Mary turned the carver chair around so she was facing Lucas and sat. He reached out and took her hand, tracing lazy circles on her palm with his thumb. Pleasure shivered across her skin, raising the fine hairs on her arms. His eyes—jet-black and intense—searched her face as she fought to hide her reactions.
‘Thank you.’
Her erratically beating heart leapt, feeling as though it was lodged in her throat.
‘To think you have done all this...’ Lucas tilted his head, indicating the room ‘...because I complained I was bored. Really, Mary—I do not know how I can ever thank you.’
He raised her hand. Mary focused on his lips, her insides clenching as desire spiralled through her. Every nerve tingled and sang. His warm, moist mouth pressed against her inner wrist, where the skin was thinnest and the blood beat close to the surface. For sure he would feel her racing heart, recognise her mounting need. Her innate caution burst to the surface and she pulled her hand from his grasp, hardening her heart against his hurt expression.
‘There is no need to thank me,’ she said. ‘It was my pleasure.’ Goodness, how formal she sounded. But what was the alternative? She was in danger, she knew, of being sucked into an affair that could only end, for her, in tears and self-recrimination. ‘I will go and find out if your luncheon is ready.’
Lucas turned his gaze to the window, acknowledging her words with a nod. She left the room, feeling, somehow, that she had let him down.
* * *
Cowardly it might be, but Mary delayed her return until well after luncheon. She had spent the interval with Toby and Emily, using the time to mentally reiterate all the—very sensible—reasons why she must resist Lord Rothley. And the two biggest reasons were right there, before her eyes. Her children.
Ultimately, however, she could no longer put off returning to the newly refurbished Blue Room. Her end of their bargain had still to be honoured. The ledgers were in the library. They were not too heavy for her to manage so, rather than ask for help from one of the servants, she carried them herself.
Chapter Nine
The instant Mary entered the room her stomach swooped in that now familiar way, despite Lucas’s cool welcome. She kept her focus on the pile of ledgers, which she put on the table.
‘Which would you like to see first?’ she asked brightly.
‘You.’
Mary started at his blunt reply. What...? She looked directly at Lucas for the first time since she had entered the room. His dark eyes appraised her, heating her skin wherever they lingered. The silence stretched until Mary could stand it no longer.
‘What...what do you mean?’
She clasped her hands in front of her, gripping tight. Why didn’t he say something? She realised she was holding her breath and she let it go in a rush. The sound seemed to break the spell and Lucas visibly relaxed.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I’ll check the estate ledger first, then we can look at the household accounts. Mayhap you can advise me of any further economies you can identify.’
Mary wondered what Rothley had been about to say, or do. Her imagination ran riot, prompting her nerves to skitter pleasurably, even as she scolded herself for being a hypocrite. Why was she incapable of deciding upon a course of action and staying true to it?
She selected the required ledger and handed it to Lucas before sitting down.
‘That’s no use,’ Lucas said matter of factly. ‘You’ll have to sit here if we are to look at the figures together.’
He patted the narrow chaise longue as he shifted to one side to make room for her. When Mary hesitated, horrified yet enthralled by the prospect, he continued, ‘Come on. I won’t bite, I promise.’
He grinned and the effect was like the sun coming from behind a cloud. A playful gleam lit his eyes and Mary’s pulse quickened as she sat by him. Heat radiated from his body as his masculine scent enveloped her. Every sense quickened, tempted by his nearness, but her brain—sensible as ever—rang with caution. She took the ledger from his hands and rested it on her lap, riffling through the pages to find the most recent entries.
‘I doubt I can be of assistance in finding any economies in these figures,’ she said, striving to keep her voice level despite the leap of her heart as her arm brushed against his. ‘I can work with numbers, but I do not have experience of agricultural matters.’
‘No matter,’ he muttered, as he scanned the page. His hand—strong, with long fingers ending in square, well-trimmed nails—traced the neat column of numbers she had transferred into the ledger from the scrappy notes Shorey had left in Rothley’s study. She stared at his hand, mesmerised. How would it feel...? She tore her thoughts away from that direction to concentrate on his murmurs as he checked the entries. His deep voice spread over her like warm honey, doing nothing to distract her from the intimacy of their position. His breathing was steady in the quiet of the room, punctuated only by the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece.
Gradually, Mary realised Rothley was totally immersed in the accounts. She was the only one affected by their nearness. Resentment simmered. How dare he disturb her sanity so? He teased her one moment and then behaved as though she were not even there! If it wasn’t for the fact she would die rather than give him the smallest inkling of how he affected her, she would...
She bit her lip against a self-deprecating giggle. In her imagination, she had flounced out of the room. Her! Sensible Mary! And now, here she was, thinking of herself by that loathsome nickname. Whatever next? Determinedly, she settled her thoughts. She was Mary Vale, a penniless widow with two young children: a woman of no importance. He was the Marquis of Rothley, an arrogant aristocrat with a shrouded past and an aversion to children.
Hmmph!
Lucas stirred. ‘Sorry? Did you say something?’ His attention was still riveted to the page.
‘No. Sir.’
Her brusque reply gained his attention. She could feel the ever-ready blush heat her cheeks.
‘Call me Lucas. Please.’
His wistful tone made it hard to refuse. ‘I cannot, it would not be right.’ The words were uttered, but she did not—if she was honest—believe them. She longed to call him by his name, but she was afraid it would be the first step towards what she really coveted and she knew she must erect every barrier possible against that.
‘Mary, surely you cannot believe calling me by my given name would be so very wrong? Look at what we have been through together, the intimacy, how we sit together right now. Your use of my name cannot be deemed improper in comparison to that.’ He nudged his shoulder against hers and smiled at her, his brows raised. ‘Please?’
‘I must not,’ she replied, hardening her heart even as she thought, in near despair, How am I to resist him?
* * *
Lucas abandoned his struggle to concentrate on the estate accounts.
How could he attend to dry-as-dust ledger entries when Mary sat so close her every breath whispered through his senses, rendering his brain to mush? He was acutely conscious of her presence: the delectable fragrance of woman, overlaid with the now-familiar lavender notes; the heat of her body where it touched his. How would it feel to hold her in his embrace? To lie with her? To feel the silk of her skin pressed against his? Oh, how he longed to taste her again...and again...deeper...the very essence of her.
How can I resist her?
But he must. He must strive to keep their relationship on an even keel. She had been adamant: she was not a woman to embark upon a casual liaison and he could offer her nothing more. He felt again the pounding of her pulse against his lips when he had kissed her wrist that morning. She was a passionate woman, but she had decided—for whatever reason—to deny her needs and he must respect her wishes, as he respected her.
Besides—he forced his attention back to the ledger—his business affairs were in such a dire state, he could not in all conscience offer...
No! Where had that thought been heading? No! No! No! Had Julia taught him nothing? Women could not be trusted.
They wanted one thing from a man—a life of luxury. Julia had been brutal—rejecting as worthless his offer of his hand in marriage, his heart. And she had scorned him whilst standing in the embrace of another man.
A man he had thought his friend.
His vision blurred. He could make no sense of these figures.
‘Are you feeling unwell?’ The soft voice broke into his reverie.
‘I am tired,’ he said abruptly. ‘Will you ring for Trant? I want to go back to bed.’
Mary’s face fell as she jumped to her feet. ‘It was too much for you. All this, it was too soon after your fever.’ She put the ledger on the table and crossed the room to the bell pull. ‘I am so sorry. I should have waited, I was excited and was so looking forward to seeing your reaction, I didn’t think...’
‘Mary!’
‘I should have noticed...’
‘Mary!’
It took a few attempts to stem the flow of her determined self-recrimination. Lucas reached out his hand and Mary clasped it, her touch triggering a rush of desire that he quickly suppressed. ‘It was not because of this. It was my own stubborn insistence that I was ready to concentrate on the ledgers. If anyone should be apologising, it is me.’
Trant came, together with Shorey and Hooper. By the time Lucas was back in his own bed he was utterly exhausted.
* * *
When Lucas awoke it was dark. Mary was in the fireside chair, sewing by candlelight. He spent a few contented moments watching her, then frowned as he saw her stifle a yawn before rubbing her hand across her eyes.
‘Why are you sewing in that light? It will hurt your eyes.’
She looked round and he was struck by how careworn she looked. Then she smiled and her face lit with that familiar inner radiance.
‘I like to keep occupied,’ she said as she put her sewing to one side and stood up. She poked at the fire, coaxing a flame from the embers, before adding more wood. She crossed the room to Lucas’s side and perched on the bedside chair. ‘You are right, though,’ she continued. ‘It is far more comfortable, not to say efficient, to set stitches next to a window in the daylight. How are you feeling now?’
‘I feel...tired.’ He couldn’t believe it. Had he not just slept away the afternoon and half of the evening? ‘How on earth can I still feel tired after all this time spent sleeping?’
She laughed. ‘Why so condemnatory? You sound positively affronted that your body has the temerity to need time to recover. Must I remind you that you were shot seven days ago, you have grappled with a debilitating fever and you have hardly regained your appetite as yet? It is no wonder you are exhausted.’
‘Hmmph. But there is so much to be done, Mary. I...’
‘And it is all being done. All you need to concentrate on is regaining your strength. Speaking of which, there is some soup in the kitchen. Would you like me to heat some for you?’
His stomach roiled in protest at the thought of food. ‘I am not hungry.’
Mary sat on the bed and reached out to feel his forehead.
‘I am not fevered,’ he grumbled. ‘Just tired. And not hungry.’
‘You need something to eat and drink. I thought you were eager to recover your strength?’
He turned his head to one side. He knew she was right, but he could not garner any enthusiasm.
‘Tell me, if you cannot stomach soup, what might tempt you? Shall I make you a posset?’
Lucas grimaced. ‘Invalid food.’
‘And you, Lord Rothley, are an invalid, are you not?’ Mary stood up. ‘The milk will nourish you and help you to sleep.’
‘As if I need any assistance with that.’
She shook her head at him, smiling. ‘Stop complaining. I won’t be long.’
Lucas suspected he must have dozed off again, for it seemed barely a minute before Mary was back, helping him to sit up and encouraging him—in a way that brooked no argument—to drink the warming, milky posset and to eat a small slice of plum cake she had brought up from the kitchen. When he had finished, he smiled at her.
‘You were right, I do feel better. How could I have questioned you?’
‘Mayhap you will remember that, the next time you are inclined to doubt that I know best,’ she replied, laughing.
He remembered how weary she had looked, sitting by the fire. ‘You need to look after yourself, too, Mary. You should go to bed. Get some rest.’
‘I cannot deny I am tired,’ she said, ‘but there was something I wished to ask you first, if I may?’
‘Of course. What is it?’
‘When we were looking at the ledgers, you spoke of finding further economies. I have identified a few possibilities and I wondered if you might agree to a few changes around the house?’
‘Changes?’
‘Yes...’ Mary leaned toward him ‘...the Hall takes a great deal of cleaning and, with so few servants, the result is that it looks dull and shabby.’
Lucas had to laugh. ‘You do not pull your punches, do you, Mary? I cannot take on more staff. You have seen the accounts; you know my circumstances.’
‘I do know, but why can some of the seldom-used downstairs rooms not be shut up for now? There are plenty of dust covers in the attics.’
‘You have been wandering around in the attics?’ Lucas was uncomfortable with the idea of a near stranger poking around in the far-flung corners of his home.
Mary laughed. ‘Of course not. Mrs Lindley told me, when I asked. But she refused to close off any of the rooms because she said you would not allow it.’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘Surely it cannot matter to you one way or the other? You are one man. The small parlour could be used as a dining room. After all, you don’t...that is...’ She faltered.
‘Do not be bashful now, Mary. Say what you were about to say. I don’t have any guests, is that it? I can see you and Mrs Lindley have had plenty to discuss.’
‘It is true.’ Mary reached for his hand and clasped it warmly. Lucas was sure she had, once again, acted without conscious intent. ‘Do not be angry. Mrs Lindley is only concerned about you and I have overheard the servants. There is nothing underhand or...or...nasty about it, I assure you. They say the only guest you ever entertain is your mother and she—I am sure—would not object to dining in a more intimate fashion than using that huge, formal dining room. And then,’ she rushed on, ‘if the music room were to be made into a small sitting room and with you spending much of your time in your study, well...’ She paused for breath.
‘Well...?’
‘It just makes sense,’ she declared.
Sensible Mary is back, Lucas thought, although he did not say it. At least I have learnt that lesson. ‘Does it indeed? How so?’
‘Not only will it save time, but it will also save on firewood as there will be fewer rooms to heat.’
‘Firewood is free, Mary. It is cut from fallen and diseased trees on the estate.’
‘But the labour to cut it and transport it is not free; at least, not in terms of time. If your men are not spending time hauling wood, they can spend more time with your animals. And it takes Susan time to clean and lay all those fires every morning, not to mention keeping them alight.’
Lucas couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Do you mean to tell me she is continuing to light all the fires even now, when I am confined upstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why? Why have you not told her to stop?’
‘I did try. But I have no authority, you know...not that I think I should have any, you understand...and Mrs Lindley’s stock reply to me is: “It’s always been done this way, ever since her ladyship’s day.” It seems, in the absence of any direction from you to the contrary, the staff have continued in the same routines they followed when your mother lived here.’
‘But why did they not ask me?’
‘I think they did not dare.’ Mary smiled, lifting her brows. ‘Have you been an easy man to approach over trifling matters, would you say?’
‘I...
’ Lucas paused, searching for the words to convey how he felt. ‘I find it hard to believe, Mary...that it has taken a stranger to point out something so fundamental... Have I really been walking around with both my eyes and my mind shut?’
‘It is small things such as this that could make a difference to the comfort, and the expenses, of your household. But do not be too hard on yourself, Lucas, for you have had more serious matters to grapple with since your father died.’
Lucas wondered if Mary was aware she had used his name. Studying her earnest expression, he thought not, but the fact she had done so kindled a pleasurable glow inside.
‘Thank you, Mary. I see I shall have to pay more attention to household matters in future. I suppose I had thought—if I activated my brain at all in the matter—that the staff would run the domestic side without any need for guidance from me. I can see I was wrong. Send Mrs Lindley to me in the morning, I shall tell her she is to take her orders from you.’
‘Goodness, no! The last thing I want is for her to resent me. Please don’t be angry with her,’ Mary said. ‘It is not her fault, you know. She is only doing as she has always done.’
‘I shall not upset her, Mary, I promise. And, talking of upsetting people, will it upset you if I thank you again for what is, if I may say this, a very sensible suggestion. And that is meant as a compliment.’
‘I am not upset,’ Mary said, her voice suddenly shy. She blushed, gazing down at their clasped hands. ‘I am pleased to have been of use. I have some experience of managing on a small budget.’
Lucas felt his heart constrict in his chest. He longed to gather her into his arms and comfort her but he contented himself with a squeeze of her hand, which he then released. Their conversation had livened Lucas up, but he was determined not to keep Mary from her sleep and did not demur as she settled him down for the night. He was certain he would lie awake for hours, but he drifted into his dreams without hesitation.
* * *
The next day Ellen handed Mary a letter as she breakfasted in the large formal dining room for what she hoped was the last time. After breakfast she had every intention of persuading Mrs Lindley to close up the room and to serve meals in the small parlour at the back of the house. It was nearer the kitchen and, with a good clean, would be a cosy, welcoming room—far more pleasant than dining alone in this barn of a room, with its oppressive décor and huge table, large enough for four-and-twenty settings.
Mary and the Marquis Page 9