The Marquess (9 page)

“If you try running away, I’ll catch you,”
he informed her as the sunrise penetrated the room, sending its warmth over his
face.

“I’m not running away. My feet are asleep. Have
you gone up to see Blanche yet? She’ll worry when I don’t check on
her.”

Gavin turned with surprise at the tone of concern in her
voice. He expected to find her still bent over her task, but she had turned her
head to watch him with curiosity. He should have known. He winced inwardly,
waiting for the automatic scream as full sight of him registered. Instead, his
beautiful prisoner’s eyes widened, and she tilted her head, avoiding the
shaft of sunlight hitting her full in the face so she could see him better.

“I had wondered, my lord. The way you skulk around,
I’d expected a deformed beast. I’m disappointed. It’s just
rapier scars. Is there some significance to the design?”

The rotted drapery he clenched in his fist ripped from its
moorings. Gavin swung around and viciously jerked it from the rod, flooding the
room with morning light.

Behind him, the mischievous female taunted, “Very
good, my lord. Will you swing from the chandeliers next? Or have you sold them
all?”

Gavin wanted to growl and jerk another drapery down. He
considered flinging whatever came to hand to reduce her into quivering terror.
He was perfectly capable of terrorizing her. He’d done it before. Even
the servants stayed out of his way. All except Matilda, of course. But he had
the unnerving feeling that he would have to actually physically molest this one
before she would get the message.

Instead, Gavin swung around and gave her an evil smile. He
knew it was an evil smile. The muscle on the scarred side of his face
didn’t work properly. It created a sardonic look that at best caused
people to look away.

“Good morning to you, too,” he replied in his
most unctuous tones. Maybe she would think he meant to eat her for breakfast.

She returned to untying her ankles. “I’m glad
you think so. I’m starving. I suppose the rats made a feast of my dinner
last night.”

He had the infuriating urge to laugh. Even Michael
couldn’t make him laugh much anymore. It took a certain level of
lightheartedness to truly relax and make the chest and throat open up enough to
laugh. He used to do it. He couldn’t precisely remember when he’d
stopped. He didn’t start now.

“No thanks to you, we don’t have rats. I threw
out that disgusting concoction before the maids found it. If you’re truly
concerned with Lady Blanche, you may breakfast with her while I decide what to
do with you.” He stood with his back to the window, diluting the effect
of his appearance by casting it in shadow.

“No matter what you do or say, you won’t force
her to marry you, you know,” she said conversationally, rubbing her
ankles. “So if that’s your plan, you may as well give up on it and
let us go now.”

An undertone of amusement laced his voice as he replied, “By
all means, toddle on. This place isn’t exactly equipped for guests, as
you may have noticed.”

Her head jerked up then, and he could see the flushed color
of her cheeks beneath those brunette curls. Damn, but she had the most delicate
nose he had ever seen, and sooty black lashes that curled nearly to her
eyebrows. Gavin wanted to lick her and taste her and bite into her apple
cheeks. That wasn’t all he wanted to do. He grudgingly acknowledged the
almost painful surge of lust in his loins. He remembered more precisely why he
didn’t keep company anymore. Only paid whores would allow him to do what
he wanted to do with this female, and he never paid for his women.

“Your hospitality has been enchanting so far,”
she answered with a heavy tone of irony that stirred his blood even more. “I
particularly enjoyed the tied-to-a-chair bit. But now, if you will excuse me, I
have need of freshening up. I’ll be happy to join you in Blanche’s
room shortly.”

Gavin watched with interest as she stood and nearly fell
again. The damned woman had more courage than sense, he decided. She caught the
chair arm and balanced there precariously while the blood rushed from her feet.
It probably hurt like the devil, he surmised. He could carry her upstairs, but
he wouldn’t. He knew better than that.

“I’ll tell Lady Blanche you’re coming.”
Ignoring her predicament, he crossed the room and let himself out.

Dillian dropped back to the chair, cursing. She pulled an
ankle onto her knee and massaged it, still cursing the filthy beast who’d
left her here to suffer. She should walk out and disappear again just to spite
him. She had the uneasy feeling he hoped she would.

She couldn’t drive the image out of her mind of the
proud marquess standing there in front of that window, displaying his ravaged
face for her to see. He was tall, but not in the least bulky as she had
expected. He wore only a loose shirt and trousers that defined his lean grace
and aristocracy. The Marquess of Effingham had long, elegant bones that
practically made her drool. The width of his shoulders filled his shirt
comfortably, and she’d felt the strength of him the night before. This
marquess knew the meaning of physical labor. He hadn’t developed that
physique by lurking in dark comers.

The unmarred side of his face had handsome deep-set eyes and
an aristocratic nose almost too pretty for a man. His strong jaw and dark black
eyebrows could intimidate even in repose. Even without the scars.

The scars—well, a face like that would have driven
women mad if seen in perfection. The scars added a character she wagered
hadn’t been there before. In his youth he’d probably been one of
those handsome twits who thought their pretty looks should buy the world.

Of course, she wasn’t too crazy about the character
he’d developed now. Feeling her feet returning to normal, Dillian
attempted standing again. If she meant to eat in company today, she would have
to prepare herself accordingly. She’d be damned if she would wear these
breeches to breakfast.

* * * *

Half an hour later, gowned in her French creation, Dillian
entered Blanche’s room the proper way, through the doorway instead of the
wardrobe. She couldn’t do much with her hair without a bath and a
maid—not that she could do much with it even then—so she had pulled
it back from her face with a ribbon. Curls still bounced against her cheek, but
they didn’t fall in her eyes for a change.

Her gaze instantly swung to the tall man sitting by the
window. Blanche had drawn the draperies so she might see the light of morning
through her bandages. The sun fell on the marquess’s scarred visage, but
Dillian noticed the dark defiance in his eyes more than the surface damage to
his skin. She felt that look like a knife in the stomach. She couldn’t
tell if he wanted to murder her or do something else unspeakable, but it
stirred her insides.

Then his gaze fell to the long-sleeved, low-necked French
gown, and his mouth twisted into a caricature of a smile. Dillian wished for a
concealing shawl.

“Empress Josephine, I assume?” he asked
caustically.

“I don’t believe they called her empress during
this period.” Refusing to let him intimidate her, Dillian pulled the
skirt of the gown out to examine it more closely in the morning light. “I
don’t think it’s more than twenty or thirty years old.”

“What? Are you wearing the French gown you told me
about? Come here, let me feel it.” Sitting in the chair on the other side
of the window, Blanche reached her hand out in the direction of Dillian’s
voice. As she ran her fingers over the smooth silk, she said wistfully, “I
wish I could see it on you. It feels lovely.”

“I’m sure you’ll see it shortly,”
the man in the window said, “after Michael returns with the physician.
Suffice it to say that your companion looks quite exquisite in blue, although
the neckline is a trifle daring for this hour.”

Several things struck Dillian at once. The marquess had
evidently figured out who she was, and Blanche had completely given her away by
speaking of prior conversations. The uppermost thought, however, revolved
around the tray of food on the table between Blanche and their host. She had
never developed a lady’s delicate appetite.

Since the room had no additional chair, Dillian helped
herself to a muffin and perched on the edge of the bed. She wished for a good
cup of tea, but the marquess evidently preferred coffee and hadn’t
bothered bringing up a cup for her. Daring him with a look to make an
objection, she bit into the muffin.

“You don’t mind about Dillian, do you?”
Blanche asked anxiously. “She’s been afraid that you meant me harm,
and she wanted to be free to help if necessary. I told her she was foolish,
but. . .” She shrugged elegant shoulders wrapped in a shawl Dillian had
found for her.

“Does she have another name besides Dillian?”
the monster asked, as if Dillian weren’t present at all. He buttered a
roll and politely faced Blanche as if they sat properly at the dining table.

Too consumed with hunger to object, Dillian merely helped
herself to some sausage, rolled it up in a piece of toast, and continued
eating. She’d learned a great deal about eating without plates or cutlery
this past week.

“I’m sorry. My manners have gone begging.
Dillian Reynolds Whitnell, the Marquess of Effingham, Gavin Lawrence. Dillian
is my c…”

Dillian reached over, knocked Blanche’s hand as she
reached for her cup, and helped herself to some jam. “Blanche’s
companion. Her father was in the military and spent a great deal of time from
home. I’m rather a substitute mother.” She cringed inwardly that
Blanche had revealed her full name, but the marquess seemed oblivious of the
notoriety associated with “Whitnell.”

Blanche took the hint and blithely continued, “My
mother died when I was very young, and Father never took the time to seek
another wife, much to the despair of his family, I believe. But I think of
Dillian as the sister I never had. She’s scarcely old enough to be my
mother.”

The marquess followed this conversation without expression,
but Dillian could almost hear the wheels of his brain clicking. She considered
most men mindless, but she had the nagging feeling that this one had a positive
labyrinth for a brain.

But the conversation was quite innocent, and he
couldn’t make more of it than was there. As a good companion should,
Dillian merely smiled and nodded polite agreement.

The marquess sent her a withering look. She continued
smiling. He’d never really introduced himself as a marquess. She had
assumed it from the family history, and Blanche said Michael had confirmed it,
but for all they knew, this man had simply taken over an abandoned derelict of
a mansion, hired an accomplice, and kidnapped an heiress. For all she knew,
they could work for Neville. So she smiled and let him think what he would.

The monster listened politely to Blanche’s chatter as
the meal disappeared, but Dillian sensed his attention lagging. If he meant to
woo an heiress, he had a lot to learn. She scarcely blinked when he spoke into
a lull in the conversation.

“Perhaps I could persuade the two of you to explain
why Michael feels it necessary to keep you hidden here? I understand there is
some question of someone deliberately setting the fire, but I find difficulty
in believing a young lady could have made enemies who would dare do such a thing.
I think it’s time we have a frank discussion.”

Even though she couldn’t see, Blanche turned to
Dillian for help.

Dillian longed to hand the problem over to someone stronger,
more experienced, and more powerful than she. She wasn’t at all certain
this reclusive monster fit the description. She liked what she saw in his face,
but she couldn’t trust her instincts. Neville had always seemed innocent
enough also.

The silence grew embarrassingly longer. Effingham raised an
eyebrow. Dillian clasped her fingers into her palms and stared down at them.

“We don’t wish to slander an innocent man,”
she hedged, finally. “But the fire wasn’t the first incident. It
would seem far safer if Blanche disguised herself until she comes of age in a
few months. Then she would have control of her own affairs, and there should be
no further interference.”

“I see.” He glanced in Blanche’s
direction.

Dillian could see the path his thoughts had taken. With her
face scarred by burns, her eyes wrapped in bandages, and with all that long
blond hair, Blanche would be rather hard to disguise.

He cleared his throat without expressing his opinion out
loud. “I cannot keep the two of you hidden from my servants much longer.
I employ only four, but they move about in the village frequently. Everything
that happens here is known in town within hours. You might find it safer
staying in a much smaller place that can be guarded by professionals. Michael
made mention of another estate. Could it offer adequate protection?”

Dillian tried to hide her surprise. She had assumed the man
had fallen in with Michael’s suggestion that he woo and win Blanche. The
match was nearly irresistible on his part. He would have a wife who
couldn’t complain of his scarred visage, one who brought considerable
wealth to salvage his obviously bankrupt estate, one with a title and
background matching his own. Besides all that, Blanche had beauty and brains,
even should the disfigurement of the burns not go entirely away. Any man would
want her. This one wanted to send her away. It made no sense.

But Blanche responded eagerly. “I have my estate in
Hampshire. There are others, but this one is close by. It belonged to my
mother. It is small, but surrounded by good woods and a wall. The gate is
seldom used, but I could have it staffed. Is that what you mean?”

The marquess frowned. “I would have to see it to know.
Woods could conceal intruders. Even a good patrol couldn’t find them at
night. Perhaps when Michael returns, I could leave him here while I take a look
at the place.”