Forbidden

by Rachel Van Dyken

  "Yes, j-just tired I think."

  "Of course," clucked Dora, "you've been working every so hard on that library today. A nice warm bath and a nap before dinner should set you to rights."

  The downstairs maids arrived with a copper tub and set about filling it with pots of water.

  Mariah allowed Dora and the maids to scramble about readying her bath without saying a word.

  Dora left the room to return in minutes, holding up the finest gown Mariah had ever seen, exclaiming that the colour would look stunning on Mariah and asking if she should have it pressed for dinner.

  Mariah nodded feeling numb and not even really seeing the dress.

  Who would own such fine gowns if not the lady of the house?

  The bath served to revive Mariah's spirits a little and, to her surprise, she actually did fall into a fitful sleep for an hour or two, rising quickly when Dora came to assist her with dressing.

  Mariah's first thought was to plead a headache and refuse to go down to dinner.

  But as her initial shock had abated, a furious anger had replaced it instead.

  She had done nothing wrong!

  Why should she hide away while that swine went about kissing women who weren't his wife and dragging innocent young girls into his debauchery?

  "Would you like me to do your hair, Mariah?" asked Dora eagerly.

  Mariah looked at Dora, a steely determination making her stand stiff as a board. "Yes, I would" she said with determination, "and I want you to make me look my absolute best."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mariah arrived downstairs just as the clock chimed the hour.

  She was a bundle of nerves but was relieved to note that her hand was steady as she waited for the footman to open the door to the drawing room.

  She had been primped and primed to within an inch of her life by Dora, who it transpired, had ambitions of being a lady's maid and took great delight trying out her skills on Mariah.

  So, as it turned out, Mariah looked ready to be presented at Court by the time she arrived downstairs.

  The dress that she had paid absolutely no attention to earlier was a confection of amber chiffon and silk. It was by far the most luxurious thing Mariah had ever worn and she'd had to concentrate hard on not thinking of Brandon Haverton as the cool silk slid over her curves.

  The neckline was lower than any she'd ever worn and was bordered by a row of tiny pearls that glinted in the candlelight. The satin bodice was overlaid with chiffon of a slightly brighter colour and split at the empire line of the gown, falling open to the bottom.

  Dora had managed to find ivory silk slippers and matching gloves, and even an ivory fan decorated with amber coloured flowers, before pulling Mariah over to the looking glass for her to inspect herself.

  The colour of the gown highlighted the gold flecks in Mariah's eyes and her russet curls, dotted with pearls that Dora had found somewhere, were piled loosely at the crown of her head with some tendrils framing her face and falling round her shoulders.

  Mariah had been shocked at the transformation from a pretty but rather plain bluestocking to an elegant lady of quality. And if Dora's exclamations were anything to go by, she too was impressed.

  Mariah took a steadying breath and stepped into the drawing room, her eyes seeking out the man who hours ago had made her feel like the happiest woman in the world and who now made her feel murderous.

  He stood by the fireplace and for a moment Mariah's anger was frozen by the look of desolation on his face.

  He stood with one arm on the mantel, gazing into the fire as if it held the answers to every secret in the world.

  He looked tense and angry and, well, sad. So sad that Mariah, who only moments before had been plotting his demise, now wanted to run to him and comfort him. Which was crazy.

  As she stepped further into the room a floorboard creaked beneath her foot and he spun around at the noise.

  As their eyes locked Mariah felt the now familiar frisson of awareness slide through her body. Dear Lord. How could she still feel this pull toward him when he had lied to her? That he had been married to another?

  She felt thoroughly ashamed of herself and her anger at him returned in spades.

  His eyes raked her slowly from her toes to the top of her head and Mariah tried to ignore the flush she felt in every part of her that his eyes touched.

  Finally, after what seemed like an age, his dark eyes met hers again.

  "You're breathtaking," he said hoarsely.

  He's a swine, Mariah she told herself desperately, do not listen to his false compliments. He's probably said that to hundreds of women.

  That thought alone was enough to break the spell of desire that she was falling under, and she managed to raise a haughty brow.

  "Oh really?" she asked, her voice dripping with disdain. "As breathtaking as your wife?"

  His eyes widened in shock, no doubt as much at her words as at the venomous tone in her voice. He stepped towards her.

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "Yes, I did. But I thought I must have misheard since I've already told you I don't have a wife."

  He was stepping closer with every sentence and Mariah had to force herself not to back away from him.

  "Oh yes. You have told me that. Funny then, that this" she gestured angrily to the dress she wore, "beautiful gown should belong to the lady of the house whose arrival is expected in a couple of weeks. Did you really think that I would not know about your wife when you sent one of her gowns for me to wear?"

  Mariah could hear that she was shouting in a most unladylike manner but right then she didn't care if she sounded like a fishwife.

  "Did you really think that if I was hiding a wife from you I would send you a dress belonging to her?" he shouted, equally loudly. He stopped in his approach and glared at her from halfway across the room instead, his fists balled at his sides.

  His question took the wind out of Mariah's sails a little. It did seem rather strange that he should lie about a wife in order to seduce her only to let her borrow a gown belonging to the lady.

  But then, she rationalised, she knew nothing of rakish men. Perhaps this was part of the sick little game he enjoyed.

  "I don't know," she said truthfully. "Perhaps that is part of appeal for you. Perhaps you enjoy seeing unsuspecting young ladies wearing your wife's gowns. Perhaps you thought to make love to me while I was wearing it."

  Mariah had never before spoken so boldly of such things, but she had no time to feel embarrassed. Not when she was so furious with him. Her own fists were curled with the force of her emotion but she wrapped her arms around herself, holding tight to her fury, wrapping it around herself so that she did not feel the hurt that was trying to make itself known.

  "You have quite the imagination, Mariah."

  "And you have quite a nerve," she shouted.

  "Bloody hell and damnation I AM NOT MARRIED."

  His yell fairly shook the ground so loud was it and Mariah had to stop herself from covering her ears.

  "You are a bloody nuisance. You have given me nothing but trouble since the second you pulled up to this house. I am not married. I have never been married and if all women are like you, I have no intentions of ever being married," he shouted.

  Mariah felt quite hurt at that last bit.

  "That was very rude," she berated him and watched as his jaw dropped open so wide she was surprised it didn't hit of the floor.

  "Are you serious?" he asked incredulously.

  "Yes, I am," she answered firmly. "There really is no need to be so insulting."

  Now, Mariah had been witness to plenty of afflictions in her time helping Papa. But never had she seen someone's face turn quite so red in so short amount of time as Mr. Haverton's did at that moment.

  "Of all the ridiculous, exasperating, maddening chits I have ever met. You — I, you — argh!"

  Mariah watched in bemused fascination as the large man before her, who much sure
ly be over six feet in height, threw what could only be described as a total temper tantrum right in front of her.

  He threw his hands in the air, even stamped his feet at one point and shouted mostly incoherent words to the ceiling.

  Mariah wondered briefly if she should slap him then figured that would probably make the situation worse. So she waited calmly, hands clasped together until he was finished.

  After a moment or two of frankly ridiculous behaviour Mr. Haverton stomped over to the sideboard, which held a selection of drinks, and proceeded to pour a measure of brandy bigger than any Mariah had ever seen.

  He threw back the entire contents then slammed the glass onto the table.

  She waited a few seconds but when he didn't speak or move, she guessed that the tantrum was over.

  "Are you quite finished?" she asked politely.

  He ignored her.

  Like a child.

  "So" she ventured again after more mutinous silence, "you're not married?"

  Mariah was quite sure she heard a curse before he turned around to face her.

  "No. I told you before and I am telling you now. I'm not married. Do you really think I would have kissed you the way I did if I had a wife? Do you think I am that type of man?"

  Mariah felt instantly guilty then instantly defensive.

  "Well how should I know what type of man you are?" she wailed, wringing her hands nervously. "You barely speak to me and when you do you are boorish and uncivil. In fact, if you didn't k-kiss me like, well, like you do, I would think you hate me."

  Embarrassment warmed Mariah's cheeks. This was not how she had expected the evening to go. She'd had marvellous visions of her delivering an icy set-down then gliding from the room, magnificent in her anger.

  Instead, she'd been subjected to a full-blown tantrum, and now here she was, trying to defend herself.

  Mr. Haverton sighed and ran a hand through his hair. She was beginning to see that this was a habit of his when he was agitated and upset. She found the gesture thoroughly arousing. But now was not the time to be thinking such things.

  "Mariah, I—"

  "I really do not think it is appropriate to call me by my given name, sir," she sniffed.

  The look he gave her curled her toes.

  "Mariah," he continued, eyes blazing, "if you could read my mind where you're concerned, me using your name would be the least of your worries."

  A dart of heat shot through every part of her. Well. What was she to say to that?

  "I told you yesterday my life is complicated. But I am not married. Nor am I the type of man who would look to anyone other than his wife for affection."

  "Well then, who owns this gown?" She picked at the soft material, shaking it at him.

  From the clenching of his jaw it seemed this was a subject he didn't like to talk about. "It doesn't matter who owns it. It's not my wife's, since no such wife exists. That's all you need to know."

  Curiosity rose, tempering her ire at his tone and his refusal to discuss her concerns. "It does matter. It matters to me," she persisted. "If I am wearing someone's clothes, I'd like to know whose."

  "Drop it, Miss. Bolton," he said fiercely.

  So, she'd been relegated back to being Miss Bolton?

  "But why? I do not feel very comfortable about this, Mr. Haverton. We have – well, you have kissed me and," she could feel her cheeks burn with embarrassment at how naive she much sound but she continued on doggedly, "and to my mind that should make me privy to-"

  "For God's sake I said drop it."

  This time Mariah did cover her ears, so loud was his shout.

  The subsequent silence was deafening.

  Mariah could feel tears burning the back of her eyes.

  What dark, horrid secret was he hiding? Who owned the blasted gown and why wouldn't he tell her?

  As the evening loomed ahead, once again, she cursed the fact that she was stuck in this huge, disused house with a man who seemed to loathe her when he wasn't kissing her. A man who yelled at her for daring to want to know anything about him.

  She felt suddenly desperate to go home to where everything was familiar, albeit annoying. But she couldn't.

  "I'm sorry."

  Mariah jumped at the sound of his voice and she eyed him warily.

  His face registered shock at her actions then he sighed and stepped forward.

  "Please, don't be scared. I just—"

  "If you'll forgive me, please," Mariah interrupted him, hearing the wobble in her voice but unable to stop it, "I find I am no longer hungry."

  "Mariah, don't run away. Please just—"

  "My name is Miss Bolton," she said injecting her voice with some much-needed steel. "Goodnight, Mr. Haverton."

  Mariah turned and ran as fast as she could all the way back to her room.

  God, how she wished she could go home.

  For the first time in her life, Mariah longed for her mother's company. Which just went to show, she thought miserably, how bad it was for her in Mr Haverton's house.

  The next morning, Mariah opened her eyes, taking a moment to recognise the unfamiliar guest room she slept in. A pale light shone through the curtains and her heart leapt with hope. She stepped eagerly towards the window, barely feeling the cold floor on her bare feet. If it was bright, surely that meant—

  But, no. The storm was as bad as ever.

  The snow lashed against the window pane and made the surrounding countryside completely unrecognizable; not even the palest sunshine greeted her.

  With a sigh, Mariah turned away.

  Someone had been in to light the fire while she slept and she moved toward it to warm herself, suddenly aware of the cold that seeped through her light night rail.

  Her head pounded, no doubt from the tears she had shed and the fitful sleep she had gotten.

  But today was a new day. And a new attitude was in order.

  Perhaps she had engaged in foolish fantasies and romantic notions about Mr. Haverton but that was at an end now.

  Yes, he was handsome. Yes, his kiss drove her wild. Not to mention his smile.

  But he was a rude, arrogant, boorish bully who was probably, in all honesty, also a little insane.

  She didn't think he would hurt her. Not physically anyway. But her emotions just weren't up to withstanding his ire.

  So, what she would do, she decided with a false bravado, was ignore him as much as humanly possible, get the library finished then get the hell out of there.

  Staring into the dancing orange flames of the roaring fire, Mariah let her imagination wander as it was wont to do. She gave it free reign now; envisioning bumping into him and his mysterious woman in the village square and being marvellously nonchalant about it; seeing him at a dance in the assembly rooms and laugh at his pining after her while she danced with all the dashing young gentlemen who begged her.

  She'd never been begged for dance in her life, and the gentlemen of her acquaintance fell abysmally short of dashing but that was neither here nor there.

  Feeling a little better, she managed an almost genuine smile when Dora came with a cup of chocolate and to help her dress, taking Mariah's borrowed night rail to wash out and ready for that evening.

  Mercifully, she had brought Mariah's own simple muslin gown, freshly washed and pressed. Mariah didn't think she had the fortitude to wear another of the mystery lady's garments.

  "Are you hungry?" asked Dora.

  "Famished."

  "Good," Dora said with a smile, buttoning the back of Mariah's dress. "Mr. Haverton said we were to make sure there was plenty for you to eat this morning, since you didn't eat last night."

  Mariah's heart skittered at the mention of last night as well as at the fact that he had been so considerate of her.

  "And will Mr. Haverton be at breakfast?"

  Mariah sat at the vanity while Dora started to brush out and pin her hair.

  "No. He said to extend his apologies but he had a tonne of work and would be locked
in his study for the day."

  Mariah didn't realise she'd been holding her breath until it left her in a whoosh of relief. She didn't know if he was avoiding her or giving her the chance to avoid him, but either way, she was vastly grateful.

  Still angry. But grateful.

  The dining room seemed larger than before with nobody in it but Mariah and the footmen who were attending her, but that did not put her off her breakfast. She enjoyed a meal so large that her mother would have rung a peal over her head for having an unladylike appetite.

  As soon as she had eaten her fill, she took a pot of tea and hid herself away in library. She had absolutely no desire to see Mr. Haverton. She did not even know what she would say to him.

  The morning went on and on and still the snow fell. Outside looked incredibly bleak and Mariah was grateful for the roaring blaze of the fire and the maid who diligently attended to it, ensuring that it never went out.

  Mariah took lunch on a tray in the library and kept working with a dogged determination to be finished and gone before she ever had to set eyes on Brandon Haverton again.

  By mid-afternoon it sounded as though the howling of the wind had lessened slightly and Mariah hoped against hope that that meant the storm was easing.

  As the dinner hour approached, her stomach knotted more and more. She snuck from the library, her muscles sore and cramping from having been leaning over heavy tomes all day. She wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a long sleep, and when she rang the bell for Dora, she informed the young girl of this.

  "Won't Mr. Haverton be expecting you for dinner?"

  "Perhaps, but I am simply too tired," Mariah lied, exaggerating the yawning and droopiness.

  Dora didn't look convinced, but she remained quiet, for which Maria was very grateful.

  After a long soak, Mariah requested a supper tray in her room, and as soon as she was done she crawled into bed.

  This was fine, she thought, snuggling under the heavy counterpane of her bed, if she could do this every day there would be absolutely no problems at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT