancey’s voice was no more than a jagged sob of desperation. “I was wrong to kiss you. We were wrong. Both of us. We can’t—”

  “No.” Angry now, his coloring heightened, his eyes blazing, Sam pointed an accusing finger at her. “We weren’t wrong, Yancey. And we weren’t carried away simply by the moment. We both know better. And I won’t let it go at this. I won’t. You can’t kiss me like that and not expect me to know your true feelings.”

  “You know nothing.”

  “I know. I felt it in your kiss, and in the way you clung to me. It was there, how you feel.” Sam softened his stance, now holding an imploring hand out to her. “Yancey, you’re not alone in this. Don’t tell me we can’t do this, that we can’t feel this. We can. We do. It’s too late to step back from each other, Yancey. Too late.”

  She feared he was right. But all she could do was stand there in her aloneness and stare at him and deny what her heart wanted and what her mind railed against. As if in physical pain, Yancey wrapped her arms tightly around her waist. “You’re wrong, Sam. We’re wrong. But it’s not too late to make it right.” She had to say these hateful things. If she didn’t, she’d lose herself in him. Yancey hardened her heart and turned away from him. “Go see about your mare. We have a job to do.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Walking away from her, leaving the drawing room, sweeping past the staircase, and directing his steps down the long hallway and out the back door, forcing himself away from her and across the lawn, then down the meadow, and keeping himself on course and aware of his surroundings was the hardest thing Sam had ever done. Before this, he’d thought that walking away from Sarah, leaving her in the asylum, hearing her screams begging him not to go, to please take her away with him, had been the single hardest steps he’d ever had to take.

  But now Sam knew better. That had been nothing compared to what he was doing now. Was this, he wondered, how life paid him back for his act of desperation and what he had hoped was a kindness to Sarah? Was this his penance for doing nothing more than seeking help for her? Must it be that he had now to walk away from the one woman he believed he could truly love in his whole life? Here he stood on the precipice of joy and happiness … and a long, hard fall it was, indeed.

  Sam’s jaw ached because of how tightly he had his teeth clenched. His forehead creased with his pain. His temples throbbed with the hurt. If he appeared stern and worried, he knew it could be passed off to many causes, but none of them would be close to the truth … that he’d walked away from his wife’s love for him and now, in turn, he had been put off by the one woman he could love.

  Life didn’t abound with purpose, Sam was coming to believe. It abounded instead with irony. He pictured idle gods with a huge chessboard and, without thought or compassion, moving the human players about at will, choosing their next move solely on the basis of how hurtful and confusing and devastating the outcome would be to the pawns they held in their ethereal hands. It had to be thus. There was no other explanation, none that would satisfy him in his current black mood.

  Sam’s brooding thoughts carried him into the gray and welcome shade of the horse barn’s interior and out of the day’s bright and cheery sunshine. This earthy yet murkier atmosphere instantly suited his mood. As he walked farther into the huge barn’s interior, with a practiced eye and out of habit, he noted the orderliness of the structure, the neatness of the hanging tack, and the air of industrious labor. A sudden pride in ownership raised Sam’s spirits a bit. He breathed in the clean smell of the hay and the familiar scent of horse. Here was something he understood. This was a place in which he felt comfortable, more at home even than he did in the manor … than he did in all of England.

  Up ahead, outside a stall, Sam saw waiting for him … for his direction and for his decision—God, he didn’t want to think, didn’t want to be responsible for the fragile life of any other living creature—the stablehands and Daniel, the man whose life revolved around the care and feeding of Sam’s prized horses. Immediately upon spying Sam’s approach, even though he was still yards away, the men and boys all bowed, echoing a chorus of “Your Grace,” showing respect and deference, both of which shamed Sam.

  He had nothing about him of a state of grace. He was not among the forgiven, and this, his life, was hell. Still walking toward them, Sam raised a hand in silent greeting, thinking to spare his employees his mood. They’d not caused it and should not bear the brunt of it.

  Very noble, a more sardonic part of his mind smirked, seeming to laugh also at the maudlin bent of Sam’s ranting conclusions about his life. It urged him to cheer up, saying that Yancey lived, she was under his roof yet, would be for the foreseeable future, and was posing as his wife. And therefore, with such reasons to hope coupled with their imposed intimacy—no matter the fabricated nature of it—he’d have every opportunity to break down her defenses and win the day. And the woman.

  Sam’s protest was instant. He’d prefer not to have to break down defenses. He’d like to think she would welcome him. But the truth was, she hadn’t. All they’d done was share kisses, he reminded himself. Yes, kisses they both had clearly wanted. But then she’d pulled away, upset and wanting nothing more to do with him. Surely, the fault didn’t lie in the way he kissed. He had too much experience, coupled with no complaints, to believe that. Still, Sam’s heart refused to give up. You felt her ardor, it told him, and it was the truth … and nothing is lost. Everything is possible. Everything.

  No. No, it wasn’t. Not if she didn’t want his ardor. Only this morning he’d been excited at the prospect of her posing as his loving wife. But now, as events stood, he believed the ruse would only be the next poke of the devil’s pitchfork in his backside as the nasty little demon pricked away at Sam’s disgustingly optimistic conscience.

  Now upon the knot of concerned horsemen awaiting him, Sam stopped in front of them. Deferentially they stepped back and away, much like a receding tide, to make room for him among them.

  Shrugging out of his frock coat, Sam hung it on an available hook and began rolling up his sleeves. Another irony. He’d greet his mother and cousin while smelling of horse and manure. Entirely appropriate in Roderick’s case was Sam’s conclusion. Prepared now to go to work, he looked from the men to the open stall and the agitated, head-tossing, neighing mare that occupied it. “She wouldn’t let you inside, would she?”

  “No, sir,” Daniel answered for them. “You’re the only one can do anything with her, Your Grace.”

  Sam chuckled. So the only female, it seemed, who would gentle under his touch today turned out to be a mare. “All right, then, let’s see what we can do.”

  * * *

  What the devil is taking Sam so long? How long does it take to look at a horse? Fuming, her mind racing as fast as her feet, Yancey paced the length of the drawing room, wringing her hands and drilling herself on every detail regarding Sam that she could think of. Second son. Thirty-two. Gray eyes. Spent adult years in America. Loves horses and cattle. Scar on his thigh; put there by the angry sow. His brother’s name was Geoffrey, who died—or was killed—almost a year ago. Duke of Somerset. Stonebridge. Ancient tower.

  She stopped, staring bla
nkly ahead of her, vaguely aware of a huge oil painting of some ancient battle scene that hung on the far wall. Dear God, is that all I know about the man? She shook her head. Surely not. She knew his kiss and the way his hands felt on her body. Though the memory of it stirred her blood and had her sighing somewhat lasciviously, even to her own mind, she could hardly hear herself bringing that up.

  She tested such a sentence out loud, holding her hand out as if offering it to an imaginary dowager duchess. She curtsied. “Hello, lovely to meet you, Your Grace.” Yancey frowned. “Mother Treyhorne?” She shook her head no. “Mrs. Treyhorne? Rosamond? Oh, bother. I’ll ask her what I should call her.” That settled, Yancey smiled brightly and said, “So pleased to meet you. Your son is a wonderful kisser.”

  Instantly, while the words still hung in the air, Yancey made a face, shaking her head in an emphatic no. “I’d sooner die than say that to her.”

  She set off on another circuit of the room, which she was beginning to know intimately, given her many turns around the pieces of furniture and the equal number of times she’d stopped to pick up and examine what were no doubt priceless pieces of sculpture and porcelain. Yancey feared she’d have a groove worn in the thick Aubusson carpet before she was rescued by Sam’s presence.

  Thinking of him had Yancey wincing with shame and guilt. Poor Sam. Why had she said such upsetting things to the man before he’d left? Wasn’t this charade going to be hard enough without her having made it more complicated? Couldn’t she have left well enough alone? Why had she thought she needed to make something simple, a wonderful kiss, so hard? Now everyone would know, by how stiff and awkward she and Sam would be around each other, that they had argued. So distressing.

  Again Yancey eyed the closed doors to the room when she passed them, alternately cursing and blessing them for not opening. The difference lay in who might walk through them when they did open. Sam she would welcome. Just about anyone else she wouldn’t. Well, maybe Her Grace Nana. She hadn’t seen that grand old lady since lunch. Was she still resting, the frail little dear? Yancey eyed the doors again, wondering if everyone, sensing fireworks, was avoiding her. A lovely thought. Just when she needed familiar company around her, even if it was based on a three-day-old acquaintanceship, she had imprisoning solitude.

  Of course she could leave this room and go seek Nana out. Only to turn a corner on the way and run into Sam’s mother or his cousin, no doubt. So it would be better to wait here, where Sam knew she was, than it was to wander the manor over and risk a chance meeting that could end badly. Besides, Yancey assured whatever portion of her mind she was speaking to, she could hardly see herself skulking along the walls until she got to her suite of rooms upstairs. In all likelihood she’d be spotted by Scotty, who would promptly throw her down the stairs and order her back into this room.

  For all she knew, came Yancey’s next thought, Scotty was outside the double doors at this moment, just standing there … a scowl on his face, his massive arms crossed, and guarding the door, keeping all comers out until Sam returned. Yancey smiled. How sweet. Then curiosity of the intense variety that killed cats and detectives seized her. Was the giant out there? Had Sam left an order that she was not to be disturbed until he returned? An exhalation of relief over such a possibility left her sighing. Yet, she had to know. First looking around the room, as if there were some lurking presence here with her whose detection she must avoid, Yancey all but tiptoed over to the doors.

  As quietly as she could, she turned the knob and edged one of the doors open … only enough to afford her a peek into the hallway. Well, that answered her question. If she could see the hallway—and she could—then Scotty was not present. Just then, her diabolical mind treated her to a scene from three days ago—the day she had arrived and had stood in the grand foyer and Her Grace Nana had done this very same thing, only from the front parlor. That brought Yancey back to sanity.

  “Well, then.” She straightened up and closed the door, self-consciously clearing her throat and fussing with her gown’s scoop neckline. My goodness, they’re low this year. It seemed a scandal to show so much bosom this early in the afternoon.

  So she was better off right here, alone. Apparently. Yancey smoothed her hands down her skirt. At least she looked presentable. The only accessory she lacked was her gun. Yet her day dress of thick textured silk, pale green in color, had no pockets for concealment of a weapon. It was just as well, she decided, because as nervous as she was—much as if she were in reality meeting her true in-laws—she just might lose her nerve and shoot them. And that wouldn’t do, she was certain of it.

  Yancey’s circuit this time, now with the room’s doors behind her and to her right, had her stopping at the thrown-wide French doors that afforded her the benefits of the spring air and the happy sounds of chirping birds and the sight of working gardeners. She frowned, standing there with her back to the room and her hands folded demurely together in front of her as she watched the busy men. Always planting, digging, pruning, shaping. They worked incessantly, it seemed. Like so many ants. At whose direction? she wondered, not really caring but pondering these things in a concerted effort not to think about the day’s drama yet to unfold.

  What she needed to do, Yancey told herself, still looking out over the wonderful flagstone-paved, half-moon-shaped terrace, was pull herself together and behave as a Pinkerton and remember that this was a job she was doing. And nothing else. She made a face, hating that idea because she couldn’t even imagine packing up and leaving Sam or this place in a matter of weeks, maybe days. Could it be that she belonged here with him? Pained by that realization, and telling herself no, Yancey closed her eyes and exhaled. See this for what it is, Yancey. A case you’re working on, and nothing more. When it’s done, you’ll go home and start your next case. That is your life, the one you’ve carved out for yourself.

  Feeling as bereft as if she’d suffered a terrible loss, Yancey opened her eyes and was greeted by the sight of the huge glazed flowerpots that sat atop the concrete railing at even intervals. So very cheerful, they offered up riotous colors of purple, red, yellow, and blue. The low stone benches, she decided, almost required one to cross to one of them and sit and relax and let one’s troubles float away on the spring breeze. If only she could. Then it occurred to her … why couldn’t she? The thought becoming action, she smiled and, gathering up her skirt, took a step toward the great outdoors.

  “A lovely sight, isn’t it?”

  Gasping in surprise, Yancey all but jumped out of her dress and her skin. She whirled around, a hand over her heart and hearing her detective’s conscience railing at her that here she’d had all this time to worry about the doors opening, and when the time had finally come, she hadn’t even been aware.

  “You startled me,” she told the tall man … the impeccably dressed, very handsome, square-jawed, dark-haired, sensually wicked, tall man … who stood framed in the open doorway of the parlor and boldly raked his gaze over her.

  Stunting Yancey’s breathing was the man’s eerily similar appearance to Sam. But it was in a sinister way, as if he were Sam’s opposite, someone in whom the more frightening urges of men went unbridled. She watched silently as her visitor bowed elegantly to her.

  “My apologies,” he drawled. “I should be flogged for upsetting such a wonderful creature as yourself.”

  Yancey refused to be flattered or to give any quarter. This man was the enemy. Despite her pounding heart and moist palms, she managed to speak in a normal tone of voice. “Fortunately, it’s not required … the flogging, I mean.”

  “You’re American.” The man’s voice was a purr of surprise—or dawning suspicion.

  The vibration of his words brushed over Yancey’s skin, irritating the fine hairs on her arms. A thrill of the sort that warned one of danger shot like a lance through her nerve endings. Her heart wanted to pound right out of her chest. Where the devil was Sam? “Yes, I am an American. You’re very astute.”

  “Astute? No. Your p
rovincial accent gives you away, my dear. But, ah, America … a wonderful country, our former colonies.”

  Insulting cad. He’d raised Yancey’s patriotic dander. “Yes, it is wonderful. In fact, you ought to see the improvements we’ve made to the place in the last hundred years or so.”

  He laughed, a rich, throaty sound that accompanied his steps into the room. He closed the doors behind him. “And witty, too. Very intriguing.”

  Yancey very subtly narrowed her eyes. You have no idea, mister. But when she swallowed, she was surprised to realize how dry her mouth was. Quickly she assured herself that this thrumming tension inside her was not fright. Instead, it was anticipation of the chase. She was the Fox, and she’d be damned if she’d allow this man to be the hound that ran her to ground. Her next calming breath helped prepare her to meet this devil.

  The man stopped in front of her, all but clicking his heels together as he again bowed, this time over her hand, which she remembered to offer him. “Roderick Hamilton Harcourt, the Duke of Glenmore, at your service.”

  Using her free hand to hold her voluminous skirt out of her way, Yancey dropped into a formal curtsy, thinking this ought to be a very telling moment. “So pleased to meet such a close cousin of my husband’s, Your Grace. I am Sarah Margaret Calhoun.”

  She’d used her “maiden” name on purpose and got the response she wanted. The Duke of Glenmore squeezed her hand overly hard and immediately straightened up, releasing her and sending her a hard stare. Yancey had drawn first blood. Because she had, she felt calmer, more in control of the situation, and better able to act her part. She began by affecting a light, trilling titter of laughter. “Oh, so silly of me. I of course meant Treyhorne. Sarah Margaret Treyhorne, the Duchess of—”

  “Somerset, I know. You cannot be my cousin Sam’s wife.”

  She ducked her chin regally. “Oh, but I can and I am … unless you know something I don’t, Your Grace?”