by Anne Stuart
She ignored the tender appellation. “You? You and Letty?” The notion was as outlandish as it was diverting.
“Why do you think I was banished from my native land?” he rejoined. “I tried to run off with the dear girl. Mind you, at the time she was a mere slip of a thing. I suppose disappointment in love sent her to the chocolate box for forgetfulness.”
“How long ago was that?” she questioned suspiciously.
“Twenty years.”
“But then . . .”
“That’s right. She was also married to your sturdy brother at the time.” He smiled down at her with a great show of innocence.
“I am amazed you do not have more feeling for her child then,” Gilly snapped. “She might have been your daughter.”
“I left twenty years ago, not eighteen,” he corrected. “And any daughter of mine would have a great deal more common sense, I do assure you.”
“No doubt,” Gilly said weakly. “I think perhaps I ought to chaperone the young couple.” She began edging toward the door, and Marlowe made no move to stop her.
“I would say, my dear Gilly, that you are in a great deal more need of chaperonage than your idiot niece,” he drawled. “You needn’t look so terrified. Fetching as you are, dressed so scantily with your hair unbound, I have little doubt that the fire-breathing curate would interrupt us if I allowed myself to forget that I am a gentleman on occasion.” He sighed. “I must be on my best behavior.”
Gilly just managed to stifle a laugh. “Indeed, you must,” she agreed. “We have to set an example for the young people.”
Marlowe stared at her for a long, speculative moment. “Damn the young people,” he said clearly, and before she could divine his intent he had crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. His mouth came down on hers, effectively banishing the vain hope that it had been the novelty of her first kiss that had so overwhelmed her. The second was even more devastating.
With proprietary hands he molded her body to his, his hands caressing her in a way that should have made her long to slap him but instead had the opposite effect. All the while he kissed her, slowly, lingeringly, thoroughly, as if he had all the time in the world to brand her his possession.
The door was flung open, knocking into their locked figures, and this time Gilly understood perfectly the Anglo-Saxon term Marlowe used. “Come right in, Mr. Blackstone,” he said wearily. “I was expecting you.”
Liam stood hesitating on the threshold. A very sleepy, shyly happy Felicity stood directly behind him, holding on to his hand as if it were a lifeline. “Felicity wishes to apologize for inconveniencing you, my lord,” Liam said formally. “And then we thought we’d best get back to Berkeley Square before the servants rise. That is, if you’re ready, Miss Gillian?” Despite a lover’s customary preoccupation he belatedly noticed Gillian’s flushed complexion and her distinct shortness of breath.
“Perfectly ready,” she agreed, skirting out of the way of Marlowe, not entirely sure he might not grab her again. And not entirely sure she might not welcome it. “Good evening, Lord Marlowe. Thank you again for all your assistance.”
He smiled his wicked smile down at her. “It was my pleasure,” he said, catching her gloveless hand and bringing it to his mouth. It was far from a chaste salute, and Gilly took a deep, involuntary gasp of breath.
And then some daring part of her brought the totally unexpected response. “The pleasure, sir, was mine.” Then she ruined the effect by blushing a bright pink before she wrenched her hand away and ran out of the room, leaving Marlowe to stare after his departing guests with a troubled expression in his dark eyes and a reluctant grin on the mouth that had so recently discommoded Miss Gillian Redfern.
Chapter Fifteen
TO GILLIAN’S MINGLED irritation, relief, and amusement, Marlowe was as good as his word. The very next morning, as she sat hollow-eyed over the breakfast table at the sinfully late hour of eleven o’clock, she overheard a great commotion from the servants. Derwent had just left the house, and scarcely would he have had time to remove himself from sight when the front knocker sounded.
“What is going on, Truffles?” she inquired of the second footman as he raced past the dining room door.
Truffles always had a weakness for the most considerate of the Redfems. “You’ll never guess what, miss! Lord Marlowe himself just appeared at the door, asking to speak to Mrs. Redfern alone. I was sure she’d deny herself and send me away with a flea in my ear, but what does she say but, ‘Show his lordship right in, and see that I’m not disturbed.’ The door closed behind them, and try as I might, I can’t hear a thing.” He admitted his eavesdropping intent unblushingly, and Gillian took it in the spirit it was intended.
“Did you try the music room door? I believe the wood is a trifler thinner there,” she suggested helpfully with just a trace of a smile, trying to stifle her own overwhelming curiosity.
“The first place I tried, miss. They’re speaking very low.” His youthful face was set in discouraged lines.
“Well, doubtless we’ll discover what went on during their tête-à-tête at a later date. Could you bring me more coffee?”
“Certainly, miss.” He disappeared in the direction of the kitchens, no doubt delighted with the opportunity to inform the staff what sort of goings-on took place in Mrs. Redfern’s drawing room, and Gillian returned to her toast and marmalade with a sigh. The very last person she felt up to seeing this morning was Ronan Marlowe, with his mocking eyes and knowing mouth. A little peace and quiet was all she requested, and the deserted dining room seemed the likeliest place to find it.
She sat there peaceably through the next hour, as she listened to the servants scurrying back and forth, opening and closing the massive front door, ushering visitors into the confines of Letty’s drawing room. Truffles remembered her coffee, but from that moment on she was the least of the servants’ worries. She recognized Liam Blackstone’s beautifully modulated tones in the hallway at one point, and the soft, lazy drawl of Marlowe’s counterpoint. Felicity was hastily summoned from her bedroom; Derwent returned home and promptly succumbed to what his undutiful sister could only stigmatize as a temper tantrum before a few well-chosen words from his usually placid and submissive spouse silenced him. When all was finally quiet in the great house, when Marlowe and Blackstone had been dismissed and Felicity had danced upstairs, Gillian rose from the breakfast table with its cold coffee and congealed eggs and strolled into Letty’s drawing room.
Derwent and Letty jumped apart guiltily. “Where have you been all morning, Gillian?” he demanded as he shot a quelling glance at his plump wife. “Have you any idea what has been going on here?”
“I would suspect she knows far more than we do,” Letty interjected with a trace of venom that was only slightly unexpected. “I am certain it will come as no great shock to you that Felicity is to marry Liam Blackstone.”
Gillian schooled her features in an expression of polite surprise, wondering how in the world Marlowe had managed to pull it off. “That is delightful. I’ve always felt they were extremely well suited.”
“I don’t doubt we have your interference to thank for this,” Derwent harrumphed, not as resigned to the arrangements as his helpmate appeared to be. Letty leaned back with a sigh and popped a chocolate in her small, satisfied mouth.
Gillian decided to ignore her brother’s carping. “And when will the great event take place?”
“Three weeks’ time,” he replied heavily. “The announcement has been sent to the papers. Your sister-in—law will need your assistance with all this unseemly haste. There are invitations to be addressed, a trousseau to be ordered. But don’t think, Gillian, that because Lord Marlowe insinuated himself into our affairs this time that he will receive an invitation. It will be a small family affair. Lord Marlowe will have no place there.”
Gilly cast a
questioning glance at Letty and was disappointed to see her nod in reluctant agreement. “It certainly wouldn’t do to pursue that connection,” she said with a trace of regret in her smug voice.
“But why such haste? When you felt Felicity was far too young to be wed?” Gillian’s demon prompted her to inquire.
“It was scarcely my idea,” Derwent cried petulantly. “Mr. Blackstone has been transferred to a largish village in Sussex and is to take up his duties within the month. The young people wish to have time to get settled into the parsonage before that time.”
“But how delightful!” Gilly clapped her hands together delightedly. “And Felicity has always been fond of Sussex. I couldn’t be happier for her.”
“Well, I certainly could!” Derwent snapped. “We are all to attend the Belvoirs’ rout this evening, with Bertie and Mr. Blackstone accompanying us. You may inform your nephew of the plan, and tell him I will brook no denial. We must present a united front on occasions such as these.”
“The Belvoirs?” Gilly made a face.
“Don’t try to wriggle out of it, my girl. You may find them dead bores, but there ain’t a more proper family in all of London right now. A word here and there, this evening, and the thing will be done right. It will come as no great shock to anyone when the papers print their announcement tomorrow.”
“I suppose we must all make some sacrifice to ensure Felicity’s future happiness,” Gilly said with a mischievous grin.
Her brother was not disposed to be amused. “You may very well laugh,” he said sternly, “but it’s that care-for-nothing Marlowe who’s to blame for it. You can thank him for upsetting all our plans for my eldest daughter!” His voice was bitter.
Gilly smiled sweetly. “That’s exactly what I intended to do,” she replied.
DERWENT HAD NOT exaggerated. The Belvoirs were, without question, the stuffiest, most proper, most unimaginative, boring, tedious, unspeakably perfect family in all of London. It was, therefore, with a sense of surprise verging on shock that she recognized Ronan Patrick Blakely, Lord Marlowe, across the crowded dance floor, and met his quizzical gaze with a delight she couldn’t quite hide.
It had been an excessively tiresome evening. Liam and Felicity had spent the entire time staring at each other, with scarcely a sensible word coming from the pair of them. Letty, placid as ever, was far too lazy to waste her energies in conversation, and Derwent was far too furious. Even Bertie, usually the most charming of companions, was in the worried silence that had become habitual with him in the last week or so, his face pale, his eyes dark and hollowed. It was, therefore, left up to Gilly to endeavor to entertain herself, aided not very ably by the proper widowers and aging bachelors who were considered suitable dancing partners for a lady firmly on the shelf. Their number was not great, their skill in dancing likewise limited, and not a one managed to penetrate the abstraction that had clouded her mind all evening. She danced the regulation two dances with each of them, all quadrilles and country dances, and then settled herself with the appearance of amiability to watch the waltzing.
“You don’t care for dancing, Miss Redfern?” Marlowe had taken no time at all in reaching her side, a circumstance Gilly couldn’t help but find gratifying, even if she told herself she must deplore the singular nature of it.
“I am too old to waltz,” she replied with a provocative smile.
“Nonsense!” In front of her family’s scandalized eyes he pulled her unresisting body to her feet. “You are precisely the right age for me.” And he swept her onto the dance floor before she could utter another protest.
It took her a few moments to accustom herself to the novel sensetion of being held in a gentleman’s arms as she danced. To be sure, she had been instructed in the waltz when it became all the rage three years earlier, but up until now she had only danced with a graceless Bertie or other females also learning the dance. Never had she dared to waltz in public, and the presence of Marlowe, his starched white shirt front a few inches from her face, was not likely to add to her peace of mind. Indeed, as he guided her effortlessly around the dance floor, she felt more as if she were floating, and it was with a real effort that she forced herself to make conversation, when all she really wanted to do was close her eyes and dream.
“How in the world did you receive an invitation to the Belvoirs’?” she inquired artlessly, and then blushed. “I beg your pardon, I should never have asked you such a thing.”
“One of the things I adore most about you, Gilly-flower,” he said in his low, caressing voice, “is the delightful way you blush. I was invited to the Belvoirs’ because I acceded to the title and have not caused an open scandal in the last fifteen years. It is an amazing thing how many doors are opened to one if one has a title and a reasonable sum of money.”
“Derwent has asked me to thank you for your assistance in arranging Felicity’s future,” Gilly murmured.
He raised an eyebrow. “I am certain that is not exactly how he phrased it,” he remarked.
“Perhaps not exactly,” she agreed. “But he did give you full credit. As I must. I cannot thank you enough for all you have done.”
“I had begun to doubt how pleased you were. You were nowhere to be seen this morning, and I had been hoping for a chance to pursue our acquaintance under Derwent’s disapproving eye.”
“You didn’t ask for me.” She betrayed her interest and blushed again. “Besides, I would have said our acquaintance has been pursued to quite indecent lengths.”
He threw back his head and laughed, causing not a small number of guests to stare at the couple and whisper in disapproving tones. “My dear child, you don’t know the meaning of the word indecent. I would be glad to demonstrate.”
“No, thank you,” she returned politely. “My vocabulary is broad enough.”
“Will you have supper with me?” It was nearing time for the midnight buffet, and Gilly felt a treacherous longing.
“I am afraid I couldn’t, my lord,” she murmured. “Derwent has decreed that the family must present a united front in the face of our incipient disgrace in allying ourselves with one of Mr. Blackstone’s humble origins.”
“Humble origins? His uncle is the earl of Walston!”
Gilly smiled. “Yes, but that scarcely compares with the Redferns. Or so Derwent insists.”
“It is a fortunate thing that my intentions are not honorable,” he said lightly. “I can see that Derwent would soon send someone of my paltry heritage to the right-about.”
That was the second time in twenty-four hours he had mentioned that he had no interest in marriage. When he returned her to her family, she watched him saunter off with a sharp pain somewhere beneath her ribs that she told herself was too much lobster pâté. Indeed, the manner in which she picked at the dinner Bertie had provided for her convinced her far-from-observant family that she was feeling not quite the thing, and she was immediately inundated with offers to escort her home from the desperately bored Bertie. Letty contented herself with recommending a dosage of Hemenway’s Essence of Mandrake Root, which she insisted was just the thing for costive disorders. It was with a great effort that Gilly controlled the strong desire to snap at the both of them and burst into tears. Declining their suggestions gracefully, she took another forkful of cheese custard.
The dancing had already commenced when the Redferns returned en masse to the ballroom. It was nearing the end of a country dance, and Gillian watched Marlowe’s graceful figure as he bent over a very pretty young girl scarcely out of the schoolroom, as she told herself bitterly.
Derwent edged over to her, a dark look in his beady eyes. “I do not wish you to dance with Marlowe again,” he uttered in tones that would brook no denial. “He is not at all the thing.”
The dance was ending at that moment, and Marlowe looked about him with a casual air, having relinquished his ravishi
ng partner to her protective mother. His dark green eyes took in Gilly’s angry expression, and Derwent’s disapproving stance, and without hesitation he moved toward them, his deliberate, elegant grace reminding a fanciful Gilly of a panther stalking his prey. For a moment she felt very much like a quivering, helpless rabbit under his watchful eyes.
“Miss Redfern, may I have the honor of this dance?” There was a glint of laughter in his dark eyes.
“Gillian!” Derwent warned.
“I would love it.” More fool she, she thought as she allowed herself to be swept back into his arms for a second waltz. This entire business of waltzing was far too disturbing to the senses.
“I gather I may thank Derwent for the pleasure of this dance,” he murmured. “Did he order you not to stand up with me?”
“What would you expect?” she countered.
He smiled down at her tenderly. “Who would have thought I would find cause to be grateful to Derwent Redfern?” he mused. “I rather thought you might refuse if I asked you again, but I can tell you don’t like to be ordered about by a cod’s head such as your brother.”
To her dismay, Gillian giggled. “I used to let him order me about at will,” she confessed. “I think you are having a deleterious effect on my conduct, my lord.”
“Ronan,” he corrected softly.
“My lord,” she replied firmly.
She was obliged to listen to a thundering scold from her livid brother when Marlowe once more returned her to her family’s bosom. Even Letty was eyeing her with a look that bordered on jealousy, as her husband kept up a steady harangue.
“Where’s Bertie?” Gilly interrupted him suddenly.
