Scraping the razor across his skin, he said, “If you carry on watching me like that, I’m in danger of slitting my throat from ear to ear.”
“Oh!” Shocked, she stared at her hands instead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
He laid the razor down carefully and turned around. “You can look at me now.”
She didn’t know if she wanted to, but his words were a command. Lifting her gaze, she met his eyes.
He burned. He flicked his gaze over her. “I want you, Viola,” he said baldly. “I can’t think of a better way to say it. I am at the edge of my control. You are lovely, intelligent, utterly desirable.”
“To you?”
“To all men. The way that curate leered at you yesterday made me want to knock his teeth down his throat. Don’t you know how utterly delectable you are?”
She opened her mouth, and closed it again.
In a minute he was across the room and he had her in his arms. He slammed his mouth down on hers, ravenously devouring.
She responded, circling her arms around him, and she had her wish. His warm flesh pulsed under her hands. The sheer power of his body made her feel deliciously weak and helpless, although she knew herself to be no such thing. She’d slept with the pistol he’d given her under her pillow, and she would have used it, had she felt the need.
She did not need it now.
He rolled on to the mattress, holding her close, bringing her over him, but he never stopped kissing her. When she dug her fingers into his back, he shuddered. He covered her breast with his hand. Despite the barriers of her shift, stays, and shirt, his touch made her arch towards him.
He tore his lips from hers. “No.” His eyes were wild as he gazed at her. “This is why I slept downstairs, why I need to keep away from you. We cannot. Must not.”
“No.” Of course not.
“We need to dress and go downstairs.” As if he’d done nothing at all, he turned away. He picked up his shirt from the bottom of the bed, throwing it over his head and thrusting his hands through the sleeves. His abrupt, ungraceful motions told her of his agitation. She said nothing. In truth, she didn’t know if the power of speech had returned to her yet.
He felt so very good all she could think of was more. As she put on her stock and buttoned up her jacket, she could think of nothing else. They went downstairs in silence and ate at the big table with the rest of their fellow passengers. She did note that when they climbed aboard, Marcus ensured she was nowhere near the cleric.
The day passed, giving Viola an opportunity to come to terms with her new existence. She would return to her father and Yorkshire soon enough, but this was her chance to make this an adventure. Their pursuers had either given up the chase or could not find them. They were as safe as they could be, considering the circumstances. Now she could relax more and pay more attention to the experience of travel. Although she had travelled from Italy as a baby, Viola naturally had no remembrance of that time. This counted as the longest journey she had ever taken. Certainly the first on public transport.
The scenery passed, mile after mile of hedgerow, the occasional hamlet, and regular stops at inns to change the horses. Passengers did not alight at every stop, only for meals and to stretch their legs. If the coachman was ready, he would set off without a backward glance.
When she napped during the afternoon, Marcus did not hold her. However she found herself leaning against her corner of the coach with a cushion propped behind her head. So he was taking care of her.
In that position she could watch him. He had taken her book and was reading it in a desultory fashion, occasionally chuckling. Pointedly he did not look in her direction, and she did not disturb him, although she was fairly sure he knew she was not properly asleep.
Marcus was the most handsome man she had ever seen. She had never taken stock of him in this way. However, his appearance that morning, together with his out of control kiss, forced her into the realization this man meant much more to her than he should.
For years she had told herself simply that Marcus was too far above her for her even to dream about, but now that was not true. If anything, she was better born than he. But she felt no different. She was still Viola. Did he feel that way? That his titles were not a part of him, but separate? Was he lonely as a single man? Oh, yes, he’d had mistresses—he’d told her himself—but only to satisfy his physical needs, those needs he had so ably demonstrated that morning.
Towards three in the afternoon, Viola knew several things for sure. She wanted him. After their journey, they would probably separate once more. Even if his family sheltered her until the crisis had concluded, she would not spend such time alone with this man again. Soon Marcus would marry, and then his wife would spend time by his side. Even though the identity of his future wife was yet unknown, unreasoning jealousy seared its way through her heart. Nobody should have him but her.
Foolish thinking. But for this journey she was his wife, and she wanted all marriage brought, although their union would be instantly severed when they reached London. She didn’t care. If unfortunate circumstances occurred, she would cope, somehow. Women often went away, bore their embarrassing child, and gave it away.
Just like her mother—her true mother. She had not wanted Viola enough to keep her, but regarded her as a political pawn. For what loving mother would choose to give her sweet baby to another with the prospect of never seeing her again?
Maria Rubio did not deserve the title of mother, Viola decided bitterly. She was merely the vessel that had borne her. Viola belonged to her father in Yorkshire, not the one in Rome. Her name was Viola Gates, not Viola Stuart.
What would their neighbors the Stewarts think of her alarming, not to say shocking, change in circumstances? Would they deride her or bow down to her? Viola would appreciate neither.
Marcus flicked over a page in the book, his attention apparently completely on the novel. But he glanced up, met her eyes, and smiled. Tentatively, she smiled back, and warmth spread through her. That was exactly how she’d seen the marquess connect with his wife without words.
For the next two days this man belonged to her. He was her husband and she would make him behave like one. He would not leave her again, even if the next bedroom was even tinier, with a narrow bed better suited to a maidservant than a fully grown man.
“The coachman says we are making good time,” she said, knowing she could not feign sleep any longer.
“Indeed,” he said, seemingly engrossed, but he flipped another page. He had not read that one. “We will be in London by Thursday night.”
Tuesday, this was Tuesday. She would be a wife for another two days, that was all. Two days and two nights. Why could this not be a wagon, which would take a full week to reach London? But if she travelled in one of the hulking vehicles that carried passengers and cargo, she would probably sleep there, too. People who could not afford to travel any other way used the carts. Even the stage coach was a step up from that.
“I’d hire a carriage, but we are making good time, and you are not uncomfortable, are you, sweetheart?” he said then, sparing her another glance.
Sweetheart. Another treasure for her meager collection. “Not at all,” she said. The lady with the cockerel had not been replaced by another passenger, although some of the travelers on the roof had agitated to be allowed inside. With vails not forthcoming, the coachman had refused them. “It ain’t fair to the people who paid full fare,” he’d said. “If you can’t pay, you travel on top.”
She could not imagine doing that, but if they ran out of money, she could find herself balancing precariously on top, open to all weather.
Chapter 8
The journey lulled her into a drowsy half-awake state of mind. She dreamed she was married to Marcus, who was, in truth, a simple country gentleman visiting his cousin in London. The cousin part might be right, but they were peers of the realm, not simple folk or the Cits he claimed when
he spoke casually about them in the hearing of others. They would have their time in London, ogling the rich, attending the play, buying a few clothes, and conducting modest business. Then they would return home to their property, something like the house in Scarborough, comfortable but not spectacular.
Entertaining herself in this way, she was almost startled when dusk shaded the hedges and dulled the colors of the lush countryside passing by the window.
“We’ll stop soon,” the curate said. For he was traveling to a new parish, where he would do all the work while the rector collected the salary and hobnobbed with the gentry. Or so he’d told them. Not that she had conversed with him much. Now Marcus had mentioned it, she did catch the curate’s attention on her too much for his greedy gaze to be coincidental. She was a respectable married woman. How dare he?
The smoother roads approaching the next town came as a relief after the bone-jarring roads outside. While the new turnpike roads were improving travel considerably, not all of the byways, even the biggest ones, had received the benefit of new surfaces and better maintenance.
They had reached Lincoln.
The center of the old city contained a hill so steep many people used the rails provided to climb it hand-over-hand. The coach avoided this peril. It took a side street, but the elevation the hill gave to the cathedral meant the passengers had a magnificent view as the vehicle did its usual breakneck turn into the inn yard.
Viola stared at it in wonder, her problems temporarily forgotten.
“Would you like to see it?” Marcus asked her. “We have time, if we have a late supper.”
“Very much.” And it would stop her sitting in the inn room wondering how she could seduce a man with so much more experience than she had. Perhaps something would occur to her, though surely not while in a sacred building. Perhaps the urge would pass, although since it had not yet shown any signs of doing so, she doubted it.
When the coach disgorged its passengers and the usual rush to the taproom had died down, they left at their leisure. A large coaching inn, it had plenty of room and Marcus had no problem bespeaking a room for each of them. Secretly, Viola hoped they would only use one, although her throat tightened at the prospect of what she meant to do.
He offered his arm, and after she had set the cocked hat on her head and pushed her hands into gloves, they set off. The balmy, warm evening cast a golden glow over their short walk. Viola set her mind to enjoying a rare moment of tranquility. Accompanied by a man who meant more to her than any other, even her father, she could feast her eyes on the vision of beauty that was Lincoln Cathedral and enjoy the fresh air. Despite the passengers keeping the windows open to freshen the atmosphere, the air in the coach had at times become stale and unpleasant.
“In London, you will become my mother’s guest,” Marcus said easily. “I want you to enjoy your time there. I’ll find a likely footman to accompany you at all times, and then you may shop and see more of the sights.”
“Will you take me?” She bit her tongue. She should not have asked that. It sounded too needy.
“To some of them.” He smiled at her. “My father will command my presence for some tasks, and I have others to pursue.”
She gripped his arm a little tighter. “If it concerns me, I want to know. Please, Marcus. I will not allow you to push me aside. It is my fate, and I wish to deal with it.” As she must deal with everything in her life. She would learn to be strong, not to lean on anyone.
“Sometimes I may have to go to places you cannot come.”
“And why not? I’m not your protected society miss. I have few expectations. Why should I not have a hand in my own fate?”
But he would only respond with a vague, “We’ll see,” and she could not push him any further. Marcus could be extremely stubborn when he put his mind to it. He was not perfect, she had always known, but he was the only man she wanted.
They had reached the cathedral. “It’s so much larger close-up,” she commented. The carved stone, blackened with the emissions of soot from the houses crowded around it, loomed up like something out of hell rather than heaven. But the figures set in the niches were of saints, gracefully carved, and the windows shone brightly in the light of the setting sun. The black was an illusion, a fault, that was all. Under it, the house of God remained serene and lovely.
“Would you like to go inside?” he asked. She nodded her assent and he led her forward.
The door was open. Had they just had Evensong? She had not attended church for nearly a week. Viola did not consider herself particularly religious. However, weekly attendance at the parish church at Haxby or the chapel in the house itself formed part of her regular routine. She missed it, the comforting rituals and the gossip afterward with the neighbors. She had not realized how much until now. Her whole life had shifted. Could she ever return home and resume her life? Did she even want to?
That notion came as a new one. She turned it over in her mind, unsure of the answer. The decision might well be made already. People knew about her, and her situation was perilous.
Despite the huge stained glass windows, she had to take a moment to accustom her sight to the relative dimness inside. The stone was paler here, less soot-encrusted, more the gray-tinged stone of the original cathedral.
Viola gazed up at the vaulting far above. “Men made this,” she said in awe. “Could they do it today?”
“Many of the techniques are lost,” he murmured. “However, they weren’t perfect. This cathedral fell apart after an earthquake in the twelfth century and they had to completely rebuild it. This building was the tallest in Europe until the spire collapsed in the sixteenth century.”
“How do you know so much?” she asked.
“I have friends who live just outside the city.” He paused. “We used to come here for services on occasion. The cathedral petitions us regularly for funds.”
He did not seem to think his last words were anything out of the ordinary, which gave her pause for thought. His family was wealthy, something she had forgotten in the last few days. To her he had become Marcus, not Marcus Aurelius Shaw, Earl of Malton. That title belonged to another man, a much better dressed, stately, imposing man. One she would be afraid of.
They strolled slowly around the space and stopped before the choir. “Can you see the imp?”
After glancing at his face, she followed the direction of his pointing finger. “Goodness, yes!”
“It’s the symbol of the cathedral.” A small carved figure, one leg crossed over the other, grinned at them from up above. “The masons often put little figures in the large churches. They may have a wonderful sense of humor, or it might have a meaning lost in the mists of time.”
“Perhaps it has a magical quality,” she murmured.
“Do you believe in magic?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment, someone said, “Good God, it’s Malton!”
Her heart sinking, Viola tried to pull away, but he clamped his arm hard against his body, trapping her hand. “No you don’t,” he said, and turned to face the stranger.
A man dressed in fashionable, new clothes stared at her curiously. “It is you! What is that monstrosity you have on your head?”
Lifting his hand, Marcus touched the bob-wig. “You don’t like it? I thought I’d give it a try.”
“Why?” The man raised a dark brow. His wig was a fashionable white queued one, not the dismal grey of Marcus’s. She had laughed at it when he first produced it, but she bridled now. Whatever his choices, he was entitled to them.
The stranger glanced at Viola and then lingered to pass an insolent gaze over her. From feet to the top of her head and back again, pausing at the place where her breasts pushed against the lawn of her shirt. But he said nothing. He would cut her unless Marcus introduced her, assuming she was a doxy. If he had accompanied a woman, they would have ignored him. That would have been for the best. Then maybe they would not have a closer loo
k at her.
Marcus ignored the provocative remark about his wig and turned to her. “May I introduce my betrothed? Viola, my dear, this is Lord Frederick Howard. Freddie, this is Miss Viola Gates.”
Freddie’s brows went up even as he made his bow and murmured her name. She curtseyed, her mind temporarily numb. What had he done? And he’d said it loud enough for others to hear. Betrothed? She could not hope people would not gossip. Marcus was too important a personage for anyone standing by them not to chatter. Already they were attracting unwanted attention. The bystanders stared and murmured. Those murmurs would spread like ripples on a pond.
“Are you visiting hereabouts?”
“No, just passing through. While Miss Gates’s duenna rests in their room, I offered to bring her to the cathedral.”
“Thus gaining a few minutes alone, you dog!” Although he teased, Freddie’s expression had undergone a change. He no longer surveyed her as if she were meat on a butcher’s slab, but met her eyes and smiled affably. “I had not thought to see you married.”
“Neither had I, before recently. Miss Gates is the daughter of our estate manager, who is a distant relation of the family.”
“I see. So we have a love match?” Before Marcus could answer, he continued, addressing Viola for the first time. “You are on your way to London?”
“Yes, sir,” she said faintly. Betrothed? He could not mean it. Ah, yes, he would claim they had called it off or she had jilted him. He could do that. Relief filled her. Not that she did not want for—long for—such an eventuality. But although he had kissed her, she could not allow him to sacrifice his freedom for her.
Thoughts chased each other through her head. The uppermost was regret she had allowed him to help her and thus embroiled himself in a situation he could not wish for.
“I shall look forward to your betrothal ball,” Freddie said. He appeared amused more than any other reaction. Viola strongly suspected he did not believe Marcus. And well he might, because who would imagine he would marry the daughter of his estate manager? Love appeared the only explanation possible, yet…did she love him?
Dilemma in Yellow Silk (Emperors of London) Page 10