The Marquess (14 page)

Unable to sleep, she slipped downstairs to check the doors
and locks. She found the footman she’d assigned guard duty and made him
test the fastenings also. He didn’t question her orders but immediately
took the east and north sides of the house while she took the west and south.
They met again in the middle with no signs of disturbance anywhere.

Deciding she was being ridiculous, Dillian trudged back
upstairs. The marquess had no obligation to report to her every evening. He was
under no obligation at all.

Surely, he would have told her that he had everything under
control and meant to leave. Wouldn’t he have waited for the guard dogs?
And what about the walls? Didn’t he want to hear about the stonemasons
she’d hired?

The argument careened back and forth inside her head, but
she could discover no means of satisfying it. Instinct told her the marquess
would have come if able, but instincts were notoriously unreliable. She
didn’t know the man well enough to trust her instincts around him.

Reluctantly, Dillian unfastened the buttons of her round
gown and folded it neatly over a chair. She must find some way to dispose of
all that food before she took the tray down in the morning.

The servants hadn’t sent up as much as usual tonight.
The duke’s visit had thrown some doubt over the plausibility of
Blanche’s presence. She didn’t know if she could continue the
charade any longer. That was one of those things she had wished to discuss with
the marquess. She really should get over this foolish notion that she could
rely on the man, that she could rely on any man. She knew better.

She blew out all but the candle at her bedside and
unfastened the ties of her chemise. Perhaps she ought to take a horse out in
the morning and search the grounds. The head groom could search the woods. She
wished she could go out now, but in the dark, the search would be fruitless.

The candle threw long shadows across the walls as she
reached for the nightshift left lying across the covers. She felt the draft
before she heard the window casement click. She’d scarcely opened her
mouth to scream before the draperies parted and a dark cloaked figure stepped
through.

The thrill of relief so flooded her that Dillian
didn’t remember her state of undress until she caught sight of the
marquess’s taut jaw and the direction of his stare in the candlelight.

Her unfastened chemise revealed the full curve of her
breasts and the valley between. Even the cool breeze from the window
didn’t lessen the heat flooding through her as she swung around and
presented him with her back.

Dillian wrapped her arms across her chest. “What on earth
do you think you’re doing coming in here like this?” she asked
crossly.

Effingham didn’t answer for what seemed like eternity.
She hated it when he did that. She wanted to swing around and scream at him,
but she was belatedly aware that she didn’t have a robe at hand, and her
nightshift lay on the bed behind her. She wore only her chemise, and the candle
undoubtedly accentuated that fact.

The folds of his dark cloak dropped over her shoulders, and
Dillian grasped them gratefully, pulling the heavy material around her,
understanding he stood entirely too close to give her this aid.

“I’ve caught a trespasser,” he murmured
near her ear.

Why hadn’t she noticed the stirring rasp of that low
voice before? Or the way it sent shivers down her spine?

“I thought you might like to see if he’s anyone
you know before I dispose of him.”

Dillian heard his wry tone as he moved away, but she
didn’t try to determine if he directed it at her or himself. If she had
learned nothing else about the marquess, it was that he held no high opinion of
himself like some others she could name. Still, his proximity made her nervous.
She clutched the cloak tighter as she felt him back away.

“I will have to dress.” To her dismay, her teeth
chattered. She wanted to blame it on the cool air from the window, but she knew
better. Goose bumps ran up and down her arms, but not from the cold. Her
breasts felt swollen and tight. She could barely speak past the lump in her
throat.

“Of course. I’ll wait for you outside.”

She heard the coolness in his voice. She wanted to swing
around and read his expression, confront him somehow, but she couldn’t.
She stood frozen, not even caring how he meant to get outside just so long as
he went.

The window clicked, and the breeze stopped. She didn’t
wonder how he’d entered a second-floor window. If she’d needed
proof he’d been in the navy, she had it now. She couldn’t imagine
any other but a sailor climbing-those vines outside the window.

She still held his cloak around her. She shivered inside its
comforting confines. A moment later, she realized the cloak smelled of him, of
the elusive male fragrance that identified the marquess in her mind. She had
never thought about a man’s smell before. Now she couldn’t get it
out of her head.

She checked to make certain the room was empty, even though
she sensed its emptiness now that his strong presence had gone. She felt stark
naked and embarrassed right down to her toes, but he hadn’t said a word
about her state of undress.

Had she not seen Effingham’s eyes, she could almost
pretend that he hadn’t seen her. But she’d seen the way his gaze
had focused hungrily on her breasts. He hadn’t even looked at her face.
She burned with shame—or something else.

Dillian wouldn’t think about that
something else
.
She hadn’t reached twenty-five years of age without learning a little
about human nature. At sixteen, she’d had a passionate crush on the
vicar’s son. His every casual touch had sent her into paroxysms of joy.
She’d sneaked off to meet him in the woods, behind haystacks, anywhere
they could steal a few moments together.

He’d been the same age as she. Neither of them knew
anything they were about, but pleasure had mixed with the excitement of the
forbidden, and they had learned a great deal together. Fortunately for her,
she’d learned more about his character than his physical body before
they’d gone too far to go back. No man had so easily led her astray
since.

But she’d been the recipient of enough lustful looks
over the years to know what they meant. She had no fortune, no name, nothing
with which to gift a man but her body. Most of the time she succeeded in
ignoring the fact that she possessed the build of a tavern wench.

She was small-boned and not stylishly attractive, so she
could hide behind demure round gowns in unfashionable drab colors. Mostly, men
didn’t notice her. When Blanche accompanied her, they didn’t even
know Dillian existed. She preferred it that way.

But other times Blanche’s suitors had sought her out
when they found Blanche unavailable. They might act the gentleman around
Blanche, but they saw no need for it around Blanche’s hired help. Dillian
hadn’t mistaken their ardor as she had mistaken the vicar’s son.
She knew lust for what it was now.

She had seen desire in the marquess’s eyes. Hurriedly
pulling her riding jacket around her and fastening it tightly, Dillian tried
not thinking about it. She had rather enjoyed their suppers together. She
couldn’t exactly call them pleasant. The marquess had a caustic wit and a
bitterness that spiced their conversation somewhat heavily, but he also had a
quick mind and an appreciation for intelligent subjects that she seldom found
in society. She didn’t want their intellectual converse polluted with the
physical weaknesses of the flesh.

She played the fool. The marquess had no reason to continue
their late night suppers once he caught the arsonist, and it seemed he had. She
would have no reason to ever see him again. He could take his lust elsewhere,
and she and Blanche could return to their normal humdrum existence.

Except, even as she hurried down the stairs, she knew their
lives would never return as before. Blanche would wear the scars of the fire
forever, in one form or another. Her cousin’s need for a husband had
become all too apparent at the same time the field of suitors would drastically
narrow. Once Blanche decided on a husband, Dillian would have to venture into
the world alone.

She couldn’t think about that just yet either. She had
enough on her mind dealing with the madman waiting for her out in the night.

She waited for the footman to pass the bottom of the stairs
and disappear into the further reaches of the ground floor. Then she darted
into the foyer, down the hall, and out the side door to the stables. She
hadn’t asked Effingham where they would meet, but she imagined he would
watch this door for her appearance.

She imagined correctly. Without his cloak, the white of his
neck cloth gleamed against the dark outline of the barn. He wore a dark frock
coat and vest, as he had these past nights when they’d shared their
supper and a few hours together. She knew very well how elegant he looked in a
gentleman’s clothes, no matter how outmoded. She also knew how dangerous
he appeared when he flung the cloak around him and departed into the darkness.

Silently, she handed him the cloak she held over her arm. He
took it and pulled it on, concealing his features with the hood as he started
briskly down the path to the woods. She thought he wore the hood more out of
habit than necessity or any real need to hide himself. She wished she could
hide her features quite so neatly.

“What was he doing when you found him?” she
whispered, unable to bear the silence.

“Skulking.” The reply was succinct and without
expression.

She felt the thread of tension between them tighten. She
thought they’d gone beyond their earlier disagreements to find some
degree of understanding. Tonight’s incident had evidently rendered their
truce null and void.

So be it. She could be as rude and curt as he when she so
desired. Without another word, Dillian stuck her nose up in the air and strode
forcefully beside him.

Except her legs weren’t as long as Effingham’s,
and she kept falling behind. She had to race to keep up. Swearing under her
breath as she tripped on a tree root, she deliberately stopped running and
strolled leisurely, forcing him to look for her.

Dillian could almost hear the curse on the marquess’s
lips, but he refrained from speaking the words aloud. He forced his pace to
hers as they left the beaten path, and he held branches back so she could pass.

“In here.” He made a gesture with his head
indicating the overgrown gazebo some long-ago generation had built. Dillian had
nearly forgotten its existence. She wondered if the marquess had used it as his
chambers these last few days. If so, he should be grateful it hadn’t
rained. Even the mass of rampant vines couldn’t prevent the wind from
blowing through the holes.

To her surprise, he had a lantern. He threw open the sliding
tin and let a crack of light illuminate one corner of the interior where a trussed
and sorry figure lay curled upon the floor. The man turned his face from the
beam of light, but she caught sight of his features well enough. She
didn’t recognize him at all.

She stepped out of the gazebo, forcing Effingham to follow.
He had the lantern closed when he did so.

“Well?” he demanded.

“He’s not from around here,” she said. “Did
he say why he was ‘skulking’?”

“He said he’s a soldier looking for work.
I’d believe him had he slept by the road instead of hiding in the bushes
at the rear of the property.”

Dillian clasped her fingers in front of her. She had little
enough sympathy for the military and a very low opinion of military men, but
she wasn’t completely narrow-minded. Many of these men had thought to
find a better life by joining Wellington’s forces. Instead, they had
returned home with missing hands and feet or worse and were left to fend for
themselves. She didn’t wish any man harm, but she couldn’t allow a
possible arsonist to destroy Blanche or the Grange.

“What will you do with him?”

“Take him to the local magistrate for questioning, I
suppose. The threat of transportation for trespassing might loosen his tongue.
When will those dogs you bought arrive?”

He’d almost forgotten to act cold. She could hear the
reasonable man with whom she’d spent these last few nights in the tone of
his voice. “The dogs arrive in the morning,” she told him. “I’ve
hired a trainer to teach them the grounds. How will they differentiate between
you and an intruder?”

“They won’t need to. I’m returning to the
manor once I deliver your intruder to the authorities. I’ll send Lady
Blanche and Michael back here as soon as I arrive. I’ve done all I can.
Michael is sharp enough to do the rest.”

Dillian panicked. Somewhere in the back of her brain, she
knew what he was doing. He was running away from her. What had happened tonight
made continuing their casual dinner conversation impossible. She knew that,
somehow understood it, but she couldn’t accept it. The Grange needed his
protection. She had nothing else besides Blanche, and Blanche was safe in
Hertfordshire. No one would look for her in a moldering castle without servants
or society. If Blanche came to the Grange, Dillian would lose them both.

He was a marquess. She couldn’t ask him to stay as a
guard dog. She couldn’t demand that he let Blanche stay as a guest in his
home when he so blatantly discouraged guests. Damn.

“Will you at least come back and tell me what the
magistrate said before you return to Hertfordshire?” she asked, not
knowing how else she could stall him.

He didn’t immediately reply. She held her breath as he
deliberated. If he would just return on the morrow, perhaps she would have
thought of some way of holding him by then.

“I hadn’t considered lingering to hear his
verdict,” he admitted gruffly. “I have no use for British
authorities.”