The Marquess (19 page)

“Never look so gloomy, my lady. You can see the flower
upon the table and the sun’s light in the sky. That is far more than your
physician expected. Time will give you the rest,” he said as he handed
her the silk.

Verity slipped from the still shadows of the corner to tie
the scarf around her mistress’s head. She had very properly chaperoned
these morning sessions, but she remained so quiet neither of them knew of her
presence until times like these.

“I cannot sit here like a great lump of pudding for
the rest of my life,” Blanche protested as the scarf turned objects into
dim shadows. “Take me to Dillian, at least. I’m worried about her.”

Her irritating footman laughed. “Worried about the
she-devil? You would do better to worry about the marquess. He’s too much
a gentleman to cut out her tongue, and he’s lived too isolated these last
years to remember how to tame a shrew. You must smooth his ruffled feathers
when he returns.”

“Dillian isn’t a shrew,” Blanche objected,
without emotion. She could tell he was preparing to leave, off on whatever odd
projects he entertained when not with her. She shouldn’t be depressed at
the departure of a servant, but the day stretched long and boring ahead of her.

“You may ask his lordship’s opinion on the
matter when he returns. I expect him shortly. In the meanwhile, I have errands
to run, places to go. I bid you adieu, my lady.”

She heard the distance in his voice. The fact that he
actually bothered to say farewell told more than she wanted to know. He was
leaving. She frowned. If he was her servant, he couldn’t leave without
her permission. “I haven’t given you leave to go,” she
informed him.

“Neither have you given the night leave to turn to
day, but so it has. Be kind to the marquess, my lady, and he will willingly die
for you. You are two of a kind.”

She didn’t hear him go, but she knew when he left. He
took the sun with him. Blanche didn’t give in to the urge to ask her maid
how he had gone. She preferred thinking of O’Toole as a dandelion seed
wafting on the wind, alighting where the breeze took him.

That thought didn’t make her any less restless.

* * * *

“You say she’s gone to France? That’s
impossible! Blanche wouldn’t go alone, and I know for a fact that her
companion is still in Hampshire.”

The duke paced the dark library of his estate. Lined in
mahogany shelves, paneled in burled walnut, it was furnished in the heavy
satinwood of a previous generation. The magnificently carved ceiling—also
in burled walnut—showed the talents of an artisan long since dead, who
most probably had spent his entire life carving on just this one project. The
chamber reeked of ancient wealth, prestige, and favor.

Wearing a scissor-tailed morning coat, the hired
investigator inspecting the shelves seemed oblivious to his impressive
surroundings. He nicked a speck of dust from a leather-bound cover and lifted a
book from the shelf to admire the contents, speaking idly as he did so. “For
a fact, now? And will you not be needing my services any longer, then, Your
Grace, that you know more than I do?”

The duke glared at his irritating employee. O’Toole
had the maddening habit of behaving as if he were to the manner born. Only
another duke should have the arrogance to ignore Neville’s concern and
fury and go about reading other people’s libraries. O’Toole should
be trembling in his shoes right now, not perusing a volume of Chaucer.

“Are you telling me that Dillian isn’t in
Hampshire any longer?”

O’Toole looked up with a pleased expression on his
mobile countenance. “Very good, Your Grace. Now all you need do is
believe it, and we’ll make some progress this day, after all.”

Neville ground his teeth and wished for a pistol. Instead,
he opened his desk and produced a small sack of coins. “How much?”

“If I’m to follow them to France, it will take
that and more, I wager.” O’Toole eyed the sack of coins dubiously.

Neville pitched the coins at him and watched as his hired
detective caught it smoothly and disappeared it into his capacious pocket. “Hire
another operative to follow them. I want you to do something else for me.”

The duke refused to allow himself pleasure as he noted the
surprise in his hireling’s eyes. He’d debated this moment for days
now. He’d just decided to act.

“I want you to investigate the parentage of
Blanche’s companion, Dillian Reynolds. I want you to look into any
possible relationship between Blanche’s father, Lord Albert Perceval,
late of the Queen’s Hussars, and Colonel Harold Whitnell, also known as
Colonel “Slippery” Whitnell of the same unit.”

O’Toole slid the Chaucer volume back on the shelf and
approached the massive mahogany library table, where the duke stood. “To
what end. Your Grace?”

“Treason, O’Toole, treason.”

Gavin turned to check on his traveling companion and watched
as she straightened her shoulders the instant she saw him turn around. Nothing
told him more clearly how she must have slumped with weariness prior to his
observation.

Dawn cracked on the horizon, and because of the hours going
out of their way, they hadn’t even reached the boundaries of
Hertfordshire yet. She must be saddle sore and exhausted to the bone, yet she
forced herself to sit upright and give him that cocky look from behind fine
eyebrows that said she had as much energy as he.

On his own, Gavin would have continued on to Arinmede. He
had an urgent desire for the protective custody of his home. But Miss Whitnell
hadn’t had the dubious experience of riding in the saddle for days on
end, nor the callused toughness from sailing the sea on little more than
hardtack and ale. He had those strengths. She didn’t.

He sighed and allowed her to bring her mount beside his. “We
have our choice of sleeping in the fields or stopping at the next inn. The
horses need rest, and so do we. Neither choice smacks of propriety.”

She gave him a look of blatant disbelief. “Since when
have we considered propriety? I for one would prefer a decent breakfast and not
whatever inedible contents you carry in your pockets. I vote for the inn.”

Nothing shy about her. Gavin shook his head and proceeded
onward. If she thought to trap him into marriage by her boldness, she would be
gravely disappointed. Somehow, Gavin thought marriage was the last thing on the
lady’s mind.

They found a tiny inn in the next village, stabled the horses,
and breakfasted on ham and eggs before Gavin inquired into rooms. The
proprietor wadded his pudgy hands into his soiled apron and nodded knowingly.
He’d scarcely acknowledged Gavin’s scarred face or odd attire since
their arrival.

“Got just the thing for you, your lordship, our best
room. The lad can stable down with the horses.”

Gavin seemed to have developed a sixth sense where his
companion was concerned. He felt her freeze and wait with bated breath for his
reply, even though she stood behind him.

He had half a mind to agree to this arrangement. That would
teach her a lesson for insisting on following him around like a pet dog. Heaven
only knew, he didn’t need her company. He liked traveling alone. He
didn’t need anyone, but he particularly didn’t need this pint-size
keg of trouble.

But even if his mother hadn’t been much of a lady,
she’d taught him how to treat one.

Giving Dillian a venomous look to keep her tongue dried up,
Gavin gave a curt nod. “The lad stays with me. He’s less likely to
get into trouble that way. He can fix a pallet on the floor.”

Wielding his authority like a sword, he swung past the
proprietor without giving him time to question or protest. The pudgy man ran
after him, directing him up the stairs. Gavin scarcely needed directions. The
inn had only two upper rooms: the common room with a dozen narrow cots, and the
“best” room for visiting dignitaries or anyone else wealthy enough
to spend more than tuppence for clean linen.

At least the room faced west so the morning sun didn’t
cast a light on the dust balls under the bed and the cracked pottery at the
bedside. Gavin jerked the limp muslin curtains over the room’s one
window. He’d prefer not seeing his companion’s expression when
faced with this predicament.

The door shut behind the innkeeper. Gavin waited, but she
said nothing. Finally, he heard her moving around, and he gave in. As much as
he liked pretending he was alone, he couldn’t resist seeing what she did
now.

She had the heavy coverlet from the bed folded up on the
floor in front of the door. As he watched she dropped one of the bed’s
bedraggled pillows upon it. They had both taken advantage of the necessary
before coming upstairs, but bathing facilities had been nonexistent. She looked
dubiously at the cracked pitcher and bowl, then glanced back at him.

“I think I’ll wait until we reach Arinmede to
wash,” she said without preface.

“Excellent thought.” He eyed the lumpy quilt
with distaste. He’d slept on worse, but he didn’t relish repeating
the experience. His side ached and had grown stiff. The wounds of war
weren’t always gallant or romantic, just painful. He sat down in the
room’s one rickety chair to remove his boots. “I don’t want
to be seen near the manor before dark. I’m figuring we’re only a
few hours away. It will get hot in here before then.”

To his surprise, Miss Whitnell sat down on the pallet to
remove her boots. He had assumed she would appropriate the bed. She must have
taken his words below literally.

“I’ll sleep there,” he informed her
curtly.

“Not with me, you won’t.” She pulled off
her boots, then glanced down with disgust at her rough homespun smock. She
didn’t say a word, but the glance was sufficient to tell him she wished
she could remove it. Gavin imagined it irritated her tender skin. He
didn’t want to contemplate the tender skin in question. Without thinking,
he pulled off his fine linen shirt and threw it at her.

“I’ll turn my back so you can put it on. It will
be a sight more comfortable than that ungodly thing you’re wearing.”

Instantly, Gavin wished he’d had the sense to turn his
back on her before he’d thrown the shirt. Her eyes widened with alarm and
hidden interest as he bared himself to the waist.

He’d quit looking in mirrors years ago, but he saw
himself in her eyes. He’d never been given to fat, and he’d worked
hard all his life. He supposed he’d built muscles that the average
aristocrat didn’t possess, and the scar on his side probably had an
entertaining effect.

Gavin felt a familiar stiffening in his groin as he
recognized the interest widening Dillian’s eyes. The knowledge of her
desire lit a raging flame to his.

He turned his back on her. He could see strings aplenty tied
to this piece of baggage. He certainly didn’t need a permanent ball and
chain.

But her admiration burned a place in Gavin’s gut that
wouldn’t go away. He hadn’t realized how he’d missed that
kind of look. He’d been recipient of them often enough before the damage
to his face. He knew when a woman liked the way he looked. He’d been
arrogant enough to accept their admiration as his due, the one thing he’d
been given in this life to his advantage.

The looks of horror his scars had received had hurt him more
than he wished to admit. Gavin had known his vanity then, and it disgusted him
as much as his scarred face disgusted his erstwhile admirers. Dillian’s
unabashed look of enjoyment rekindled something that he didn’t need
anymore. Or so he told himself.

“I’ll sleep on the pallet,” he said
abruptly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re too big.
I’m decent now. You can turn around.”

He’d hoped for a glimpse of her wearing nothing but
his shirt, but she’d rolled up inside the quilt, where he could see
nothing but a mop of curls and her elfin face.

She quickly flipped over to present her back to his
nakedness. Gavin almost chuckled. He had the wild desire to flex his muscles
for her appreciation. He’d never particularly doubted his masculinity,
but he felt its full potency now, reflected in the eyes of this one woman.

Instead of entertaining his pride, Gavin took Dillian at her
word and climbed into the bed. The morning already promised warmth. He
didn’t need the cover she’d appropriated.

“You’d make a great guard dog, Miss Reynolds
Whitnell. Anytime you wish to leave Lady Blanche’s employ, you’re
welcome in mine.”

She didn’t deign to reply, but Gavin fell asleep with
dreams of Dillian in nothing but his shirt dancing through the rooms of his
head.

* * * *

“Here’s your shirt back.” Dillian
reluctantly handed the item over. Her reluctance had little to do with the
disinclination for donning the scratchy homespun and more to do with the fact
that she disliked seeing that fascinating expanse of chest covered.

She couldn’t remember ever seeing a man’s bare
chest. The marquess had scars on his torso, but they interested her less than
the play of muscles beneath his skin as he reached for his clothing, or the
sprinkle of dark hairs that tapered into a thicker mat as they dropped below
his navel. Even the thatch of hair beneath his arms seemed mysterious and
fascinating. She wondered if he was ticklish.

“Like what you see?” he asked in amusement when
she didn’t divert her gaze quickly enough.

She flushed and turned away as he pulled the shirt on. “There
are enough pompous asses in this world without creating another one,” she
answered enigmatically. She was twenty-five years of age but she felt sixteen
again, flustered and perspiring and uncertain where to look.

“You could be right about that, but I’m willing
to allow you to test your theory anytime you wish. Until then we’d best
get ourselves out of here.”

He strode briskly from the room, fully clothed again, right
down to his impossible coat and hat. The proprietor waited below, bowing
obsequiously as the marquess pressed the requisite number of coins on him.