“You must make Uncle Marcus let you stay,” Reggie said. “We don’t know where else to turn.”
Eliza edged herself off the bed, pulled down the covers, and said, “Slip under here and let me tuck you in.”
The twins quickly complied, as agile as monkeys, and chattering just as fast. Eliza arranged the covers under their arms and tucked them in on either side, making a snug cocoon. She gave each of the twins a hug and a kiss on the forehead and received a hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek from each in return.
“Does the fire need more coal?” she asked, glancing at the bucket of coal and scoop set nearby.
“The maid has already banked it for the night,” Reggie replied.
Eliza walked around the room, methodically blowing out what had to be two dozen expensive wax candles in candelabra set on the dressing table, the dry sink, a chest of drawers, an end table, a writing table, a toy chest, and a clothes press. She was careful not to extinguish her own lantern.
At last she reached the side of the large bed, where one last candle lent a glow to two identical cherubic faces.
“Have you said your prayers?” Eliza asked.
“Not tonight,” Reggie said.
“Not for a while,” Becky admitted.
“Close your eyes,” Eliza instructed, “and fold your hands.”
Reggie squeezed her eyes closed and laced her fingers tightly together. Becky’s eyelashes lay like coal crescents on her cheeks, and her hands were pressed evenly together as though she were praying in church.
“Now I lay me down to sleep,” Eliza began. The twins listened intently, waiting for whatever came next. “Say it after me,” she coaxed.
“Now I lay me down to sleep,” the twins repeated.
“I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
“I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
“If I should die before I wake.”
Becky popped upright, her blue eyes wide with alarm. “I don’t feel the least bit sick. Surely there is no chance I could die before I wake!”
Eliza slipped her arm around Becky and reached over to tug at one of Reggie’s uneven, braids. “You have not heard the last verse,” she chided. “Say this one first.”
Warily, the twins repeated, “If I should die before I wake.”
“I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
“I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
“I see,” Reggie said, turning to share her revelation with Becky. “It is like planning for the worst and hoping for the best!”
“Exactly,” Eliza said. “None of us knows what the future holds for us, so we ask for God’s protection.”
“Can God save us from goblins?” Becky asked, wide-eyed.
“Why do you ask?” Eliza said.
“I think I see one in the hall!”
Chapter 14
Marcus was surprised to find the door to the twins’ room open and a stream of light spilling out. It had been his habit during the past year to look in on them after they—and the rest of the household—were asleep. Usually by now their room was dark and still.
Though he had relinquished all contact with them in full daylight, Marcus could not give up seeing the girls entirely. Yet neither could he bear having Reggie and Becky stare at him with the horror he had seen on their faces when they first glimpsed his wounded face and clawlike hand.
He was a monster from a nightmare. And monsters confined themselves to roaming at night.
Marcus edged along the wall toward the doorway, making sure the hood of his black cloak was pulled forward enough to keep his face in shadow. He had ordered all the lamps in the Abbey, including those on the stairs and in the upstairs hall, to be extinguished each evening. In the dark, wearing a hooded black cloak, he was virtually invisible.
He listened intently outside the twins’ doorway and thought he heard Miss Sheringham’s husky voice. His lips curved in a bitter smile. He had heard her low, gravelly voice often over the past year. In his mind.
“It was not there, Captain. I looked, but it was not there.”
He had known what she was saying. Julian was not the one she loved. Or the one who loved her back. Yet he had turned his back on her and walked away.
“It was not there. It was not there. It was not there.”
Sometimes, the remembered anguish in her voice seemed so real he would swear she was in the room with him. In the first months after his return from Waterloo, the pain from his wound, anxiety over the disappearance of his brother, and grief for the death of his best friend, combined to steal his rest. During those solitary, sleepless hours, he had prowled through the darkened Abbey looking for Miss Sheringham, like a hunter seeking prey.
He had never found her.
She was far from Blackthorne Abbey, living with an elderly relation at her father’s hunting box. Thank God Julian had arranged for her to have an allowance from the Earl of Ravenwood. Otherwise, Marcus shuddered to think how Miss Sheringham might have fared.
Marcus had done a great deal of thinking over the months he had spent in seclusion, mostly about what he could have done differently. Like confessing the truth to Alastair and making peace between them. Like earning Julian’s respect by acting honorably toward Miss Sheringham. Like being honest with himself … and admitting he had fallen in love with her.
He would never forget the last, desolate look Miss Sheringham had given him, her hazel eyes misted with tears, her lips—swollen and cut—pressed tightly together to still her quivering chin. She had not begged him to reconsider. She had merely laid her heart bare to him.
The decision had been entirely his. And he had made the wrong choice.
He regretted the fact Miss Sheringham would likely remain a spinster. He regretted the fact she would likely never have children of her own. He was not the same man he had been when last he saw her. Given a second chance …
But there were no second chances for him. Even if Miss Sheringham could find it in her heart to forgive him, she would never tie herself in marriage to the Beast of Blackthorne. Outside of offering marriage, there was nothing he could do to right the wrong he had committed against her.
“Now I lay me down to sleep.”
It was her voice again, in his head, saying a childhood prayer. He listened for the rest of it, but instead, heard the twins repeat the same line.
Her voice again. And theirs. Hers. And theirs.
Marcus stiffened. This voice—her voice—sounded real. Impossible as it seemed, Miss Sheringham was in his home, in the same room with Reggie and Becky, saying a bedtime prayer.
He did not quite trust his mind to be telling him the truth. He would believe his eyes. If he could see her, he would concede she was really there.
He took a step closer. He only intended to take a quick glance inside the room to confirm her presence, but when his eyes beheld her profile—he had forgotten how distinctive her features were—he could not tear himself away.
Marcus realized he had been discovered when Becky pointed in his direction. He stepped out of the light and edged back down the hall several steps, until he was invisible in the darkness once again.
He waited, hoping Miss Sheringham would come to the door. He caught his breath as she took one step into the hall holding a lantern aloft that cast a glow on her face.
He could not get his fill of looking at her. Her face seemed narrower, her body thinner than he remembered. He saw one explanation for her apparent lack of appetite. She was wearing lavender, which meant she had just come out of mourning. She must have grieved deeply for Julian.
Julian’s death was another wrong for which Marcus did not believe Miss Sheringham could forgive him. Her fiancé—her only hope for a return to respectability—had perished at Waterloo. Marcus had not brought his friend home safely to her, as he had promised.
“I don’t see anyone,” Miss Sheringham said, extending the lantern the length of her arm. “Or anything,” she added.
Her gravelly voice raised th
e hair on his arms.
She took one step farther down the hall and looked right at him. “Is someone there?”
Marcus was well hidden in the dark but held his breath anyway.
She quickly stepped back inside the bedroom. “Whatever it was is gone now,” he heard her say to the twins. “Now it is time for you to go to sleep, and for me to find Griggs and arrange to see the duke.”
She was coming to see him? Now?
He did not catch the rest of what she said to the twins. He was too busy contemplating whether he should allow her an audience. He wanted to see more of her, but he did not want her to see him. Perhaps there was a way to manage it.
The light coming through the twins’ doorway dimmed, and he realized she must have extinguished whatever candles were left burning in the children’s room.
Moments later, she reappeared holding the lantern. It provided a yellow glow that lit her face above and a small area at her feet. She had added a fringed shawl around her shoulders. It must not have been enough to keep her warm, because the instant she closed the children’s door behind her, she shivered.
The courage it took to walk down that darkened hallway was visible on her face. He stayed a few steps beyond her reach, careful not to let the circle of light from the lantern touch him. Several times she stopped and looked directly at him.
Once she even whispered, “Is someone there?”
When he did not answer, her voice sharpened. “I do not find this the least bit funny!” And then, coaxing, “Come into the light, please, and show yourself.”
He remained hidden in the darkness, knowing that if he appeared like a wraith, she would likely run screaming from him.
When she started to take a wrong turn at the bottom of the stairs, he whispered, “This way.”
She stood frozen. Her eyes rounded with fright, and for a moment he thought she would run for the front door. He saw her jaw firm and watched as she headed stalwartly in his direction.
No mistake. Miss Sheringham was pluck to the bone.
Marcus had not realized how decrepit the entrance to the east wing had become until he saw it through Miss Sheringham’s apprehensive eyes. The carpet on the floor was ragged with moth holes, and cobwebs hung from the ceilings. Doors creaked on unoiled hinges as she forced them open and headed farther into the Stygian gloom.
When she reached the chapel, he heard an audible sigh of relief. “I know you cannot harm me in this Holy place,” she murmured, holding the lantern high enough to make out an altar with a stone crucifix carved into the wall behind it and a wooden prie-dieu.
She eased herself onto a bench facing the altar, and he used her respite to slip into Griggs’s room and wake him.
“Miss Sheringham is here seeking an interview with the duke,” he said to the groggy man. “You will find her in the chapel. Bring her to me in the drawing room.”
“In the middle of the night?” Griggs asked, yawning and scratching his belly.
“Right now,” Marcus said. “Go quickly. I am afraid her courage may desert her. I do not wish her to escape.”
Marcus was at the door when he turned back to say, “Griggs. Send her in alone. And do not allow her to bring a light.”
“How’s she supposed to see where she’s goin’?” Griggs retorted. “It’s black as Hades in there.”
“A fire is burning in the grate. That will be enough.”
Marcus left Griggs and hurried back to the chapel, hoping Miss Sheringham had not fled.
She was sitting precisely where he had left her. It was clear she had no idea where to go from there. At least four doors opened in different directions.
“Now where?” she demanded aloud, as though she expected to be given further direction.
Marcus obliged her. “Wait here,” he whispered. “Someone will come for you.”
She whirled, startled. The lantern tipped and almost fell. She gave a cry of alarm and grabbed for it, giving him time to escape.
He made his way to the drawing room and moved one of the two wingback chairs far enough from the fireplace that he was certain no firelight could reach his face. On the other hand, if Miss Sheringham stood directly in front of him, her face would be fully illuminated.
Marcus sat in the chair and crossed his booted feet casually. He kept the hood up to prevent any chance of Miss Sheringham seeing his scarred face. He settled his clawlike hand in his lap, where it would be hidden, and grasped the arm of the chair with the other.
He heard Griggs’s gruff voice as the door opened, and a thunk as the door closed again. His heart raced. She was here. She had come to him. But for what reason?
Marcus could think of only one reason that mattered. Was she ready to forgive him? Was she willing at least to be his friend?
“I can barely see,” she said, her back against the closed door. “Is there another light?”
“There is firelight,” he answered.
“If I trip over something, you will have to come and pick me up,” she warned. “And I am no light burden.”
He smiled. It felt strange. He could not remember smiling with humor anytime in the past year.
Marcus heard her footsteps on the stone floor and then muffled steps as she reached a no-longer-vivid Turkish carpet brought home from the Crusades. “Where are you?” she asked, peering into the gloom.
“Here.”
When she turned in his direction, Marcus saw that her lower lip was clamped in her teeth. Her hands grasped the ends of the woolen shawl and wrapped it tightly around her. She took two nervous steps closer—enough to put her fully in the firelight—before he said, “That is close enough.”
“Why do you keep it so dark?” she asked.
“It is my solace, Miss Sheringham.”
“I suppose it must be, if your face is as badly scarred as rumor says. But I have business to discuss. I would like to do it face to face.”
“I can see you quite well.”
“But I cannot see you!”
He remained silent following her outburst. She must know why he liked it dark. He should not have to speak the words. He watched her bosom rise and fall as she took a deep breath and let it out.
His body stirred, surprising him. He had thought … But apparently not. He felt himself smiling again.
Impatient to know why she had come, he asked, “Why are you here, Miss Sheringham?”
“I’ve come to apply for the position of governess to Lady Regina and Lady Rebecca.”
He was glad she could not see his face. His jaw had fallen open like a hee-hawing jackass. “Governess?” he managed to say.
“I saw the advertisement in the Times. The seventh this year, I believe, Your Grace.”
He frowned. Your Grace. He wanted to be the captain again. But those days were gone forever.
“Why would you want to spend your days with two such incorrigible scamps?” he demanded.
“They are not incorrigible! They are merely seeking the love and attention you do not give them,” she retorted. “Someone must care for them. I am willing to take on that responsibility.”
“I am fully capable of handling my responsibilities without your help,” he snapped. How dare the chit suggest he was not taking proper care of Reggie and Becky!
“Did you know the six previous governesses felt free to punish the girls severely for the least infraction? That one raised welts on Reggie’s back because she refused to cry when the rod was applied?”
“Who told you such a thing!” he roared, lurching from his chair.
“The twins.”
Marcus was appalled. He had not imagined Reggie and Becky were being mistreated. They had said nothing to him.
How could they? You refused to see them.
Clearly he needed to choose a better governess this time, one who would not be stern or cruel with the girls when they attacked life with a bit too much enthusiasm. One who would never, ever leave welts. Someone who would give them the hugs and kisses he no longer could. S
omeone like Miss Sheringham.
Only, he did not think he could bear to have her so very close and not touch her, not taste her, not want her. And she would never have him. Not as he was.
Miss Sheringham stood her ground as he took a step closer to her. He saw her frustration when the hood kept his face in shadow. When her eyes finally focused on his clawlike hand, she shuddered with revulsion.
He should not have been angry at her reaction, but he was. It confirmed all his fears. She was no different from anyone else. She feared his mutilated body.
“Will you dare to touch the Beast of Blackthorne, Miss Sheringham?” He slowly extended his wounded hand toward her, palm up.
Her distressed golden eyes were focused on the spot where his face should have been. He watched her struggle to conceal her panic, as his black-gloved fingers appeared under her nose like fierce, deadly talons.
“It is only a crippled hand, Your Grace,” she said breathlessly. “What is there to fear?”
To his surprise, she slowly extended her hand toward his. She had barely touched his black-gloved fingertips with hers when he abruptly withdrew.
His sudden move frightened her, and she put up her hands to ward off an attack. By the time she realized she was safe, and lowered her hands in mortification, he had retreated behind the wingback chair.
He was glad for the distance. His heart was pounding, and a cold, clammy sweat dotted his brow. He could not quite believe what she had almost done. What he had almost allowed her to do. His gloved fingers still tingled from her touch.
“You are brave to the point of recklessness, Miss Sheringham, I will say that for you.”
“You frightened me on purpose!” she accused. “I suppose that was you whispering in the hall, as well.”
He nodded.
“I don’t know why I thought this could work,” she said. “You are the same care-for-nobody you always were! I would not have come here at all if …”
She clamped her lips tight.
So. Nothing had been forgiven. Or was likely to be. Nevertheless, he wanted to hear the rest of what she had to say. “What provoked you to confront the Beast, Miss Sheringham?”
“I need the stipend I would earn as governess,” she blurted. “To support myself and my aunt.”
After the Kiss Page 20