Black Silk (10 page)

December 1819

M
aryanne put her hand to her queasy stomach and nibbled a dry biscuit. There was no denying the truth anymore. She had missed her monthly courses for the third time.

She’d been sick that afternoon when she’d learned about Dash’s sister’s loss. That couldn’t have been her pregnancy. Not so soon. But this roiling sensation in her tummy definitely was.

She slipped her fingers around the doorknob that led to Venetia’s studio. She would have to admit the truth. Venetia had waited to act while Dash remained away from London. At least for once Venetia had respected her wishes and had not written to him.

But now…

She wasn’t going to force Dash into marriage. All she hoped was that her brother-in-law would allow her to have a little of her dowry. Enough for her to go and live quietly in the country. As her mother, Olivia, had done, she would pretend to be a widow. She would live with complete respectability.

For the sake of her child, there could be no more adventures.

And thank heaven Venetia had agreed that they would not reveal anything to her mother yet. Though her mother intended to arrive soon, for the birth of Venetia’s baby. What would she do then?

She should open the door, but her hand stilled on the cool metal of the knob. Her shawl slid a little off her shoulders. Dash’s sister had lost her child. These tragedies happened….

It would be easier.

Heaven help her, how could she think that? There were ways…potions that could be drunk, the use of hooks…there were several ways she’d heard whispered about, even though she’d always been hidden away in her world of books while Venetia had helped her mother with womanly duties in the country. She knew a little about the desperate measures women used to rid themselves of babies.

But she couldn’t do it. She would have to face her fate.

With a shaky hand, Maryanne opened the door.

Her sister wasn’t alone.

Her brother-in-law, Marcus, was stretched out on a chaise. A strangled gasp escaped Maryanne’s lips. Sunlight touched his black hair, his handsome face, and fell lovingly across his naked chest. Good heavens, his muscular legs were bare. A linen cloth was draped over his private bits, thank goodness, though there was a distinct bulge beneath the white drape.

Rendered in soft light and shadow, Marcus, with his raven hair and powerful build, looked just like Dash. But his eyes were brilliant turquoise, not mysterious midnight black.

Her throat dried. Dash had looked so beautiful beneath the sheets of his bed, the silk in a tangle around his body.

“Do you know how much it delights me to watch you do that?”

Maryanne almost leaped out of her skin at the sudden seductive purr of Marcus’s voice. Gentle amusement rippled through his words, and his gaze at Venetia spoke of pure male desire.

The way Dash had looked at her…

What was Venetia doing that delighted? Maryanne, standing with face pressed against the slight opening of the door, looked to her sister. Venetia was sucking on the end of her paintbrush. Her soft red lips pursed around the painted wood shaft as she studied her picture with a frown. Drenched in sunlight, her hair was a mass of flame, and her amber brows drew together in concentration.

Venetia wore the unusual gown she’d had made for her last month of pregnancy. It was like a shift, or a nightgown, with scooped neck and long sleeves. It fell in soft drapes from the neckline, and as she sat on the stool, the neckline revealed the tops of plump breasts.

Maryanne tightened her grip on the doorknob. Soon she would look like Venetia. There was no denying it—in five months, she would have the large, rounded belly, and Dash’s child would be wedged inside. No doubt, like Venetia’s child, hers would be growing discontented with the situation and would be kicking, squirming, and punching with vigor.

She could try to hide the truth for a couple more months….

Would she be better to do that, rather than face the disaster now?

It would be so much easier.

“No, indeed, that shoulder is not broad enough,” Venetia muttered in a breathy voice, tapping brush to lower lip. “Definitely your shoulders are broader…straighter…hips lean and narrow…decidedly trim, and I haven’t quite caught the lovely line where they…ooh.”

“Sweeting, that soft little sigh at the end was almost my undoing.” And indeed, the drapery at Marcus’s hips almost fell away. He caught it quickly and rearranged it. “Is it too late to pull a chair in front?”

Venetia and Marcus shared a laugh, and Maryanne felt a pang of pain. She had never thought that marriage could seem so intimate; she had seen her mother’s distress after time spent with her father, the tempestuous, demanding, flamboyant artist Rodesson. Her mother would speed to the encounters like a moth drawn to beautiful, deadly flame. And after, her mother would return and cry, alone.

There were so many unhappy marriages—even in marriage, happiness seemed to come from finding one’s own life. Depending upon another for company, for joy, seemed a dreadful mistake.

“What are you staring at, my love?” Marcus’s voice, though teasing, was strained. “Not assessing me for length and girth, are you? If you are scrutinizing the family jewels to record them for posterity, I might just ravish you on the spot.”

“As you do every time,” her sister answered coyly around her paintbrush.

“Could we take a break?”

Venetia pulled her brush from between her lips. The tip of her tongue dabbed the very end thoughtfully. “You’ve not been posing for more than half an hour, Marcus.”

“I’m stiff—”

“But it will take weeks to complete the work if we stop every time you are…stiff.”

Maryanne moved to pull the door closed—

“Marcus, there is something we must discuss. About Maryanne.”

Maryanne paused. Guiltily she glanced behind her—the corridor was empty. No one was spying on her as she spied on her sister and brother-in-law.

“What is it, my love?” Marcus asked. “From your tone of voice, I fear there’s a reason you waited until I was nude to bring it up.”

Pressing into the narrow gap between door and frame, Maryanne gulped. Venetia was going to tell him; she had indeed waited until he was naked, so he couldn’t storm out and…either box her ears or challenge Dash. Marcus had never raised a hand to her, had never been anything but welcoming and warm, but Maryanne knew he’d shot a man to protect Venetia.

Her stomach lurched, but the stump of biscuit she still held wasn’t going to help that. This wasn’t morning sickness. This was fear.

“It is not the easiest thing to discuss,” Venetia hedged. She set her brush into a glass of turps and slid off the stool, hand on her belly.

Marcus was on his feet at once to help his wife, which meant the cloth dropped from his loins. Maryanne shut her eyes.

“Then I can guess. Who’s to blame?”

With eyes tightly closed, Maryanne marveled at how calm he sounded. Perhaps, as she was not really his sister, he was not going to be upset after all.

“That doesn’t signify,” Venetia said.

“I can assure you it does.”

Maryanne shivered at the cool, silky danger in Marcus’s voice. She had guessed incorrectly. Upset was going to be too mild a word.

“For I need to know who to drag out, whip within an inch of his blasted life, and then drag before a minister.”

“There is not to be a marriage.”

“I won’t whip him that badly. I’ll ensure he is able to stand and do his duty.”

“That is not what I mean! I was not going to let myself be forced into marriage—as you might remember, we married for love, not for ludicrous societal rules. I certainly will not push my sister into unhappiness.”

“The girl is owed marriage—and I want a name, Venetia.”

He was obviously going to be as bullheaded about that as her sister had been.

“You will see at once how inappropriate marriage will be.”

“She should have thought of that before getting into his bed.”

“Men are such appalling hypocrites!” Venetia cried, for now that she was expecting a child, she shouted more often than she used to. “You were more than willing to entice me into yours.”

“I proposed marriage immediately after I enticed you into my bed, as you might remember.” Instead of sounding contrite, as he should, her brother-in-law sounded as though he was barely clinging to self-control. “You turned me down. I brought you to my bed—”

“The carpet. I do believe our first was upon the carpet.”

Venetia’s adventures, Maryanne knew, had been as wild as hers.

“Regardless, I knew I had every intention of marrying you. And so will this gentleman—he was a bloody gentleman, I hope—”

What had she done to her sister and Marcus? They normally lived in such harmony it inspired awe.

“It was Swansborough.”

There was silence. A horrifying stretch of it, but Maryanne did not dare open her eyes. She suspected she would get an embarrassing eyeful of a naked, enraged Marcus if she did. But she had to know what would happen.

“There, do you see how impossible it is? She cannot marry Lord Swansborough!”

“A whip isn’t in order.” There was a creak of floorboards, and Maryanne let her lids flicker. No one was walking toward the door, but she gently closed it so only a crack remained. Enough to listen through. “A brace of bloody pistols is.”

She froze at Marcus’s words.

“Marcus, there will be no duel.” Venetia’s voice took on a frightened shrillness on the word
duel
.

“Swansborough should have been at my door immediately, begging for her hand. So that’s why he vanished from London—”

Maryanne had heard enraged men before—truly enraged ones, not the husbands who blustered and bullied—and there was most definitely danger behind Marcus’s calm tones. Was he truly going to call Dash out? She couldn’t allow it. She had to stop—

“It is not, and well you know it!” Venetia cried in Dash’s defense. “His sister had just lost her child. Anyway, he didn’t know who she was!”

Marcus gave a weary sigh. Chair springs squeaked in protest, and wood legs skidded across the wood floor. Obviously he’d slumped into a chair. Maryanne’s legs felt like India rubber, and she wished
she
could fall into a chair.

“A mask?” Marcus asked.

“Yes. Yes, she wore a mask, just as I did.”

“And where did it take place?”

“That’s beside the point. She will be unhappy. You know what a scoundrel he is. I suspect there is going to be a child, but—”

“Oh, good Christ, a child!” Marcus groaned.

So Venetia had guessed! How…? There were many ways, Maryanne realized. Her new habit of eating almost all the time to keep nausea at bay. Or had her maid revealed that she hadn’t bled for three months?

“Then it’s marriage.” Her brother-in-law spoke as if announcing death.

“No. I cannot permit this. There will not be a wedding.”

“There will. I am head of my household. The girl is my responsibility.”

“She is my sister. I will not bow to you on this!” Venetia cried.

Maryanne shivered. She had never heard such fierce conviction in her sister’s voice.

“Oh, you will, my love, I assure you.”

“Do not call me your love if you are going to behave like such a pigheaded—” Venetia broke off. “Oh, goodness. I think…there’s rather a lot of water…I’m not certain but…it’s dripping down my legs.”

Maryanne froze.

“Oh, blast!” Marcus cried out, heralding the upcoming arrival of his first child with a curse.

Maryanne swayed. She had caused her sister to begin laboring. Aghast, she turned the knob. She had to hurry, had to…

She wasn’t certain what to do. She had never helped in births. But she burst into the room anyway.

“Maryanne, what in blazes?” Marcus stood behind Venetia, his body hidden, his arms around her, hands resting tentatively on her tummy.

Venetia giggled—the last thing Maryanne expected her to do. “Fetch your robe, Marcus. And both of you must stay calm. I’ve been warned that this will take a long time, for the first.”

How could Venetia giggle? She had written letters to her unborn babe just the week before, letters to be opened in case she didn’t survive the birth.

“Are—are there pains?” Maryanne was standing helplessly, her hands tangled in her skirts.

“Not yet. They’re to come, though. Unfortunately Mrs. Collins has been most blunt about what to expect.”

“You must be terrified,” Maryanne gasped. She took care not to look at Marcus, though she felt him return and saw the swish of dark blue silk—his robe.

Venetia cradled her belly, and she paced, with Marcus following. “I’m not. Nervous, but I will survive. I think. Women do. Many women do. Do you think it will take days? There are women who’ve labored for three days.”

Three days! Maryanne’s jaw dropped. Three days of pain? How could a woman survive? Her hands strayed to her own tummy. She knew—each woman in the village knew—of a woman who had died in childbed. And Dash’s sister had lost her baby….

She had to stop thinking such terrible things. Shaking, she met Marcus’s gaze.

“Send for the physician,” he ordered.

He’d never been so terse with her.

“And Mrs. Collins, the midwife,” Venetia added.

Maryanne looked to Marcus and whispered, “I…I heard. I don’t want you to be at odds over me. Not now. I…I’ll marry him.”

Venetia’s stern cry of “Maryanne” followed her as she darted to the bellpull and gave it a sturdy yank.

“Marcus!”

Maryanne spun on her heel. Her brother-in-law had swept Venetia into his arms, and Maryanne’s heart gave a jump in her chest. He looked at her sister with such deep love.

“Marcus, I am quite capable of walking. It is preferable if I do!”

But Marcus nuzzled Venetia’s cheek. “Save your strength, my love.” He hastened toward the doorway, holding her sister tight in his arms.

Venetia put out her hand to stop them, and, groaning, he did.

Maryanne expected direction from her sister—instead, Venetia frowned. “You can’t marry Swansborough, Maryanne.”