After the Kiss (26 page)

Marcus had not realized how decrepit the entrance to the east wing had become until he saw it through Miss Sheringham’s apprehensive eyes. The carpet on the floor was ragged with moth holes, and cobwebs hung from the ceilings. Doors creaked on unoiled hinges as she forced them open and headed farther into the Stygian gloom.

When she reached the chapel, he heard an audible sigh of relief. “I know you cannot harm me in this Holy place,” she murmured, holding the lantern high enough to make out an altar with a stone crucifix carved into the wall behind it and a wooden
prie-dieu
.

She eased herself onto a bench facing the altar, and he used her respite to slip into Griggs’s room and wake him.

“Miss Sheringham is here seeking an interview with the duke,” he said to the groggy man. “You will find her in the chapel. Bring her to me in the drawing room.”

“In the middle of the night?” Griggs asked, yawning and scratching his belly.

“Right now,” Marcus said. “Go quickly. I am afraid her courage may desert her. I do not wish her to escape.”

Marcus was at the door when he turned back to say, “Griggs. Send her in alone. And do not allow her to bring a light.”

“How’s she supposed to see where she’s goin’?” Griggs retorted. “It’s black as Hades in there.”

“A fire is burning in the grate. That will be enough.”

Marcus left Griggs and hurried back to the chapel, hoping Miss Sheringham had not fled.

She was sitting precisely where he had left her. It was clear she had no idea where to go from there. At least four doors opened in different directions.

“Now where?” she demanded aloud, as though she expected to be given further direction.

Marcus obliged her. “Wait here,” he whispered. “Someone will come for you.”

She whirled, startled. The lantern tipped and almost fell. She gave a cry of alarm and grabbed for it, giving him time to escape.

He made his way to the drawing room and moved one of the two wingback chairs far enough from the fireplace that he was certain no firelight could reach his face. On the other hand, if Miss Sheringham stood directly in front of him, her face would be fully illuminated.

Marcus sat in the chair and crossed his booted feet casually. He kept the hood up to prevent any chance of Miss Sheringham seeing his scarred face. He settled his clawlike hand in his lap, where it would be hidden, and grasped the arm of the chair with the other.

He heard Griggs’s gruff voice as the door opened, and a
thunk
as the door closed again. His heart raced. She was here. She had come to him. But for what reason?

Marcus could think of only one reason that mattered.
Was she ready to forgive him? Was she willing at least to be his friend?

“I can barely see,” she said, her back against the closed door. “Is there another light?”

“There is firelight,” he answered.

“If I trip over something, you will have to come and pick me up,” she warned. “And I am no light burden.”

He smiled. It felt strange. He could not remember smiling with humor anytime in the past year.

Marcus heard her footsteps on the stone floor and then muffled steps as she reached a no-longer-vivid Turkish carpet brought home from the Crusades. “Where are you?” she asked, peering into the gloom.

“Here.”

When she turned in his direction, Marcus saw that her lower lip was clamped in her teeth. Her hands grasped the ends of the woolen shawl and wrapped it tightly around her. She took two nervous steps closer—enough to put her fully in the firelight—before he said, “That is close enough.”

“Why do you keep it so dark?” she asked.

“It is my solace, Miss Sheringham.”

“I suppose it must be, if your face is as badly scarred as rumor says. But I have business to discuss. I would like to do it face to face.”

“I can see you quite well.”

“But I cannot see you!”

He remained silent following her outburst. She must know why he liked it dark. He should not have to speak the words. He watched her bosom rise and fall as she took a deep breath and let it out.

His body stirred, surprising him. He had thought
 … But apparently not. He felt himself smiling again.

Impatient to know why she had come, he asked, “Why are you here, Miss Sheringham?”

“I’ve come to apply for the position of governess to Lady Regina and Lady Rebecca.”

He was glad she could not see his face. His jaw had fallen open like a hee-hawing jackass. “Governess?” he managed to say.

“I saw the advertisement in the
Times
. The seventh this year, I believe, Your Grace.”

He frowned.
Your Grace
. He wanted to be the captain again. But those days were gone forever.

“Why would you want to spend your days with two such incorrigible scamps?” he demanded.

“They are not incorrigible! They are merely seeking the love and attention you do not give them,” she retorted. “Someone must care for them. I am willing to take on that responsibility.”

“I am fully capable of handling my responsibilities without your help,” he snapped. How dare the chit suggest he was not taking proper care of Reggie and Becky!

“Did you know the six previous governesses felt free to punish the girls severely for the least infraction? That one raised welts on Reggie’s back because she refused to cry when the rod was applied?”

“Who told you such a thing!” he roared, lurching from his chair.

“The twins.”

Marcus was appalled. He had not imagined Reggie and Becky were being mistreated. They had said nothing to him.

How could they? You refused to see them
.

Clearly he needed to choose a better governess this time, one who would not be stern or cruel with the girls when they attacked life with a bit too much enthusiasm. One who would never, ever leave welts. Someone who would give them the hugs and kisses he no longer could. Someone like Miss Sheringham.

Only, he did not think he could bear to have her so very close and not touch her, not taste her, not want her. And she would never have him. Not as he was.

Miss Sheringham stood her ground as he took a step closer to her. He saw her frustration when the hood kept his face in shadow. When her eyes finally focused on his clawlike hand, she shuddered with revulsion.

He should not have been angry at her reaction, but he was. It confirmed all his fears. She was no different from anyone else. She feared his mutilated body.

“Will you dare to touch the Beast of Blackthorne, Miss Sheringham?” He slowly extended his wounded hand toward her, palm up.

Her distressed golden eyes were focused on the spot where his face should have been. He watched her struggle to conceal her panic, as his black-gloved fingers appeared under her nose like fierce, deadly talons.

“It is only a crippled hand, Your Grace,” she said breathlessly. “What is there to fear?”

To his surprise, she slowly extended her hand toward his. She had barely touched his black-gloved fingertips with hers when he abruptly withdrew.

His sudden move frightened her, and she put up her hands to ward off an attack. By the time she realized she was safe, and lowered her hands in mortification, he had retreated behind the wingback chair.

He was glad for the distance. His heart was pounding, and a cold, clammy sweat dotted his brow. He could not quite believe what she had almost done. What he had almost allowed her to do. His gloved fingers still tingled from her touch.

“You are brave to the point of recklessness, Miss Sheringham, I will say that for you.”

“You frightened me on purpose!” she accused. “I suppose that was you whispering in the hall, as well.”

He nodded.

“I don’t know why I thought this could work,” she said. “You are the same care-for-nobody you always were! I would not have come here at all if …”

She clamped her lips tight.

So. Nothing had been forgiven. Or was likely to be. Nevertheless, he wanted to hear the rest of what she had to say. “What provoked you to confront the Beast, Miss Sheringham?”

“I need the stipend I would earn as governess,” she blurted. “To support myself and my aunt.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you are destitute, Miss Sheringham?”

“Poor as a church mouse,” she replied, chin out-thrust, daring him to offer insult.

He took the dare. “You must have expensive tastes. I know for a fact Major Sheringham arranged a generous allowance through his brother—”

“Certainly he did!” she interrupted angrily. “But Cousin Nigel felt no compunction to keep a promise
made to a dead man. My aunt and I can no longer live on his meager charity. I must find a living.

“I thought I could do some good as governess for the twins. I thought you and I would be able to deal with each other civilly, despite … everything. But I see I was wrong,” she finished bitterly. “I will not trouble you further, Your Grace.”

She had pivoted to leave when he said, “Perhaps we can contrive an arrangement that will meet both our needs.”

She turned back to him cautiously. “What kind of arrangement?” Her face paled as she thought of one obvious possibility. “You need not offer
carte blanche
, Your Grace. I will not accept it.”

“I have no desire to make you my mistress, Miss Sheringham.”

He watched the flush race up her slender throat and realized she believed he no longer desired her. Foolish woman.

“Will you hire me as governess, after all?” she asked, her hands laced tightly before her.

“How badly do you want the job, Miss Sheringham?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What is your price?” she asked baldly. “What do you want?”

“Obviously the children’s situation must be remedied. I need someone to care for them who will not leave at the first sign of trouble. In the event my brother does not return from the dead, I need an heir. So what I want, Miss Sheringham, is a wife.”

“You must know I despise you,” she whispered. “You must know I could never agree to marry you.”

“Nevertheless, Miss Sheringham, my price is marriage.”

He saw from the way her lips had flattened in determination that she intended to refuse him.

“There are benefits to such an arrangement you may not have contemplated,” he said.

“Becoming the wife of the Beast of Blackthorne? Becoming a prisoner within these stone walls? I have considered both and desire neither!”

“Taking my name mends your reputation,” he said in a steely voice. “And an heir for me means a child for you!”

He saw both reasons appealed to her.

“You must also realize that as my wife, you would never want for anything. I promise my purse would be open to you.”

“Promises can be broken.”

“I will have my solicitor draw up papers that guarantee you an income,” he said cynically. “Will that satisfy you?”

“Will you let me see your face?”

“No.” The curt response had come from somewhere deep inside him. “There is no reason for it,” he said more calmly.

“If I were your wife, I would expect to discuss matters face to face with you.”

“It is a marriage of convenience, my dear. I do not need you except at night. Any questions you have in the daytime can be asked through Griggs.”

His words sounded brutal even to his own ears.
Carte blanche
would have been less humiliating than what he was offering.

“I must decline your kind offer,” she said, her gravelly voice rasping over his skin.

“I will be waiting in the chapel after the sun goes down tomorrow with a special license and a vicar to marry us. You have until then to change your mind.”

“I will not change my mind,” she said, her eyes bleak and brimming with tears. “Goodbye, Your Grace. Please tell the twins I am sorry. I—”

She pressed a fist to her mouth to keep a sob from escaping, shot him one last angry, defiant—and desolate—look, and ran from the room.

Marcus slumped into the chair, extended his feet toward the fire, and let his head fall back against the cushion.

He was exhausted. He should try to sleep.

But he knew he would not. Not before tomorrow night. Not before he knew for sure whether she was gone forever from his life.

Julian, I wish you were here. I need a friend right now
.

He wondered if Miss Sheringham would have felt any differently toward him if he had explained how Julian had died. Julian’s revelations would only have hurt her. And what had happened afterward was too gruesome, too macabre, to be repeated in a young lady’s presence. Yet over the past year, he had explained everything to the imaginary Miss Sheringham, the one who lived in his head.

When he closed his eyes to shut out the memories that haunted him, a picture of Julian’s angry face appeared behind his eyelids.

“I will not fight beside a coward,” Julian had said, spurring his mount to put distance between them.

“Coward?” Marcus jeered, spurring his horse to
keep up with his friend as they galloped toward the oncoming horde of enemy soldiers.

“What else do you call someone who runs from trouble,” Julian accused.

They had to shout to be heard over the thunder of a hundred charging horses. “You did not have to propose to her yourself,” Marcus countered.

You left me no choice,” Julian said. “I only hope my fiancée will understand why I must marry another woman. There was no time to speak with her before I left. Likely she will break the engagement herself when she hears the gossip.”

“You promised marriage to Miss Sheringham when you were bound to another lady?” Marcus reined his horse around a rock in his path and angled back to Julian’s side.

“It was a secret engagement,” Julian snapped back. “Her father forbids the marriage.”

“How could you—”

“I did what you made necessary,” Julian interrupted harshly. “More lives will be ruined than you guessed, Marcus. I hope you are happy with your freedom!”

Marcus was nettled that Julian had not trusted him enough to share his secret. And appalled at the havoc he had wrought by refusing to marry Miss Sheringham.

The order came to draw sabers. When Julian had his saber in hand he turned to Marcus one last time and shouted, “I have changed my mind, Marcus. I hope you survive the battle, so I may have the pleasure of killing you myself.”