by Jane Goodger
For some reason, this winsome girl had him talking like a veritable magpie. He realized she’d offered no condolences on the death of his wife, no questions, as if she instinctively knew not to talk about his personal life. Either that or she was completely uninterested. Not a welcome thought, that.
“So you have no belief in ghosts?” Her eyes danced with amusement, and Marcus nearly smiled.
“None at all. I put ghosts in the same category as nymphs, fairies, and trolls.”
“Never say you do not believe in fairies, sir. How else to explain how a room is kept clean?”
“Servants?”
She let out a light laugh. “My nanny told me fairies did all the work, and I believed her for far too long.”
Mabel stirred, stretching her little body and rubbing her eyes, her nap over.
“You will join me for dinner this evening?” he asked, suddenly wanting company. Lady Lilian would be gone soon enough, and he’d be alone again, so he might as well be a proper host while she was here.
“I can hardly sit at a dining table wearing only a robe.”
“Of course you can.” When she made to protest, he said, “I would like the company, my lady.” He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until she nodded, and he let it out, slowly, so as not to call attention to his apprehension. Why the hell was he apprehensive? Maybe he had been living alone for far too long.
“Then, yes, I would enjoy sitting at a table and eating for a change. It feels like months since I have done so. And Sadie is a capable cook. I shall look forward to it.”
Marcus looked down at her and tried not to be affected by the fact a beautiful woman, wearing hardly anything at all, was sitting in his bed smiling up at him. “I shall look forward to hearing your opinion on Weston.”
For some reason, his words startled her, made her face heat instantly, and he felt a surge of some emotion he couldn’t quite name. Just hearing Weston’s name caused the lady to blush, and he couldn’t help but wonder why.
“I fear such a discussion might spoil my appetite,” she said tightly.
When Marcus chuckled, she seemed to relax. “At least I know you share my enmity toward the man. I shall look forward to dinner, my lady.” He gave a small bow, grabbed his coat, and headed out the door, trying to stop himself from whistling.
* * *
One of the challenges of living in a large home with only two servants was that Marcus was called upon to do certain chores that a man of his standing should never be expected to do. He was used to finding flaws and telling a servant to correct them. Living at Merdunoir, he’d become far more independent. Doing even the smallest chores, such as driving a nail in the wall to hang a picture, he found ridiculously satisfying. His ride on the beach was precisely what he’d needed, a mindless, physical activity that drove thoughts of his dead wife and her child out of his mind and let him forget that a beautiful and nearly naked woman was at that moment lying in his bed.
He returned to an empty stable as the sun was dipping toward the horizon. Palmer was off doing something else, and it was left to him to brush down his horse, a task he quite enjoyed. He tossed Chief some fresh hay, gave him an affectionate slap on his shoulder, and walked to the house, a sense of calm steeling over him as he looked up at it. Merdunoir was a monstrosity of a house, but he loved it. A second-story shutter was askew, and an attic window broken, no doubt letting in some creature that sounded like a ghost walking about at night. He made a mental note to fix the shutter and block off the window on the morrow. Perhaps the attic had bats. Despite its flaws, Marcus liked the old place and decided it might be time to give her a bit of attention. He paused on the low stone step that led to the kitchen and stamped his boots, loosening a small bit of sand that clung to them. He opened the door, frowning at how the doorknob jiggled, as if it was close to falling off. Bending over, he peered at the knob and tested it, realizing it needed only a bit of tightening. Back home, he would have immediately told a footman, who would have told someone, who would have fixed the door. Here, he would either have to wait for Palmer to be available or do it himself. Tightening a screw was certainly on the list of easy repairs that he could manage.
Marcus headed directly to the kitchen’s large L-shaped pantry, where he, much to Sadie’s dismay, had reserved one shelf for the tools he used most—hammer, nails, screwdrivers, etc. The high windows of the pantry let in a soft, peachy-yellow light from the setting sun. It was a homey place, with smooth brick floors and wooden shelving stocked with all manner of food, pots and pans, and dishes. If Sadie never washed a plate, he could eat for a month and not run out of plates. He couldn’t recall any party ever being held at Merdunoir and wondered why such a large set of dishes was needed in this remote estate.
Marcus strode to his shelf, looking at his small array of tools, then froze. He’d heard a sound, a soft drop of water, a distinctive drop, such as one heard during a bath. And he knew, without a doubt, who it was taking a bath in the pantry, most likely frozen in horror at the sight of him.
“Lady Lilian?”
A long silence, so long he began to think he’d imagined that sound.
“Yes, my lord.”
For some reason, Marcus found himself smiling as he looked at his tools and pictured Lady Lilian, eyes wide, completely still, mortified that he might . . .
“It seems I have a moral dilemma,” he said finally.
“You do not, sir. As a gentleman, you have only one course of action.”
He chuckled softly. “I am a gentleman, you are correct, my lady. But I am also a man, a man who has not had the pleasure of watching a lady in her bath in too many years to count.”
“Sir.” She sounded quite angry, which made Marcus smile even more. Feeling absurdly mischievous, Marcus spun around.
The lady gasped, immediately lifting her knees up and wrapping her pale arms around them, completely shielding anything worth looking at from view. Her expression was one of disbelief tinged with anger, and perhaps, though he might have been imagining it, amusement.
Then the oddest thing happened. He could see nothing but her pink knees, her slim arms, her creamy shoulders, her riot of hair, still wet and curling around her. And, of course, her face, looking ethereally lovely in the last of the day’s light. It hit him, unexpectedly, a raw wave of lust so intense, he nearly staggered from it. Marcus spun around, praying she hadn’t seen it in his face, horrified that his body had, for lack of a better term, sprung to life in a way that hadn’t happened since he was a teenager.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said, grabbing the screwdriver and hastening out of her line of sight. He stopped, caught his breath, and adjusted himself to ease some of the ache. “Until this evening, my lady.” He didn’t want her to think she could use this encounter as an excuse to avoid dinner.
* * *
Lilian let out a slow breath, listening intently as his steps receded. “Of all the . . .” What kind of a man did that sort of thing? She let out a soft laugh. It was odd; if she had been in the same situation and the Duke of Weston had walked in on her, she would have been terrified. She would have shrunk beneath his gaze, felt sickened by his actions. For some reason she could not explain, Lord Grafton’s actions left her more amused than anything. The dickens. She could comfort herself in the knowledge that he hadn’t truly seen anything other than her knees, arms, and face. He’d seemed rather amused himself, unmoved by her state of undress. Before he’d spun back around, she’d seen something else in his enigmatic eyes, something dark and slightly disturbing, but nothing that gave her an ounce of fear. Still, that she had been alone in a room, unclothed, with an unmarried man . . . it didn’t bear thinking about. Women had been forced to marry for far less than that. In fact, her presence in his home alone was quite scandalous, but there was nothing to do for it now.
Then again, she was already ruined beyond redemption. The article in the Times had, in one instant, made her a societal outcast. How much worse could her reputation ge
t, after all?
Lilian completed her bath, then stood and grabbed up the towel, shivering and wrapping it around her. Such luxuries as a bath would be few and far between now. Once she left Merdunoir, she would be quite alone. Perhaps she could travel to America. Perhaps she could hide somewhere until she was twenty-five, then go to her bank, remove her funds, and escape the country before anyone was the wiser. It was a foolish thought, for she had the fear that the moment she tried to remove her money, someone would sound an alarm and she’d be dragged away by a constable. In chains. With people throwing rotten vegetables at her. As an heiress, she was well-known at her bank and now, no doubt, a notorious figure.
Once she was dry, Lilian put on his lordship’s robe, holding the material to her nose and breathing in his scent before she realized what she was doing. Immediately, she thrust the material down and wrinkled her nose at her own behavior. Then she drew it back up, slowly, a little guiltily, and inhaled again, feeling a sudden and unexplainable sense of longing. Shaking her head, she tightened the tie and tugged on a thick pair of woolen stockings Sadie had given her. They were warm and much appreciated, particularly on the cold brick of the pantry and kitchen.
Lilian made her way back to her room and on the way ran into a frazzled-looking Sadie, who must be hurrying to the kitchen to cook a hasty meal. She paused just long enough to dip a quick curtsy and moved down the hall muttering something about how one person could only do so much. Indeed, poor Sadie seemed terribly overworked, especially with two additional mouths to feed. No wonder only a handful of rooms were opened.
“Would you like to play a game?” Mabel asked.
Poor little thing must feel a bit lost being in this big, dark house with no one to talk to except her sock doll. Lilian smiled. “Hide the Button?”
* * *
Lilian couldn’t remember being so nervous before attending a dinner, which made no sense at all. Perhaps, she thought, it was because earlier that day, the man she would be dining with had come upon her naked in her bath. It didn’t matter at all that he hadn’t actually seen anything. She still did not understand why she wasn’t livid; she ought to be. But the only emotion she could conjure up was one of mortification, which no doubt explained her nerves. She descended the stairs, her wool stockings making her approach quite silent. Yet when she entered the dining hall, Granton, who appeared to be going through his correspondence, lifted his head and immediately stood.
“My lady, thank you for joining me,” he said formally. “Please forgive my casual appearance, but I do not have a valet here with me.” Lilian looked closely at him to see if he was jesting, for she was standing in front of him wearing nothing but a robe and her shift, still damp from a hasty washing. He, on the other hand, was the epitome of a country gentleman, wearing a brown wool jacket over a green silk vest and dark trousers. His whiskey-colored eyes might have shown the slightest bit of amusement, but Lilian didn’t know him well enough to be certain. Lilian did not meet his eyes for long, unable to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds, but she could feel his stare just the same.
As she walked toward the setting that had been placed to his right, he pulled out her chair and sat back down. Lilian, in her man’s robe and woolen socks, tried to maintain her dignity, but the situation was so odd that she let out a small, sharp laugh. “I’ve never dined in a robe,” she said in an attempt to explain her nervous laughter. In truth, she’d never dined alone with a gentleman; it was decidedly foreign and completely scandalous. One month ago, she never would have considered such a thing, but now it didn’t seem to matter at all.
“Actually, that’s not true,” she amended. “I’ve often dined in my dressing gown in my room. In private. In fact, that is how I spent most evenings when visiting my sister.” Lilian liked to use the term “visit” rather than live, even though her visit had lasted three years. “I had a lovely room overlooking the garden, in an entirely different wing of the house from Their Graces. It was almost as if I were living alone.”
“And did you enjoy living at Mount Carlyle?”
“Not in the least.” Lilian decided not to elaborate. What would she say to him? That she’d had no choice but to live with a man she loathed and a sister who loathed her? They’d only tolerated her out of a sense of duty and the censure they would receive should they make her leave—at least that’s what Theresa, ever the martyr, had told her on more than one occasion. Lilian and her sister had been close when they were young, but all that had changed, seemingly overnight, when Terri married the duke. Once Theresa realized what her marriage to Weston would be like, she’d grown to resent Lilian her freedom. Theresa conveniently forgot how Lilian had begged their mother not to allow the marriage. But her sister had been so swept up in the attention she received, the dreams of Worth gowns and being a duchess, she’d refused to listen. Weston had been a monumental mistake, something Theresa had likely realized quickly in her marriage. As an unmarried woman, Lilian could hardly live on her own, not when she had family willing to take her in. She had no elderly aunt to live with and had wanted to avoid any hint of scandal, still hoping that she might someday marry. Now, she had more scandal tied to her good name than she knew what to do with, and marriage to even the lowest peer would be out of the question.
Sadie entered, carrying a large tureen of what turned out to be a rather wonderful potato soup, and Granton turned the conversation away from Weston.
“How is the child?”
“Mabel is fast asleep. I think the events of the day have worn her out. We were playing Hide the Button and she fell asleep waiting for me to hide it.” Lilian prattled on for a while, keenly aware of his unrelenting gaze as she spoke, while she mostly looked down at her bowl. He listened, but never interjected a comment, leaving her voice to trail off into an uncomfortable silence. She let out a small sigh and turned her full attention to the soup. Clearly, Granton was not a conversationalist, which made her wonder why he’d asked her to dinner in the first place. When he finally did deign to speak, Lilian wished he’d remained silent.
“How is Weston?”
The question took her off guard, and instantly she could hear her blood pounding in her ears. “When I last saw him, you mean?” she asked, picturing His Grace’s blood-stained chest.
“I daresay I realize you cannot know how he is at this very moment.” His lips lifted a bit. “I meant the last time you saw him, of course.”
Panic flooded Lilian; she’d barely heard his words. As she stared down at the delicate gold flowers painted on the rim of her bowl, she wondered briefly whether his lordship would change the subject if she remained silent. But he continued to stare at her politely, waiting for her answer.
“He was unwell,” she said, trying desperately not to lie. But it was a lie, and she loathed lying, so she laid down her spoon and looked up at him. “His Grace is dead. He was found murdered in his bed.” The inadvertent rhyme struck her as impossibly funny at the moment, and she let out a laugh, mortified that she was laughing about the dead duke but unable to stop herself.
Granton laid down his spoon as well and took up a letter that lay on top of his correspondence. For some reason, the deliberate way he made the motion filled Lilian with a terrible dread, and she could feel her entire body begin to tremble. “Ah,” he said, his gaze unwavering, and Lilian had to look down. “I enjoy poetry as well. Perhaps I can add to your rhyme.” He looked at her, his whiskey eyes level. “The lady panicked and ran away, thinking she would have to pay.” Lilian gasped. Oh God. “But then a local man admitted, that he’s the one who really did it.”
Lilian’s blood roared in her ears ever louder, making it difficult to hear, and it took several moments for her to understand the last line in their ridiculous poem. She snapped her head up. “What did you say?”
“They caught the man who murdered His Grace, my lady,” he said blandly, indicating the missive. “My brother writes to me regularly and this was rather an exciting story in our sleepy little county. Ap
parently, His Grace got one of the maids with child. She was fourteen and her father decided Weston deserved to die. I completely concur. Sadly, the gentleman took his own life, but before he did, he left a detailed letter admitting his guilt.”
Lilian sat back, the relief she felt profound, making her almost light-headed. “I can’t believe it,” she said, looking with wonder at Granton. “Are you certain?”
“The magistrate has closed the case.” He set the letter aside and pierced her with a searching look. “Why did you not tell me? I might have helped.”
“I could hardly introduce myself in that manner. ‘Hello, I am Lilian Martin and everyone believes I’ve murdered the Duke of Weston.’” She drew a still-shaking hand over her brow, as if the motion might help her brain accept what she had just heard. She was exonerated. Free. “Oh my God. You have no idea how frightened I was. I could picture myself, walking up to the gallows, some horrid man standing there grinning at me, ready to put that . . .”
“Blindfold? Hood?” he supplied.
“Yes, blindfold.”
“I think they use blindfolds for firing squads.”
“Then a hood,” she said impatiently, allowing a small amount of exasperation into her voice. He was so blasé, as if they were discussing the weather, for goodness sake, not her execution.
