The Marquess

by Patricia Rice

  She ignored the knocking at the front door. This was too early in the morning for normal visiting hours. The neighbors could gossip with someone else. She should find something useful to do to keep her mind off the impossible. If she would live at the Grange for the rest of her life, she must find some place in it for herself.

  She scowled as the study door opened after a single knock. Turning to give the butler a scathing set-down, her gaze locked with a somber green one. O’Toole’s eyes were never somber. Of course, on the other hand, O’Toole never knocked. Maybe this was just a ghost of O’Toole.

  He shut the door behind him and scanned the papers scattered over the desk. To Dillian’s surprise, she saw anger tighten his jaw and thin his mouth. She’d never seen the blithe O’Toole angry. She stared at him in wordless astonishment, waiting for him to explain his presence here.

  “If I’d thought you the same corkbrained sapscull as your father, I would never have given you those wretched deeds,” he announced coldly, proceeding into the room as if he owned it. He leaned his palms against the desk and glared at her.

  “Thank you very much, sir. And just what would you have done with them, since they are signed by my father and belong rightfully to me?”

  Michael grabbed one of the deeds and whirled off with it. “Do you have any idea how easy it is to forge a name? How simple it is to copy this antiquated script Winfrey uses? I could have done anything I pleased with them.” He swung around and glared at her. “But I gave them to you. And you sit on them like a hen hatching eggs.”

  “What would you have me do with them?” she asked in bewilderment. “After that statement, I can’t even be certain they are really mine. Are you sure you didn’t just forge them for your own amusement? My father never had enough money in his life to buy this much land.”

  Some of the anger left his face as he regarded her with a little more interest. “Are you telling me that you’ve left Gavin going out of his mind tracing these deeds while you’re trying to figure out if they’re legitimate? Or if they’re ill-gotten gains? Between the two of you, you don’t have a good pound of sense. I’ve been telling Gavin for the past year to just plow the wretched fields and dare the owner to show up. He could have had a crop in already. And now you’re wasting another year by mooning over right and wrong. The two of you belong together because you sure as certain don’t belong anywhere else in this world.”

  Dillian heard little of this tirade beyond the mention of Gavin. Trying not to show her eagerness, she asked, “He’s looking for the deeds? Why?”

  “Stupid question,” Michael replied in a good imitation of Gavin’s growl. He slapped the deed he held back on the desk. “I have it on good authority that your father bought these quite legally from the late marquess. They were schoolboy chums or some such, and when the marquess found himself in financial straits at a time that your father wished to invest some of his gains—ill-gotten or not, I can’t say—they came to a convenient arrangement.

  “I’m sure the marquess fully meant to buy those lands back. Unfortunately, he died rather unexpectedly before he could recoup his fortunes. I suspect the lands were not exchanged at fair value so much as for whatever your father had in his pockets at the time. The late marquess would have known Whitnell had no intention of farming them. Your father simply acted as a cent-per-center, probably with much better interest rates than the usual usurers.”

  “You’re lying,” Dillian said bluntly.

  Michael grinned. “Prove it.”

  She stared in bewilderment at the assortment of deeds in front of her. She could prove nothing except that her father had in his possession the deeds to extensive acreage— around Arinmede?

  She had seen the journals and the translations. They had mentioned the deeds. They hadn’t specified their location or from whom he had obtained them. Michael hadn’t made up the entire story out of whole cloth.

  Her father had left her an inheritance. He’d just forgotten to tell her that the deeds weren’t with his other papers but in Winfrey’s possession. And she hadn’t known to introduce herself to Winfrey as Whitnell instead of Reynolds, until it was too late, until he was too busy blackmailing Dismouth with her father’s journals.

  She was far more interested in Gavin than the land.

  “What did you expect me to do with these deeds?” she asked.

  Michael narrowed his eyes. “I expected you to use your common sense, but it’s obvious you have as little as Gavin. If you don’t tell him you have them, then I shall. He promised those villagers he would put the lands into production, and they’re expecting him to follow through. I’ll not see him suffer because of your stubbornness.”

  Dillian ran her fingers through her already disheveled curls. “What am I supposed to do? Offer to sell them to him? Even should he have the money to buy them, he’ll not have enough for plows and seeds and repairs and whatever. He’d go in debt over his head to put those lands into production. You know that.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “You really are going to play the innocent for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”

  He propped his shoulder against the window overlooking the estate lawns. “He can’t ask for you when he has no means of supporting you or a family. He’s made some clever investments from his years in shipping. But he can’t support a family by continuing to gamble everything he owns. He needs a steady income. Those lands would provide it. You hold his future as well as your own in your hands.”

  Dillian huddled against the tall back of the desk chair, wrapping her arms around herself in an age-old gesture of protection. “I’d willingly trade myself for those lands, but I don’t want to tie him down for a lifetime he might regret,” she said in little more than a whisper.

  Michael threw her a look over his shoulder, then returned to studying the landscape. “You’re the only chance of happiness he’ll ever have. Without you, he’ll rot away inside that moldering ruin, never coming out, eventually giving up and becoming a ghost to join the others. You returned him to life. Don’t banish him to an early grave again.”

  Almost too casually, he asked, “Where is Lady Blanche today?”

  Dillian stared thoughtfully at his back. “She’s visiting one of the tenants. She asks after you frequently, but I have nothing to tell her.”

  He ran an ungloved hand over the window ledge. “There is nothing to say. Have she and the duke announced the date yet?”

  Her own aching heart went out to him, but Dillian could only shake her head. “Neville will have to wait until she makes up her mind. Blanche has the heart of an angel, but she knows nothing of being a woman. She has all the time in the world to choose the man right for her.”

  Michael turned and gave her a wry smile. “If I were Neville, I’m not certain I would trust you to give that guidance. Once the scars heal, she’ll have her choice of any man she wants. She could do worse than Anglesey.”

  “She could do better,” Dillian declared. “They’re first cousins. I don’t approve of the match at all. But, then, I’m not her guardian.” Dillian stacked the sheets of paper in front of her into a neat pile. “I don’t think the scars will ever quite heal,” she said quietly.

  “I wouldn’t see her suffer the hell that Gavin went through,” Michael answered. “There should be someone in this world who can appreciate her beauty and goodness, someone who deserves a woman like her.”

  “And I suppose you mean to find this paragon?” Dillian asked dryly, rising from her chair. “And you call me a sapscull. She’s too inexperienced to know her mind yet, but she’s learning. She’ll want to see you. Ask Jenkins for her direction. You’ll find her easily enough.”

  Understanding he’d just been dismissed, Michael gave the window one last lingering look, and sent Dillian a hard stare before he departed. “Lady Blanche is far above the likes of me, but if Gavin doesn’t know about those deeds within the week, I’m telling him.”

  Dillian thought to say that a marquess of Effingham was far
above the likes of her, but he was gone before she could get the words out of her mouth. She wasn’t certain she believed them anymore, in any case. Perhaps wealth and titles did not make one person better than another.

  * * * *

  Gavin Lawrence, eighth Marquess of Effingham, wiped the sweat from his eyes and gazed in frustration at the section of stone fence that represented a good day’s work. He was wasting sums he couldn’t afford in clearing up this crumbling ruin he called home just so he could keep his promises to the villagers. In the past month, they’d almost made the place appear habitable. Almost.

  He glanced over his shoulder to the house behind him. Dark was descending and lights flickered in various windows, including those on the second floor. Now that people no longer believed he was a monster, he’d hired women willing to begin the chore of sweeping out decades of dust and spiders in the upper stories. He just didn’t know what he would do with the empty chambers after they were cleaned. He’d had hopes, but they were dimming quickly.

  Picking up the shirt he’d discarded earlier, Gavin strode back toward the house. He’d hoped the day’s physical exertion would have exhausted the turmoil in his soul, but it was no more effective than a cold bath on his rebellious loins. His mind kept wandering down the road to the Grange and a tumble of chestnut curls and saucy grin.

  He hadn’t heard from Dillian since he’d left London, but he hadn’t expected to. A lady didn’t write to a gentleman not her husband. She couldn’t very well just drop in, uninvited, for a visit. He’d known that. He’d deliberately counted on it.

  If he kept her at a distance long enough, she would find someone who could keep her far more comfortably than he could. She’d had enough of hand-to-mouth existence. She deserved a real home and a family, not a crumbling ruin and a scarred beast who couldn’t control his lust. What they’d shared had been just that. Lust would dissipate with time.

  Only it wasn’t dissipating yet. Remembering how Dillian had looked when he’d first revealed himself to her, how she’d defied him, laughed at him, done anything but turn from him in horror, Gavin entered the study in hopes of dispelling the memory.

  The maids had torn down the fragile old drapery and scrubbed the windows until they sparkled in his study. They’d stacked the old ledgers and books into some semblance of order on the shelves and dusted every inch of remaining space. Candles illuminated the desk, and a small wood fire burned in the grate. He would have to order the chimney cleaned before autumn.

  Rubbing his perspiring chest idly with his shirt, Gavin finally noticed the vase at the edge of the candlelight. A single red rosebud nodded over the crystal lip. A flicker of firelight created prisms in the cut crystal. Hit with a strong yearning, Gavin closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists.

  He wanted Dillian here. He needed her laughing eyes on the other side of that desk. He wanted her spinning in the chair, swirling the globe behind her, insulting him for his stupidity in wanting what he couldn’t have. Then he wanted to haul her across the desk and strip the clothes off her and feel her clinging eagerly to his embrace. He wanted her to come to him of her own accord, not because he forced her to it.

  He might as well wish for a rainbow.

  Plucking the rose from its vase, wondering which of the maids had developed the notion to place one there, Gavin blew out the candles and headed up the stairs, shirt and rose in hand. He couldn’t make himself stay in the master chamber. Every time he entered he heard her voice, saw her drifting through with sword upraised, saw her as she stripped herself bare for him. He regretted that moment as much as he reveled in it. He was rapidly becoming a madman.

  As he passed by the closed master chamber, a light flickered behind the door. No one should be in there at this hour. The servants all went to their own homes at dusk. He had the house practically to himself.

  Gavin crossed the hall and threw open the door. A blaze of light stunned his eyes, and he blinked and stepped back before he could properly take in the phenomenon. Once his eyes adjusted, he could see candles and lamps illuminating every corner of the room. A fire danced in the fireplace, and moonlight streamed through the undraped windows. His gaze swept to the enormous bed at the far end of the chamber.

  Dillian sat there cross-legged, clad in diaphanous white silk, her chestnut curls bent over an assortment of old papers scattered across the covers. Gavin’s heart rose in his throat at the same time as his stomach danced a nervous jig. What in hell was she doing here looking like that? And why was she studying yellowed old papers instead of looking for him?

  He thought to yell those questions at her, but he couldn’t get the words past the lump in his throat. Instead, he dropped his shirt and approached the bed with the rose in his hand. When she looked up, Gavin dropped the rose on the papers in front of her.

  “You’ve come to tell me there’s a child,” he said with more hope than he thought possible. If she carried his child, he was duty bound to marry her.

  She smiled brilliantly. “No.”

  Hope shattered, he looked at her with wariness. “You’ve run away from home?”

  She scooped up the papers around her and patted the bed. “No.”

  Gingerly, he took the place cleared beside her. He could smell the rose now when he couldn’t before. Or perhaps he just smelled the scent of her.

  “Do you mean to tell me why you’re here?” he asked with more than curiosity. At the same time he decided it wasn’t just lust driving him. He wanted to ramble around inside her head for a while, a lifetime or so, perhaps. He didn’t think forever would be long enough.

  Dillian held up the stack of papers in her hand, presenting them to him. Gavin couldn’t tear his gaze away from the pink tint of her cheeks and the warmth of her eyes. He read things there he didn’t dare believe.

  “I’ve come to offer you a proposition,” she said almost shyly. He’d never seen her shy.

  He took the papers and set them on a nightstand. “If the offer includes you, I accept,” he murmured, brushing her cheek with his lips. He’d be a fool to deny himself that small opportunity. When Dillian didn’t protest, he raised his hands to her curls. They were every bit as rich and silky as he remembered.

  “You don’t even know what the offer is,” she protested as he trapped his hand in her hair and tilted her face so he could reach her lips with more ease.

  “If it includes you and a few lifetimes, who am I to object? I don’t ask for anything more.” He was drunk on her closeness.

  She took his kiss with the eagerness he remembered so well, and he nearly melted into a puddle of hot wax. She had the power to do that to him, to reduce him to nothing with just the heat of her kiss. He would do anything to keep her here.

  Catching his breath, Gavin pushed away enough to think again. He could see the desire burning in her eyes. She wasn’t here against her will. She wanted this as much as he did. But did she want as much as he wanted?

  “Are you offering me a lifetime?” he asked, studying her expression with the experience learned at the hands of cruelty. He didn’t feel deserving of her wit or beauty, but he wouldn’t deny himself the opportunity of asking if she allowed it. “I threw out the vinegar and sponges. I don’t want that anymore.”

  She bit her bottom lip and doubt flickered in her eyes. “Does that mean you don’t want me? I thought, if nothing else…” She made a helpless gesture.

  Gavin’s eyes lit with unholy glee. “You thought I might stop wanting you? Are you out of your mind? What proof do you require of my desire?”

  She gave his expression a suspicious look, then glanced down at his lap. If she needed any proof of his desire, she could see it there easily enough. He was as rigid as a fence post. He loved the way her cheeks burned red when she met his eyes.

  “You could have come after me,” she said with annoyance.

  “And what would I have offered you when I did?” Gavin threw his arm out to indicate their surroundings. “One bedchamber and a pile of crumbling ston
es? A penniless title? I’ll not have you live the life my mother led, or the one your father left you to. I would give you a roof without holes, walls that won’t crumble, the knowledge that the children we create will have a home and support for a lifetime.

  “I can’t do that yet. I’m working on it. I can’t ask you to marry me until I can truthfully promise that I can take care of you. You’re offering me temptation right now far beyond my ability to resist.” His gaze dropped longingly to the swell of her bosom beneath the clinging silk.

  Dillian leaned forward, deliberately emphasizing the arch of her breasts, defying him not to touch her. “Then, don’t resist. You didn’t give me your child last time, Gavin Lawrence. Give me one this time.”

  Dillian saw the blatant longing in his face, the war of desire and honor in his eyes. She was being cruel by forcing him to choose one over the other, but she wanted to know he desired her before she gave him what he required. She had thought to trade herself for the deeds, but she really wanted his love.

  Gavin’s gaze met and held hers in such a manner that she stopped breathing.

  “I’ll not tumble you like a whore again, Dillian. I love you too much for that. I want you for my wife. I want you to learn to love me as much as I love you. After what I’ve done, I know it won’t be easy. I’ll work hard to earn your respect. That’s what I’ve been trying to do. If you had any idea of what this is costing me to keep my hands off you ….”

  Lord, she loved this man. He talked of honor and respect when they both burned like flaming torches. Rising to her knees, Dillian indulged in the sensual pleasure of caressing his hair. When Gavin instinctively reached for her waist, she slid into his lap and sprinkled kisses against his bare shoulder. He smelled of male sweat and musk, and she tasted his skin in her hunger for his touch. She heard him groan, and his hands clenched tighter. She’d have to release him from his torment so she could have all that she wanted.