The Honorable Marksley (22 page)

“Careful now,” he said softly, sliding a warm hand
gently behind her shoulders and raising her just enough
to let her drink.

Hallie closed her eyes as she swallowed gratefully.
When she opened them again she read something in his
dark eyes that mystified her. Despite the relief he so
clearly felt, some other emotion warmed his gazesome keenness or passion that disconcerted her.

As he lowered her shoulders again to the pillow,
which he supported with others, she raised one hand to
brush the hair from her forehead. But he captured her
fingers and surprised her by planting the softest of kisses upon her palm. The touch made her whole arm tingle.

“What on earth were you thinking,” he asked softly,
“to waltz into a gypsy camp unannounced?”

“I was … worried. About you,” she said simply, disarmed by pain and his closeness.

“Me?” The single word seemed to scoff. To Hallie’s sensitive ears, it was too harsh. “Why would you have
worried about me?” he asked.

His skepticism tamped her impulse to intimacy and
stopped her from admitting more.

“I … can’t think.” She moved her free hand to her
throbbing forehead. “If my head is any measure, I shall
have difficulty thinking in future.”

“The doctor will be in this morning. He’ll be delighted, as am I, at your return to us. And there must be
something in his magician’s bag for the pain.”

He still held her hand.

“You were … seeing to George?” she asked.

“Yes” With a light kiss to her fingers, Marksley
placed her hand on the blanket and sat back. His regard
was speculative. Hallie noticed absently that he
appeared disheveled, but his tousled hair, shadow of a
beard and open throat were not unattractive. He looked
as he had the first morning she met him.

She wished her head did not hurt so.

“George Partridge is Henry Beecham, my dear,” he
told her. “I should have guessed. All the signs were
there, had I been alive to them. I already know the man
better than I might have anticipated. We had a good
laugh over it all as the doctor patched him up”
Marksley actually dared laugh again. “George was well
enough to return to London yesterday. I have pressed
him to help with The Tantalus.”

Hallie’s head refused to clear. A good laugh? George
as Henry Beecham? She frowned. She had to recallMarksley had never told her Beecham was a stranger.

“I did not know … you had never met Beecham.”

“Had I forgotten to tell you that? How odd.” His gaze
held hers. “Beecham’s identity has tormented me for
more than a year. But you must have been aware of his
secret, for you called him `George’ just now and that
night in the library. Do you not remember?”

She tried to swallow.

“How do you know George?” he asked very low.

“He was … a friend of my father’s.”

“Ah! I see. So he had you sworn to secrecy. I presume you placed the poem in the drawing room
Saturday night.”

She could not meet his gaze. “How long … have I
been here?” she asked.

“More hours than I care to count. At least a day and
a night. ‘Tis Monday. The whole household has been
eagerly awaiting your recovery. In fact, if I am not very
much mistaken, I hear Mary and Mrs. Hepple on the
stair.” He rose from the bed, leaving Hallie suddenly
bereft.

“What hit me?”

“A frying pan, my dear. Wielded by an expert.”

“And the gypsies?”

“Gone early the next morning. I am sorry, for they
helped George. ‘Tis their nature to flee any possibility
of trouble with the law, though it was an understandable
mistake. Against the light, wrapped in a blanket, peering in upon us in her wagon, you must have looked
threatening. She could not tell you were a woman.”

“She ?”

Marksley grinned.

“An octogenarian grandmother, their most convincing fortune teller. Unfortunately, she could not see your
palm.” He smiled. “You see why I’ve not informed
Squire Lawes of your injury. Though of course, if you
should prefer-”

“No, no. I must have frightened her.”

“All the same,” and his voice took on a sharper edge,
“She had surprising strength. She might have killed
you, my dear. I regret that I was moved to confiscate
her weapon”

Sensing his resolve even as he stood there by her
bed, Hallie could well imagine how inflexibly tough he
might have been with anyone else.

“What a … boisterous evening, to be sure,” she
managed, earning another laugh and, astonishingly, a
quick, cool kiss against her pounding forehead.

Mrs. Hepple and Mary beamed as they noticed
Marksley pulling away from her. They made much of
her recovery and offered to bring her anything she
might want.

Hallie glanced at Marksley as he observed them. If
you would just keep kissing me, she implored him
silently, I would need nothing more. But he kept his distance from their bustle and excused himself when the
women proposed to help her bathe.

Hallie submitted to their care and listened with
strained attention to Mrs. Hepple’s chatter regarding
the events of the past two days. She mentioned that “Mr. Partridge” had stayed only through the previous
morning and that he had left them well fed and with
only a sprained wrist, not a broken arm. Hallie knew
she must write to him. George had kept her secret, even
when confronted with Marksley’s false conclusion
regarding Beecham. George had been a most loyal
friend, yet she had not thanked him even for his help in
obtaining her funds.

Hallie’s anxiety regarding George grew so great that
when she returned to bed she requested some writing
paper. Despite a maddening weakness in her fingers,
which made positioning the pen and paper difficult,
Hallie expressed her gratitude for George’s help, her
apologies for drawing him away from his studies, and
her heartfelt wishes for his quick recovery. She would,
she claimed, soon straighten out the Beecham matter.

As soon as the page was dry she leaned back,
exhausted, and contemplated the shadows on the plastered ceiling.

George as Henry Beecham. It made so much sense.
George was everything Marksley would believe as
Beecham: learned, observant, sensitive … male. And
during her illness, George had somehow managed to
convince Marksley. Or Marksley had simply assumed.

George was so very quiet. If he were to have infrequent contact with Marksley in the future, perhaps
Hallie could encourage George to continue to pose—

Her hand shook above the letter, leaving an inkblot
upon the page.

This must stop, Jeremy had said. The sharp words
haunted her.

Not only illness made her weak. She no longer recognized herself. She was so greedy for Richard
Marksley’s company that she now lacked even courage
to leave him, though she at last possessed the means.
And as for telling him the truth … what had happened
to her resolute attempts of the other night? Now she
had George Partridge lying for her!

Jeremy might claim she had lost “only” her heart,
but she did not like the calculating creature she’d
become. She had reasoned that by maintaining Henry
Beecham she was preserving something Marksley valued and wanted, perhaps the only thing he wanted from
her. But he would also have wanted honesty.

She had not known love could be so selfish.
Apparently, she and principle had parted ways.

She was so very tired.

With a sigh, she folded her letter and put aside the
pen and writing box.

“Is someit wrong, milady?” Mary asked, coming to
remove them.

“I shall have to write more later, Mary. I am too tired
now.” She rested her head against the pillows. Even that
slight pressure revealed the tenderness on her scalp. As
soon as she felt well enough, she promised, closing her
eyes, she would confess to Richard Marksley. She was
tired of subterfuge. She would make no further
demands upon him. He had done so very much….

Hallie slept through the remainder of the day, waking only for a light tea and an unexpected visit from her
husband. He appeared refreshed and had tidied himself
considerably. Once again neatly outfitted, the Viscount
Langsford looked infinitely less approachable than he
had early that morning. The task of explaining herself
to him seemed even more difficult.

“You have a sympathetic crew most concerned
about your accident, and most eager to welcome you
once again to their company,” Marksley told her, walking only to the foot of the bed, where he grasped one
of the posts. “Mrs. Lawes and her daughter are tempting us with another invitation to dinner-once you are
feeling much better, naturally. The vicar has inquired
as to your health, and Mrs. Mayhew sent over her best
wildflower honey, which I highly recommend.” Again,
Hallie remarked the appraisal in his gaze. “I belatedly
remembered our friend Jeremy and sent a note along
to him at the inn, only to hear that his father called him
home yesterday for Rowena’s nuptials. Have you met
Jeremy’s sister? No? Well, it is a growing mystery to
me why so many are impulsively marriage-minded
these days” Marksley treated her to a selfconscious
smile. “Should you wish to send a message, I will most
happily forward it.”

“Thank you. I have … had some difficulty writing.”

“Have you? I am sorry to hear it. I know how dedicated you are to your journal entries. Though, when one
has been unconscious, one should make allowances-” He bowed, but his expression was amused. Enough so
that Hallie decided he had a low opinion of female
scribblings. The thought annoyed her, but she could do
little more than glare at him.

“No doubt, my lord, having been favored with the
very best in literature, you would find my trivial reflections most tedious.”

He surprised her by smiling even more fully.

“I would have no means of judging, my dear, unless
you were to permit me to read them” He quit his position to walk around to her side, within a few inches
reach of the night table and her journal. Hallie gazed
wide-eyed from the book to his pleasantly smiling face.
When he moved his hand, as though to reach for her
journal, Hallie cringed. But he placed his warm palm
against her forehead.

“I am delighted to see you better, Hallie,” he said
softly and with unexpected sincerity. He only slowly
withdrew his hand. “I feared I might lose you”

He held her gaze for a long moment. Confronted with
the too-discerning gravity of that look, Hallie glanced
down and plucked nervously at the edge of the bed linens.

“Thank you,” she replied just as softly. She felt peculiarly enervated, lethargic. She heard his small sigh
before he turned to walk to the window. The reflection
of lanterns, ablaze along the terrace below, softly highlighted his face.

“Once you are well, Hallie, I should like to hold a
gathering-a soiree, if you will-at Penham. To introduce Beecham-” he turned briefly to smile at her frozen features, “George Partridge, that is, to some of
my acquaintance. My aunt and uncle depart for Bath on
the morrow-the waters promise some relief to the
Earl-so the Hall is mine to command. I would make
all the arrangements, of course, with the help of Mrs.
Hepple and Gibbs. You need not trouble yourself with
a thing, apart from continuing to improve apace and
wearing your very best frock on the occasion. A tall
order, I know, but `twill not be done without you.”

“Does-does George Partridge know?”

“Yes indeed. He is anticipating his introduction, in his
persona as a most acclaimed poet, to an eager public.”

“Is he? I should think, that having hidden away, having … dissembled for so long, he might prefer to
remain anonymous.”

“Having dissembled for so long you think he might
wish to continue to dissemble?” Marksley’s look was
daunting. She could not gauge his mood, which had
become an obstacle. She focused her attention desperately on the far corner of the room, so that she would
not have to face his scrutiny. “Tell me, my dear; since
you claim an acquaintance with Mr. Partridge, do you
think that very likely?”

“No. But he must have had a very good reason for
engaging in the ruse in the first place.”

Marksley did not respond immediately. Hallie could
feel his attention, like a strangely searching caress,
upon her face and nervous fingers.

“He wanted to write popular verse, my dear. Not a
pursuit a respected scholar of etymology will embark upon without first testing the waters. Reputations are
fragile things.”

“I see” But Hallie did not truly see. Had George
really fabricated such an intricate explanation? The
George Partridge she knew was an unassuming man
who could, and would, remain silent for hours at a time.
His vocation, after all, was to listen. He might never
reveal a secret, but, by the same measure, he was most
unlikely to trouble to construct a lie.

“I should not keep you, Hallie, though it pleases me
that you appear to be recovering your strength and spirits. Is there anything you need, anything I might bring
you?”

Hallie looked at him and almost pleaded, Stay here
with me. Even the thought brought the blood to her
cheeks.

“There,” Marksley noted. “You appear to be regaining some of your color. I hope you will be fit enough to
join me for a meal tomorrow,” he said, even as he moved
to the door. “Cook has been most disappointed, having
experimented only briefly with menus for newlyweds.”

“She must be excited by the prospect of your soiree.”

Marksley raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed” And as he bowed and left the room, Hallie
thought she heard him mutter, “as are we all”