by Jane Goodger
Mabel smiled. “Yes, my lady.”
Lilian straightened and looked at Granton, who stared stonily at the wall. She felt suddenly awkward standing there in front of her future husband, a man who clearly did not want to marry her. She’d thought—foolishly, obviously—that a man who wanted to kiss a woman likely also wanted to marry her. This was not the case with Granton. “Mabel, why don’t you go down to the kitchen and see if you can find Sadie? I’ll bet she’ll have a treat for you.”
Without saying another word, Mabel hurried down that hall, her stocking flopping in her hand as she ran.
Lilian again smoothed skirts that didn’t need smoothing. “Lord Granton, I am so sorry.”
“As am I. But I fear we have no choice.”
Lilian’s heart inexplicably plummeted, and she found herself wishing she’d gotten on that carriage days ago, because she had a terrible feeling that she was not nearly as opposed to a marriage between them as he was. Under different circumstances, she might even allow herself to be happy.
“If you’ll excuse me, Lady—” He stopped abruptly. “I suppose when in private, at least, we should use our given names. Mine is Marcus.”
“Yes, I know, my . . . Marcus. And of course you shall call me Lilian.”
“Very well, Lilian,” he said, his face impassive. “I shall see you at eight at dinner. We meet just prior in the parlor.” He gave her a curt bow, then headed down the hall. As Lilian watched his tall form move away, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d just made the most terrible mistake of her life.
* * *
When Lilian entered the parlor that evening, she had the distinct feeling she was in a house of mourning. Granton’s brother and his wife were huddled in one corner talking quietly, as if a corpse were laid out somewhere in the room for viewing. Lady Chesterfield sat on a sofa, periodically dabbing her eyes, and Granton stood stoically by the cold fireplace, his elbow resting on the mantel, his fist against his mouth as if in deep contemplation. Or grief. A half-empty brandy sifter sat by his elbow.
Lilian paused at the threshold, uncertain of her welcome, for it was clear she was the reason for their collective dark mood. “Good evening, everyone,” she said, trying not to sound too cheerful. Granton—or rather, Marcus—lifted his head and gave her something she thought was meant to be a smile.
“We’ll have the wedding here,” Lady Chesterfield said, still dabbing at her eyes. “Granton will obtain a special license and you will marry immediately. Under the circumstances, a small wedding seems best.” The lady was barely able to get this last out before dissolving in fresh tears.
“I see no need to rush things,” Lilian said, flushing when everyone but Marcus turned to stare at her. Lucille raked her eyes up and down her frame, and Lilian, who’d thought the new dress delivered by the seamstress earlier that day was quite becoming, felt conspicuously plain. “I’m sorry, but perhaps you could explain the haste.”
“Tongues are already wagging and your reputation is already in tatters. The sooner you are married, the sooner Granton can offer his protection. Don’t be obtuse, girl.”
“She’s simply concerned, my lady,” Georgette said soothingly, before turning to Lilian. “I know this is difficult for you, but I agree with Lady Chesterfield. The sooner you are married, the better.”
“It seems to me that if we do marry quickly, tongues will wag even more. They’ll think . . . things.” Her cheeks heated, but she kept her gaze direct.
“And when it is obvious there was no need for a hasty wedding, everyone will assume the two of you fell madly in love and married quickly because you simply could not wait.”
Lilian let out a sharp laugh, quickly stifled by her hand, and she darted a guilty look toward Marcus. Her future husband, however, continued to stare morosely into the cold fireplace as if he hadn’t heard a word.
While it rankled Lilian to have her future laid out by a virtual stranger, she was highly aware that she was the cause of all their woes. Had she not fled, had she not stayed at Merdunoir overlong, none of this would be necessary. She knew Lady Chesterfield likely expected her appreciation, and Lilian, despite her unhappiness with the situation, was able to find some of that emotion within her. “Thank you, my lady.”
Georgette then came over and offered her hands. “No matter the situation, I shall be glad to have another sister,” she said, and Lilian smiled in gratitude. She knew instinctively that she would have at least one ally in the Dunford family. Adam Dunford, on the other hand, remained on the other side of the room, his eyes on his older brother.
“This is just so wonderful,” Marcus boomed suddenly before taking a long sip of his brandy. “The wedding plans, not this brandy. Though I must say, my future lady wife, your discovery of one of the finest brandies I’ve ever had the pleasure to drink is nearly as wonderful as our wonderful wedding.” He took another sip.
“Marcus,” Adam said, his voice laced with concern and warning.
Marcus turned his head a bit loosely, confirming what Lilian already suspected. He was drunk.
“I’m sorry, is this not a happy occasion? A wedding announcement!” He flung one hand out in a flourish, and Lilian felt her face heat with humiliation.
Adam hurried to his brother’s side and whispered something in his ear, but Lilian turned away, unable to look at her future husband a minute more. She’d known he didn’t want to get married. She’d known. But did he have to be so horrible?
“He’s not used to drinking,” Georgette said softly, for her ears only. “I’ve known Granton for years, and I’ve never seen him like this.”
Though Lilian knew Georgette was trying to comfort her, the lady’s words had the opposite effect. The thought of marrying her was so abhorrent, he’d had the need to get roaring drunk just to face her this evening.
“Why is everyone so gloomy?” Marcus asked. “Why, when you think of it, this situation is rather amusing.”
“Marcus, don’t be an ass,” Adam whispered harshly as he darted a look toward Lilian.
“I think I shall leave you to your dinner, if you don’t mind,” Lilian said with as much dignity as she could. When no one argued, she turned around gracefully and left the room to calmly walk up the stairs to her bedroom. It wasn’t until she softly closed the door to her own room that she let the tears she’d been holding nearly all day burst from her eyes as she flung herself down onto her bed. To stifle her sobs, she buried her head in a pillow and cried until she was exhausted. In that moment, she wished her mother were alive. She needed her. Her mother would have soothed her and told her all would be well, but mostly she would have allowed Lilian to cling to her in her misery. Instead, she hugged her soggy pillow and rocked back and forth.
After a time, she fell asleep, waking suddenly in the middle of the night, her body tense. A soft knock on her door brought her fully awake, and she slid off her bed, realizing with chagrin that she was still dressed as she had been for dinner. Palmer had returned from Whitby with two more simple dresses, and she’d happily donned a pretty blue one, glad to be rid of the gray dress she’d been wearing for days. She’d thought, when she’d put it on, that Marcus would be pleased to see her in something colorful. But he probably hadn’t even noticed.
Lilian walked to the door and pressed her ear against it. “Yes?”
“It’s Marcus.”
Her heart jumped, but she took a deep breath. He’d sounded sober, so she opened the door a crack. He stood there in his formal attire, looking completely polished but for his hair. When she’d seen him earlier in the evening, he’d been perfection, but now he appeared a bit mussed and there were dark smudges beneath his steady gaze.
“May I speak with you?”
Lilian eyed him warily, but opened the door and let him step inside.
“I have never . . . that is . . . the man you saw this evening has never before shown himself in public, and he never shall again.”
“That man was you, sir.”
* * *
Indeed it was. A crazed man. A man who felt his entire life closing in on him. A man who couldn’t quite comprehend that his carefully planned future had come to this: being cuckolded, having a daughter whose father was unknown, and then being forced to marry a woman he hardly knew. How had his world collapsed around him so completely? He shook his head. “I apologize. My behavior was unforgiveable.”
“I accept your apology.”
She’d been crying. Copious tears from the look of her red-rimmed eyes, still a bit puffy. In the lamplight, he could see the salty tracks down her cheeks. He lifted his thumb, tracing one of the salty little streaks. “I’ve made you cry.”
“Yes.”
He smiled, liking the way she never prevaricated. He dropped his hand, resisting the urge to slide it to the back of her neck and draw her close. “I am sorry.”
“I know.” She hugged herself and looked away. “It’s a terrible situation, and I feel guilty having to put you through this. And I feel stupid for allowing it to happen.”
“As do I.”
“I suppose we can muddle through?”
“Yes. Of course.” He looked past her, his eyes settling on her rumpled bed. “This doesn’t have to be a conventional marriage if you’d rather it not be.” God, those words were difficult to say. “Georgette said you might be frightened. That perhaps I frighten you. And it might be best to get to know one another before . . .” He looked away, frustrated with his lack of finesse. He hadn’t intended for his voice to sound quite so gruff, but he was unused to talking to women. Eleanor had once joked that he barked everything.
She tilted her head. “You don’t frighten me, my lord. Am I supposed to be frightened? I can act frightened if you wish.”
He let out a rusty laugh. “No, I don’t wish for you to be frightened. I honestly didn’t think you were, but Georgette thought perhaps you might be and . . .” Dammit, all he really wanted to do was to take her in his arms and kiss her until she forgave his boorish behavior. But she’d already forgiven him, so he’d lost his excuse to ravish her.
“I suppose we could get to know one another a bit more. What is your favorite color?”
“I rather like the color of your eyes,” he said before he could think better of it. She gave him a skeptical look and he shrugged. “They are your most remarkable feature. That and your ankles.”
It was her turn to laugh and he found himself grinning down at her. “I was admiring your calves. They are quite shapely,” she said primly.
“My calves? Not my broad shoulders or powerful thighs or chiseled jaw?” He lifted his chin so that she might get a better look.
“All fine features, I assure you. Your mouth, however, is—” She stopped and her cheeks turned ruddy.
“My mouth?” he prompted, suddenly aroused as her gaze settled on his lips. She dipped her head, no doubt mortified, and Marcus felt a surge of something undefinable. Lust, obviously, but something more he couldn’t name.
“Your mouth is quite functional,” she said finally, primly.
“It is, rather, isn’t it?” He stepped closer, and she kept her eyes firmly on the floor, her body tense. Then he did what he’d longed to do earlier: he placed one hand gently at the back of her neck, reveling in the softness of her hair, the delicacy of her nape, and drew her toward him. He captured her lips with his, letting out a low moan of pure need. This was no tentative kiss; he’d had enough of that. He wanted to brand her, to show her how much he desired her, to make her feel one tenth of what he was feeling. She let out the softest, sweetest sound when he swept his tongue inside her hot little mouth. His heart hammered in his chest, and his cock grew painfully hard.
God, she tasted good. As inexperienced as she clearly was, she made up for it in innocent enthusiasm. Lilian wrapped her arms around his neck with pure abandon, letting out a throaty sound that nearly drove him to his knees. She was lush and soft, and she smelled like lavender. He pushed his arousal against her and could have wept when she didn’t shrink away. Instead, she opened her legs slightly, instinctively, and let him press against her core so that she might feel a tiny bit of what she was doing to him. He let his mind go where it oughtn’t, to a place where they were both unclothed, lying on a bed, with him moving over her. My God, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to walk away from her this night. And they were to be married, after all. He could obtain a license in Whitby on the morrow and they could be married in days.
He moved one hand to a breast, glorying in the fullness, the way her nipple hardened beneath his caress, the way she inhaled sharply.
“Marcus,” she gasped when he stroked her turgid nipple with his thumb. He longed to push her gown down, to taste that tempting bud, but he knew if he did that, he would not stop. He’d want to taste all of her; he’d want to push himself inside her and finally find his release. Instead, he slowed his kisses and dropped both hands to her waist, even though they shook with need.
“We must stop,” he said, hardly recognizing his own voice.
“Yes,” she breathed, still kissing him, the little temptress.
God, her mouth was so hot. He allowed himself a tantalizing fantasy of her kissing him, moving down his body, taking him in her mouth. He pushed gently away and straightened his arms rigidly to his sides. She looked drowsy with lust, and it took all his willpower not to drag her to her bed and have her.
“I do believe I shall look forward to our wedding night,” Marcus said.
Lilian simply nodded. And smiled.
Chapter 11
Constable Toby Conroy lit his lamp and settled into his most comfortable chair, which had earned that title because, other than a stool by his small kitchen table, it was his only chair. He was bone tired and sick to death of investigating the Duke of Weston’s murder. The case, which had seemed so cut-and-dried only days ago, had gone in circles, leaving him with more questions than answers. The chief had called him into his office earlier that day and demanded to know why the case was still open. It wasn’t every day that a peer was murdered, and the fact that the murderer was likely still at large was not sitting well with anyone in the department. Nor anyone in Birmingham. He wished, not for the first time, that Cannock had its own police force so he wouldn’t need to lead the investigation. Rumors were running rampant, that a mad killer was still on the loose. When Conroy had finished his explanation, the chief sat back in his chair and swore.
“And Lady Lilian is still missing? Probably with her accomplice. Hell, they could be anywhere by now. They could be in China, for God’s sake. What the hell took you so long to figure this out, Conroy?”
“My apologies, sir, but it took a few days before the daughter came forward. It wasn’t until she knew some of the details that she realized her father could not have been the killer.”
“And you’re certain?”
“As certain as I can be, sir. The fact he was shot on the right side is enough for me to at least be highly suspicious.”
The chief swore again. “This is a fine mess. We have a dead duke and a member of the aristocracy as the prime suspect. It would have been better for everyone if the dead man had been the murderer. Find the lady, Conroy, or it’s your job.”
Conroy, his face red, left the chief’s office, swearing beneath his breath. Chief Cooke had been a barrister, not a police officer, and had no idea what went into such an investigation. “ ‘Find the lady,’ he says. Why not look for a needle in a haystack? That’d be easier.” After leaving the commissioner’s office, he went directly home to mull over the day’s events.
Lady Lilian was now back at the top of his list of suspects, though it just didn’t settle right in his brain. How could a woman who was universally loved by nearly everyone he spoke with be capable of such a devious plot? Then again, like so many people who knew Weston, she had a motive. Apparently, the poor girl had lived in fear that the duke would make improper advances on her person. Every servant at Mount Carlyle had told a similar story—that they had taken it upo
n themselves to keep the lady safe. Which only meant that any one of the servants could also be a murderer. The more he learned about His Grace, the more he wished he could wash his hands of the investigation. Whoever had murdered the duke had apparently done the world a great favor. Instead of hanging for a crime, whoever it was should be lauded, if what he’d learned about the duke was true. But this case wasn’t only about the duke, it was also about poor Silas Maine, who may or may not have killed himself.
If Lady Lilian was guilty, she’d be guilty of killing one man and conspiring to kill another, for he’d come to the conclusion that the man who’d confessed to the crime had actually been a victim, murdered to keep suspicion away from the actual killer.
Silas Maine had simply been a pawn in a larger plot to kill the duke. His daughter had, indeed, been raped by the duke, making Maine the perfect suspect. Though his daughter insisted her father would never have murdered the duke (even if he’d probably wanted to, she admitted), he would not have killed himself to avoid the hangman. Conroy had dismissed her tearful claims, for no one knew for certain what lay in the heart of a father whose daughter had been harmed. It made perfect sense—until his daughter pointed out the fact that her father had been left handed and the head wound had been on Maine’s right side. Now, Conroy was no expert with a pistol, but he was fairly certain that if he was going to kill himself, he wouldn’t use his weaker hand. As a right-handed man, he’d use his right hand. To test his theory, he’d asked five of his chums at the police station to simulate killing themselves, and to a man, they used their dominant hand. It wasn’t proof, but it was damn telling. Mr. Maine, in Conroy’s estimation, had been murdered and forced to write his own suicide note. Which left him back at square one: Lady Lilian Martin.
Chapter 12
They were married in Merdunoir’s dilapidated chapel, hastily cleaned by the handful of servants who were brave enough to enter the tiny space. It was considered to be the most haunted part of Merdunoir. Lilian wore her blue dress and Granton his formal wear, which hung a bit loosely on his frame. He’d lost weight since the last time he’d been forced to wear it and expressed surprise that the trousers, once tailored to perfection, no longer fit.
