The Misfit Marquess (9 page)

Two footmen carried her down to the front parlor, insisting they could not put their hands about her person, and so she was made to ride upon a chair the two men carried between them. It made for an ignominious entry, and made the ladies of the local parish lift their eyebrows in mild disapproval that dissipated once they saw her bandaged heel.

In the end, Elizabeth found it was easiest to remain largely mum, to gaze blankly when to answer was to jeopardize her anonymity.

When they asked her name, she answered "Elizabeth," and at the insistence that she had a surname, she merely stared stoically.

When they asked where she was from, she shook her head and allowed her gaze to wander from face to face. It was Lord Greyleigh, sitting in a chair in the corner, deliberately apart from the circle of chairs in which the ladies resided, who answered. "She says she spent her childhood in Nottingham."

"I knew the inhabitants of the hospital came from all directions," Mrs. Fitzhamm declared, "but Nottingham? My word, such a distance!" The woman's daughter and niece nodded in agreement with her.

"But, my dear girl," Lady Sees said down her nose, "surely you have of recent been to London? Or at least Bristol or Bath. I mean to say, why else would one arrive at Severn's Well, which is such a distance from Nottingham?"

Elizabeth just gazed back, neither smiling nor frowning. Naturally, such a lack of response, such vagueness, could only play into the very farce that had first been put in place. Within ten minutes, certainty as to her want of wits bloomed across their faces as clearly as if they had pronounced it aloud.

It was ironic that she had once hoped to convince her host of her unstable mind, and now she had no choice but to allow these ladies to underscore that impression. She glanced toward the chair where he reclined, one leg crossed over the other, his head half turned away as though he could scarcely be bothered to attend the conversation. Well, she had told him as much of the truth as she could, and she could not help the wrongful impression these ladies underscored. She could not think why it even mattered to her, other than it seemed churlish to repay his hospitality with lies.

When more impossible-to-answer questions—all echoes of those already pressed upon her by Lord Greyleigh—drew only more silences or shrugs, Lady Sees rose, a signal that brought the other ladies to their feet as well.

"Poor thing," Elizabeth heard one lady mutter to Lord Greyleigh as they made their adieux in the outer hall, and another said, "Tis a tragedy."

Well, and what other judgment could my performance garner, Elizabeth thought to herself, although her pique was tinged with amusement. How easy it was to mislead people, to give the wrong impression, to let them think what they would. In their place, she had no doubt she would have done the same, would have chosen not to think well of a mute and vague creature.

For who would suspect pretense? What was to be gained by it? Freedom, of course ... but the ladies could not know Elizabeth sought escape rather than protection.

It was the way of a lone woman to seek protection—Elizabeth would have done so herself, were there any place to turn to gain it. But, no, her protection lay in an anonymity that could buy her escape—from this house, from the hospitality that did her cause more harm than good, from gossip's wicked tongue. She sighed, regretting the afternoon's encounter, in fact regretting everything from the moment she had agreed to ''elope" with Radford Barnes.

Lord Greyleigh returned to the parlor, his hands crossed behind his back, his expression in its usual polite but neutral arrangement.

"That was not too terrible," he said, not quite looking directly at her.

"No," she agreed.

"You did not remember anything new?" He phrased it as a question, but his tone implied he already knew the answer would be negative.

"Nothing," she said honestly enough, for there was a difference between remembering and sharing.

"How is your foot?"

The question surprised her, for it was the first thing he had asked her that went beyond mere politeness, however minutely. He had not needed to inquire after her health, not really. Perhaps he merely sought to make idle conversation while they waited for the footmen to return and carry her up the stairs.

"I wish it might heal more quickly," she said, a kind of apology for lingering in his house.

He made a noise in his throat that might have been an agreement or a dismissal, but nothing about his demeanor told her which. He unfolded his hands from behind his back and crossed to her side. Without asking her permission, he scooped her up into his arms.

"My lord!" she squeaked in surprise, her arms slipping around his neck in order to help support her position in his arms. "I am content to wait upon the footmen."

"Why, when I am standing about doing nothing?" he said, his tone almost bitter, or perhaps more accurately, a bit self-mocking.

He carried her from the room and to the stairs, plainly exhibiting good health and strength, for he did not even begin to breathe with effort until halfway up the stairs. She was neither tiny nor slight, and many a man would have labored to carry her the distance required.

So, Elizabeth thought, he was not an idle man. and indeed the fit of his coat suggested arms and chest that were forged by physical labor. When he saved his footmen from the task of carrying her, it was because he himself must be used to doing what needed doing. Her grandpapa had been such a man, a man to labor in the fields beside his steward, a man who liked to ride and fish and swim, and toss granddaughters in the air and catch them as they fell giggling back into his strong hands.

This man had twice now made her think of Grandpapa, but where one had possessed open arms and a lap upon which to reside, this man's physical nearness filled Elizabeth with an odd tingling awareness of maleness that had nothing to do with childhood games.

Being carried by a man, a stranger, was a curious, enforced intimacy, out of keeping with most of Society's rules. She must cling to him, her arms about his neck as though he were a lover, their bodies meeting in ways that would be severely frowned upon were they dancing. She could smell his scent, some manner of shaving soap no doubt, and the warmth from his arms penetrated her senses, warming her skin.

She felt a ripple of attraction, which shocked her. How inappropriate! Had she not learned her lesson from Radford Barnes about the dangers of mere attraction? She would net allow her mind to venture down that path, not with this man.

Still, she was too aware of where Lord Greyleigh's arms held her, despite liking the feel even as she rejected it—what an intolerable position in which to be! Her own fluster made conversation insipid and silence impossible.

"My lord," she said, to fill the void, "I would ask you a question."

He grunted and nodded once, saving his breath as he achieved the top step and began down the hall toward the room she had been given.

"I must ask . . ." She hesitated, but in the end decided he already thought her mad, so what did it matter if she was blunt and forthright? "Why did you come into my room earlier today? Did you knock? Why did you not send up a maid to waken me?"

He gave her a quick glance, and for a moment she thought she read a sheepish guilt in his gaze.

He did not answer at once, instead kicking open her door and striding in. He set her in a chair, then took two large steps back. He breathed deeply for several moments, and she could not help but think everything he did was designed to put her ill at ease, with overlarge gestures that spoke of resistance.

"In my own home, I go where I will, when I will, Elizabeth." he said, and his tone broached no arguments.

"Even a lady's chamber?" Elizabeth protested, matching her tone to his.

He narrowed his eyes for a moment, but she had the odd impression it was more from surprise than anger. "Yes," he said, but now there was no hint of surprise in his succinct words. "Even a lady's chamber."

"Perhaps the ladies from the church were wise to call upon me," she threw at him.

"They would have been wise to take you away from here."

Elizabeth's lips parted in shock. "Do you threaten me, my lord?"

"No," he said at once, and now he did appear angry. "I only tell you the truth, that I go where I wish to go, and I'll not be gainsaid in my own home, not even by a guest."

He was as mad as everyone had always whispered him to be—he must be, to be so indifferent to common courtesy. Elizabeth stared up at him, wishing she could stand, that she need not look up at him from the inferior angle of a chair. There was something of an obstinate boy in the way he stood, although the hard light in his eyes and the rapid rise and fall of his muscular chest beneath his cravat proved him to be anything but a boy. He was a man, and an angry one at that, although she could not imagine what had occurred to anger him so.

The hard light slowly receded from his gaze, and Elizabeth stared in fascination, much as she would have stared at an ice floe breaking apart. What wrought this change? What took the wrath from his eyes? What did he see when he stared so contemptuously at her that would cause ire one moment and a strange appearance of softness—call it even vulnerability—the next?

"I will, however"—it was clear the words were dragged with utter reluctance to his lips—"knock before I enter."

"Thank you for that at least!" she said, forcing her tone to remain arch. Instinct told her that to appear weak or uncertain would only invite more unseemliness from this man of contrasts. It was too ironic, really, had she the nerve to laugh internally at the strange moment, for he thought her mad and yet it was he who exhibited the oddest behavior, he whom gossip had labeled insane. He was certainly eccentric. She vowed on the moment that there would be a chair barring her door from now on, until she could be free of this place, this man and his odd behavior.

He made no reply other than to bow his way out, leaving Elizabeth to ponder sourly if he knew how to bow in any fashion other than stiffly. It was only then that she realized he had more or less stranded her by placing her in the chair, but she would sooner bite her tongue than call out to him to come back and remedy the situation. She glanced toward the bed, and sighed to find it so far away. Of course the bellpull, to summon a servant, was next to the bed.

"You can do it," she told herself, but the thought of the resulting pain to her heel kept her seated. Instead, she reached toward the fireplace, toward a log piled to one side awaiting its turn on the grate. She upended it and thumped it against the floor. Inelegant, but the pounding might eventually cause a servant to come investigate.

Just as she'd hoped, her door swung open. It was only then that she realized the servant had not knocked first, and she parted her lips to offer a scold, but stopped as she realized the woman before her was dressed all in white, wearing a night rail in the middle of the day. The being had flowing, long red hair, rather unkempt.

They stared at one another in silence. Elizabeth felt a chill climb her spine when she realized the woman looked in her direction but her eyes had a blank, unfocused quality, as though the woman saw right through Elizabeth. The creature was young, very young, perhaps not even yet out of the schoolroom, and a wistful cast to her mouth was made tragic by the furrowed brow above her pretty face.

"Who are you?" Elizabeth said, her voice little more than a whisper.

The creature never focused her gaze, but only turned and left the doorway. Elizabeth listened breathlessly for retreating footsteps, but heard none.

"Come back!" she called, only half meaning the words, only half wanting the strange creature to come back into her line of sight.

Grasping the chair arms tightly, Elizabeth stood, and for a moment her courage failed her. Had she seen the ghost, the spirit the servants whispered about?

Chapter 8

The being had seemed solid enough, but her white night rail, her unfocused stare . . . Elizabeth shuddered.

With reluctance she hopped her way to the doorjamb, but a quick perusal up and down the hallway revealed the being had disappeared from sight.

Elizabeth closed the door, longing for a bolt she could run home. She hopped across to the bed, where she sat for a long time, her teeth gritted in pain, her heel throbbing as though to echo the rapid pulse that had begun at the sight of that strange, silent, staring woman-child.

Eventually, Elizabeth slid across the bed's surface, grasping the bellpull. She needed a servant, someone to answer a question or two.

To her chagrin, when she called, "Come in," following a brief knock, it was Lord Greyleigh who entered. He had added a greatcoat and beaver hat to his ensemble, with gloves in his coat pocket and a riding crop tucked under one arm. Clearly he was on his way out, and she wondered fleetingly if he went to attend a club, the theater, or perhaps to dance attendance on some woman of his acquaintance.

"Yes?" he demanded without polite ceremony.

Elizabeth could not quite keep exasperation from crossing her features. "I rang for a servant."

"If you recall, I do not have an excess of servants, Elizabeth."

"Because of the ghost," she stated, doing her best to ignore the shiver that coursed across her shoulders.

"In part, yes."

In part because of you, Elizabeth thought, for wouldn't she too be gone from his presence if she were able to leave?

"What did you require?" he asked impatiently as he reached for his gloves.

She put up her chin. "I wanted to ask a servant about the ghost."

"For pity's sake, why?" He pulled on a glove, sparing her only the briefest of exasperated glances.

"Because I just saw her."

His head snapped up sharply at that. "Rubbish," he said, and she thought he must surely have used that same word to put down any servants' whispers that had dared to be breathed in his presence.

"I assure you, I saw a red-haired woman in a white night rail," Elizabeth said firmly. "Or does the ghost have a different appearance from that?"