Through a breath of undisguised sorrow, she whispered, “I can’t even look at you…”
“And I can’t take my eyes off you, my darling,” he admitted seconds later, his tone threaded with meaning. “You are stunning to behold.”
Her lashes fluttered upward at the gentleness he conveyed through his words, and as their eyes met, he offered her the warmth of the smile she’d seen only hours ago in the privacy of her bedchamber. The smile she knew.
“Did I tell you two years ago that I loved you?” he asked, his voice barely heard above the din.
She faltered, blinking quickly, shaking her head. “Don’t ask me that now,” she whispered, the grief within nearly overflowing.
He inhaled a full breath, moving away from the center of the floor, slowing their pace to nearly a standstill.
“Love never dies, Ivy, even if the mind forgets the feeling for a time.” He placed his fingers under her chin and lifted her face to his. “I fell in love with you the moment we met. I don’t remember that, but I know it, and I’m almost certain I told you because I understand myself well. I wouldn’t have taken you to my bed without knowing I would marry you, and I wouldn’t have asked you to marry me without realizing we were meant to be together.”
Tears stung her eyes—from the heartache, the memory, the gripping awareness that they had lost two years that would never be returned to them. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her tightly at her waist, refusing to let her go.
“You’ve haunted my dreams since that night I made you mine,” he continued with grave conviction. “You called to me, grieving for me in a way I couldn’t comprehend but that I felt. And that’s why I brought you here, to Winter Garden. I needed you to help me remember my past with you, what happened that week, and what we meant to each other. And today I discovered the final truth, a truth more priceless than any treasure.”
She shook her head, her lips trembling, and he gently caressed them with his thumb.
“I love you, Ivy,” he whispered in a husky timbre. “I’ve loved you all this time. And I know you wouldn’t have accepted a proposal of marriage from me two years ago, as you knew me then, if you didn’t love me, too.”
Time seemed to cease for her as she stared into his eyes, so beautiful, so full of hope. And then she remembered her promise, and his meaning struck.
…nothing mattered to me but you. I would have said yes…
“You coerced me today,” she whispered.
He jerked back a little as if startled. “No, Ivy,” he insisted, his voice and manner intense. “I just had to know if you loved me, the man, before I told you who I am.”
The man…As you knew me then…
“Why?” She shook herself free of his grip, pulling away slightly. “You’ve asked me to trust you repeatedly, and yet you’ve never trusted me.”
“Ivy, that’s not true—”
“I’m sorry, Lord Rye,” she cut in, her voice quavering with inner strength even as she lowered her lashes. “I don’t know you at all.”
Before he could comment, she lifted her skirts and turned, moving quickly through the crowd and up the grand staircase.
Chapter 19
With crumbling poise, Ivy decided to retreat to her bedchamber, a place where she could think and not be seen, to clear her head and make decisions about her immediate future. To decide if she ever wanted to see him again.
Her first thought had been to leave the estate and never return. But running outside in a snowstorm without preparation would be senseless. She knew he wouldn’t follow her; he would want to give her time to reconcile all that she knew of him now with all that she remembered of their week in London, all that she’d heard of the mysterious Marquess of Rye with the memory of how they’d spent their time together in Winter Garden. His declaration of love on the dance floor had been charming, witty, and laced with trepidation, but with each carefully chosen word she’d grown ever more furious—at the trickery, the deceit and lies.
Quickly, she made her way to the second landing and down the long, darkened hallway to her room without seeing a soul and hearing only the buzz of laughter, talk, and music from the ballroom below. She’d left the door to her bedchamber unlocked, and noted only vaguely that it stood ajar when she reached it.
She entered, shut it behind her, and leaned against the solid oak, closing her eyes and breathing deeply.
“How could I not know?” she whispered to herself as she finally considered how every single clue to his identity had been staring her in the face since the moment they met—his cultured manner, his endless income, his obsession with finding the Martello diamonds—his diamonds, above all things.
The urge to laugh bubbled up inside of her as she realized the depth of her ignorance. She understood now that he couldn’t tell her who he was in London until he knew Ian wasn’t responsible for the theft, until he knew she lacked any involvement as Ian’s sister. It also explained exactly why two years ago he told her not to respond to his marriage proposal until he returned.
But he hadn’t returned.
Suddenly tears held during all the months of loneliness welled up in her eyes, of the pain they shared that hadn’t been discussed, the hopelessness she felt when her heart was breaking and he’d tossed her aside. She supposed she understood why he couldn’t trust her with every detail when he couldn’t even trust his own memory, though knowing he hadn’t tried to speak to her still managed to bewilder and infuriate her. The fact remained that he should have told her before now. He should have prepared her for tonight.
Straightening, Ivy turned and wiped the tears from her eyes. As desperately as she wanted to leave the Rye estate, she needed to remain for Ian. Finding him was her goal for the moment. After the secrets of this night, this house, were revealed, she would confront Garrett about every detail he’d kept from her. Until then, she intended to let him suffer with his worry.
With a fluff of her skirts, she turned and pulled the latch to open the door once more—and came face-to-face with Lady Margaret of Brighton.
Ivy groaned within, noticing at once that the lady carried two glasses of champagne, one for each of them, she supposed.
“I saw you come up here,” Margaret said, a half smile on her lips. “I thought perhaps we could talk for a moment.”
Ivy sighed. “Lady Margaret, I really need to return—”
“It’s about your brother.”
That interjection left her stunned.
Margaret handed her one of the glasses which she took without thought, then watched in silence as the woman stepped past her and into her private room, glancing around before exhaling with exaggeration. “You know, this should have been mine.”
Ivy stiffened. “You said you wanted to talk about Ian?”
Margaret looked at her, then down to her glass. “I’m sorry, Lady Ivy, that was rude, I know. I think it—I think it’s now obvious that Paul is quite in love with you.”
Ivy had no idea what to say at the moment, and so she took a sip of champagne, an indulgence in which she rarely took part but needed this night to calm her nerves.
“He’s really quite a gentleman,” Margaret carried on, lifting her own glass to her lips. “He never touched me once with passion, never looked into my eyes as he did yours.” She paused, then murmured, “And he never once kissed me.”
A heady relief stirred within her, and she took another sip, a larger one as the warmth began to spread, stalling because she wasn’t at all sure what Margaret wanted from her, why she was here, or even if she now spoke the truth.
Finally, she remarked, “I—I’m still not certain what this has to do with my brother, Lady Margaret.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed beneath her mask. “I was in love like you are once, kissed and seduced with passion I thought would never end.”
She shook her head, taken aback and clearly not understanding. “With Ian?”
Margaret snickered, moving closer as she drank lightly from her gla
ss. “I’m rather jealous, you know, of what you have with my former betrothed, but I never had, or wanted it, with Paul, or with Ian.”
Ivy took a final long swallow of champagne, then walked to her vanity table, resting the glass on top. Looking at the lady through the mirror, she said, “I’m sorry, Margaret, but—”
“I was in love with Benedict Sharon.”
Ivy pivoted around to stare at her, speechless.
Margaret laughed, a calculated, bitter laugh that permeated the room with a numbing coldness. “Surprised, aren’t you?”
“Yes…” she whispered, her throat tight, mouth going dry. “You know what happened to him, don’t you? Where he is?”
Margaret eyed her with calculation. Then in absolute contempt, she replied, “If I knew that, we’d be together. And we’d have the diamonds.”
Ivy knew those words held some vital information, information she needed to tell Garrett. But she couldn’t understand them. Suddenly she was desperate to get out, to escape. Her head hurt, and her body felt hot all over. Her heart began to race from a growing sense of danger, an unexpected, fearful anxiety that seemed to seep into her skin, making her dizzy as she realized nobody in the ballroom knew she and Lady Margaret were alone in her bedchamber.
“Where is Ian?” she asked breathlessly, attempting to focus as she reached behind her to clutch the edge of the vanity table.
Margaret shook her head. “He ruined everything for Benedict and me, you know. He made it so very difficult for us to get away and live together happily.”
Confusion reeled within her. She didn’t understand. “Where—where is…my brother?”
In a low breath of fury, Margaret spat, “I hope he’s dead.” With that, she threw her champagne glass hard at the mirror behind Ivy’s head, shattering both with the violent force.
Ivy ducked, catching herself before she fell to the floor, fine crystal, glass and pale liquid spraying across her hair and back.
After smoothing her skirts, Lady Margaret turned and walked to the door, and without another word or glance over her shoulder, quickly quit the room.
Shaking violently, Ivy tried to stand. She tripped on her skirts and dropped to her knees, falling forward, her palms landing hard on shattered glass. Suddenly the room spun around her as she attempted to rise once more. But she couldn’t. Something was wrong—with her feet, her…hands, the pain—
“What happened to you?”
A voice she knew came from the doorway. Helping her. A soothing voice. But she couldn’t see, couldn’t move.
I’m—bleeding…
And then she lay on her back, staring up at Hermione—or…Viola. Viola in a different—then mumbling, rushing water, Ian’s face, Garrett—
Help—me!
She closed her eyes to the blackness.
Chapter 20
It took only minutes for Garrett to realize something was very wrong. He’d let Ivy leave the ballroom because he knew she needed time alone to consider all that had happened this evening, to grieve in private before he sat her down for a good, long discussion. But when he charged forward in search of Lady Margaret, unable to find her in the crowd, with nobody certain of her whereabouts, he began to worry.
He’d realized immediately that Margaret shouldn’t be in Winter Garden, but he’d been more concerned with making his grand entrance and how Ivy would react than the meaning behind the lady’s surprise return into his life. Now, with both of them absent from the ballroom, a certain alarm gnawed at his gut, and he decided it was time to take action.
He knew Ivy hadn’t left the house by way of the main entrance; Newbury had strict orders to inform him if she walked through the front doors or ordered the carriage. So, after speaking briefly with Thomas and Madeleine, the three of them left the ballroom fairly unnoticed as the gathering carried on much as it did before his amusing and rather pompous introduction. Thomas left them to find Mrs. Thurman and direct her to engage the available staff for a quiet first-floor search, and then he and Madeleine climbed the center staircase to the upper floor, his first intent to go to Ivy’s bedchamber, where he suspected she went after leaving the ball. His head ached tonight, and with each step he felt a sharp stab of pain to the beat of his thundering heart.
They traversed the long, dim hallway in silence, seeing nobody, though festive music could be heard from the ballroom below. They found her bedroom door ajar, and with a marked trepidation, he opened it.
“Jesus, what happened?” he whispered as he fairly ripped his mask from his face.
Madeleine brushed past him, then gasped, her mouth opening wide in horror.
He stared in shock at the scene before him, the broken mirror, the shattered crystal, excellent champagne dripping from the top of the vanity table to soak into the rug.
“There’s blood here,” he said, his voice catching with a suddenly overpowering sense of dread.
Removing her own mask, Madeleine knelt to look at it. “It’s not much, Garrett. It looks—”
“Like she cut her herself on the glass,” he interjected.
Madeleine glanced up to his face. “Or someone did. We don’t know who was in here, and there are two champagne glasses.”
He turned his attention back to the vanity, spying the second glass, mostly empty. In two steps he reached it, lifting it, smelling it.
“This isn’t my champagne,” he said. Then after taking a tiny sip, he clarified, “Something’s been added.”
Madeleine came to her feet, staring at him, her face pale. “You think she’s been drugged?”
He shook his head, bile rising to the level of his panic. “I don’t know.” He ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated, uncertain what to do next.
Madeleine inhaled a deep breath. “Let’s think rationally, Garrett. She’s not in here, so she left. And if someone drugged her, she would have to be carried, non? And nobody could carry her that far without being noticed.” Reaching out, she gingerly touched his arm. “That means she’s here, and we’ll find her.”
He nodded once. Then abruptly he turned and walked into her withdrawing room, noting with some relief that the vanity chair remained snug against the wall, guarding the entrance from the tunnel. Whoever was here had left by the hallway door. Or more than one person was involved.
Garrett returned to the bedroom proper. “We need to search the rooms on this landing.”
Madeleine nodded. “Should we send word to the authorities?”
“No,” he replied at once. “At least not until we have a better idea what took place. Involving too many people before we’re exactly aware of what is happening could cause complications too numerous to mention—”
“Pardon me, my lord?”
He and Madeleine turned to the doorway to see Newbury standing before them, his features wide with surprise as he took in the scene.
“What is it?” he grumbled.
Newbury gave him a slight bow, then said, “A package has arrived for you, my lord.”
Garrett frowned and began to walk toward him. “A package? From whom?”
The butler shook his head. “I’ve no idea. There’s no card,” he remarked as he held out a small, square box for his view. “But I thought you should have it straightaway.”
Garrett stared at it for a second or two, noting the golden wrapping paper held together by a scarlet bow. “Thank you, Newbury, that will be all,” he said, taking it from the man’s hand as he dismissed him.
“It looks like a present,” Madeleine said, moving closer to inspect it.
“Yes,” he agreed with unease as he hastily began to untie it. “An oddly timed present.”
After dropping the ribbon to the floor with swift fingers, he fairly attacked the wrapping paper, tossing it aside as well. Then, without delay, he lifted the lid, took one look within, and felt his heart stop.
Madeleine gasped.
“Oh, God…” he breathed as his hands began to shake.
Inside, protected only by old, c
rumpled newspaper, rested the famous Martello tiara, its rubies sparkling, the gold shiny—and the three priceless blue diamonds missing from their settings.
“There’s a note beneath it,” Madeleine whispered.
Gingerly, he grasped the paper with two fingers, pulled it from the box, and began to read.
She’s alive, and I’ll trade her for the diamonds.
Find the diamonds…
She wasn’t stupid, Margaret told herself as she gracefully lifted her skirts and retraced her steps to the foyer. Now that she’d scared Ian’s sister into submission, she supposed Paul would be looking for her, for both of them, and she would be forced to confront him as he began to put the pieces together.
Although she’d been an unlikely suspect, it seemed odd to her now that he still didn’t realize her involvement in stealing the Martello tiara two years ago. If he did, he surely would have sought her when he entered the ballroom. At least she needn’t worry that she might be arrested, a horrible thought that made her shiver with revulsion. But he would confront her eventually, and to be prepared, she needed armor, something he wanted desperately. Benedict had told her everything about his house, its secrets, and she had a fairly good idea where he’d hidden the diamonds.
She needed to find them, and it was time for a thorough search, regardless of the fact that she wore her best ball gown. With what she would gain for the effort, she could buy a wardrobe of new and fabulous dresses. She knew the house, and had a very good idea of the mysteries it held. The diamonds were here, and so was the incredible tunnel system, not to mention the fascinating, medieval dungeon about which very few, if any, people other than she knew. That’s where she would start.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned in the direction of the library, the room where Benedict had said his ancestors had carved out the first walled entrance, passing only one or two obscured faces along the way. It didn’t matter who she said good evening to; she didn’t know a soul in Winter Garden aside from Paul and Aunt Isadora, though it did seem to take her forever to reach the end of the long, dimly lit hallway. She paused only briefly to assure she wouldn’t be noticed, then clicked the handle and stepped inside, thankful that she found herself alone. After closing the door softly behind her, she stood silently for a few seconds, listening to the din of ballroom music, then walked with caution to the bookcase.
A Notorious Proposition Page 24