Beth had the same thought. She swallowed hard and wiped the tears from her face. “Soon I will be free to choose my lovers without worrying about money. Perhaps I will come calling then.” She pressed some notes into his palm. “Lord Clifton took over paying the lease this month so I am repaying you what you paid in advance.”
He looked down at the notes in his hand and handed them back to her. “Keep it. You have more need of it than I.”
Tears welled once more. “I shall miss having you in my bed.” He didn’t doubt it—Clifton was old. “Some lady is going to be very lucky to become your wife.”
His last coherent thought as she tore the towel from his hips and lowered herself to her knees was that Beth had no idea how unlikely his taking a wife would ever be.
She had just slipped his rampant erection between her sweet, skillful lips when there was an urgent pounding on the bedchamber door.
She looked up at him with a question in her eyes.
“Ignore it,” he urged and he let out a groan as her mouth sucked him deep.
The pounding continued. “Mr. Neville, please, sir. There is an urgent missive arrived for you from Argyle House.”
It was not only the pounding on the door that saw him pull Beth up from her knees. It was fear. Christopher, his valet, was not here. “I will be with you shortly,” he called to the servant banging on the door.
He pushed Beth behind the modesty screen and pulled a robe off the end of the bed before walking to the door. To his surprise it was Evan, a groomsman from Argyle House, his family’s seat near Cambridge. It must be serious.
“Lady Argyle bid me to put this directly into your hands.” Evan handed him a note from his mother with the family seal on it—except the seal was in black not red.
A shiver hit.
He stood there like a statue, his insides rollicking in panic as he reached for the note. It must be important to send it to him. Reginald should know better. But then it was not Reginald’s script; he could at least recognize that.
Evan stood there expectantly. “I’m to await your instructions.”
He needed time. Time to find Christopher. “Can you wait downstairs while I dress?” he said, and in a panic Guy simply closed the door in Evan’s face.
Beth stepped out from behind the screen. “Who is the missive from?” she asked pointing to the unopened note in his hand. “Are you not going to open it?”
His brain and mouth froze. What could he say? I don’t want to because I cannot read? He kept his inadequacy well hidden. So he used his finger to break the seal and unfold the note.
It was his mother’s writing, very messy, the letters looked more jumbled than usual. He tried to focus. Tried to make sense of each letter but even though Christopher had been able to teach him to recognize small words like “yes” and “no,” the letters on the note made his insides clench. Klipmmp juliomy…
“Whatever is in the message? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.” And to his immense relief Beth pulled it from his hand. As she began to read the note her face paled too and she looked up at him. “Oh, my God. No wonder you have gone pale. I’ll pour you a whisky, my lord.” She handed him back the note. “Perhaps I have been too hasty accepting Lord Clifton’s offer.”
It took him but moments to understand. The black seal, the fact Reginald had not sent the message, and Beth had called him “my lord.” When she pushed the glass of whisky into his hand, she added, “I know you were close to your brother. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Reginald was dead?
His whole body shook with the horror of it and he had to sink to sit on the edge of the bed before his legs crumbled beneath him. And he hadn’t even been able to read his mother’s note telling him he was now the Earl of Argyle.
His father’s stupid, idiot son was now the earl. The boy who could not read or write, the boy his father had beaten until he was almost unconscious on several occasions, but that still did not make Guy able to read or write…was now the Earl of Argyle. His father must be turning in his grave, and Guy liked that idea.
Reginald’s loss hit him hard and his chest hurt. His brother had always been kind, had tried to protect him from his father. As children they had sat up late at night, Reginald helping him memorize the lessons so no one could tell he could not read anything.
And now his one staunch protector was dead.
Guy wanted to scream at the unfairness of the world but he knew from experience that screaming didn’t help.
He closed his eyes against the burn of anger and shame. He could not even read his mother’s note. He would never be able to do what Reginald could.
He couldn’t read, for God’s sake. He was stupid. An idiot.
He tried to breathe but it was as if all the air was being sucked out of the room. He wanted to claw at his chest.
Then Beth’s arms were around him. “It’s all right, my lord.”
“Don’t call me that,” he snapped.
She didn’t respond immediately, instead she hugged him tighter. “It is your correct title now, my lord. I wish you could stay longer but your mother’s comment about your cousin’s concern and the funeral…Well, you must of course leave immediately.”
Patrick Neville—his cousin’s name—made his skin crawl. Older than Reginald, Patrick was a cruel and bitter man. Bitter that he had not been born to Guy’s father instead of the earl’s younger brother. He wanted what Reginald had—the title and estate—and had made Reginald’s life at Eton a living hell.
Patrick could never get his hands on the title, but what would Patrick do if he learned Guy’s shameful secret? Patrick could be made trustee of the estate if he could prove Guy was unfit. Patrick knew something was wrong with Guy, but he didn’t know what the problem was. Patrick had always been curious as to why Guy never went to Eton and why Guy’s father had beaten him so often.
If he learned about Guy’s inability to read or write…would Patrick have a case?
He closed his eyes and prayed for his dead brother, and for himself.
How on earth was he ever going to cope as the Earl of Argyle?
LONDON, FIVE MONTHS LATER…
Abigail Pinehurst hated the man sitting on the other side of the large desk. She hated Mr. Patrick Neville to the point that, God help her, she’d be quite capable of sticking a knife through his heart—if he had one.
“Are you clear on your task?” His voice held a cruel note to it, cold as a big hailstone and just as hurtful.
“I am to use my time at the Earl of Argyle’s estate to spy for you.” She only just hid her sneer.
“ ‘Spy’ is such an uncouth word. I simply wish to ensure that my…cousin…Guy Neville, the new earl, will cope with his new role.”
“What is it I should be looking for? I doubt I’ll have access to his study or anything important. I’m simply there to draw the Ghost Orchid. It was arranged with his late brother months ago by my benefactor Lady Calthorpe.”
Unfortunately, Lady Calthorpe was distantly related to Patrick Neville and suddenly Abigail’s prearranged time at Lord Argyle’s estate to draw the Ghost Orchid was being warped into something distasteful.
“I’m not sure exactly. There is a secret the family is keeping relating specifically to Guy Neville. I just don’t know what it is.” He tried to smile but it made her think of a shark’s gaping mouth filled with sharp, killing teeth. “A beautiful woman such as you should have no trouble getting close to Guy and uncovering his secrets.”
Her back stiffened. “I hope you are not implying what I think you are implying? I am not that sort of woman.”
“Aren’t you?” The smile was gone and in its place was menace. “I know your scandalous secret. If Lady Calthorpe were to learn of your past you’d be out on the street. I’ll make sure no one of good social standing would ever employ you again.�
� He leered at her. “Of course, I could find a place for you as my mistress if you were desperate.”
Oh, to be able to slap that ugly face, but a woman of little means could not afford that luxury. Instead she smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I shall do as you ask.” She stood and made to leave the room, and under her breath she added, “And I promise you I’ll never be that desperate.”
Mr. Neville also rose and almost yelled at her across the study. “I expect weekly updates until I arrive at the estate; and then you must remember to act as though we have never met.”
As she took her leave, all Abigail could think of was she wished they had never met.
But when in her life had she ever gotten what she wanted.
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Drawn to the Marquess Page 24