The Marquess (12 page)

“The postern gate,” she answered without
hesitation. “With decent horses, we could jump several sections of the
wall where the stones have fallen, but I wouldn’t want to attempt it with
these nags.”

She urged her tired mount into the woods surrounding the
estate. Gavin followed and found himself focusing on the sway of Miss Whitnell’s
breeches in the gray light of dawn. She had well-rounded hips with ample flesh
for a man to bury his fingers in. It didn’t take any effort to imagine
sinking his fingers into those soft curves.

The memory of holding her against him burned indelibly in his
mind. He knew this obsession had more to do with the fact that he’d
abstained from women for too long than the desire for this particular woman,
but he was tired and his mind found this path easiest to follow.

He would keep their meetings limited to darkness, where he
couldn’t see so much of the lady’s splendid figure. That hideous
coat couldn’t conceal the swelling temptation of her breasts.

Gavin gritted his teeth and concentrated on the path they
took. When they reached the gate, he dismounted and opened it for her, then
caught the reins of her horse.

“Leave your mount here if you’re to enter
unnoticed. You can say you sent the carriage back easier than explaining why
there is only one horse in the stable.”

She nodded and without thinking, Gavin hauled her down. He
knew the moment he wrapped his hands around her waist that he had made a
mistake, but he didn’t falter. The heat of her burned through his gloves,
but he merely set her down on the ground.

He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes in the shadows
as she stared up at him. He didn’t want to know. He stepped back and
gestured for her to proceed.

“I can walk the rest of the way myself,” she
said without inflection.

“I will see you safely inside.” He didn’t
know why he said that. He had better things to do than make certain this
obstinate wench stole into the house without mishap. Some remnant of his
upbringing must have intruded through his weariness.

After tying the horses, they slipped through the shadows of
dawn in silence. Dewdrops wet their boots. An occasional overhanging branch
dripped moisture on their heads. In the distance, birds sang a cheerful wake-up
call to the sun. The May morn already held a warmth that heated the fresh
scents of grass and wildflowers and promised sunshine.

Gavin couldn’t remember ever wanting a tumble in the
spring grass so badly.

The urge to procreate must come naturally with the rising
sap of spring, he thought sourly to himself as they finally reached the back of
the stable, protected by the new leaves of an apple tree.

“You will send me some word this evening?”

Gavin thought she almost expressed anxiety, but he knew
concern for himself didn’t reckon into her question.

He scanned the expanse of drive and yard between their
hiding place and the house. He doubted if the servants had even risen to start
the fires yet. The house wasn’t overlarge but a pleasantly sprawling
vine-covered brick with classical features.

He eyed the old vines and nodded, hiding amusement at the
interesting images they wrought. “Which room is yours?”

Gavin knew she didn’t trust him, but not for the
reasons she should. She merely gave him a quick glance, then counted the
windows until she worked out which one was hers.

“The fourth from the back. Each room on this side has
a double casement except the corner rooms. The rear corner belongs to Blanche.”

“Go, then. When you reach your room, open the window
so I’ll know you’re safe.”

She relaxed at what must seem to her as a friendly
admonition. In moments, she was across the yard and entering by a side door
with a key she found under a jardinière. Gavin shook his head in disbelief at
this lax procedure. He marked the second item needing correcting on his list.
The first was the guard at the gate.

He waited, keeping his eyes trained on the fourth window. She
shouldn’t dally. If she had any sense at all, the servants would find her
firmly ensconced in her own bed when she rang for them. For some odd reason, he
had confidence in her sense.

Gavin slid back into the shadows of the trees as soon as
that window flew open. He could see her slight figure outlined against the
opening. He gave no indication that he’d seen her. She would just have to
guess at his whereabouts from now on.

She hadn’t realized yet that he’d turned the
tables on her.

She and Verity had done their work well, Dillian decided the
following evening as she looked at the heavy tray on her dressing table,
discreetly loaded with enough food for three people. In a single day, the
servants had accepted the signs that Blanche was hiding at the Grange.

After a week of scavenging whatever leftovers she might
find, Dillian was now presented with the opposite problem.

Gazing ruefully at her far from svelte figure, she
didn’t think she needed to make up the lost meals. She wondered if she could
somehow sneak this surplus to the mad marquess.

Deciding he could very well figure out how to obtain his own
meals, she carried the pot of tea and some of the food down the hall to
Blanche’s room. She might as well make this pretense as realistic as possible.
If one of the maids should wander down the hall and see her room empty, they
would believe her dining with the invalid.

Balancing the tray, Dillian turned the latch and edged the
door open with her hip. Swearing under her breath for not thinking of bringing
a lamp or candle, she closed the door behind her and more or less found her way
by memory to the table by the corner windows. The view of the gardens from here
was lovely in the daytime. During the evening, the spot became chilly. She
pulled the heavy drapery and lit the lamp.

A powerful arm grabbed her around the waist, and a hand
smothered her mouth. Screaming into a hard palm, Dillian kicked backward and
tried to drive her elbows into her captor’s stomach. He merely held her
tighter, not painfully so but with an almost gentle caress that brushed upward,
freezing her more assuredly than anything rougher.

“Remind me never to sneak up on you in the dark again,”
a familiar voice murmured with mocking amusement. “As much as I’m
enjoying the pleasure of holding you, I’d rather keep what hide I have
left.”

Dillian bit spitefully at his palm, but he removed it before
she could cause harm. She swung around and glared at the bane of her existence.
The marquess wore his black cloak and hood again, but he had the hood thrown
back. Lamplight flickered over the faint scars on his jaw, but she noticed the
heat of his dark gaze more than the scars. She backed away.

“You had some good reason for startling me out of
three years’ growth?”

He shrugged, and she thought she saw his lips twitch in what
might have resembled a grin. Her imagination was getting the best of her. This
black-hearted scoundrel wouldn’t know how to smile. She glared at him
until he replied.

“I’ve noticed a tendency for people to scream
when I appear. I didn’t want all the servants running up here.”

“Fustian!” She threw the word he had used
earlier back in his face. “You just wanted to get even. And I’ll
thank you to keep your hands to yourself from now on.” Not knowing how
else to deal with the disturbing look in his eyes or the way his hand had made
her feel just moments before, she hastily changed the subject. “Have you
eaten? The servants have brought me enough food for three people.”

The look he sent the tray of food almost equaled the one he had
given her. Any man who employed two cooks obviously had an appetite. Dillian
lifted one cover to reveal a steaming bowl of nourishing broth, suitable for an
invalid. She nearly laughed at his frown and lifted a second. Lamb pie was
obviously more to his liking.

Knowing she’d left a considerable dinner back in her
own room, she merely poured herself a cup of tea and watched as the marquess
took her place at the table. She let him make hasty inroads into the meal
before inquiring, “Have you looked over the grounds?”

He grimaced at the pitcher of water that was the only
beverage left. “I don’t suppose you could convince them that an
invalid needs coffee?”

“I might convince them that I would prefer it. Blanche
detests the stuff. Are you planning on making a habit of breaking and entering?”

He raised his eyebrows mockingly. “Like you?”
Without expecting a reply, he sipped at the water. “The place is easy
enough to break into. Country houses are never sufficiently protected. If I
made thievery a habit, I would forget working in the city. No one ever locks
doors in the country. Or if they do, they keep the keys under flowerpots.”

He sent her a look that made Dillian grind her teeth. “There
are more holes in your security around here than there are trees in the woods.”

“All right. I’ll give the butler a stiff warning
about checking all the doors and windows downstairs before he retires.
There’s only the one key outside. We’ve always kept it there.
Certain members of Blanche’s family had rather irresponsible habits of
losing keys and coming home at an hour when the staff slept.”

He didn’t comment on this, but continued, “That’s
just the tip of the iceberg. One guard cannot stay awake twenty-four hours a
day. The gate needs either to be locked or staffed around the clock by people
willing to stay awake. The walls are hopeless. Anyone but a three-legged cow
can climb over them. You’ll need guard dogs running loose at night to
warn of any unexpected visitors. In addition, although this may sound
ridiculous, I recommend buying a flock of geese.”

“A flock of geese?” Dillian almost laughed, but
the stormy expression on the marquess’s formidable visage prevented it.
His scowl forewarned of thunder and lightning if she did not take heed.
Impossible man. Glaring back, she set her cup soundly back on its saucer. “Why
geese?”

“A truly determined intruder can locate and distract
the dogs. He couldn’t possibly walk past a gaggle of geese without
causing a commotion and getting himself pecked to pieces first. Most
wouldn’t even think to try before the geese were upon them.”

That made sense. She’d had the experience of riding
down the road when a gaggle of geese decided to cross it. They didn’t
move for anyone, man or beast. She nodded thoughtfully. “All right. The
geese are easier arranged than the dogs. I don’t know where I’ll
find dogs trained to guard the property who won’t eat geese.”

“Make inquiries. It shouldn’t be difficult. Have
you gone over the staff yet? Have they hired anyone new?”

She would like to take umbrage at his arrogant assumption
that she could handle everything with a sweep of her hand, but the fact that he
so casually accepted her ability to carry out his commands weakened her ire.

Dillian poured more tea and watched him slice happily into
Cook’s best pudding cake. He didn’t eat as if starved but more as
if he savored every bite after a long period of deprivation. She would order
wine as well as coffee for tomorrow. She wanted to see a look of ecstasy on
those harsh features. It might almost make him human.

“The guard at the gate is the only person I
don’t know,” she admitted. “Blanche only kept a skeleton
staff here and brought her personal staff with her when she visited.
They’re all here now, and I’m quite certain they would walk on
water for her if she requested. She saved most of their lives the night of the
fire. They’ll sit up nights and watch the windows if I ask.”

“It won’t hurt having one of the footmen
patrolling the ground floor regularly when everyone else is asleep,” he
said, helping himself to her cup of tea now that he’d finished the cake. “Give
strict instructions about keeping all strangers outside, although I can’t
imagine an arsonist coming to the door.”

“No,” she answered gloomily. “If they mean
to burn us out again, it will come as you feared. I’ve already heard all
about the riots and the hay burnings. The staff is terrified that the radicals
will send the mob here. No amount of geese and dogs and guards can stop a mob.”

He gave her a sharp look. “Does a mob have reason to
come here?”

“Does a mob have reason for anything they do?”
she asked caustically. “I have seen them rampage through the streets of
London, overturning carriages with old ladies in them, breaking windows and
stealing anything available. Out here in the country they cannot lay their
hands on as many goods, but on the other hand, there is no one to stop them.

“I cannot say that they have no reason for anger,”
she continued. “Now that the war is over, the army has dumped thousands
of men into the streets without pay, without jobs, without hope of finding
employment. The poor rates are soaring as high as the price of food. Only the
rich benefit from the Corn Laws. The economy is in a crisis, and our government
sits on its hands and claims everything must stay as it always has been because
change is worse than revolution. I can’t say setting hayricks on fire
serves any purpose, but I understand their frustration.”

He gazed at her thoughtfully. “You’re as angry
as they are, aren’t you? I keep forgetting you’re hired help. You
have the manners of a lady. You remind me a great deal of one of my cousins.
She was raised as a lady but knows the curse of poverty.”

Dillian waited for the inevitable question about why a lady
hadn’t married instead of becoming a paid companion, but he didn’t
ask. Asking questions indicated interest. The marquess had no interest in a
penniless dependent. She would do better to remember that before her
imagination flew away with her.

“I doubt that your cousin knows what it is like having
seven children in a one-room hovel, starving to death while her husband is gone
daybreak to sundown scraping together enough pennies to pay for the roof over
their heads. Enclosures have robbed the poor of their ability to raise their
own food, and no one pays enough so they can buy their own. On top of that, the
poor tenant farmer must pay the poor rate out of his meager sales while the
wealthy landowner who collects rents instead of selling crops keeps his hands
in his pockets. The situation is outrageous.