by Jane Goodger
When she reached down to touch him, he stiffened and moved away slightly. “I’m afraid if you touch me right now, I’ll be unable to do what I’ve been wanting to do since last time.”
Leaning forward, he kissed one nipple, and entered her easily, and he groaned at the pleasure of how hot and wet she was. For him. Like a teenage boy, he thrust once, twice, then let out a long groan as he found his release. He pressed his head against the pillow, his mouth on her shoulder, and began laughing at himself.
“That is not what I intended,” he said, still laughing.
“No?”
“No. I had the foolish thought that I would last more than ten seconds. But you are so lovely, Lilian, I’m afraid it’s difficult for me to control myself. I’m not used to a woman like you.”
“Like me? Am I so very different?”
“My God, yes.”
She scrunched up her face adorably. “And is that a good thing, my lord?”
He kissed her softly. “A very, very good thing, my love.”
And this time, when she looked at him as if he’d created the stars and the moon, he didn’t even care.
* * *
On the train ride to Cannock, they had a private car. Mabel sat with Lilian, and the two played a game of Beggar My Neighbor as Marcus watched. He remembered his sister playing that very card game with his brother Stephen; the two had been inseparable as children.
“Would you like to play the winner?” Lilian asked. “It appears Mabel is going to beat me handily.”
Mabel placed an ace down and clapped her hands. “Four cards, if you please.”
Lilian made a face that made the little girl giggle, then handed over the last of her cards. “Indeed, you have won. Would you like to play another?”
Mabel yawned, delicately covering her mouth with a gloved hand, and Marcus felt a sharp twinge in the region of his heart. She looked so well-cared-for now compared to the pale, disheveled urchin who had arrived at his doorstep not that long ago. With her hair neatly combed and plaited, her belly full of good food, and her clothing proper, she looked like what she was—the daughter of a viscount. He just could not stop himself from loving her just a little, damn his soft heart.
“Would you like to lie down and take a nap? You could put your head on my lap,” Lilian said.
“I’ll use Papa’s lap,” Mabel said, and scooted over to Marcus’s seat before he could even think to utter a protest, before he could remind her to call him sir, or your lordship, or Lord Granton. Which he would have, given the chance, if only to avoid seeing that look on his wife’s face, the one that told him he had a big, soft heart no matter how much he might protest. The odd thing was, when Mabel called him Papa and then laid her head on his lap, his heart did feel rather soft. And full, almost to the point of pain. He gave Lilian a withering look, as if he felt none of these unfamiliar emotions, and awkwardly patted Mabel’s shoulder.
“We should look into getting Mabel a nanny when we’re in London. And a lady’s maid for you. And I suppose my poor valet, Mr. Courtland, would be quite pleased if I brought him back to Merdunoir with me. He’s been acting as a footman, which is quite beneath him. I suppose I’m fortunate he didn’t hand in his notice in protest.”
Lilian was looking at him, studying him, as if trying to see into his mind. “I believe it may be time for you to return to the world, even if that world is in Whitby.”
“Perhaps.” He turned to look out the window, away from Lilian’s soft gaze. Every day that passed made it more and more difficult to pretend he could shield his heart from his new wife. As he sat there, feeling the slight weight of his daughter on his lap, her soft baby-fine hair brushing one hand, he knew he was losing the battle. He could feel his heart—something he hadn’t been able to do in some time. He’d thought, foolishly, that though it continued to beat, he was incapable of feeling anything more than simply alive. Unaware of what he was doing, he moved his gaze from the landscape outside the train down to the downy head of the little girl sleeping on his lap.
“It’s time she started calling you Papa.”
Marcus snapped his head up and actually blushed. “Very well,” he said, then forced himself to look out the window again.
* * *
Hallstead Manor was a grand old home, and one Lilian had seen many times, though she had never been inside. After what had happened with Marcus’s sister, no Dunford had allowed anyone from the duke’s household inside. This was to be a momentous and probably uncomfortable visit, Lilian realized.
Marcus had wired ahead to inform his family that he would be arriving, but Lilian had no idea what sort of reception would be had, and was frankly surprised that when their carriage pulled up in front of the house, several servants spilled out the front door, followed by his mother, father, and the rest of his family. Lilian glanced over at Marcus to see his reaction and smiled when she saw that he looked displeased.
“I’m not the prodigal son, for heaven’s sake,” he muttered.
“What’s a pro—” Lilian placed a gentle hand on Mabel’s arm, stopping her words and shaking her head, silently telling Mabel that this was not the time for her questions.
The steps were lowered, and the door opened, revealing a liveried footman wearing Chesterfield gold and blue, and Marcus’s curious family standing on the marble steps. Lilian handed down Mabel first, her stomach in knots, then followed and stood awkwardly waiting for Marcus to step down. He did so with ease, though Lilian knew he must feel a bit uncertain as to his reception—particularly from his father. Mabel immediately went to Marcus and took up one of his hands, a gesture that was followed with obvious disapproval by Lady Chesterfield.
Lord Chesterfield, who oddly looked nothing at all like Marcus except for his brownish gold eyes, stepped forward. “Welcome home, Granton.” Though he showed little outward emotion, something in the older man’s eyes and the way he said those three words seemed to hold far more weight, and Lilian realized Marcus had more in common with his father than she’d first realized. Lord Chesterfield turned to her and gave a small bow. “Welcome to Hallstead Manor, Lady Granton.”
Lilian curtsied and, beside her, Mabel did her best to emulate her. “This is Miss Mabel Dunford.”
Lord Chesterfield looked down at Mabel, and while most small children would have shrunk away from such a stern countenance, Mabel simply looked up at her grandfather with curiosity. “Miss Dunford,” Chesterfield said, and Mabel’s brows immediately came together. She looked up at Marcus, no doubt wondering why on earth this old man was calling her Miss Dunford instead of her given name. Marcus looked down at her and gave her a quick wink.
Then a young man Lilian didn’t recognize but immediately realized must be Marcus’s youngest brother, Stephen, came forward, hunkered down to Mabel’s level, and said, “I am your Uncle Stephen. A pleasure to meet you.”
“You look like his lordship,” Mabel said, looking from the younger version of Marcus to the man himself.
“I’m taller,” Marcus said.
“And I’m smarter,” his brother said without missing a beat.
Then Stephen stood and gave his brother a hearty embrace. “It is so good to see you, Marcus. I only wish Rose were here, too. She’s been so worried about you.”
“No thanks to you, I am certain,” Marcus said darkly. “I shall have to write to her to dispel any rumors that I’m living in a cave with a beard down to my knees.”
Stephen laughed, and Marcus nearly smiled.
Lady Chesterfield clapped her hands, and the family and servants moved into the home, with quite a few of the servants welcoming his lordship home. Clearly, Marcus was well-liked by both his family and the staff.
As they went in, Lilian hurried her steps until she was even with Lady Chesterfield. “Thank you for that wonderful greeting,” she said. “I know Marcus was moved by the gesture.”
The older woman looked at Lilian curiously as if she hadn’t any idea what she meant—or who she was for that ma
tter. “Chesterfields always do their duty.”
Now that was a bit of a cold bath, Lilian thought as she let the other woman proceed ahead of her.
“What was that about?” Marcus asked, coming up beside her.
“I thanked your mother for the warm reception,” Lilian said, her eyes on Lady Chesterfield’s small frame. If she’d had any notion that she would be a welcome part of this family, Lady Chesterfield had disabused her of that idea.
* * *
Lilian’s rooms were vast and beautifully appointed, with whitewashed walls and gold trim, and a thick Aubusson carpet beneath her feet, but she missed the intimacy of Merdunoir more than she would have thought possible. Her suite adjoined her husband’s, but they were separated by two sitting rooms, one for each of them. The suites were mirror images of one another, though Marcus’s rooms were quite a bit larger than hers, but such comparisons concerning rooms as large as theirs held little meaning. Her suite was larger and grander than her duchess sister’s, and part of Lilian wished she could invite her sister for a visit just to show her. It wasn’t a very charitable thought, but Lilian could not help but think it.
Her letters to her sister had gone unanswered, and Lilian wondered if Theresa actually thought she’d had anything to do with Weston’s murder. Despite her accusation the night of the murder, it seemed impossible that she would think that, but the fact Theresa hadn’t written, hadn’t responded at all, was quite telling. And Lilian knew the lack of response had nothing to do with the fact her sister was in deep mourning; she was certain Theresa had probably danced on her husband’s grave. More than once.
Theresa had confided to Lilian many times in the past three years that she was terribly unhappy. She would cry on Lilian’s shoulder one day, then rant that her misery was all Lilian’s fault the next. At times, Lilian wondered if her sister was a bit unstable, driven that way by the cruelty of Weston.
A tall bank of windows, their heavy gold velvet curtains pulled back to allow in the day’s bright sun, beckoned her and she let out a delighted gasp when she realized they were not windows, but doors that led out to a narrow balcony overlooking one of the most beautiful gardens she’d ever seen. In the distance, a small pond, complete with two swans, was surrounded by a lawn of emerald green, and leading to the pond was a pebbled path lined with riotously blooming roses.
A soft sound behind her made her smile, for she knew, without turning, that her husband had joined her on the balcony.
“Those roses,” he said, a small amount of humor in his voice. “They were planted when my sister was born. Poor mother had suffered through three boys and was so delighted to finally have a girl, she planted a garden of roses in her honor.”
“For Rose. I see.”
“Yes. The irony is, Rose doesn’t care for her namesake flower, though every suitor she ever had sent her dozens of the things.”
He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. It was such a husbandly gesture, marking them completely as a couple, that Lilian couldn’t help the way her heart melted. She loved him. It was as simple as that. Placing her hands against his, she hugged him to her and leaned against him.
“The sun is out,” he whispered next to her ear.
A slow smile spread on her face. “Indeed it is.”
“For some reason”—he kissed her neck softly and moved a hand up to cup one breast, causing her to stop breathing for a moment—“every time the sun is shining, I think of you, naked. Strange thought, yes?”
“Very strange,” she said, then turned in his arms so she might kiss him. “Very strange indeed.” And, feeling shamelessly bold, she dropped her hand to the top button on his trousers and undid it.
Chapter 15
Constable Toby Conroy took off his top hat and rested it on his desk next to an impressive pile of paper that represented the investigation into the Duke of Weston’s murder. With no small amount of relish, he grabbed up a large stamp and pressed it into his ink pad, and was about to thump it down when he paused, just a moment, before slamming it with vigor on the top of the stack.
CLOSED.
“Smithers,” he called, ignoring the small doubt in his mind. “File this when you can, will you, chap?”
Smithers, who was otherwise occupied, waved a hand of acknowledgement. He didn’t know why a case that was so obviously closed would continue to bother him. He usually liked it when murders were easily solved. Take the Whitson case. Man killed another man over a cow. Whitson had walked into the police station holding a bloody axe and announced he’d just killed his neighbor. Other than dealing with the hysterical wife of the dead man and the equally hysterical wife of the murderer, the case had been a pure joy. Open and closed before he’d even known there was a case.
But this one, involving a peer of the realm and a father getting revenge for his daughter, well, this case had been a nightmare from the beginning. And now it was closed. Closed. He set the stack of papers away from him. Snapping open his watch, Conroy noted that Viscount and Viscountess Granton would be at the station momentarily, something that was wholly unnecessary now. If things had been different, Conroy would gladly have traveled to Hallstead Manor, but as the case had just that day been turned on end, he’d had no time to send a note.
Those thoughts were still bouncing around in his head when he heard a deep voice request his attention, and Conroy stood.
“My lord,” Conroy said, bowing slightly. “My lady. Please sit down.”
While they sat, he fetched the register that all visitors signed when they entered the police department on business. “If you would sign here, please,” he said, laying the register on the desk in front of the couple. Lord Granton signed first, then handed the pen over to Lady Granton, something Conroy noted only because it was a rare man indeed who allowed his wife to sign for herself.
The lady looked nervous and Conroy couldn’t say he blamed her. Having a murder charge hanging over one’s head was no laughing matter.
His lordship looked about to make an impassioned speech defending his lady, but the constable forestalled him by raising one hand. “The case has been solved,” he said, and the viscount snapped his mouth closed.
“Thank God,” Lady Granton said feelingly. “Who . . . ?”
“The same man who confessed.” Conroy passed a weary hand over his brow. “They’re Catholic, and the daughter, the one who was the center of all this, couldn’t bear the thought of her father, who died for her, you see, to be buried in unconsecrated ground. Suicide, you know. And murder. It was just too much for the poor girl. And so she made up the whole thing about her father being left-handed. She was clever to claim that, she was. She wanted her father to have a proper burial and be laid to rest in consecrated ground. Her mother just left, not twenty minutes ago, with her daughter in tow, having explained the whole thing. We’re not pressing charges.” He waited to see if the pair would become incensed by this last, and he was ready to defend his decision. The poor girl had been beside herself, fearing the church would dig up her father and remove him from the cemetery where he now lay. She’d begged him not to say a thing. It had been one of the most wrenching scenes Conroy had ever been a part of, and so he’d promised to do what he could so that her father could stay where he was. Still, something niggled at his brain, as if he were forgetting an important detail. His unease made no sense and so he dismissed it. The man had confessed, the daughter admitted her lie. Case closed.
“So it’s over.” Lady Granton’s eyes were suspiciously shiny, but she did not cry. Hell, Conroy wasn’t certain he could take it if another pretty lady burst into tears in front of him.
“This is the case?” Lord Granton asked, eying the bound stack of papers. Beside it was a smooth stone, which Granton picked up. “A worry stone, Constable?”
Conroy chuckled. “Not mine, though this case did cause me no amount of worry. I thought it might be a clue of some sort. I found it next to Mr. Maine, you see, and his wife
couldn’t recall the gentleman having one.”
“If it had nothing to do with this case, then perhaps you can benefit from it in the future,” Lord Granton said, placing the stone back on his desk.
“Yes.” He sounded entirely convinced. “I will inform Her Grace of this development. I fear she still retains some doubts. In fact, I will inform Her Grace that if she continues to disparage your character, she will face charges.”
Lady Granton’s eyes grew wide. “Will she?”
Conroy smiled. “No, but it won’t hurt to let her think so, will it now?”
Lady Granton smiled, and Conroy felt the impact of that smile like a small blow to his head. “Thank you, Constable.”
“You are more than welcome, my lady. And may I congratulate you in person on your recent nuptials.” He darted a look to Granton, who scowled at him.
“Of course,” the lady said, then looked up at her husband, whose face made the most remarkable transformation Conroy had ever witnessed. Clearly, Viscount Granton was a man very much in love with his new wife.
Chapter 16
Lilian arrived at Mount Carlyle with a small army of servants and a stomach roiling with nerves. Marcus was attending a meeting in Birmingham, and she’d assured him it would be a simple matter to go to her sister’s home and collect all her belongings. Mabel was getting to know her cousins, one of whom was just her age—a girl—and the two had taken to one another almost immediately.
Still, this was not an errand she looked forward to. The familiar sight of the grand estate made her slightly ill, though given her meeting with the constable, she felt a bit more confident than she would have otherwise. In hindsight, fleeing that night might have been foolish, but if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have met Marcus nor have Mabel in her life. Lilian’s mother had always told her that things happened for a reason—even the bad.
