“Would you mind if I have a moment or two in the church by myself?” Weakened with pain, she barely recognized her own whisper.
“Take as long as you need.” Mr. King stood and escorted her to the sanctuary.
After taking his leave, March studied her clasped hands. Indeed, as long as she stayed inside, her old identity was still hers to possess.
Chapter Eighteen
The dull gray of day lost its battle against the cold black night. A chill swept through the sanctuary as if seeking refuge, and the wind howled and rattled the windows with a woeful dirge. With her life forever changed, convoluted thoughts and questions preyed upon her.
She had stolen from her siblings.
Her parents’ signature in the register meant even more destitution. As a bastard, she lost any right she had to her trust funds. The documents stated that those moneys were marked only for the legitimate children of her father.
Her father had specified that for whatever reason, if a child couldn’t claim their money, then their portion would be divided between the remaining children. He was far too intelligent not to understand that such a statement meant the funds weren’t rightfully hers. The only way he could’ve provided for her was by a special bequeath of money.
Why had her father even bothered with a trust that provide for her as his legitimate daughter? If she was born out of wedlock, why didn’t he provide for her under her mother’s maiden name of Featherston?
March Featherston—just thinking in those terms caused her to shrivel inside the shell of her previous life. However, logically, she hadn’t changed. She still loved her siblings, Hart, Lawson Court, and everything she’d been fortunate enough to have in her life. Including Michael.
The greatest change would be how society would perceive her from this day forward. The illegitimate daughter of a viscount wasn’t that much of an oddity, particularly when her mother had married her father. What truly made her unique was the fact that Rupert claimed she had stolen from her siblings’ trust funds. As soon as her illegitimacy came to light, she’d lost all rights to her fortune.
The wood floor creaked, sounding the alarm she wasn’t alone. She turned in the pew, expecting to find the vicar asking her to leave.
Michael stood at the back of the sanctuary with his feet shoulders-width apart, exactly like Michelangelo’s David preparing for a mighty conflict. If he expected her to be his opponent, he would soon be disappointed. She didn’t have any fight left.
He deposited his black gloves and elegant beaver hat onto the back pew. He resembled a dark panther and never took his eyes from hers as he prowled toward her. Like a trapped animal, her heart pounded at the inevitable surrender and destruction that awaited her. Whether she faced her demise here or outside in the elements made little difference. She didn’t care at this point. It would be so easy to give up all hope and stay in this drafty building for eternity, locked in a perpetual purgatory just like the portraits and paintings hanging in the vicar’s office.
“Once again, I have to retrieve you like an errant child.” The raw sound of his words betrayed his mood. His jaw tightened, and the muscles of his cheeks rippled in consternation. “When will you learn to trust me?” He continued stalking her with his gaze never leaving hers. His eyes roamed over her face as he took inventory of her features. “Enough of your half-cocked travel escapades.”
She smiled at the tenderness that escaped through his rough-as-barnwood voice. By the appearance of his pursed lips and narrowed eyes, he was angry. The lines shadowing the corner of his eyes revealed the extent of his worry.
He’d come for her. He must still think she was his responsibility. The only appropriate thing was to tell him that Rupert’s hurtful statements were true and release him from any obligation to her. A sudden stabbing pain ricocheted around her chest as she realized that once they walked out the church entrance, she’d truly be alone. “How did you find me?”
“Bennett.” He slid next to her in the wooden pew.
His long legs resting against hers resulted in a reassuring, radiant heat. The fresh scent of pine made her relax. He was a real man, and this wasn’t her imagination run wild. She leaned closer. He was a magnet and she couldn’t resist his pull.
“You’ve worried the devil out of both of us.” Michael pulled one of her loose curls toward him.
It didn’t hurt, but the movement caused her to turn toward him. His gaze captured hers. She could drown in the ocean-color of his eyes and never seek any rescue.
She exhaled to break the spell between them. “Bennett is becoming as fretful as Julia. I’ve tried to instill a sense of security to our … home.” Was it still her home? She dismissed the thought. No, she wouldn’t allow what she’d discovered in Chelmsford to upset her siblings sense of safety and stability. “He must be worried beyond all reason.”
“Let’s leave this drafty pile of stones and go home,” he whispered. “I haven’t eaten, and I expect you haven’t either.”
She shook her head.
One corner of his mouth curved upward, the expression so mischievous and endearing, she was lost for a brief moment.
He laced his fingers with hers. His thumb rubbed her wrist as if trying to offer comfort. He stood and tugged her hand, signaling her to join him. Reluctantly, she followed. Without allowing her to retreat, he pulled her toward the vestibule.
Instinctively, she pulled back, unwilling to leave the cold sanctuary.
“What is it?” He halted his charge to the exit.
She swallowed the words that couldn’t possibly explain her new existence. How do you share that, in a short period of time, your whole life or what you thought was your life had completely turned on its head? She took a final glance at the sanctuary before allowing her gaze to rest on the altar. A flash of color caught her eye, and she tilted her head to stare at the vibrant stained glass window above the simple altar. A shepherd tended his flock.
Truly, this proved God possessed a wicked and wry sense of humor since she was a shepherdess—at least, had been. Perhaps the glass shepherd represented the promise that some divine entity would protect her family.
She dismissed the thought with a smirk. Only she was capable of such a feat. With a final glance, she left the safety of the chapel and the peacefulness of the vestibule behind her. With a defiant demeanor, she took her first step into the frigid evening air.
The wind bludgeoned her face and body, and the biting cold stole her breath. The tree limbs waved in a twiggy sendoff, almost as if clapping for her stricken state. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to allow such a weakness. This was her new identity, and the quicker she accepted that fact, the less she’d suffer.
“Come, March.” Michael took her arm and situated his body to take the majority of the wind’s blast. “Let me get you out of the cold.”
She nodded and allowed him to lead her to the carriage.
He held out his hand to assist her. “After you, Miss Lawson.”
The wind snapped her cloak about her legs as she stood there and just stared at him. The sound of her former name was once something familiar, particularly when Michael said it. Now, it was achingly caustic to her ears.
“My name is not March Lawson.” Her throat closed around the words, but through sheer determination she uttered, “What Rupert said about my birth is true.”
He tilted his head and regarded her as if she were an oddity. “We’ll see how long that lasts,” he muttered.
“Pardon me? The wind must have stolen your words.” She threw out the challenge as she narrowed her eyes. Before her stood a typical male, one who thought that all he had to do was wave his hand. The effort automatically setting everything to rights.
Even he couldn’t fix this scandal.
“We’re not going to stand in the cold and argue.” He tipped his head and stared at the sky as if running out of patience. “We have a two-hour ride ahead of us. Get in, March.” The growl in his voice was unmistakable.
&nb
sp; Without a look back, she climbed into the carriage. Her name on his lips had always caused such a sweet shiver to pass through every inch of her.
Now, his words sounded like a foreign language. One she’d never learn.
* * *
The coach rumbled to a halt outside McCalpin Manor. The jangle of the horses’ bridles broke the ear-shattering silence within the carriage. For the last two hours, McCalpin had struggled to engage March in any conversation. It had become apparent within minutes that she refused to discuss anything relating to her visit.
With a sigh, he knocked on the roof and immediately one of the footmen opened the door. Anxious to stretch his legs, McCalpin leapt from the coach and held out his hand to assist March. When there was no movement from her, he leaned into the carriage. “Come.”
With her own sigh matching his, she followed his command. He made quick work of escorting her inside.
“My lord, welcome home again,” greeted Arnsdale, the under-butler who saw to matters at McCalpin Manor when Buxton wasn’t available.
“Thank you.” McCalpin answered. He handed his coat and hat to the under-butler. “This is Miss March Lawson. We’ll stay this evening and leave for town tomorrow.”
“A pleasure, madam. I’m Arnsdale. If there’s anything you need, please ring.” He waited for March to hand him her pelisse.
“It’s Miss March Featherston,” she murmured.
McCalpin took a deep breath, hoping it would keep his anger from exploding. He didn’t want to consider whether the cause was his inability to defuse the situation or because she was so miserable. With a glance around the entry, he thanked his lucky stars the rest of the staff had settled for the evening or were dining downstairs. “We’ll dine in my study. Take Miss Lawson’s bag to the marchioness’s suite.”
“Very well, my lord.” Arnsdale bowed and took his leave with March’s valise in his hands.
McCalpin took her arm in his and proceeded down the hall. The marble floor and thick rugs welcomed him home. Immediately, the tension he’d fought the entire way started to dissipate. In its place, the overwhelming need to change her mood crept over him.
The entire carriage ride to McCalpin Manor had been an icy hell. The miles drifted by like slow meandering storm clouds while March’s retreat into silence grew stronger than the north wind. Nothing he’d tried could break her steely recalcitrant mood.
New fires blazed in the twin fireplaces of his study, a luxury some highly practical ancestor had incorporated into the architecture. A simple fare of roasted quail, carrot soup, sliced cheese, and dried figs sat before them on a small round table. March refused to look at anything other than her plate. If he hadn’t known her better, he might think she wanted nothing to do with him or their dinner as she rearranged the food around her plate, never taking a bite. Her soup lay discarded by her side.
Her pale face highlighted the evident pain she suffered. The proof of her sadness tore through him until he couldn’t stand her suffering any longer. He turned his chair and scooted his plate next to hers. His fork gently pierced a piece of fowl. He brought the meager offering to her mouth and tempted her to take a bite. She turned her head as if any morsel of food was poisonous.
“You’ll ruin my reputation as a good host if you don’t indulge me.” He leaned close, willing her to gaze at him.
She lifted her warm eyes to his. The misery reflected in their depths hit him like a punch in the gut. He dropped the fork and completely ignored the clatter of it hitting the china plate. He was powerless to do anything but take her in his arms.
“Enough.” He pushed his chair away from the table, picked her up, then deposited her on his lap as if she were a child who needed comfort after a spill. Without resistance, she allowed him to hold her and burrowed her face in his neck. Her warmth soothed his own emptiness, and her touch nourished him like a famished man. “I’ll right this wrong. I promise.”
“How can you?” Her lips caressed his neck as a result of her muffled whisper.
The sensation caused him to pull her tighter against his chest. She nestled closer. The movement so endearing he brushed his lips across the tip of her ear. The subtle lilac scent that was uniquely hers rose to greet him.
“Nothing changed,” he whispered.
She didn’t respond to his muffled words.
“I promise everything will work out for the best.” He kept soothing her and offering succor. “I promise, March.”
Eventually, she drew away. The loss of her heat and the emptiness of his arms made him want to haul her back into the safety of his embrace. With a soft gaze, she studied every feature of his face. With her fingertips, she gently traveled the contours of his skin. The subdued caress caused his groin to tighten, and a heat blazed up his spine. His length started to thicken from his own craving for her continued touch. She was completely oblivious of her effect as she continued to pet and stroke his face.
He straightened in the chair in an attempt to keep his unruly body under control. Her touch, the slow sweep of her fingers, could only be described as exquisite torture. He closed his eyes in an attempt to control his body’s reaction to her. She needed comfort—not some randy response from him. She needed security and a sense that she had a safe haven with him.
No matter how much he tried to tame his desire, it became bloody apparent to both of them. She wiggled against his erection, and he grunted.
“Am I hurting you?” she whispered. “I’m too heavy.”
For the last four hours, she’d spoken hardly a word. When she decided to speak to him, it was about her own perceived shortcomings.
“Not at all.” He rested his forehead against hers. “But you’re driving me mad.”
From London to Chelmsford, his thoughts had churned. He couldn’t keep them quiet any longer. His path and hers were destined to intertwine. He’d known deep in his heart what he wanted to do but had tamped down the urge to say the words aloud until after last night’s ball. Then Lawson—that sniveling bastard—had torn her to pieces.
Through the days, he’d courted the idea and had allowed it to roll in his mind—testing the feel and the texture much like a master chef who had created a new confection. Tasting it like a wine steward who would sip a new vintage before serving it to his master.
His earlier concern with her mind for numbers had diminished to nothing. She’d proven herself loyal to her family and her friends repeatedly. Her acumen with running an estate along with her quick intelligence and bookkeeping skills would be a great resource. More importantly, he had no doubt that she desired him as evidenced by her reaction whenever he kissed her. More importantly, their friendship could easily lead to a marriage based upon love and commitment. Of that, he had no doubt.
She stood wearily. “It’s been a long day.”
“May I take you to your room?” he whispered. Really, he’d much prefer taking her to his room and holding her in his arms all night. She nodded but refused to look at him. He took her hand in his and escorted her up the stairs.
March paused at the window at the top and stared out into the darkened night. “Tomorrow, will I have the opportunity to see your estate?” She shyly stole a sideways glance. “Perhaps…”
“What do you want?” Not allowing her to escape, he tilted her chin until his gaze met hers. “I’ll give it to you.”
She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing” sounded like “something” to him. Once he got her settled, he’d not let her escape until he discovered what she wanted. That was one of the most endearing qualities about her. She never asked for anything for herself. Her first thought was always for her sisters or her brother.
They continued down the hall until he opened the door to the green and gold sitting room of the matching suite next to his. A set of double doors led to the bedroom. Gold and ivory satins and brocades decorated the marchioness’s bedroom suite, while his was green and ivory. A joint dressing room connected the bedrooms, making access to e
ach other discreet but easily attainable. It was another ingenious design from a previous Marquess of McCalpin, and he was thankful for such foresight, particularly this evening.
“This is my room?” The incredulity in her voice was utterly charming. “Where’s the bed?”
“In here.” He took her hand and led her to the room left of the sitting room. A massive gold pedestal bed stood in the center against the far wall, as if holding court with all the other furniture.
March’s gaze swept the room until it landed on the bed. “These rooms are larger than the entire family wing at Lawson Court. Is that bed even in the same county as the sitting room?”
He couldn’t help but laugh. Slowly, her darkness faded. Still holding her hand, he drew her until she faced him. He smiled at the flash of brilliance from her eyes.
“What were you going to say on the stairs? Perhaps what?” he cajoled. Without letting go of her hand, he pulled her close and pressed a kiss against her lips. “Answer now, or I’ll use more of this type of torture until you reveal all your secrets.”
“I wouldn’t think that the mighty Marquess of McCalpin would stoop to such atrocities just for an answer to a silly thought.”
He pressed his lips against hers again and whispered, “You would be shocked at my level of depravity. Now tell me.”
She stood on tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his ear. The warmth of her breath caused his skin to tingle in response. “Perhaps someday you’ll show me your estate. I would love to see how you raise sheep.”
When she pulled away, her eyes blazed with laughter. He leaned close as her mirth transformed her into the most gorgeous creature he’d ever had the pleasure to behold. “I’ll do more than that. I’ll give you my sheep.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s too generous.”
“Not for my marchioness.” McCalpin held his breath as her playfulness fell into shock, then tumbled into disbelief. The silence of the room gave way to the swish of her muslin gown as she stepped away. He took a step forward so as not to give her any quarter. “Marry me.”
The Luck of the Bride--The Cavensham Heiresses Page 23