A Tarnished Heart

by Leslie Dicken

  Shafts of sunlight sparkled across her face as she spoke, brightening her freckles and darkening her lips. She looked a fairy, if only she wore some ethereal costume rather than an ordinary dress.

  He detoured them down a path to the right and pointed to a copse of skeletal bushes. “In only a month’s time these will be a glorious vision of beauty.”

  “Oh, we simply must return.”

  “Of course.”

  With his hand at the small of her back, Markham guided her down another path toward the pond. “What else would you care to see?”

  “It’s all so exquisite. I never would have dreamed it and yet, I would so love to return in a few weeks at the blooming of summer flowers.” Her green eyes looked up at him. No dark shadows lurked there today, no secrets to keep him at bay. He saw tenderness, excitement, and anticipation.

  Markham swallowed, a sudden heat burning through his veins. He had done it. He had swayed her heart. Most likely she’d accept his proposal if he offered it now, right here beside the sun-dappled pond.

  And, yet, now that he saw how much he could please her he had the desire to do it more. Where else could he bring her? What else would bring that light into her eyes?

  “Look.” She pointed to the water. “Fish. Oh, it does make me long for home.”

  Fearing memories of home would bring up thoughts of Edmund Greene, Markham lifted her hand and kissed it.

  Lizzie glanced up at him in surprise.

  “I have an idea,” he told her. “Whenever you are ready to leave, I know of another place that may interest you.”

  “Oh? Is it another surprise you have in store for me?”

  “So you trust me then?”

  She traced a gloved finger over his jaw. Shudders echoed through him at the tender gesture. “After what I witnessed yesterday morning, I finally believe I can trust you.”

  His heart trembled. “Oh?”

  Lizzie dropped her hand. “I hadn’t got far when I heard you. But it was more than that. It was the faith you had in Albert, that you permitted him to befriend Lucas.”

  Markham held his breath, his pulse skittering. “And so? Has this finally changed your opinion of me?”

  She glanced away and watched two birds dart along the edges of the pond. “I am willing to believe you are a changed man. You are not toying with my heart.”

  His chest constricted. The blackmail. He was marrying her because her father had forced his hand. He didn’t feel anything for her other than desire, curiosity, fury. No, nothing more. Still, he didn’t want to hurt her. She would never understand the pressure he was under to maintain his standard of living, to secure Lucas’s future.

  “What of Edmund Greene?”

  Lizzie sighed, twisting the straps of her reticule. “I thought I loved Edmund. But I’ve come to realize that he could never please me completely. There is so much more that I want, so much that he could not provide for.” For some strange reason, her eyes filled. She blinked and looked the other way. “And yet, I can never leave Papa.”

  Markham reached for her shoulder but then thought better of it. “Why?”

  “Oh, I want more. Seeing all this—” she spread her arms wide, “—and the wonders of the Crystal Palace, and the energy of London’s streets. But there is no way I can leave him there all alone.” She sniffled, her delicate nose turning pink. “It has hurt me nearly every day not to be there for him.”

  “He is a grown man, who can take care of himself. Why must you tether yourself to his side?”

  Her lips trembled. She crossed her arms, hugging herself, as her eyes filled. Finally, a sigh broke from her lips. “Rachel.”

  Markham’s throat ached. He struggled with wanting to protect her from her pain and feeling the need to suffer with her. He’d never felt like this before. When Emily died, the guilt overtook his sorrow. At his father’s death, Markham swallowed the agony as he knew was expected of him.

  He cleared his throat and thrust that damn curl from his forehead, but his chest still tightened around his heart. “Who is Rachel, Miss Parker?”

  A scented breeze lifted her red hair, twirling the strands around her neck. “My sister,” she answered, still not looking at him. “But she’s gone.”

  Lord, he never knew she had a sister. He knew so little about her, about her past, about how she grew up, what made her who she was. “What happened to her?” His voice dropped to a whisper.

  “She was born to my parents late in life, an unexpected joy that blessed us all. She had a different appearance, a simple way about her, but she brought smiles to us every day.”

  Her voice cracked, surprising Markham with an urge to pull her into his arms. But they continued walking, the shadows deepening as they wandered further down the canopied trail. “And so?” he encouraged.

  “One beautiful day we went to the meadow for a picnic. She fell asleep on the blanket as we looked up and counted the clouds overhead. I went for a short walk, as I often did but then…”

  Lizzie stopped in the center of the path, her face flushed to a crimson red. Her glassy eyes darted up to his face then back down to the dirt beneath them.

  He couldn’t let her stop. Not now, not when he was so close to learning about what held her back, what prevented him from capturing her heart. “What happened?”

  She turned away, her shoulders bowed. “I-I can’t.”

  Markham reached out, unable to bear her distress. A crack widened in his heart. “Tell me, Miss Parker, help me to understand.”

  His fingertips brushed the fabric of her cape. But instead of relaxing into his caress she spun away and glared at him. “Don’t touch me. You. You are responsible for it.”

  A bird took flight at her outburst. He gasped at her accusation. “Me? What have I to do with your sister’s death?”

  Her eyes blazed with green fire. “I wouldn’t have left her alone so long if it hadn’t been for you. I was staring up at the chimneys of Blackhawk Manor, daydreaming about a silly fairytale my mother told me before her death.” She turned away and put her hand against a tree, leaning upon it for support. “I saw your carriage pass on the road and went to speak with you. I murmured something foolish about marrying you one day. And.…”

  Hell, now he remembered. He was in a hurry that day and was annoyed that a young girl had stopped his coach. Then when she went on and on about them marrying in a few years, he’d sent her away with little more than a few careless words.

  “You said, ‘I am already betrothed, young girl, your mother must have filled your head with fancy dreams’ and I ran off in tears. When I finally got back to the blanket, Rachel was gone.”

  Hell, he barely recalled the incident, never connected that it was the same Miss Parker and all these years she held him accountable for her sister’s disappearance. No wonder she resisted him so completely.

  He went over to where she stood. “Miss Parker—”

  “Rachel had wandered off,” she continued, staring at her hands twisting the reticule straps. “We later found her in the pond. Drowned.”

  “I’m sorry.” And by the devil, he truly was. For the loss of her sister, for not realizing he broke her heart that day, for the horrible pain that must be crushing her.

  “How can I leave Papa all alone?” Lizzie sniffled, but her voice still shook. “Something could happen to him while I’m not there.” Her gaze pinned him. “While I’m off in London with you.”

  Markham took a deep breath, having no idea what to say but knowing he must say something. She could not live forever in the shadow of her remorse.

  “Did you ever think that perhaps God had plans for your little sister? That indeed it was His divine intervention that led the two of us to meet that day and then bring us together again?”

  She bit her lip, but said nothing.

  “No matter how much blame you place on yourself or me for what happened that day, your sister is gone. Your father wants you to have more. You have said yourself that a life outside Abingd
on calls to you. Allow yourself to grieve for Rachel, but don’t plan the rest of your existence based on her loss.”

  Her eyes overflowed, as tears streaked down her freckled cheeks. “I hated you that day and for so long after. But it was really me I hated. How could I have failed her?”

  Markham could no longer resist her anguish and pulled her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her slight shoulders. “Dear God, Miss Parker, you are only human.” He didn’t care if anyone walked by, he didn’t care what anyone thought at the moment. If holding her offered her some comfort, then he would oblige.

  Lizzie quaked in his embrace, her sobs quiet against his coat. The sweet scent of her hair and flowers not did ease the uncertainty in his heart.

  She made him feel like nothing he had ever experienced. Everything he so clearly understood about himself now made no sense at all. Was he still that rigid, emotionless man, fighting the guilt of his failed rebellion? Or had this fairy bewitched him, leading him down a road to unrestrained freedom?

  Larger than the Grosvenor Square townhouse but much smaller than Blackhawk Manor, Woodsley Park welcomed them with its three-storey white façade. Markham had told her of their destination on the way over.

  Lizzie stepped out of the carriage under the auspices of a pending rainstorm and waited for Markham. His warm hand on her elbow guided her to the front steps.

  Their ride from the Botanical Gardens had been nothing like the ride to it. Saddened by thoughts of Rachel and the agony of her remorse, Lizzie had little to say. But she felt better, freer, than she ever had since that day. Telling him of that horrible afternoon, sharing her pain, eased the scars in her heart. And when he reached out to her, showing emotion, sympathy, she knew that he had changed.

  “Do you come here often?” she asked as they reached the top of the front steps.

  “Not often. This is really Lord Alcott’s home when he marries. My father gave it to him as a present many years ago. I spend most of my time in Blackhawk Manor.”

  Lady Harkmoor joined them. “Ah, it’s about time we arrived someplace comfortable. Do have them prepare a room for me.”

  Markham raised an eyebrow. “Still tired, are you?”

  “I’m not well. If my cousin hadn’t been out for the day, I would not have accompanied you.”

  Lizzie patted the woman’s arm. “Well, we are certainly glad you did. Did you enjoy the gardens?”

  “Eh, they made me feel worse. Now my head aches too.”

  Just then, the butler arrived at the door to greet them. Lizzie watched Markham’s face as the men spoke, not even listening to the conversation. Those hard angles she always noticed about him were no longer visible to her. The hard mask of rigidity and emotionless detachment crumbled further each day. And today he surprised her in so many ways.

  “Come.” Markham ushered her into some sort of drawing room. Already Lady Harkmoor had disappeared into another part of the house, leaving her alone with a man proven to be most dangerous to her body. And her heart.

  Typical in its furniture arrangement, gilding on the carved ceiling, and expensive ornate carpeting, the room did not seem compelling enough to offer her something to comment on.

  “You don’t notice it?” he asked, bending low to her ear.

  “Notice what?”

  Hands on her shoulder, he turned her about-face. “There. Above the fireplace.”

  Lizzie gasped, her eyes blurring and throat tightening. Her lungs expanded as if she’d swallowed a balloon but then burst in an instant, leaving her breathless. Oh God, it looked exactly the same, as if done by forgery. But who would do such a thing? And why?

  “Where—where did it come from?”

  “It looks familiar to you then?”

  The taste of salty tears swallowed with her checked sob. “This is exactly how she’d paint. The colors. The wild beauty. Flowers in bloom. Oh, tell me, Markham, where did this come from?”

  The painting was reflected in his black eyes, but it was his odd smile that melted her heart. “My father had told me once that he received it as a gift. Though the artist was not well-known and the resale value not high, he treasured it immensely.” He glanced up at the framed painting again. “I never knew the artist’s name and never sought to discover it. But when I saw the painting in your cottage, I was amazed by the similarities.”

  “But why would my mother bequeath a gift to your father?” They couldn’t possibly know one another. As far as she knew, the only connection between her family and his was the living. Would her mother be so grateful to offer one of her paintings? It didn’t seem likely.

  Markham’s features hardened at her question. Clearly, he did not want to answer. “I never said this was done by your mother. I only said it reminded me of the one on your wall.”

  Assuming she’d get no further information from him, Lizzie turned her attention back to the painting. After her spell of crying at the Gardens, a freeing burden had lifted from her soul. She ached for Rachel, but also for her mother. Now the loneliness and keen devotion lessened. She didn’t have to become her mother in order not to forget her. Nor did she have to carry the responsibility of Rachel’s death. She could find both in the blossom of a flower, in the tunneling of a worm, in the sigh of a sleeping baby.

  It was perfectly acceptable for Lizzie to desire more than the sleepy village in Abingdon. She could wish to travel the world, she could find a thrill in the fancy balls, she could love a man far above her station.

  But she didn’t love Lord Alcott.

  A gust of wind rattled the window panes on the other side of the room. Markham sighed beside her.

  “I had one last thing to show you.” He ran his hand through his hair. “But I’m afraid if we don’t hurry, we’ll be caught by the rain.”

  Lizzie sought the painting again, her heart filling with a quiet longing and soothing warmth. This must be her mother’s. How could someone else paint something so similar to what hung above her fireplace at home? It wasn’t possible. And yet, it just didn’t seem possible that her mother would give a gift to the now deceased earl.

  “Then let us hurry.” She tucked those unanswered questions away for the day.

  His relieved grin cracked the frozen grimace from earlier. He was so hard to understand, so hard to discern his thoughts. One minute uncommunicative and emotionless, the next instant spirited and alive.

  They left the room and Lizzie followed Markham through several hallways filled with more enormous paintings and beautiful red carpets until they reached a rear door.

  They stepped out into the blowing wind, the scent of rain strong in the air. He pointed to several out buildings near an inviting lake. “There, next to the gardener’s cottage, see the greenhouse?”

  Yes, there was a small glass-enclosed structure. They never made it inside the Palm House at the Botanical Gardens that day, but certainly that tiny hothouse could not contain palm trees.

  Lizzie followed him across the lawn, the grass vibrant and soft beneath her feet. It would be wondrous to lie down here on a warm sunny day, have Markham kiss her senseless.

  They fought against the wind, as the ominous clouds promised this surprise would be a quick study. Markham reached behind him for her hand. She let him take it, far past caring who could be watching from the upper windows.

  The heat greeted them the moment they stepped inside. Then, she noticed the aroma. Sweet, spicy, bitter and all-around heavenly.

  Markham looked down at her and raised a black eyebrow. “Take a look around.”

  Even more excited than she had been at the Botanical Gardens, Lizzie reluctantly let go of Markham’s hand and crossed directly to the vibrant bouquet of colors at the far end.

  Ah. Roses.

  Everywhere, in various stages of bloom, roses of pink, yellow, white and red tantalized her with their succulent fragrances. She cupped a scarlet bud in her hands, gently stroking its velvety petals.

  Markham came up behind her, the pull from his warm body
a force she bravely fought. It took everything in her not to lean back against his broad chest.

  “And so you like the third surprise?”

  Lizzie nodded, afraid to trust her voice.

  She felt him tug at her cape and pull it from her head and shoulders. The chill did not last long in the warm room. Then his breath was hot in her ear. “I have more.”

  Throat thick and tight, Lizzie swallowed. “M-more surprises?”

  “One, perhaps two more.”

  His lips touched her neck, shutting down her brain. She released the rose, eyes drifting closed.

  Heavy taps pounded the glass above them. The rain. They had taken too long. But she didn’t care. Wet, dry, she didn’t care.

  Markham’s tongue traced a damp line from her neck to her ear. He nibbled on the rim and then kissed his way back down to her shoulders. Then, those strong, very male hands cupped her breasts, possessing them. He yanked her back against him, proving his solid arousal on the small of her back.

  The increasingly loud patter on the glass could not obscure his moan. “I want you.” Her spine tingled with his dark, throaty voice.

  That craving ache began low in her belly, forcing her to turn, to find his mouth. Lizzie had to kiss him, she had to answer this humming and burning in her blood.

  “I want all of you.” His black gaze penetrated her, halting her search for his lips. “Time for your fourth surprise.”

  Her breath stilled. So focused on satisfying the desperate itch in her veins, her body would not allow her mind to think. She waited. Wanting him. Needing him.

  “Miss Parker...Lizzie,” he said, a hint of tremor behind the words. “Will you marry me?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Markham wanted her to marry him? Was this a dream? A folly? A plea spoken out of passion only?

  Lizzie stared into his eyes. Her heart beat frantically, feeling as if it would stop altogether. But in his bottomless gaze she saw truth. He did want to marry her. There was no hint of humor. And even with the desire so clear upon every fiber of his stance, she had to believe he meant the words he said.