What the Marquess Sees

by Amy Quinton

  His victory was short lived, though. All too soon, the witch composed herself like a queen.

  She said nothing as she reached across the seat and jerked open the valise. If her movements were fitful, one couldn’t blame her. And despite his own wishes, he couldn’t help but admire her fortitude. He was deliberately goading her and she knew it, yet she carried on with apparent confidence.

  As she pulled out the dress he had acquired, he couldn’t help but watch for her reaction with inordinate pleasure and heightened expectancy. He had been forced to accept the shabbiest, homeliest dress imaginable on such short notice. He was sure she would hate it. He was not disappointed.

  After holding up the dress in front of her to inspect it, she slammed it into her lap and glared at him, her blue eyes sparking with fire. He suppressed a smile. Instead, he acted surprised by her reaction to the god-awful dress. “What seems to be the problem, Lady Beatryce? You don’t appear to be happy with my selection.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Lady Beatryce, I realize you are used to more refined clothing, but you must remember we are going into hiding. You cannot expect to wear the latest fashions and remain unobtrusive.” He was pleased he sounded so put off. It took supreme effort to withhold his grin.

  She hurled the dress at him. It landed perfectly over his head and swallowed him whole. It smelled like mothballs and sweat and other things he’d rather not think about. He gagged as he sought freedom and fresh air and nose blindness.

  “That is not the problem,” came her muffled screech as he fought to free himself from the hideous dress.

  Ah, sweet success. She’d lost some of her infamous composure. He could hear it in her voice. Now, if only he could see it with his eyes.

  And breathe again.

  “The problem is that you picked out a dress that is at least ten sizes too big!”

  By the time he unburied himself from the grasping wool, she was entirely poised again. Bah.

  “We will have to pull off somewhere before we arrive. I cannot possibly change in here. With you.”

  He threw the frock aside and tossed his head to fling his disheveled hair from his eyes. “I’m afraid that is not possible. It is too dangerous to stop on the side of the road. Don’t you realize we are in the middle of nowhere and highwaymen frequent these remote areas? Haven’t you heard the stories?”

  Somehow, he managed not to show his enjoyment of pricking her anger. For a moment, he was rewarded when he saw her jaw clench in frustration, but then her eyes turned knowing and suddenly he became all too apprehensive.

  Scared shitless actually.

  He fought the urge to tug at his cravat like a boy being reprimanded by his nurse.

  Lady Beatryce rose and moved to his seat, drifted more like. His mouth turned dry; he reached for his cravat and gave it a quick tug as she presented her back. She looked over her shoulder and with a demure smile and a husky voice, said, “Well, then. You’ll have to help me. I cannot possibly undo all these buttons by myself.”

  Chapter 12

  “…I can resist everything but temptation.”

  ― Oscar Wilde

  Dansbury wiped clammy hands on his trousers. He wasn’t a coward though; he wouldn’t back down. She thought she had him by the balls, did she? Ha! He was unafraid and he would prove it.

  He attacked the tiny, pearl buttons of her dress, of which there were a regrettably large number, all the while reminding himself of why he despised this woman. He would show the witch. He was in control. Utterly in control.

  Buttons one and two came open with little ordeal.

  He’d seen her speak with spite toward people who hadn’t deserved it. He would remind himself of that fact as he undressed her. In a minute.

  Button three opened with a little more difficulty.

  A thread was caught. He forced the button from its hole. The sound of the thread snapping told him he was being altogether too rough. The result screamed his discomfort. He took a deep breath and forced himself to slow down and not reveal his unease.

  Button four was released from its mooring with a little more care.

  And with it, more of Lady Beatryce’s upper back was revealed. Her skin appeared smooth and golden in the flickering light of the carriage lamp, and he could just make out the little fine hairs on her skin sparkling back at him from under the lantern’s soft glow. The carriage tilted a bit, changing the light patterns, and with it, the angle of his view. He noticed a small, thin scar near her right shoulder blade. He longed to touch it.

  Ah, shite.

  His breathing turned ragged and his hands shook. He wanted to rub them all over her bare skin. He wanted to taste her. Feel her. Breathe her in. He stopped himself from following through with his desires. Just.

  Oh, not good. Not. Good.

  And she wasn’t wearing a bloody shift. He focused on that fact. No shift? Clearly, she was fast and loose just as he had always known. He’d seen that firsthand, too. And if she was amenable, mightn’t they…

  Bollocks. Focus.

  He tried to ignore the unwanted attraction he felt stirring in his loins. He shifted in his seat to ease his…

  Button five taunted him, laughed outright in his face.

  It all but winked at him in the dancing glow of the swinging carriage lamp. He was no coward though, and if he kept reminding himself of his bravery, it would be true. This time, his fingertips grazed her exposed skin as he worked to set the button free.

  A jolt of full on lust shot straight to his groin.

  Ah, hell.

  Button six stared back at him. Mocking him. Daring him to continue.

  Self-preservation kicked in, and he paused to rein in his unwelcome desire. He managed to refrain from running his fingers through his own hair and down his face in distress. Barely. He clenched his fists to stop his hands from shaking. When that didn’t help, he set to work removing his cravat. He was in trouble if he couldn’t get a hold of himself.

  “Is there a problem?” Lady Beatryce looked over her shoulder while holding the front of her dress in place. She looked confident. Telling.

  He glared in return while removing his suddenly too-tight cravat. She seemed completely unaffected by the fact that he was undressing before her eyes while he was nearly choking on his uncontrollable and unwanted desire…at the sight of her back of all things. She’d probably seen many a man without their cravat. His actions probably didn’t even faze her.

  “Of course not. I’m hot. Turn back around.”

  For a moment, he thought he saw a smile grace her face before she turned completely away. He ignored the thought and asked a question guaranteed to stir up trouble. “Tell me something you regret.”

  Button six was released with little fanfare. Yes, this would work. Keeping them both angry would douse the fires of his attraction. Surely.

  “That is none of your business.”

  “It’s called conversation. Ever heard of it? We are going to be spending a lot of time together—by your own request, might I remind you. So tell me anyway.”

  Lady Beatryce squared her shoulders, but didn’t look back. Finally, after a long, drawn-out exhale, she said, “I regret nothing.”

  “Liar. Nothing? That can’t be true. We all have regrets.” Even heartless sirens.

  Button seven was released.

  Christ, were the buttons multiplying?

  Lady Beatryce lifted her chin a notch. “I once threw something into the fire…something belonging to my cousin, Grace. I suppose most people would regret something like that.”

  “But not you.” It was a statement more than a question.

  “No.”

  Hadn’t he called her heartless? “What was it?”

  “Her sketch diary. Didn’t she mention it at the time?”

  “No.”

  “I cannot believe she didn’t tell you…”

  “Lady Grace is a much better person than you…give her credit for.” He’d paused after saying you
. On purpose, of course.

  Beatryce lifted her chin higher, if possible. She would drown if she were standing in the rain.

  She still didn’t face him. The little hairs on her back stood on end. He ignored those wicked fiends.

  Button eight was freed.

  “Well, this particular diary was filled with her clothing designs, and more importantly, personal notes from her parents—words of encouragement and all that.”

  He paused, stunned. “Did she know it was you?”

  “Yes. She was there. She saw it all.”

  “And you don’t regret your actions even a tiny bit?” He was incredulous. How could anyone be so cruel and show such little remorse?

  “No.”

  “What possible reason could justify…”

  She turned at that and with one hand, gripped his jacket. Four knuckles pressed into his chest; four points of heat, sharp like a knife. “Do you even recall who my father was?” she interrupted. “I would have done anything…A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G…to get away from him.”

  She let go and turned back around. “For someone so sure of himself, you seem to be a poor judge of character.”

  “Ha! I dislike you—it would seem I am an excellent judge of character,” he retorted.

  And that did it. He was through with her. Through with her dress. Through with inappropriate and unwanted lust. He looked down at the remaining buttons. There were ten left.

  Bugger them all.

  Before he could think through to the consequences of his actions, he reached out and ripped her dress open the rest of the way—to hell with loose threads and malevolent buttons. The remaining pearls flew through the air and bounced about against the wall, the seat, and on the floor.

  It was a mistake. The action was base and only rekindled his animalistic desire. Need surged and all he wanted was to take her on the floor. Now. Fuck her until neither of them could walk.

  Christ, after everything, I still desire her…

  He beat down his lust. God, it wasn’t easy.

  Beatryce whirled around. “What do you think you are doing?”

  The fire was back in her eyes. Good. Bring. It. On. Her chest was ruddy and heaving with anger, but her hand was there, preventing the bodice from falling to her lap.

  Thank God.

  “My way was much faster.”

  She continued to glare at him, but didn’t say another word. Both to his relief and to her continued safety. He grabbed her ‘new’ dress and tossed it to her lap. “Here. You had better put this on; we’re running out of time.”

  And without another word, he turned away from her and began removing his fine, London coat…

  Chapter 13

  “Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent; for beauty is a witch against whose charms faith melteth in blood.”

  ― Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

  Beatryce kept her gaze locked on the scenery outside and ignored the man undressing behind her, or tried to. It was dark out, so she really couldn’t see very much. Having nothing she could really focus her mind on outside seemed to give her imagination free rein to wander, to visualize Dansbury…undressing.

  Hmmm, the sounds he made as he removed his clothes spawned the most vivid images in her mind. And she had quite an imagination.

  La, her ears burned red and fair sizzled…and seemed to blaze hotter with every shift of his body. She swore she felt his gaze on her back more than once, which didn’t help matters; just the thought made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

  Dansbury was large and broad and quite difficult to ignore. He all but overwhelmed their rented traveling carriage with his size and larger-than-life bearing. For sure, he was beautiful; she couldn’t help but notice. Everything, his entire package, made his presence difficult to ignore.

  But he hated her and made her aware of that fact every chance he got. He always had. He’d seemed to take an instant dislike of her the very moment they’d met. Everyone else in the world knew him for his charisma and kindness, but those traits were never directed toward her. It made her acknowledgment of his attractiveness difficult to bear; it was almost embarrassing to recognize even to herself. Almost.

  She was stronger than that, though; it was his loss that he was unable to see her. The real her. Never mind the fact that she hid her real self from him and everyone else. Self-preservation and all that.

  Beatryce shook off her concerns with regards to him and forced herself to think of her future, or at least, what amounted to her future as it pertained to the next several days. She was a strong woman. She could ignore base attraction and focus on what was important.

  Earlier, he had informed her that they would be posing as newlyweds—as Mr. and Mrs. Churchmouse.

  Newlyweds? That didn’t help ease her discomfort. And Churchmouse? What was he trying to say? Keep your mouth shut, Lady Beatryce, in all likelihood. She couldn’t imagine anyone falling for that phony name. But he was supposed to be the expert. And she was too unhinged by his disrobing to argue the point at the moment. Even with herself.

  After an eternity in her agitated state, the horses slowed as they pulled off the road. Finally. Her nerves were stretched thin. Their carriage rocked to a stop in front of an old, rundown inn; presumably their overnight accommodations were to be found within. She refused to acknowledge her distaste at the inn’s state of disrepair; she’d rather be alive than comfortable.

  Beatryce ducked her head and strained her eyes through misty night air as she tried to make out the sign above the door. In loud, gilded letters, the inn proclaimed itself “The Quiet Witch Pub and Inn”.

  Oh, he was definitely telling her something. She could just imagine him laughing at her expense.

  It could be worse. At least the inn wasn’t called “The Dead Witch Pub” or the “I’m Going to Strangle that Woman Inn”. He’d probably tried to find one of those without success.

  As he helped her out of the carriage, he leaned close and admitted, “Like the name of our inn, Lady Beatryce?”

  She shivered and her skin tingled as his warm breath tickled her ear. He didn’t wait for her to answer. He turned and brushed past, too close. Her breath caught as his arm grazed her breast. Her nipple stood to attention in response.

  She nearly ran back to the carriage. Nearly. Instead she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and walked with confidence toward the inn.

  Inside The Quiet Witch, dust coated every surface and cobwebs, every corner. Clearly, the proprietor had not heard John Wesley sermonize, “Slovenliness is no part of religion. Cleanliness is indeed next to Godliness.” Beatryce silently thanked Dansbury for the over-sized dress now, for she would not be removing it to sleep. She’d probably awake with fleas in the morning. Or worse.

  Despite the dirt, the inn boasted quite a few patrons in its main room. One particularly loud woman seemed to attract most of the attention. She was all smiles and quite vocal, talking to anyone who would listen, or so it seemed. Typical American. Beatryce sniffed and lifted her nose; then remembered the role she was to play.

  Dansbury turned toward the main desk and the large mustachioed man sitting on a stool behind the counter. The main “lobby” of the inn was in reality a pub and the proprietor sat behind the bar.

  Right, time for the show.

  She grabbed Dansbury’s arm with both hands and giggled like a schoolgirl as they crossed the room. Dansbury stumbled on a loose board. She was satisfied to have upset his equilibrium.

  “What’d ye wont?” said the landlord, who’d obviously never been taught manners.

  “Mr…and Mrs. Churchmouse,” Dansbury smiled at her, and she giggled and scrunched her shoulders in response, her face beaming, “would like a room, please, sir.”

  “Aye and would Mr. and Mrs. Churchmouse be wantin’ a bath as well?”

  “Mmmm…” Dansbury acted like a bath, with her, was his wildest fantasy come true. He touched her forehead with his and rubbed noses with her. “Perhaps another time,
thank you very much.”

  “Right, then. Have a seat anywhere’s ye like while we ready yer room. I’ll send me wife, Bertha, to fetch ye when ’tis done. Let me barmaid, Ginny, know if ye want a pint or two ta wet yer whistle or a meal ta fill yer bellies.”

  *

  Dansbury guided her to a table situated in a dimly lit back corner of the room. He acknowledged two men seated nearby with a simple nod of his head. One man was a giant, even larger than Dansbury, with dark, red hair. A Scot judging by the blue and brown kilt he wore. The Scot looked like he wore a scowl permanently etched on his rugged face. He threw a glare at the loud American woman on the other side of the room before turning back to contemplate his drink, which sat dwarfed on the table between his large, beefy hands.

  The other man was lean and beautiful and dressed to the nines with midnight hair and bright eyes. He sprawled back in his chair with his legs outstretched and a grin that shouted ‘I am a lothario, don’t ye think me sexy?’ Beatryce snorted to herself.

  Just as Dansbury’s arse touched his seat, she plopped herself in his lap. She laughed at his gaping mouth, her face radiating happiness, a show for their fellow patrons. Inside, she was all nerves. His arms had come up in reflex, caging her in. And he was so much larger than she, she was nearly overwhelmed. She curbed the instinct to flee like a coward.

  Her upbringing demanded she act demure and composed. And she had to fight every notion she was raised to believe, for ladies were warned against public displays of affection. It was forbidden. Illicit. Bad. Only fast girls succumbed to the temptation. If anyone from the ton saw her, her reputation would be destroyed, such that it was. Truthfully, it hardly mattered anymore.

  She ignored all those warnings and wrapped her arms around his neck. He stiffened in response, and she couldn’t help but see the shock, backlit with loathing, in his eyes. She disregarded that look and leaned in to whisper in his ear.