Mary and the Marquis

by Janice Preston

  Her gaze was direct and reassuring. He was comforted by her presence. He closed his eyes, all at once exhausted.

  The sound of the door opening caught his attention and he forced his eyes open. Mary was at the door, speaking in hushed tones to someone outside. Lucas strained his ears, but could not make out what was being said.

  ‘What is it?’

  Mary glanced back into the room. ‘It’s nothing, my lord.’

  Was it his imagination, or did she sound furtive? He struggled to raise himself on one elbow.

  ‘Go and ask Susan to come and sit with his lordship,’ he heard her hiss. ‘I shall be there as soon as I can.’

  Lucas frowned. Who on earth was she speaking to? He didn’t want Susan to care for him. He wanted Mary. He opened his mouth to object, but remained silent as he heard Mary’s words. ‘I know, lovey. I love you, too. Go on, quickly now.’

  Lucas, an unexpected feeling of betrayal in his heart, fell back to his pillow. The words that had sprung to his lips remained unspoken.

  It’s you I want, Mary.

  * * *

  ‘Who is she?’

  Lucas watched Trant as the valet finished putting his clothes away in the wardrobe later that day. Mary had not returned to his bedchamber since Susan had come to relieve her that morning and he was curious to discover more about her. He’d had little else to occupy his mind, trapped in his bed as he was.

  ‘Who is who, my lord?’

  ‘Mary Vale, of course. Who is she? Where did she come from?’

  ‘I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.’ Trant regarded Lucas with an impassive countenance. ‘She has been a great help to the staff, though. She barely left your side whilst you were ill.’

  ‘Come now, Trant. I’m sure you can tell me more than that.’

  ‘I am not one to listen to the tittle-tattle of others, my lord.’

  Lucas eyed Trant with exasperation. Was he being deliberately obtuse? Lucas had received a similar response from Ellen earlier and even young Susan had been no more forthcoming. Why were they all so reticent? Or perhaps it was Mary who was being secretive? All he knew for certain was that she was a widow who had been passing through his woods. And that she tasted divine—he could recall every detail of their kiss and it had awoken within him a hunger he’d been at pains to deny since his return to the Hall.

  He’d been weak enough once to allow a woman to get under his skin. Julia’s scornful rejection of him still galled him and the rage that had consumed him when he walked in on her and Henson still filled him with shame. No, Lucas would never again trust a woman. He would never wed, nor would he ever have children. In fact, it was safer not to have any children around him: he would not wish on any child the misery and the fear he had endured in his childhood. His attack on Henson had fuelled his fear that he was, as he had so often been told, just like his father, who had been unpredictable, with rage and violence constantly simmering just beneath the surface.

  No, he must resist Mary. He had kissed her at a time when he was not himself, when he was weakened. Although...he recalled her assertion his kiss had been ‘pleasant’. That rankled. Pleasant? Pleasant wasn’t the word he would use to describe it. She was clearly too strait-laced to appreciate the sheer sensuality of such a kiss. He recalled the soft sweetness of her mouth with a silent groan and he knew he must taste her again.

  One more kiss. It won’t mean anything. What could be the harm?

  After all, Mary Vale was not his type—far too sensible, except in her luscious looks, of course, but he had learned the hard way beauty was skin deep. He would not step into that trap again.

  In the meantime he must be patient. There was no help for it—he would have to wait for the lady herself to return to his bedchamber before his curiosity could be assuaged.

  His hunger, he had to admit, might have to wait a bit longer.

  * * *

  It was the following day before he saw Mary again. He was mentally alert, although physically still weak, and he chafed at his confinement.

  Mary entered, carrying a covered bowl he suspected contained more of that disgusting gruel Mrs Lindley deemed suitable for invalids. He scanned her figure with appreciation as she walked towards him.

  ‘I have decided,’ he announced, in his loftiest tone of voice—specifically designed to needle her— ‘to take no further action over your attempted theft of my horse.’

  Then he lay back to see what sort of reaction he provoked. He was bored and he was frustrated that Mary had been nowhere near him since the day before, when he had awoken. The servants were all too busy to pay him much attention and he was in desperate need of entertainment. He had decided teasing Mary would prove an enjoyable way to while away the time. He would prod at her self-control and goad her into revealing the real Mary Vale.

  Mary’s step faltered at his words. Then she straightened her shoulders and smiled.

  ‘How very magnanimous of you, my lord,’ she said, her tone one of warm honey, although her eyes flashed.

  Lucas bit back his smile and continued to regard her, straight-faced. ‘If, that is, you satisfy my curiosity. I have not forgotten you owe me satisfaction on several points.’

  Not the least of which will be another kiss.

  ‘Satisfaction, my lord? How so?’ She eyed him coolly, chin in the air.

  ‘For a start, I want to know who you are. Yes—’ he added as she opened her mouth, ‘—I know you are Mary Vale, widow—although not of this parish—but knowing your name tells me nothing about you. Where have you come from? Where are you going? Why were you in my woods? Indeed, why were you stealing my horse? I am afraid, Mrs Vale, you owe me answers that are long overdue.’

  ‘Goodness.’ She laughed, although her expression was wary. ‘So many questions.’

  She walked to the table at the foot of the bed to place the tray upon it, before facing him again. ‘You will have to sit up, I think, if you are not to make a mess with your food.’

  She approached the bed and slid her arm behind his back, helping him to sit. A wave of desire crashed over him as her lavender scent enveloped him and her warm breath caressed his skin. She pulled at his pillows, plumping them behind him. He wanted nothing more this minute than to drag her down beside him and steal the kiss he had promised himself, to feast on those lush, provocative lips until she begged for more.

  How could her mere presence provoke such a longing within him when he had sworn to never again fall under any woman’s spell? He cursed his weakness—it must have affected his mind as well as his body. He focused on the window opposite the bed, willing his mind and body back under his control, before looking at her again.

  ‘Prevaricating will not prevent me from pursuing answers to my questions, Mary,’ he said. His voice sounded strained, even to his ears. ‘I shall have my satisfaction sooner or later, you know.’

  She coloured, her blue eyes falling before his steady regard, and her pearly teeth bit into her lower lip, sending his pulse rate soaring once more. It had been an unfortunate choice of phrase under the circumstances. All he had to amuse himself at the moment was his imagination and it was sending his thoughts in a very uncomfortable direction. He deliberately flexed his injured shoulder, using the stab of pain to remind himself that women could not be trusted. He was lusting after Mary and yet he knew next to nothing about her.

  He thought back to that day in the woods: the bone-jolting fall from Sultan’s back; the damp, peaty scent of the earth in his nostrils as he lay, winded, amongst the trees; drifting...so very tired...until he had been roused by a sudden sound. He had lifted his head to see Sultan being ridden away from him. He had—somehow—gained his feet; had found enough breath to shout. The rest was a blur. But...that sound...

  ‘There was a cry.’

  ‘A cry?’

  ‘That day, in the woods. It sounded like a child.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ Mary turned away, walking to the end of the bed.

  Lucas hesitated. Was he ce
rtain? ‘I thought...I seem to recall something...’

  ‘Might it have been a local child, playing in the woods?’

  Lucas stiffened. ‘No children are permitted on my property,’ he growled.

  Mary stared at him, her eyes wide. ‘Why so vehement?’

  He shrugged. It was nobody else’s business.

  Mary carried the tray to his bedside. ‘But what harm...?’

  ‘The matter is not up for debate. It does not concern you.’ Lucas was not about to discuss his reasons for banning children with a virtual stranger, particularly one as adept as Mary at keeping her own secrets. ‘Where have you been, Mary?’

  Mary stilled, her eyes guarded. ‘What do you mean—where have I been?’

  She placed the tray on Lucas’s lap.

  ‘Aaarrrgh!’ Pain speared his thigh. ‘Mary!’

  The crockery clattered as Mary snatched the tray away. ‘Oh, no! I am so sorry! I didn’t think.’

  As the pain subsided to a throb, Lucas smiled ruefully. ‘I cannot blame you, Mary, for I didn’t anticipate that either. A lesson for us both, I think?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I shall take more care in future.’ Mary placed the tray gently on the bed. ‘There, although I fear it might prove more awkward for you.’

  ‘I have you to help with what I cannot manage for myself, though, do I not?’ Lucas grinned at the easily construed suspicion in Mary’s eyes. ‘So, I shall ask again, Mary. Where have you been, since yesterday, when I awoke.’

  ‘Oh, since yesterday. Sleeping, for the most part,’ she said.

  ‘All day? Until now?’

  ‘Well, not quite until now. I did eat. Speaking of which—’ she removed the cover from the bowl on the tray ‘—you should eat this before it gets cold.’

  Lucas peered at the contents of the bowl and grimaced. ‘You must have been very tired.’ He picked up the spoon with little enthusiasm.

  ‘I cannot deny it was a relief to sleep in a bed again.’ Mary cast a meaningful look at the chair by the side of his bed.

  Remorse nudged Lucas. Hadn’t Trant said that Mary had barely left his side whilst he had been ill? He had been lying here, frustrated by her absence, without a thought as to what she and the rest of his household had been through.

  ‘How often did you sit with me, Mary?’

  ‘Every night, my lord.’

  ‘For pity’s sake, stop “my lord”-ing me. You are not a servant.’

  ‘What should I call you then, my l...sir?’

  ‘I should prefer Lucas, but I have no doubt you will deem it improper, Sensible Mary. And, in that case, sir will do.’

  ‘Yes...sir,’ she said, her lids lowering, but not before he glimpsed her expression. She clearly didn’t appreciate the nickname as it wasn’t the first time she had shown resentment at his use of it. But he had more pressing issues on his mind.

  ‘You stayed here for four nights running? All night? With no relief?’ he growled, vexed to think his servants would take such advantage.

  ‘It was my idea to sit with you during the night,’ she blurted out, with an anxious glance that piqued his curiosity.

  Why was she suddenly on edge? Was she worried about his reaction to her answers? He knew she was not timid. What had he said to prompt this change?

  As he watched she visibly took control of her emotions, drawing an audible breath before saying in a firm voice: ‘It was the least I could do, with everyone else so busy every day. You are not to blame Mrs Lindley or the others, for I insisted.’

  He raised a brow. Come, this is a bit more feisty. Good for you, Mary.

  ‘And did you not sleep—in a bed—during the day?’

  ‘I find it impossible to sleep in the daytime.’

  Her lids drooped, concealing her thoughts again. Lucas suppressed his frustration. He could not fathom her lightning changes in mood. Why was she so guarded?

  He turned his attention to his food. ‘Do I really have to eat this...this...stuff?’ He poked at the gruel with the spoon.

  ‘The doctor said gruel is all you’re allowed. For now,’ she added quickly as she sent another anxious glance in his direction.

  Why did she react as though she expected him to fly into a rage at any moment? What, or who, had caused her to view him with such trepidation? Had the servants warned her that his mood was, at times, on a knife’s edge?

  And can I blame them if they have? He was aware his temper had been unpredictable of late, despite his best efforts to conceal his worries.

  Lucas forced the scowl from his brow and relaxed his jaw, determined to coax Mary into a more relaxed frame of mind.

  He eyed the bowl of gruel again, then looked at Mary, raising a brow as he smiled his best winning smile. Mary returned his look, her suspicion again clear.

  ‘It is too difficult to feed myself. I haven’t enough strength,’ he said, his voice a weak croak. ‘Please help me, dearest Mary.’

  Mary pursed her lips, regarding him with narrowed eyes, then huffed a sigh as she sat on the edge of the bed and took the spoon from his slack grasp. Her wariness had vanished. His strategy had worked.

  She dipped the spoon into the gruel and lifted it towards his mouth. Swiftly, he captured her hand, registering the tremor of her slender fingers as he did so.

  ‘Take care, Mary,’ he chided. ‘You almost spilt some. I will steady your hand.’

  He retained his hold as he guided the spoon to his mouth, relishing the sensation. As his lips closed around the bowl of the spoon, he looked at her, pleased with the success of his strategy as he saw the hint of a blush stain her cheeks and a smile hover on those luscious lips, although he still read caution in her beautiful blue eyes: caution and the merest hint of desire that promptly set his pulse soaring. He forced the gruel down, tearing his eyes from hers in an attempt to dampen his wayward urges once more.

  Chapter Five

  Mary’s blood quickened as she fought to control her reaction to Rothley’s touch. She felt the colour rise into her cheeks as her eyes met his and she was afraid he would read the desire the mere touch of his fingers had awakened deep within her.

  She watched as he swallowed the gruel. The moment he released her hand, she snatched it away and replaced the spoon in the bowl.

  ‘Perhaps if I hold the bowl for you?’ she suggested, lifting it and holding it level with his chest.

  Her eyes kept straying to the dark curls just visible in the open neck of his nightshirt. Determinedly, she fixed her gaze on his face. He appeared to have temporarily forgotten his questions, but she was sure he would revisit the subject sooner or later. Her brain scrambled in an effort to invent a convincing story that did not reveal the existence of her children, but it was hard to concentrate on anything other than Rothley.

  ‘This is disgusting,’ he said, as he pushed his bowl away. ‘Have you tried it, Mary?’

  ‘No, but it is not I who has been ill. You must know it is good for you—it is all your stomach can cope with, after eating nothing for days. And if you do not eat, your strength will take longer to return and you will have to remain confined to your bed. Please, try and eat a wee bit.’

  As he ate another spoonful, Mary pondered her physical reaction to him. Why did she still desire him, despite the tales of his past? There was no room for such a man in her life, not even for a short time. She was a mother with responsibilities and she would not expose her children to another man who resented their very existence.

  To be fair, although Rothley had been a touch tetchy—and could he be blamed after what had happened?—there had been no angry outbursts such as she had been led to expect. At least, not yet, but then her father had never been as bad when sober. It was only when drunk... Mary suppressed a shudder at the memory. She recalled the stench of alcohol when she had found Rothley. Had he been drunk that day?

  She had, out of necessity, become adept at avoiding confrontation, whether with her father or, more recently, with Michael, whose temper had spiralled in tandem with hi
s drinking. He had become ever more violent and the more Mary had been forced to adopt the role of appeaser, the more she had resented the necessity to repress her own feelings in order to pacify him.

  Was the pattern set to continue whilst she remained at the Hall? And what about when she and the children arrived at her old home? Her father was unlikely to welcome her with open arms after she had shamed him by running away on the eve of her seventeenth birthday. Yet again she questioned her wisdom in going back, but what other choice did she have? Homelessness and starvation? The workhouse? No choice at all. At least she would be there to protect her children. There had been no one to stand between Mary and her father when he turned to drink after her mother had died.

  Were there no men, she wondered, with something akin to despair, who did not believe it their right to intimidate and abuse those who had no choice but to pander to their every whim?

  ‘Mary, Mary...’

  The quiet words pierced her reverie and she came back to the present with a gasp.

  ‘Will you tell me what you were thinking about?’ he asked, then smiled ruefully. ‘No, of course you won’t. But you looked so very solemn, Mary, sitting there, your thoughts turned inwards, your face so very sad. Can I not help? What is it that fills your eyes with such dread?’

  A lump formed in her throat, but she was determined not to cry. She stretched her lips in a smile.

  ‘It is of no matter, my l...sir,’ she answered. She glanced down and saw he had hardly touched his food. ‘Please eat,’ she said. ‘It must be cold by now and that will not improve the taste, I can assure you. The doctor will be pleased if we can report you are eating well when he next visits.’

  ‘The doctor? You mean Robert Preece? How many times has he visited?’

  ‘Every day whilst you were fevered, sir.’

  Rothley’s jaw tightened as his brow lowered.

  Mary tried to quell her trickle of unease. Why should you imagine he’s angry with you? For heaven’s sake, stop being such a ninny! Her disquiet remained, however.

  ‘His last visit was yesterday morning, a short time before you awoke,’ she added.

  Rothley said no more, but finished his gruel, his expression growing more and more disgusted. He settled back with a sigh. Mary busied herself with clearing away the tray, her awareness of his dark gaze following her making her slow and clumsy in her task.