When Angels Fall (20 page)

“Yes.”

Holland looked at Evvie. She appeared a bit sad, so uninvited, he took her hand in his. His touch seemed to shock her.

“Has she never found a suitable man?” he asked gently.

“I’m afraid the only suitable man to come along has been you.” Evvie tried to laugh, then she slowly pulled her hand from his.

“And is that what makes you so solemn now? You feel she should wed me?”

She self-consciously smoothed her skirt. “I don’t know that she would have you, yet I . . .”

Holland chuckled and tweaked Evvie’s cheek. “So, you think she would not want me, and yet, despite this, you feel some obligation to have me offer myself to her.”

“Would it be such a chore?” Evvie laughed uncomfortably. “After all, Lissa is quite a beauty. Even I know that. She was beautiful at sixteen and she must be doubly so now.”

“And so she is. But there are other things a man looks for in a wife besides beauty. Sweetness, for one. Gentleness. And Lissa Alcester with her passionate disposition is certainly not the girl for me.” Holland took Evvie’s hand once more. This time Evvie held on tight.

“Oh, but Holland, she is the oldest and for that reason alone should have a husband. But more than that, Lissa deserves some happiness. You wouldn’t believe the sacrifices she has made for her family.”

“On the contrary, I would believe it,” he said, his expression turning grim.

Tearfully she exclaimed, “And I am the reason she is turning into a spinster. How can I stop it? What can I do?”

“Love, believe me, you are not the reason she’s remained a spinster. Tramore is.”

“Ivan? How I’ve longed wished—”

“Please don’t be so optimistic,” he interrupted. “The marquis is hardly a family man.”

“He’s shocking, I know. But I truly believe they were meant for each other. And he must carry some fondness for her. Tell me, Holland”—she pulled his hand closer— “what does Ivan look like when he looks at her? Describe him for me. I’ve pictured it a thousand times in my head, but you’ve actually seen it. What does his face look like? What is his expression?”

Holland drew back and thought about it for a moment. He seemed a bit reluctant to tell her. Haltingly he
said, “He looks as if he could ravish her right where she stands.”

Evvie inhaled sharply. She seemed to blush right down to her toes. Finally she managed to say “Well, he is certainly not the gentleman you are . . .”

Holland touched her cheek quite apologetically. “But, my love, how do you know I’m not looking at you that way this very moment?”

Evvie looked in his direction, shock in her eyes. But she had no time for another reply for Holland began kissing her tenderly on the lips.

Lissa returned from her walk a quarter of an hour later. When she arrived, she seemed to think Evvie looked a bit different. Her sister certainly seemed flustered. And Holland certainly seemed pleased. Lissa had her suspicions about what had gone on but she kept them to herself. It was none of her business, really. And with her as chaperone, she knew Evvie wouldn’t get into trouble.

They packed up the wicker picnic basket and Holland took them home before George was due back from school. He kissed both ladies’ hands, and Lissa found it amusing indeed to see how profusely Evvie blushed. Something had definitely gone on during her walk, and as it was much too early for a proposal, she guessed that Holland had kissed her sister.

When Holland left, Evvie settled down to do some knitting and Lissa fiddled with a needlework canvas. George appeared to be late from school and that always made her nervous.

She couldn’t seem to concentrate on her handwork, so she picked up an old edition of
Les Modes Parisiennes.
As she flipped through the magazine, a breathtaking layout of a bridal trousseau caught her eye. It cost an astounding eight hundred pounds, but each delicate peignoir and pantalette was fashioned out of the sheerest Brussels point lace. Unable to stop herself, she reflected dreamily on what it would be like to own such a wardrobe. She pic
tured herself in each sheer garment and the thought almost made her blush. Then, unbidden, she pictured Ivan looking at her in them, and she did blush. Furiously. But next her eyes found the warning that came with the drawing:
Have these displays not their danger? Should a mother
allow her daughter to see them?

Dropping the magazine as if it were a hot poker, she fled upstairs and changed into an old cotton workdress. Then to get her mind off her wicked thoughts, she went to the kitchen to make their dinner. Of course, the first thing she did was drop a tin of flour. Doubling her task before she had begun it, she was forced to get the broom and sweep up the flour. Absorbed in her work, she didn’t hear the loud knock at the front door. A moment later Evvie entered the kitchen, an unsure look on her face.

“We have a visitor.”

Lissa looked up from the stone floor she’d been sweeping. “Who?” she asked.

Evvie laughed nervously. “I’ll give you three guesses.”

Lissa stood and wiped her cheek, leaving a smear of flour on one side of her nose. “Oh, please don’t tell me it’s the marquis.”

“I’m afraid so. . . .”

Lissa looked at her threadbare gown. Yet why should her appearance matter? she silently berated herself. Ivan was nothing to her. Walking past Evvie toward the parlor, she realized that the sooner she confronted the beast, the quicker he would leave.

As usual, Ivan was impeccably dressed and scrupulously neat. Lissa was sure that she, on the other hand, looked like a hag, not worthy of a man’s bow. With this thought burning in her breast, she practically snapped his head off when they were face to face.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, my lord?” she said sarcastically all the while pushing back the loose strands of silvery-gold hair that escaped her chignon.

Ivan seemed taken aback by something, then he
stepped forward and brazenly ran his finger along her tiny nose. “Dust?” he inquired.

She slapped his hand down. “If you must know it’s flour.”

“Ah, I see.” With an inscrutable expression on his face, he let his gaze wander down her figure. He seemed to enjoy her tattered state, and he particularly seemed to enjoy her bosom, which was heaving in repressed anger.

“If you’ve a liking for my gown I shall send it to the castle, my compliments,” she told him tartly, daring him to continue staring.

His smile was lazy and irreverent. “Only if you come with it.”

She wanted to scratch his eyes out. How positively infuriating he was! “Unfortunately I am not for sale.”

“Really?” He raised one dark eyebrow mockingly. “I thought you were, as long as the gent offered marriage and could prove he was still breathing.”

Anger reddened her cheeks. She ached to slap him but fought back the urge. Slowly she said, “I hate to be rude; however, I am terribly busy, so I’ll come right to the point. Why have you come? You must know that a visit from you is hardly desirable in this household.”

He looked at her a moment, his mouth twisted in wry amusement. “In your haste to flee the castle last week, you left a few of your belongings. I thought it my duty to return them.”

She watched his gaze dart to the tea table. Lying there were her bonnet and gloves.

She hardly knew what to say. She thought he’d come to play some trick on her, to torment her using any flimsy excuse he could find. Yet here he’d come to return her bonnet, a bonnet that he knew all too well she couldn’t afford to lose. As it was, she’d been making do with Evvie’s old one, but the wretched thing was literally crumbling away it was so worn out. She’d known she would eventually have to go to Powerscourt and retrieve her own bon
net. Ivan could have easily used it to lure her to the castle, but he’d chivalrously brought them back to her, asking nothing in return.

Her gaze softened a bit. Perhaps she’d been too hard on him, perhaps she’d been too quick to think the worst of him. But then she recalled how
he
had been the one who had made her leave them there. Suddenly she turned angry all over again when she thought of their encounter in the castle. What had he said to her in parting?
Try not to
succumb to another man’s lovemaking?

Suddenly he laughed as if he’d read her thoughts. “Don’t be so mad at me, love. I would have given you time to retrieve your belongings. I didn’t make you leave in such haste.”

“You? You didn’t make me!” She was too angry for words. She simply stood there and stared at him in mute dismay. The only interruption was the clank of the latch lifting on the cottage door. At first Lissa ignored it, knowing it was George finally returning from school. But she couldn’t ignore it for long because Ivan’s face turned grim and his eyes flashed with fury.

Lissa turned and practically swooned at Ivan’s feet. George stood before her as quiet as a churchmouse, the entire side of his face covered with dried blood. Tears streamed silently down his cheeks and his lips seemed to be swollen beyond recognition. But this time he had obviously given as much as he got, for his knuckles were bloodied also.

“George!” she cried out, and ran to his side. She was relieved to see the blood on his face was only from a cut to his brow and not from his eye, but she was still horrified by his appearance.

George suddenly put his arms around her. He didn’t even seem to mind that the marquis was in the room watching him. He was too young and obviously too hurt to put up a manly front now. Lissa comforted him, letting him cry into her apron. She took Ivan’s proffered handker
chief and wiped away her brother’s tears and, with it, some of the blood.

“What is it! What is it!” Frantic with worry, Evvie practically stumbled into the room. Ivan immediately went to her side and gave his hand for support.

“George has been in a fight. I think we need . . . ?” Lissa looked around wildly, unable to articulate what that was.

“Why don’t you get the boy some tea, Evvie. I’ll come with you and get some hot water and a compress.”

Ivan spoke with calm authority, the same calm authority Lissa remembered he’d used whenever an Alcester Thoroughbred was cast in its stall or whenever a foal had cut up its legs on the paddock fencing. Evvie must have remembered it too for she looked up at him gratefully.

While they were in the kitchen, Lissa tried to calm George down, but his sobbing would not subside. Soon, however, she had a warm compress placed on his swollen eye, and that seemed to help a bit. She comforted him by wiping at his cuts and bruises and fingering the rents in his clothing, but she almost needed comforting herself. Never had she seen him in worse shape. The brawl must have been brutal. She couldn’t fathom what could have started it this time. After a while George began to hiccough and she knew his tears would soon end. She smoothed his raggedy dark hair and led him to a seat so she could look at him.

“Now tell me what happened.” Lissa sat next to him on the sofa. The spring in the cushion that had threatened to pop through for the past year suddenly did so right next to George, and for some reason he found it amusing. A slight, quivering smile came to his handsome little face, and Lissa could have hugged him at that moment. She refrained from doing so only because she knew if she did, they would have to pry him from her.

“So come now, tell me. The children will have to be
punished this time. You know it.” She encouraged him with a quivering smile of her own.

“It was Clayton and Johnny.” George looked as if he were bent on murder. She was surprised at his sudden willingness to tell her who the culprits were, but it must have been because he finally believed he had nothing to lose. He felt hopeless, and now, knowing who had done this to him, so did she.

Clayton and Johnny Baker were from one of the wealthiest families of Nodding Knoll. The only reason they even attended the town school was because they’d both been kicked out of Eton one too many times. No private teacher could be kept more than a week, so they had finally been placed under the helpless hand of Miss Musgrave and left to run wild whenever her back was turned. Which was obviously much too often.

“Well, don’t you give up, darling.” She patted his knee. “I shall have words with Sir Baker this evening. After all, he’s only a knight. And I daresay he must be accountable for his offsprings’ actions.”

“No!” George suddenly became hysterical. “Don’t speak with them! Don’t!”

“What is it?” She tried to assuage him, then looked at Evvie for assistance, but Evvie was merely sitting next to Ivan, shaking her head in helpless disbelief.

“Calm down, lad, and tell your sister why you don’t want her to talk to Sir Baker.”

Lissa looked at Ivan as he spoke. For some reason it comforted her to have him there. He seemed so strong, especially when all around them havoc reigned. His presence seemed to comfort George as well for he stopped ranting and hugged her close.

“Hush, my darling,” she whispered as his sobs began anew. She was having a difficult time not sobbing herself. Her heart was breaking for her tormented little brother. Feeling impotent to help him, tears welled up in her eyes. She wiped them with the back of her hand.

“Don’t go there, Lissa,” George cried softly. “They’re the ones who told Clayton about me. Sir Baker is the one who told him I was Mother’s bastard.”

Outrage jolted through her. She looked at George in shock, then her glance darted to Evvie’s horrified visage, only to rest on Ivan’s granite hard one.

As if the moment weren’t painful enough, she couldn’t remove her gaze from Ivan. Never had she seen his face so completely hard nor so completely vulnerable. Pain and rage swept over his features. Ivan was not the kind of man who ever showed emotion, and now when he did she found it difficult to look upon. Without a doubt, he was seeing George as if he were seeing himself at that tender age. Suddenly she felt as murderous as a caged lion.

She wiped her wet cheeks. “It’s not true, do you hear me!
Do you hear me?”
She shook George to make him listen.

“Sir Baker says it is!”

“And I say it is not!”

“But how is anyone to prove it isn’t?” George’s surprisingly mature logic confounded her, but only for a moment.