A Tarnished Heart

by Leslie Dicken

  Lizzie gave up on Markham’s books and moved over to the globe. She took Albert’s hand and brought his finger down to touch England.

  “That is ’ngland?” he asked, a worried look upon his face.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But it’s so small. How does it not get lost?”

  Lizzie laughed. “The country doesn’t go anywhere. It is the land we are sitting on. It doesn’t move. See these other countries?” She pointed to the rest of Europe, then to Asia and Australia. “They don’t move either.”

  “Oh. But they are so much bigger. They could come ter eat us.”

  She patted his arm. “Rest assured, Albert, England may be little but she is mighty. She has conquered many in her time.” She pulled him down onto her lap. “Often it is not the size of the warrior that leads him to victory, it is his intellect.”

  This seemed to soothe Albert and he spun the globe, asking her questions about whichever country his finger landed on.

  Eventually, the filtered sunlight waned and the dusky shadows of evening prevented more study. Lizzie’s nerves fluttered anxiously as she wondered when the others would return. Soon Markham’s coach would come back for her and she hated missing the other children and Elizabeth.

  The sudden creak of the door had Lizzie on her feet. Elizabeth came in with her two oldest children supporting her on either side. She looked paler than usual with a tear in her sleeve. Lizzie’s stomach plunged as she raced to help Elizabeth to the one bed in the room.

  “What is it?” she whispered. “What’s happened?”

  A groan was her answer.

  Lizzie whipped around to the children. “What’s happened?”

  “We ain’t sure,” Robert answered, his dark head hung. She wondered if he were hiding tears. “We found ’er on the corner.”

  “Was she awake? Did she speak?” Lizzie looked at Sarah. The girl turned away and picked up the baby, who was crying to see her mother.

  Fear slid like ice through Lizzie’s soul. She shivered. “Do neither of you know what happened to her today? Where was she? Who could have hurt her?”

  The children shied away from her, either too fearful to reveal the truth or too worried to search for answers.

  Lizzie dipped a rag in water and brought it to Elizabeth’s head. She wiped her brow and dampened her hair. “Please tell you me that you haven’t been injured.” Horrible images of rape or attempted murder flashed through her mind.

  “Me head,” Elizabeth moaned. “It ’urts me a terrible sometimes. I wish I could die when it ’urts me this way.”

  Lizzie picked up her hand and stroked the rough skin. “I can bring you food, I can bring you money. Please, don’t let pride stand in your way.”

  Despite her pain, Elizabeth opened her eyes and glared at her. “I will not be taking yer charity.”

  “But…”

  “Go on home, Miss Parker. The day ’as been too long.”

  All of the children had gathered around the table and were eating some type of stew or soup Sarah must have heated. The room stank with the odor of boiled onions and fish. Lizzie could hear the scrapings of the wooden bowls on the table, but she did not hear any voices. Even Annabel ate silently.

  Lizzie swallowed, the smell of the soup making her both hungry and turning her stomach. “How can I leave you like this? How can I not bring your family food or money when I see how you live?”

  “We got along fine without ye before.”

  But it wasn’t the same. Lizzie couldn’t just walk away. She couldn’t leave them like this. There must be more she could do.

  “Please.” Her heart trembled as if it would shatter at any moment. Images of Rachel bombarded her. Rachel plucking flowers. Rachel cuddling baby chicks. Rachel climbing up on Mama’s lap. Rachel asleep on the blanket under a warm sun. Rachel in the water…

  No. She fought the impending tears, the rising hysteria. She wouldn’t fail this family. Not like she did her own.

  “If nothing else,” Lizzie swallowed the bitter sob. “Allow me to continue to teach the children.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Aye, ’twould be most welcome.”

  She turned from the family and wandered to the tiny window. Her heart hurt, where sadness and anger stormed. She must help them. Some way, any way, she had to improve their lives or get them out of here.

  Lizzie bit her lip and stared out at the cobblestones. She wanted to spend every day here. She wanted to lift them from this gloom and cradle them against her bosom. She hated leaving these children, virtual strangers to her.

  And yet in all her time in London, she had yet to see or hear Markham speak of his son. No letters, no mention of the boy visiting. How could a father not want to be with his child?

  Perhaps he was not a man she could love.

  Markham stepped out into the rear courtyard, shielding his eyes from the sun. “You wanted to see me?”

  “I must return home.”

  He slid a glance down Miss Parker’s cornflower blue dress. Relief engulfed every inch of him at her still thin body. Each day that passed without a sign of rounding eased the torture in his soul. And yet, not much time had passed. Not much time at all.

  She stood facing him with her hands on her hips and her chin in the air. Noisy robins flitted in the bushes behind him. “Oh?” He lifted an eyebrow. “To see your curate?”

  She stiffened but did not turn away. “I need materials for the children. Your books are not sufficient.”

  He regarded her carefully. Were the children an excuse to visit her lover? A shadow passed over the sun and a chill streaked through him.

  “Well?” Her green eyes stared up at them. Interesting gold flecks glittered in their center, a small detail that had previously slipped his notice.

  “Your father has entrusted me to keep you in London—”

  Her lips pursed. “Yes, yes, until I find a husband of proper background and society.” She turned away from him and wandered the small area. “I need to go to Edmund’s cottage, but not to see him.” He heard her sigh. “I only need supplies for the children.”

  Markham gazed at her small back, at the shine of her red curls. His gut squeezed at the thought of that other man taking her in his arms. It seemed more and more that one day Miss Parker would be his wife and no other man could have what would be his.

  “Am I to believe you?” He came nearer to her.

  “Yes.” She still didn’t look at him but sat at the end of the bench.

  He wanted to touch the soft skin on her neck, turn her defiant chin to him and kiss those yielding lips. But since the other day in the carriage, she spurned him. Her sudden refusals incited the anger lurking below his surface. Just as he was making headway with his stubborn bride, she resisted him, demanding explanations that he could not give her.

  He sat next to her and bent close. “Look me in the eye and tell me that you do not wish to see him.”

  But she pressed her lips together and turned more the other way. Her voice broke, “Please, then, will you send a messenger to retrieve the items for me? Truly, it is only my supplies that I wish for.”

  Markham felt an odd disappointment. What happened to her bitter tongue? Had defeat finally won over determination?

  He swung her around to face him, his palms scorching at the contact with her body.

  The clouds broke apart and released the sun’s rays, spilling them onto Miss Parker’s face. Her freckles glowed and her hair glinted brighter than the ruby in his father’s ring.

  “Kiss me.” He lifted her chin. “Kiss me again and I will believe you.”

  Her eyes closed with her broken sigh. Markham brought his lips to a throbbing spot on her neck and a surprised gasp blew his hair. His tongue pressed on her skin, swirling in tiny circles. Smoldering desire weaved through his veins as he suckled his way up the column of her throat. His flesh jerked, then instantly hardened.

  “Shhh,” he crooned. “Don’t, my love.” My love. Why the devil did he say that?


  Markham forced the thoughts away, instead breathing in the smell of roses, sweet and heavenly. He licked his way to her earlobe and nibbled on its baby softness. She gave a quiet, mewing sound, triggering an impulse to lay her on this hard bench. It had been a long time since his needs had been met, far too long, and this seduction of Miss Parker drove him beyond reason.

  He cupped his hands around her face, covering her mouth with his own. But she spoke against his lips. “If I kiss you, will you allow me to return home?”

  The thought of her being alone with that man, of his lips on hers, of his hands on her skin—no, he could not allow that. He could go back with her, but then he would need to find a chaperone. He already made one trip all alone with her in the carriage and he couldn’t chance another.

  Yet, Markham did not want to release her just yet. He needed to win her no matter what the cost.

  He reached out and wrapped one of her shimmering curls around his finger, stroking its softness with his thumb. The vision of them, wet and dripping, blasted through his thoughts. Images of that first night he saw her, when a helpless anger and a startling desire foretold his future.

  He knew what he must do to win her heart.

  “I will send a messenger. You may have him bring back whatever your heart desires.”

  “Oh…” he could hear the disappointment in her voice, but she did not fight the decision. He leaned closer to resume his quest but a word stopped him. “Wait.”

  Markham ran his fingers along the curve of her earlobe. “What is it?”

  “First tell me why. Why do you kiss me when we are alone but show me no interest in public view?”

  His heart slammed against his ribs. He could not answer her question on why he did not show interest of her in public view, but by the devil did he want to kiss her.

  It pained him these last several days to not have his lips taste her. It didn’t matter what embarrassing act she did or how she behaved—it was as if his lips had a will of their own.

  Miss Parker moved away, her eyes swept downward, resting red-gold eyelashes close to her cheek. “Tell me, Markham, I must know.”

  He was losing her fast. Markham pulled her face closer, so that their foreheads were touching. “Please don’t. Don’t resist what your heart wants.”

  He kissed her forehead. “You want to hear my whisper.”

  He kissed her eyelids. “You want me to hold you in my arms.”

  He kissed her nose. “You want to feel my heart beat against your own.”

  He kissed her chin. “You want me to kiss you.”

  His lips found hers. “You want to kiss me.”

  She melted against him. Relief and passion careened through his veins. The chattering sound of the robins vanished as Markham took full advantage of her submission, sliding his tongue in the space between her lips.

  Surprising him, Miss Parker complied further and pulled herself to him. She opened her mouth, inviting his kiss with a desperation that spoke of her true desires. Damn, he was enjoying this seduction of his unsuspecting bride. These intimacies brought her closer to him and his purpose and further away from Abingdon and Edmund Greene.

  Her small fingers caught the sides of his face but he would not let her take control. She could not command him, else he would lose everything.

  Markham drew his lips from her mouth and sought her neck again. Its velvety smoothness and sweet rosy scent created an intoxicating nectar. He suckled the ticklish spot behind her ears, gratified with her whispered moans, and moved his mouth to the hollow spot at the base of her throat.

  Hot blood pooled in his groin. His erection leaped and throbbed within the confines of his trousers.

  He felt her swallow. He had her now. Her determined rebuttals crumbled under his skilled attention. Only a few more months of carefully sidestepping Lucinda and kissing this girl and his worries would be over.

  Miss Parker’s hands brushed his shoulders. Was she pushing him down?

  Arousal crackled under his skin at her initiated suggestion. His tongue skimmed along her clavicle, tasting the summer air. Markham closed his fingers around the swell of her breast, sliding his thumb over a stiff nipple. White-hot desire shuddered through his veins and tightened his muscles. He rubbed his aching flesh against the fabric, desperate to find relief.

  Now was the time to uncover her secrets, to test if Miss Parker was still a virgin.

  Yet, they were outside, dangerously close to being spotted.

  “Inside.” His voice croaked. Where could he take her? In his study? In his bedchamber? In hers?

  Her small hands pushed him away. Markham reached out to take them in his own and saw her eyes. Those vibrant green eyes, smoldering, yearning—and wet with tears.

  They stood.

  “Enough, Markham.” Her voice trembled.

  “No…” A flicker of panic rose in his chest. He couldn’t lose her now. “Don’t resist me.”

  Her gaze penetrated him. “It is naught but a game to you.”

  “I am not playing with your heart.”

  She moved away from him, but her eyes never left his. “Aren’t you? Have you any idea? Any idea at all?”

  Markham shoved the damn curl from his forehead. “Please, Miss Parker—”

  Her face reddened with that familiar flush. “Miss Parker? After all this…” she waved her hand over the bench, “you still cannot call me Lizzie?”

  “Proper etiquette requires—”

  Her eyes widened. “Proper etiquette requires that you not kiss me unless we are engaged. And even then it is not with such lust or in such privacy.”

  “Engaged?” He grabbed a hold of both her arms. “Would you allow it if we were engaged?”

  She didn’t answer but slid her glance away.

  “Would you marry me if I asked?”

  “It is only a horrible, cruel sport to you.” She moved from his reach. “You’ll not have me as a wife, Markham. I remember your first wife and I am nothing like her. I am not fooled by these strange moments of desire.”

  “I know it seems difficult to understand—”

  “How could I understand?” She leveled him with a chilling stare. “You will explain nothing to me. Nor care for what pleases me. You kiss me at will. Yet, take some other titled beautiful woman to the opera. This is supposed to make sense to me?”

  “You are suggesting I am devious?”

  “Aren’t you? Aren’t you just like Lady Fallston? Isn’t this all a plot you and my father dreamed up?”

  Markham’s stomach knotted at her words. She couldn’t possibly know the truth. “You are imagining this cunning.”

  “Why have you not brought your son to London?”

  Markham recoiled, uncertain he’d heard her correctly. “My son? Why do you ask of him?”

  “Why could he not join us here, have his tutor come along?”

  His throat tightened. “Lucas enjoys Blackhawk Manor. There is much more there for him to do.”

  “Are you ashamed of him?”

  A knife may as well have torn through his gut. What did she know of his son? Of the guilt he felt in seeing the boy?

  Facing his son meant facing his failures. He betrayed his father’s wishes by marrying Emily and then was rewarded with her death.

  Emily was not ready for children when they married. She was recovering from an illness and the doctor asked that she recuperate for at least a year before putting such strain on her body. But she was pregnant nearly immediately. Secretly, Markham had rejoiced. He could prove to his father that no one could control his destiny. But Lucas was a big baby, too big for a still-weak mother.

  Markham’s rebellion of his father’s power killed his young wife. And now forever more, his son represented that petty immaturity.

  And yet, Lucas was everything to him. The future of the Markham line. He could not allow himself to get too close or feel deeply. He could not allow himself to suffer that kind of loss again.

  Markham cleared
his throat, and then swallowed. Though his heart squeezed, he would not show his pain. “Miss Parker, what I do with my son is my concern, not yours. When I deem it appropriate for you to meet him, you will.”

  Her eyes blazed with a green fire, but she held her tongue on the subject. “Will you send someone to retrieve my supplies then?”

  “Yes.” He’d be mad to allow Miss Parker another visit home after spending more laborious weeks than he cared to admit finding his way into her good graces.

  Markham feared just one sight of that Edmund Greene could dismantle his careful orchestration of her heart.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Markham’s heart sank as he watched the man standing before his desk bow his head. Joseph Conway was not only his groomsman, but a man he’d known going back many years. Joseph had been with his family longer than Markham could remember. Unfortunately, his errand did not bring good news.

  “Nothing, eh?” Markham said again, just for good measure.

  Joseph shook his graying head, gaze glued to the smooth surface of the desk. “I poked around as best I could, my lord, and found no one who remembered the night of your parents’ marriage.”

  Thirty years ago was not so long, was it? Certainly someone from that night would still reside in that pitiful village he’d been born in when his parents made their mad dash for Gretna Green.

  Fools. The both of them. His mother rushed off to take care of her ailing father, refusing to leave the dying man’s side. Then in her eighth month of pregnancy his grandfather finally passed and off his parents rushed to secure a quick marriage.

  Little did they expect the baby to arrive so soon.

  Now he had nothing to dispute Reverend Parker’s claim of the timing of events. Only a few minutes made the difference between a predictable, if not boring, future, or blackmail and deception.

  He glanced up at the hunting pictures adorning the study walls. Reminders of his father, a man who loved to hunt far more than Markham did. This house, and Blackhawk Manor, still felt the heavy presence of the eighth earl. He could not escape his father’s shadow.