Timeless Tales of Honor (90 page)

T
he Duke
of Danby walked around the Gold Parlor and took in Olivia and Marcus’s work.

Olivia and Marcus stood off to the side, silent, unspeaking.

“I’ll say you both did a splendid job. Who’s the fool that said decorations shouldn’t be put up until the eve of Christmas? If you ask me, it seems like an awful amount of work for two mere nights. Mark my words,” he said. “Soon the rest of the
ton
is going to be following suit.”

The words meant a good deal coming from the normally disapproving duke.

“Thank you,” Olivia and Marcus said in unison.

Danby turned around with such rapidity that he began to cough.

Olivia took a step toward him but he waved her off.

He removed a kerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth. “What’s all this about?” he barked, stuffing the linen back into its place.

Marcus answered for them. “Your Grace?”

“Don’t play the fool with me, boy. You two look as grim as if Cook took away all your rations of plum pudding.”

Olivia glanced down and shuffled the tip of her slipper along the Italian marble floor. Her body was held so tight, Marcus imagined all it would take was a strong winter wind to shatter her.

God, he hated seeing her like this.

She looked up.

A sheen of tears glossed the ice blue of her eyes.

Oh, Olivia.
He’d rather take a bayonet to his other eye than witness this defeated side of her.
What have I done to you?

“Grandfather, I’m not feeling well,” she whispered. “W-will you excuse me.”

She didn’t wait for the duke’s blessing, but instead turned on her heel and fled.

When the echo of her slippered feet had faded, the duke turned to him. “What the hell was that about?”

“What the…?”

“Oh, don’t you treat me like a fool. I may be old and sick, but I am not a fool.” He levered his cane in Marcus’ direction.

Marcus sighed and swiped a hand over his eye. “I don’t know what you expected in bringing Olivia here, Your Grace.”

Danby snorted. “You think you’re wiser than me?”

Marcus managed a chuckle. “Hardly, Your Grace.” Over the course of the years, Marcus had made enough faulty missteps; some that had nearly cost him his life. But he didn’t know what game the duke played with he and Olivia.

“You could have gone anywhere, Marcus.”

The duke’s statement gave Marcus pause. In all the years he’d spent at Danby Castle, Marcus had been
boy
and
Wheatley
but never Marcus.

“Your Grace?” he said, hesitant with the duke’s statement.

Danby gestured around. “You could have found work anywhere. You could have lived comfortably with your father, and yet you accepted my offer. Why is that?” He didn’t allow Marcus to respond. “Because of Olivia.”

Marcus swallowed and stared at the boughs he and Olivia had hung earlier that day? Or was it a lifetime ago?

“It’s too late. I appreciate your…intervention,” he lied. He didn’t. He wanted to rail at Danby for breaking open wounds he’d thought firmly closed. “I’m not fit for good company, let alone your granddaughter.”

“Are you saying my granddaughter is a shallow cit?” Danby’s voice boomed throughout the parlor.

Marcus held his hands palm up. “I’m saying I don’t deserve her, Your Grace.”

“Why?”

Marcus looked away. The scars about his mouth throbbed and ached in reminder of what he’d become.

“Because of some scars?” Danby snorted.

Marcus growled. “You say that rather flippantly, Your Grace. I lost an eye. I’m not fit for good-company.”

The duke laughed, until a cough wracked his frame. “You think you aren’t fit company because of a missing eye and some scars? I’d choose you with no eyes and no limbs for my granddaughter before any of those fops in London.”

Danby made it sound so simple. Marcus sighed. Even if he weren’t a bloody monster, there was still Olivia’s betrothal to the Earl of Ellsworth. His hands curled into tight fists at his side.

“Tell me this, Marcus. Who does deserve, Olivia? That fat, blubbering fool Ellsworth who my fat, blubbering son-in-law is going to marry her off to?”

A torrent of images flooded Marcus’s mind. Olivia with Ellsworth. In his arms. His fat, corpulent frame covering her. He closed his eyes.

“I like you, Marcus. And I don’t like anybody.”

Marcus mustered a grin.

“But do you want my opinion?”

“I suspect you’ll give it, regardless of my answer.”

Danby nodded. “Demmed right, I will. You’re one of the bravest men I know. Anyone who could survive what you did in France

“Thank you.”

“Let me finish. You’re also one of the biggest cowards. This is Christmastide, a time of renewal and hope. Don’t go and ruin this now, Wheatley.”

So they were back to Wheatley.

“I’m done here. Think about what I’ve said and don’t disappoint me, boy. I don’t like to be disappointed.”

Marcus stared after him. Invariably the duke was going to be disappointed in him. Danby, a step below royalty, was one of the most powerful peers in the realm. No one would be wont to deny the man anything. The duke didn’t know what it was like for the rest of Society; especially mere second sons of viscounts, covered in scars.

And Danby was wrong. Olivia deserved more. Far more than a man like him.

T
he Gold Parlor
, bathed in candlelight, leant a magical feel to the decorated hall. Hundreds of sconces flickered and danced off the silver and red beading strewn through the room. Brightly wrapped packages littered the base of the tree.

The duke had declared the yew boughs that had been draped around the perimeter were not nearly enough, and Marcus and Olivia had been charged with bringing in additional greenery.

Olivia stared up at the mistletoe, which had been hung from the chandelier at the center of the room.

Marcus leaned close, his hot breath fanned her cheek. “Who would imagine His Grace was romantic?”

She smiled. “If I were to tell my family, they’d never believe it.”

“And the proof of his Christmastide spirit will surely be swept away so swiftly that no one will ever know.”

No one, but them.

Her throat worked painfully. The days had ticked by faster than the beats of a clock, counting down the time until she’d have to leave. This was the eve of Christmas; a time that should be wrought with merriment and laughter and yet, all she could think was that in two days, she’d be gone. She would return to London, where she would wed the Earl of Ellsworth, Marcus would remain here, and the beauty of this season would be nothing more than a haunting memory.

Marcus stroked his fingers along her jawline. “There is no room for sadness. Not on the eve of Christmas.”

Her eyes caressed the angled planes of his face. No, on this night nothing else mattered—just this moment.

“Are you two going to sit?” the duke barked from across the room.

Olivia and Marcus jumped apart as if a canon and gone off.

Danby stomped across the parlor floor, gesturing to the gold brocade sofa. “Sit.”

Marcus’ lips twitched. “Does it often feel like His Grace is speaking to a terrier?”

“I heard that, Wheatley. I may be dying but I’m not deaf.”

Olivia greeted her grandfather with a kiss on the cheek. “You aren’t dying,” she assured him. He was aging, ill, and more gaunt than she ever remembered him, but she’d realized in her time visiting, the Duke of Danby wasn’t dying. The duke might not ever admit it, but he’d summoned her because he hadn’t wanted to be alone for the yule season. “In fact, I would venture you have at least another twenty Christmastides to still celebrate.”

He frowned and shuffled over to a King Louis broad-framed chair and sat heavily. He opened his mouth to no doubt deliver a stinging rebuke at Olivia’s insolence.

Marcus cleared his throat. He held out an arm. Olivia placed her fingers along his sleeve and allowed him to guide her to the sofa. He hesitated and for one long moment, she believed he would claim the chair next to the duke but then he sat beside Olivia. His tan breeches brushed the fabric of her skirts and her breath caught. She stole a peek from the corner of her eye to see if Marcus was as affected by the subtle touch, yet could read nothing in his firm stare.

“Time for songs now.” The duke raised his monocle and glared over in the general direction of the small orchestra that had been assembled.

The musicians immediately set their strings to bows and began to pluck out the hymn,
Angels from the Realms of Glory
.

“Sing,” the duke barked.

Marcus whispered close to her ear. “I believe he is speaking to us.”

“I do believe you mean, commanding,” she said, her tone dry.

Marcus chuckled.

Olivia’s voice blended with Marcus’s gruff baritone. He’d always possessed a smooth, mellifluous tone when he spoke. Now, with time and what he’d suffered, there was almost a grating, rough quality to his voice when he sang or spoke. It suited him. His voice was that of a man.

As the chords drew to an end, Marcus and Olivia exchanged a smile.

“I’ve got something for the both of you,” Danby said, interrupting the stolen interlude.

A servant seemed to materialize at the duke’s pronouncement. He and one small, brightly wrapped package and a thick, velum envelope. He held the envelope to Marcus, and then handed the present over to Olivia.

Olivia turned the gift over in her hands.

“Go on, open it. The both of you,” Danby said, with a wave of his hand.

Olivia first opened her sealed envelope and read the scrawl in her grandfather’s hand.

She worked loose a bow and then slipped a nail underneath the green velvet, floral fabric. She opened the small box and looked inside.

A gasp escaped her. The Italian wood jewelry box had painted upon it a festively decorated yew tree. She lifted the lid and stared unblinking down at a branch of the yew tree she and Marcus had selected.

Olivia fought back a swell of emotion and gently closed the lid with a slight click. “It is perfect, Grandfather.”

“Humph,” he said and stamped his cane into the floor. “You next, Wheatley.”

Marcus hesitated. He waved off the servant, who rushed over with a tray that contained a blade to open the envelope.

Olivia studied his long, bronzed fingers as he broke the Duke of Danby’s seal. He withdrew several parchments.

His gaze scanned them with rapid precision.

She had to tamp down the urge to lean over his shoulder and peer at the documents that held Marcus so enrapt.

As if he felt her gaze on him, Marcus quickly folded up the sheets and stuffed them back inside the envelope. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He tucked the gift in the front pocket of his jacket.

The duke stood. “It’s late for an old man. I’m going to find my bed.”

Olivia set aside her gift, and she and Marcus both scrambled to their feet. She dipped a curtsy. “Merry Christmas, Grandfather.”

“Merry Christmas, Your Grace,” Marcus said, with a bow.

The normally stern set to the duke’s lips turned up in the hint of a smile. “Yes. Yes it was, wasn’t it?”

He left and the orchestra picked up their instruments. They began to play
This Endris Night
.

Marcus held out his hand. “Will you dance with me, again?”

Olivia placed her hand in his and followed him the sweeping movements of the waltz. “This time there is music,” she pointed out.

His solitary green eye nearly pierced her with the intensity of emotion she saw there. “We never needed music. Did we, Olivia?”

Olivia remembered back five years when he’d danced her about her mother’s expansive garden. Their laughter had drowned out the shocked gasps of Olivia’s maid, who’d pleaded with them to remember propriety. “No, we didn’t.”

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue as she thought of Grandfather’s note and gift. Olivia would never be able to live with herself if she didn’t tell Marcus all that was in her heart.
If you couldn’t tell a person how you felt at Christmastide, when could you?
“Marcus, I need to say something.” She rushed on before he could speak. “I do not care about the…the scars. It would have never mattered. I loved you.”
I love you.
“I waited for
you
.”

Marcus dropped his gaze to the top of her head. “It matters.”

“Only if you let it.”

“You are betrothed…”

Olivia stopped dancing, and forced him to follow-suit. She reached up and framed his face in her hands. “I don’t want to marry the earl. I want to marry you.”

Marcus sucked in a breath. He tried to disentangle her fingers from his person. She shrugged off his efforts. “I don’t want to leave, Marcus. I want to stay here. With you. I want to be your wife.”

His eye slid closed. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said, the words ripped harshly from deep within him.

“I do,” she said so gentle as to not frighten him into setting her aside. “Don’t let me go. Not again. I’ve only just found you.”

He stood there unmoving, his body whipcord straight as he appeared to wage an inner battle.

When he opened his eye, she knew; she’d lost him. Again.

“I’ll never be the same man, Olivia. I won’t wed you…”

“Why?” She flinched, knowing she was humbling herself before him.

“I don’t want to.”

Pain knifed through her heart and she dropped her hands from his cheeks. Olivia stumbled away from him, a hand to her breast. She glanced down expecting to see the stain of blood upon her fingers from the agony of his rejection.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “M…Merry Christmas, Marcus.”

Then with all the dignity she could muster, Olivia retrieved the duke's present, and bade Marcus a good night. As she exited the Gold Parlor, for the first time in five years, tears fell freely down her cheeks.