The Dream

by Jaycee Clark

  She sighed and took another look at the moon, wondering at the unease that seemed to shadow over her. Shaking it off, she turned to pick up the taper.

  A yelp lodged in her throat.

  The marquess stood by the fireplace. One arm propped on the mantle, his head tilted, and eyes watching her.

  The man was a contradiction to her.

  He was kind and considerate, generous, and oh, so very handsome, yet there seemed to be a cautiousness in his gaze when he looked at her as if he couldn’t decide what to make of her. Dark black hair and those straight blue eyes set with the strong, aristocratic, marred face made her think of Lucifer. But she’d met the face of an angel once, and he’d locked her in hell. She supposed the marquess could look like Satan himself and be as kind as he wanted to be.

  But the kindness cloaked a danger within.

  She knew it, could sense it and see it. It was in the way he held himself. Like now, as though on guard, ready for anything. It was in the way his eyes, those blue eyes, could determine a thought with but a single glance.

  He reminded her of the jungle cats she’d read about. Or the mountain lion she remembered seeing as a child. Large cats of prey. Dangerous beauty. A coiled energy just waiting to spring.

  “I would dearly love to know what you’re thinking.” His lazy drawl jerked her back.

  “I…uh…that is…” She sighed and mumbled, “Cats.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing, my lord.” She cleared her throat. “How long have you been standing there?” She’d never heard him enter the library. It was in the middle of the night, well after midnight. She thought everyone was asleep.

  A slow smile flirted at the corner of his mouth. “Long enough to wonder what has you so enthralled with the nightly landscape.”

  He pushed away from the mantle and walked slowly toward her, the heels of his boots softly thumping until the plush carpets swallowed his footfalls. In his hand, was a glass of dark liquid. Brandy? Port? She didn’t know.

  Looking away from him, she turned back to the window and studied the moon. England seemed predisposed to fog, and it wisped through the night, turning the sky and moon an eerie sort of gray.

  “I must confess, Mrs. Smith, I did not know you to be such a night owl.”

  She shrugged. “I could say the same of you,” she thought to add as she’d heard others do, “my lord.”

  He came to stand at the large window beside her, too close for her comfort.

  “Hmmm. Appearances can often be deceiving.”

  “Yes, I’ve learned that lesson.”

  She glanced at him, noted he was coatless, which was normal for him she was beginning to think. His white shirt sported no cravat, black breeches that molded his muscular thighs, high black boots. Heat shimmered along her nerves. Standing to the side of her, and this close, he seemed even taller and she found herself looking up at him. His smile always caught her off guard. It was wide, charming, with just a hint of devilishness teasing the edges. What about him seemed off tonight? Something was different than the other times she’d seen him.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he whispered.

  “You would.”

  A silent moment passed, then another. Just as she turned to tell him good night, he said, “Who are you Mrs. Smith?”

  They’d talked of many things in the two weeks. Weather, literature, common interests, even politics. Why did he persist in these questions? And look at her thus, as if he were trying to determine if she were real? She had thought they had formed a sort of friendship, she supposed, or at the very least wary civility. Though it had been so long since she’d had a friend, she could be wrong. No matter what they talked of, she was very careful to let nothing personal slip into their conversations.

  And he’d noticed.

  “What are you doing here in England?” he asked.

  Emily sighed again. The same questions. “You are tenacious.”

  He only gave her a small smile, part amusement, part something she could not define.

  “Why don’t we sit down,” he suggested. “If you get ill again because of your nightly traipsing, I’ll be displeased and Mr. Grims, as you call him, will be as well. In fact, Grims is likely to have my head if you don’t take better care of yourself.”

  She followed him over to the fireplace and sat in one of the two wingback chairs flanking it. Why did he want to know more about her? She supposed she could concede a bit. Perhaps then he’d leave her be. “I told you, I thought travel an option now that my husband is gone.” Well, that was partly the truth.

  He settled in the chair and took an unhurried drink of his liqueur. The rueful smile over the rim of his glass told her he didn’t believe it.

  Let him disbelieve or not, she didn’t care.

  “Many widows do seem inclined to travel,” he agreed.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you plan on visiting family while here?”

  They had this discussion so many times. He was exhausting and determined. Not brutally so, not what she was accustomed to, but his patient way was just as effective. She could give him just a little.

  “All right, you win,” she said, tossing up her hands.

  “Yes, we tea drinkers do upon occasion.”

  She waved away his words. “I’ve told you, I plan to visit family in London. Why do you continue in these questions? It’s as if you do not believe me.” She muttered, “All men are the same.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Yes, you do that quite a bit.”

  He made a sound in his throat, not quite a growl, but she looked at him again.

  Instead of replying to her remark, he said, “It’s not about trust or belief, per se. Just a feeling I get that you are keeping something from me, regardless of the fact you are whom you claim to be—an American widow.”

  “Then what—“

  He interrupted her, “But when I feel something is being kept from me, it only entices me further to solve whatever mystery seems to be present.” He waved an elegant hand in her general direction. “Besides, I feel somewhat responsible for you.”

  Emily didn’t say anything for a moment, then she cleared her throat. “Why?”

  He only gave her a narrow-eyed look.

  “Isn’t it me who should now feel a responsibility toward you, since you are the one that saved my life?” She nodded, remembering the old proverb she’d read somewhere. “Yes, that is how it goes. You’ve merely gotten it backward.”

  He smiled. “So you plan to travel to London?” he asked, clearly ignoring her statements. “It is fortunate that I am familiar with any number of people in Town. Perhaps I know your family.”

  He very well could. She’d vaguely thought of that, as she’d planned on traveling alone and knowing they would part.

  “When the doctor says you are fit to travel,” he continued, “I will take you.”

  Emily studied him, and realized that his shirt sleeves were rolled up and that without his cravat she could see the corded muscles of his neck. And why hadn’t she noticed these things before? It was quite indecent. Not that she was some shy young miss and she had seen him without his waistcoat before, but still she noticed the strong muscles of his arms, the sinews of his wrists. Did noticing mean Theodore was right about her? That she would notice such things because of the blood in her veins, because…

  No. No. She shook her head.

  “No?” he asked.

  Why was it so impossible to think when she was around this man? She picked at the fold in her wrapper. “I’m sorry, do what?”

  “I said, when the physician clears it, I will take you to London to meet your family.”

  Take her? Panic fluttered in her chest and she straightened in her chair, wincing at the pull in her shoulder.

  “I thank you, my lord, but—“

  He held up his hand, palm out. “I insist.”

  The marquess taking her to meet her family? No, she couldn’t le
t that happen. She did not want company. She’d never met her grandparents, did not know how they would receive her. Or even if they would receive her. What if her mother didn’t recognize her? What if her mother weren’t in London and no one believed her? What if they turned her away?

  She had to think, to convince him. Rubbing her forehead, Emily cleared her throat. “My lord, Marquess.”

  “Mrs. Smith, I’ve given you leave to call me Jason, or at the very least Ravensworth. Many do. Come, must we really be so formal?”

  He did have a point. The man had saved her life, even if he constantly questioned her. But Jason was too…too…intimate, it seemed.

  “As you will, Ravensworth.”

  Jason swallowed his brandy to wash away the disappointment of her not saying his given name.

  He had no idea what it was about this small woman that was keeping him up at nights, but up he was. And it was more than suspicion, he knew, or mystery. What precisely it was, he was not certain he wanted to define—yet.

  “So do these relatives have a name?”

  She was gazing into the fire, but still he caught a spark of something on her face just before she said, “Why yes, they do. Mother. Sister. Grandparents.”

  He laughed, little minx. “What, no aunts, uncles or cousins?”

  Her smile was one-sided. He wondered what she’d look like with a full grin and laughter shining in her eyes.

  And where had that thought come from? Perhaps he’d had more brandy than he’d thought? Spent too much time out on the cliffs today? Why did he care what a real smile on her looked liked? Her smile for God’s sake? Bloody hell. If he weren’t careful, he’d be penning an ode about her soon.

  Not bloody likely.

  “Actually, I do have aunts and uncles and cousins as well,” she said.

  He rather liked her voice, the lengthened syllables were different than what he was accustomed to hearing.

  Jason shook off the wayward thought. Smiles and voices? What next? Her eyes? Though very nice eyes they were. Frowning, he set his glass aside and forced his mind back to matters at hand. Why was she being so secretive? Did it matter if he knew who her family was?

  Mrs. Emily Smith was an enigma to him. He knew she enjoyed flowers, gardening and reading. She was hesitant and cautious with answers. He assumed her wary actions were due to the scars on her. But there had been rare times when she’d been open and honest. Politics seemed to enliven her. Especially when one poked at terming the Americans as Colonials. And even rarer were the small bits of sarcasm he caught from her.

  Jason presumed that if the woman learned to relax, she would find much enjoyment out of life. But as it was, she was a very controlled creature for one so young. Even now she sat ramrod straight on the edge of the green wingback chair. Her blue silk wrapper, one he knew had previously belonged to his sister, was belted tightly. No skin showing, not the slightest invitation given. If anyone heard the dear Mrs. Smith had spent all this time in his company, not a soul would believe nothing untoward had transpired between them. Her hands were fisted in her lap, the knuckles white. She was nervous and anxious.

  “You don’t like the idea of me accompanying you to London. Why?”

  He’d yet to figure her out. Sometimes he could get an answer out of her by being direct and other times he found patience afforded him what he wanted. But, obtain his answers he would.

  Her eyes, dark as obsidian, cut to him. “Hasn’t anyone ever informed you, it is impolite to pry into another’s affairs?”

  Jason shrugged. “Probably, but then, I’ve never really done the polite or expected thing. Ask anyone.”

  “I could just go on the stage.”

  He looked at her, and kept looking until she averted her gaze. Jason cleared his throat. “You could. But I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting you on another one, what with your last experience.” Since she appeared an honest, innocent bystander caught in the crossfire in a random, or not so random, stage robbery, she could be in danger.

  One eyebrow quirked at that. At least he got some reaction.

  “Do you go around saving people all the time and then bossing them about? Or do you have another talent or occupation?”

  Her question surprised him. Sarcasm indeed.

  “Just damsels in distress. As for other talents, I’ve all sorts.” She didn’t so much as smile. Just to get a rise out of her, he said, “Madam, I’m a gentleman, and gentlemen do not have occupations.” He even managed not to choke on that bit.

  Nothing could be farther from the truth in his case, but he wanted to see her reaction.

  Instead, she only looked at her lap and said quietly, yet fiercely, “I am not a damsel.”

  He thought she was more one than she realized. “Perhaps not. A damsel after all would hardly jump from a moving carriage.”

  “Runaway,” she corrected.

  And speaking of runaway carriages. “I’ve learned the men who did this to you were indeed French. They hit another stage several nights ago heading out of Portsmouth.” Among other various crimes.

  “I wonder what their aim is?” she murmured.

  Jason didn’t know for certain, but he had a suspicion, one he would verify at the first opportunity. The fact these incidents were so close to his estate was not lost on him.

  Emily yawned and covered her mouth, her dark eyes apologetic.

  “You should go up to bed,” he said.

  She cocked her head. “I thank you for your offer of traveling with me, and for saving my life and your wonderful generosity.” A slight frown appeared between her brows. She licked her lips and swallowed. “But I will not imposition you further. Besides, it seems they only hit at night and I can travel the stage during the day.”

  Jason sighed. People rarely went against him. It was a good move, but pointless. He propped his chin on his fist, leaning to the side in his chair. “You could.”

  She smiled.

  “But you won’t.”

  The smile died and something flashed in her eyes. Did her composure ever slip? Did she ever show emotion other than polite responses? Should he push her to see?

  “It seems I am tired after all, my lord.” Her foot tapped daintily on the floor.

  “Back to ‘my lord’, am I?”

  That earned him a glare and he barely managed to hide his smile.

  She gingerly rose and he stood to help her up. But she ignored him and stepped to the side. “Good night.”

  When she was at the door he said, “Good night, Emily.”

  He caught the faint huff and smiled.

  * * * * *

  Jason was not smiling two mornings later. It was a little past dawn when he stood outside his new traveling coach, looking up at the house.

  “My lord?”

  He turned back to Grims. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” The missive he’d received from Isobelle was cryptic at best, and left him worried.

  Please come. There is something I must tell you. Someone you have to meet. I am dying. Your ever loving, Isobelle.

  She’d given him directions to her cottage in the Cotswolds. And now, here he was a half an hour after opening the missive, getting ready to depart.

  “Take care of Mrs. Smith and let her know I’ll be back as quickly as possible.” He climbed aboard and thumped the roof of the carriage.

  As the miles rolled by, his worry about the message he received overshadowed his concern for his house guest. When he’d come back from the Continent, wounded and disillusioned with war, though still strong in his hatred for one Corsican and busy setting up the lucrative façade of a shipping company, he’d found a mistress.

  Isobelle Travers. She was of Portuguese descent with dark hair and eyes, wonderful olive skin and so beautiful it had made him—along with every other male in White’s and any other St. James club—salivate.

  Jason had returned home after being wounded near Lisbon in the fall of 1810. When he received word that his father was ailing and he had a respons
ibility to his family, title and country to come home, he did just that. Sold his commission—for form’s sake, since it had been years since he’d actually served under any actual officer—and returned to the civilized world of drawing rooms and vast estates.

  But then that’s what he, along with his partners in the shipping business, had been ordered by the War Ministry to do. Jason had met Isobelle soon thereafter and it had been more than just lust between them. Certainly that had been a wonderful benefit to their arrangement, but she was intelligent, sharp-witted, and knew what she wanted out of life.

  Jason had respected Isobelle, not only as his mistress, but also as a friend.

  Then one day, several months into their mutual relationship, she’d up and disappeared. He’d searched everywhere for her, but to no success.

  Cotswolds? What was she doing there? And who in the blazes did she want him to meet?

  * * * * *

  Emily took one last glance around this room. She’d mended and healed quickly, or so she’d been told, but then, she’d had to learn to heal quickly.

  The silks in this room were pale ice, the color of folded snow. Silver shot through the window coverings and the bed curtains. The counterpane was a darker hue. Treasures, old and fragile sat on the vanity, the little side tables, the mantle, things she dared not touch for fear of breaking some priceless family heirloom. Like the vase so thin it appeared almost like mere skin. She’d been afraid to touch it, but watched as her host had dropped the roses he brought everyday into the fragile thing as if it were no more than a wooden jar.

  Sighing, she laid the quill down and fanned the letter, waiting for the ink to dry. Jason…Lord Ravensworth, had been a wonderful gentleman. She reached into the borrowed reticule and pulled out several coins. What to do with them? She had nothing to put them in. Ah, yes, the handkerchief.

  It galled her that everything, even her cloak now, was borrowed. Jason had lent her his sister’s old wardrobe. Beautiful gowns, but still she felt horrible for taking them. And there had been mourning gowns from their father’s death. Not knowing what the borrowed clothing—two dresses, cloak and undergarments—cost, she took several more coins out and laid them with the rest in the center of the kerchief. At least she’d had the money that had been sewn into her petticoat, and the letters she had stashed in her old cloak.