The Marriage Masquerade

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Breathless and gasping, she was capable only of shaking her head and clinging to him as if all the demons of hell had been chasing her. What the bloody hell has happened? He may not know what, but he felt certain he knew who lay behind it. His eyes narrowed with steely resolve, Sam wrenched his gaze up to the top of the hill over which Yancey had just come. He fully expected to see at least one of the devil’s minions, with Roderick’s face plastered on it, pop into view. Should that happen, Sam fully intended to knock the bastard right back down the other side of the hill, if for no other reason than that he owed him from their childhood. But he didn’t appear, and Sam thought it was just as well because he was fully occupied with the distraught Yancey.

  “Yancey, tell me what’s happened. Did Roderick harm you or Mother in any way?” Sam took hold of her arms and tugged her resisting body away from him until he could see her face.

  She’d run all this way—the manor still remained a good distance away—and her face was reddened to prove it. Her hair was coming undone, she was gasping in great drafts of air, and shaking her head. “No, he didn’t. And I’m fine. But it’s your mother, Sam.” It was all she could get out.

  Sam’s heart sank. “My mother? Yancey, what about my mother?”

  She ignored his question and, suddenly looking surprisingly calm and in control, asked him, “Did anyone follow me?”

  Though a bit confused over this abrupt change in her demeanor, Sam looked up the hill again, saw no one topping the rise, and focused again on her. “No. Not that I can see. Why?”

  “Good.” She pulled away from him, calmly fussing with her hair as she looked up at him. “Your mother fainted, Sam.”

  “My mother?” Shock stiffened his legs. “You met my mother? She’s been downstairs already?”

  “Oh yes, Sam, she has.”

  Sam stared at Yancey, his mind churning with the implications of that simple statement. But it was Yancey’s glaring green eyes that told him he was in trouble with her, plain and simple. “I should have been there.”

  A tight smile tinged her usually generous lips. “Yes. You should have.”

  “I’m so sorry. But my mother … she fainted? That’s why you came running out here?”

  Yancey arched her eyebrows. “Were you hoping for something worse?”

  “Hardly. But why did you come haring out here and scare me? Why didn’t you just send a boy to get me? Scotty would gladly have tossed a little beggar out the back door for you. There was no need for this, forgive me, hysterical display.”

  “But that’s exactly what it was, Sam. A display only.” Very calmly, she straightened her pretty pale-green dress around her.

  And Sam watched her appreciatively. Yes, there was tremendous upheaval occurring all around them, but he was a man, after all. And he wasn’t dead. When she raised her hands to brush back her loosened hair, Sam’s gaze followed them. He saw that she was watching him watch her and apparently found this worthy of pursing her lips.

  “Are you paying attention to me, Sam?”

  “I thought that was rather obvious.” Her answering scowl forced him to confess. “I’m sorry. What did you ask me?”

  “I didn’t ask you anything. I was telling you about your mother’s faint. And was about to tell you of my delightful tea with Roderick.”

  Sam came to attention. “Dear God, Yancey. Tea with Roderick? This won’t do at all. I had no idea he and Mother were even stirring. Mrs. Edgars told me they were still abed, or I never would have left.”

  “She was wrong.”

  “Indeed. Forgive my language, Yancey, but damn. I am so sorry.”

  His speech appeared to mollify her. “Apology accepted. You couldn’t know what was occurring. At any rate, I took matters in hand and proceeded on course.”

  Sam smiled. “No doubt, very capably.” He watched her duck her chin in acceptance of his compliment. What an exciting woman she was. Very stirring. Standing there with her so close, he felt the pull of her magnetism, the heat of her femininity. Sam cleared his throat, struggling to stay on the subject. “Did you ever tell me why my mother fainted?”

  Yancey startled him by smacking his arm—hard—and planting her hands at her waist. “Is it not obvious? Could it have had something to do with how surprised she was, Sam, at the idea that she could have tea with a dead woman?”

  Sam’s stomach clenched. “Blast it all! You had to tell her who you were, didn’t you? Damn.” Sam put a hand to his forehead and rubbed tiredly. “Forgive me again, Yancey. You’ve had much to deal with alone, I know. I can only thank God for your help and your quick thinking. How was Roderick through all this?”

  “Surprised. Not pleased. Suspicious. But he never let on, not openly. Perhaps someone with a less trained eye than mine would not have even noticed that he was anything less than kind and relieved. While he avoided answering any of my questions, he did prove most helpful when your mother fainted.”

  There was no reproach in her voice, but her wording made Sam wince. He should have been there. Damn that Mrs. Edgars! “Helpful? Roderick? I find that hard to believe. In the past, my cousin has proven himself fit only for fertilizer of the rankest sort.”

  “And yet your dear cousin scooped your mother up and carried her to her bedroom upstairs…” Yancey paused. Sam felt certain he would not like what she had to say next. She proved him right. “Where, you’ll be glad to know,” she continued, “your insane little nana was hiding under the bed.”

  “Dear God. We inhabit a madhouse.”

  “I’ve thought so since I arrived. However, to continue. I found out that your nana was under your mother’s bed when she grabbed my ankle as a prank and nearly sent me to the floor in a swoon—”

  “Yancey, I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t interrupt. Her Grace Nana’s nurse finally flushed her out. Apparently, she’d been under her own bed for hours—your nana, not Mrs. Convers—only coming out long enough to make her way downstairs in a well-timed foray to steal a crumpet off the tea cart … just before Scotty, who was suddenly struck chatty, wheeled it in to Roderick and me and told us that Mr. Marples had made wee-wee on the floor in the dining room, Sam.”

  Sam found himself wincing again, this time because of his insane family’s antics and because of Yancey’s continuing aggravation with him for not being there to help. He wasn’t the least bit fooled by her chirping voice and smiling face. She was angry.

  “Then,” she was saying brightly, “your mother woke up to a fluttering of maids and myself and Roderick all clustered around her, et cetera, et cetera, Nana, my ankle, you already know that part. Following all this, then, that dear, dear lady—your mother—had many questions, Sam. Many very specific questions. All of them directed at me, who I will remind you again was operating without your presence and therefore in the dark.”

  “The mare had a bad hoof and wouldn’t nurse her foal,” Sam blurted guiltily and unhelpfully.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s better now.”

  “Well, thank God.” Yancey spared him a tight grin and held forth with her tale of woes. “At any rate, your mother is very happy to see me, Sam. Though she did wonder—in front of Roderick, mind you—why my hair and my eyes aren’t brown. And why I’m several inches shorter than you told her I was in your many letters to her over the years while you lived in America. What a good son you are to have kept up such a chatty correspondence.”

  “I can explain.”

  “I’m sure you can. But I’m the Pinkerton here. I should have thought to ask you. Mr. Pinkerton would not be happy. He’d call that slipshod.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “Oh, I’m not,” she remarked cheerfully. “There’s plenty of blame to go around.”

  Sam felt suddenly stubborn. “I’ve accepted my part in this.”

  “Have you, now? Well, there’s more, Sam. Much more. Your mother—a sweet, sweet woman, by the way—asked me, and I remind you again that all of
this was in front of Roderick, about my paintings. She wondered had I brought any examples with me.” Yancey paused … long enough for Sam to realize he was sweating. “I can’t paint, Sam,” she added fatalistically. “Not even a wall, much less a portrait, mind you. And then there’s the piano.” She stared pointedly at him.

  Sam knew all too well where this was going. After all, he was the author of all the glowing, detailed letters outlining his wife’s many accomplishments—all of them out-and-out lies—for his mother. He’d done so to spare her the truth of Sarah’s insanity and his burden. But now his kind deed was coming back to haunt him. Still he heard himself, quite stupidly, echo Yancey … “The piano?”

  “Yes. The piano. She’d like for me to play it for her this evening. And sing. Apparently you’ve told her that I do that very well.”

  Sam felt pained, aggrieved, and so very much in trouble. “I don’t suppose you can play the piano, can you?”

  Yancey shook her head. “Not a lick. And I sing even worse. Are you beginning to see my dilemma, Sam?”

  “I left out a few details.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Sam absently, guiltily, scratched at his head. “And so you feigned this hysteria in order to get to me first, didn’t you?”

  Yancey smiled brightly in much the same way one would at a particularly dense child who has finally, at long last and after much instruction, given a correct answer in the schoolroom. “You’re very good at this. My first thought was you deserved to walk right into that hornet’s nest.”

  “And your second thought, the one that had you running out here, was?”

  “Was that such a course of action is not what you’re paying me for.” She was serious now.

  Sam nodded, stared down at his boots, at the bits of manure and hay he could see were stuck to the soles of them, and then glanced up at Yancey. “This isn’t the first time I’ve stepped in it with you today, is it?”

  Also staring at his boots, her arms now crossed under her magnificent bosom, she shook her head no. A guilty sigh escaped Sam and brought her attention back to his face. For something to do, he ran a hand through his hair. “You’d like to shoot me about now, wouldn’t you?”

  “I would. And if I did, it would be with my newly cleaned gun.” Suddenly warmer than the day could account for, Sam didn’t say a word … not one word. “Sam, how would Scotty know about my gun being under my pillow?”

  “I have no idea. He doesn’t snoop. Perhaps Nana found it and told him.”

  She nodded, and Sam stared into her brightly sparkling green eyes and thought how beautiful she was. He knew better than to tell her that right now, though. And, fully realizing the depth and the breadth of the trouble he was in with Yancey, Sam looked longingly over his shoulder, yearning for the relative quiet and masculine environs of the horse barn. That he understood. He also understood, now returning his gaze to her face, that she was apparently at the end of her tirade and was awaiting comment from him, all while giving him the cold shoulder and staring pointedly off into the distance.

  Watching her, Sam was unexpectedly struck anew at how petite she was and how exquisitely fragile, like a piece of fine porcelain. He could only stare at her. No doubt, she fancied herself invincible. Certainly she had a wonderful wit and intellect, both of which stood her in good stead, along with her years of experience with the Pinkertons. But if he had his way, Sam knew he would suit her up in the heaviest armor he could find and then stand guard over her day and night. Anything to keep her safe and from rushing headlong into danger.

  Momentarily overcome with the depth of his feelings for her, and equally mystified that he’d come to care so quickly, he stared at his dirty boots and tried to accept several truths. He didn’t have the right—or her permission—to protect her, to keep her safe and happy, or to love her, much less to have her in his life beyond the foreseeable future. Neither had she expressed any desire to remain with him. Indeed, her life was in America and her heart lay in her work. And he and his problems were merely her present case for her employer.

  “Sam? What’s wrong?”

  He met her gaze and saw that she frowned. Concern for him shone in her eyes—concern of the woman for the man, and not the detective for the employer. Obviously he’d revealed, through his expression, something of his state of mind.

  Unexpectedly, anger welled up inside Sam. He wanted her and hated that he did. Wanting a woman like her could only lead to more hurt. She was like the wind and would not be tamed. Sam wanted to turn away from her and tell her to leave. He hated how his damned heart flopped around in his chest whenever she was near, and how she filled his every waking thought. He opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. He firmed his lips together and shook his head.

  “Sam? You can tell me.”

  He sent her a sidelong glance, considering her and considering the foolhardiness of what he was about to say. Then he decided to hell with it, might as well say it. “All right, Yancey, I’ll tell you,” he said at long last. “You’re going to leave one day soon, aren’t you?”

  She blinked, appearing surprised by his question. “You know I am. When I’m done here.”

  “Exactly. I and my problems are just another case for you.” When she didn’t rush to gainsay him, to tell him that he was different, that she felt more for him than that, disappointment and resignation fought to be first to close Sam’s throat. He swallowed the hurtful lump lodged there and continued. “So you’ll go back to America and take up your life where it left off, correct?”

  Her expression could only be called wary. She raised her chin as if to signal she was prepared to defend herself. “What choice do I have?”

  What choice, indeed? He could offer her several, but believed she wouldn’t be receptive to any of them. He recalled all too well everything she’d said earlier following that heated and hungry kiss they’d shared.

  “I would go with you, if I could,” Sam said quietly, obliquely, offering her an opportunity to say she too wished he could go and that maybe together they could find a way.

  “But you can’t.”

  Sam’s heart felt pinched at her rejection. He had only pride left to him. “I agree. My life and my responsibilities are here. You’ve seen them. They are formidable. There is no more America for me.”

  She cocked her chin at a questioning, considering angle. “This is a mighty strange conversation we’re having, Sam.”

  “Yes, it is. But these words need to be spoken.”

  Yancey met that observation with a frown. “Why do they?”

  “Because I’d never forgive myself for letting you go without at least having said a portion of what I feel. Yancey, I want you to know that I—”

  “Don’t, Sam. Please.” She squeezed her eyes shut and held up a cautioning hand. “What you’re about to say cannot make either one of us happy.”

  “Happy?” His angry word had her opening her eyes. “I’m not certain I know how that feels, Yancey. Do you? Have you ever experienced ‘happy’?”

  She looked at him as if she hated him for putting her through this, for making her think about such things. “Just say what you have to say, Sam.”

  “All right. Before you go, before I’ll never see you again, Yancey, I’d like to make love to you.”

  She drew back in shock, her eyes widened and her mouth agape.

  He held out a hand to forestall her stalking away, should she be thinking to do so. “Forgive me for being so forward. I don’t believe there is another woman in the whole of England I could or would say such a thing to, Yancey. But you’re not other women, and I don’t have the luxury of time to woo you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why, you pompous, overbearing ass.” Now she shook an accusing finger at him. “Make no mistake, sir, while I am no untried miss, neither am I a fast woman. Do you think I’ll jump into your bed simply because you desire it … Your Grace?”

  Sam leaned in toward her. “No, I do not. But I think you will becau
se you desire it, too. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me, after that kiss in the drawing room, that I’m wrong, Yancey.”

  She said nothing, but her throat worked, as did a muscle in her jaw. Her eyes blazed with high emotion … and with the truth. He’d hit a nerve, and she hated him for that. Still, Sam had all he could do not to grab her to him passionately and have her right here on this hill. But instead he steeled himself, body and soul, and made the most impassioned speech of his life.

  “Yancey, I meant no disrespect to you. I spoke my desires badly. What I mean is you are the only woman in all of England I would risk saying such a thing to. And that’s because you are also the only woman in all of England or even the world about whom I care a fig. I want you. I desire you. And yes, I feel so much more for you than I have a right to feel. What I don’t have are months upon months to gently seek your affections. And if I can’t have you for always, then I want you while you’re here. I know you can’t give me more than that, but I’ll take that, Yancey. If it’s only days or weeks, I’ll take that. I want that. And if you do, too, then I shall be, for the first time in my life, the happiest of men.”

  Clearly, he’d surprised her with his declaration. She couldn’t seem to meet his sincere gaze. She lowered her own and toed her satin slipper through the dirt. “I don’t know what to say.”

  The cold sweep of dread shot through Sam. “You don’t have to say anything, Yancey.”

  She looked up at him. Sam’s heart seemed to catch in his throat. He thought he detected the shine of tears in her eyes. Then she smiled at him. “I’ve never had any of those pretty things said to me before in my life, Sam Treyhorne.”

  Though she didn’t say how she felt about having now heard them, she was smiling. Sam dared a grin of his own and also dared to hope, though his heart still thumped dully and felt too heavy for his chest. “Do I at least get high marks for a pretty speech, then?”

  Looking suddenly shy, and with her dark auburn hair seeming to absorb and reflect the day’s waning sunlight, she nodded. “You do.”