Stella Cameron

by Fascination

  “Interesting and ...?” A smile revealed straight white teeth and showed unexpected dimples beneath high cheekbones. But the smile did not soften or relax his harsh face. “And, Miss Grace Wren?”

  “I’m sure I cannot remember what I meant to say.” But she did not intend to appear an empty-headed widgeon. Neither did she, for one moment, intend to let him think her afraid of him. Grace smiled at him directly. “Do you know the old marquess?”

  His reaction was extraordinary. The smile became a grin, and then he laughed.

  “I’m sure I cannot imagine what is so humorous about that question, sir.” Perhaps she should try to make her escape and look for another hiding place for her treasure.

  He sobered but continued to grin. “No, clearly you cannot, Miss Grace Wren.”

  What an arresting mouth, wide and clearly defined, the lower lips much fuller than the upper ... And his nose was so straight, the narrow bridge an elegant blade.

  This was one more outrageous event in an unbelievably outrageous day. “I asked if you knew the marquess. Was that an inappropriate question?”

  “Not at all. I know him better than anyone.”

  Her heart bumped. “Do you like him?”

  He raised his sharply defined jaw to look down upon her. “A complex question. There are those who would say the marquess is not without virtue.” The growth of his beard shadowed his cheeks, and she saw the sweep of thick, dark lashes. The face of a barbarian, a barely tamed barbarian.

  If he was tamed at all.

  “He is a good man?” She tried to relax but failed. The wicked smile flashed again. “The best of men. None better.”

  “Oh. Oh, that is very relieving to hear.”

  “I’m glad to have pleased you.”

  “Was this room his?”

  “It still is. This castle is his.”

  Grace blushed. “Forgive me. Since he is so ill and confined, I ... He loves beautiful things, doesn’t he?”

  The man planted his feet apart and considered, and whilst he did, his green eyes never left their close scrutiny of Grace.

  She hunched her shoulders a little. Leaving her chamber wearing only a thin blue muslin dress had been a mistake, but it was not only the chill that made her shiver.

  “Why do you think the marquess loves beautiful things?” the man asked suddenly.

  “This room.” She inclined her head. “And Mr. Innes took us to a drawing room which he said belonged to the old marquess. That, too, is magnificent.”

  “Is it?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure the marquess must find it very difficult to be denied all pleasures of life. The room did not appear to have been used in many years. Not since the old gentleman became ill, I should imagine.”

  “How old did Mr. Innes say the marquess is?”

  Grace thought. “I don’t believe he did say exactly.”

  “But he told you ... he was ill?”

  “Oh yes. Already confined to his room, Mr. Innes told me.”

  “Did he? Confined?”

  “Yes. He told me the marquess doesn’t go about anymore.”

  “He told you that, hm?”

  “Yes. Not at all. Isn’t that sad for a man who must have been so vital.”

  “What makes you so certain he was vital?”

  “Why, this room.” Grace smiled around. “Look at it. Feel it. Can you feel it?”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure. Help me.”

  She hesitated a moment before saying, “If you close your eyes—” she did so herself “—there is something in the air. It’s vibrant as if there were colors one cannot see with one’s eyes open. When you ... There’s music here.” And there was, like a shimmery echo of the notes he’d played. “I can hear music here, can’t you?”

  Very faintly, as if drawn like a brilliantly hued silken ribbon, notes seemed to carress her mind. “Can’t you?”

  A touch, so light it might have been imagined, passed along her jaw.

  Grace’s eyes flew open. He did not appear to have moved, but the darkness in his eyes had intensified. He looked at her mouth.

  She passed her tongue over her lips and saw him draw his own bottom lip between his teeth.

  “Can you?” she repeated, and her voice broke.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, I can hear it. Who are you, little night imp? Other than Miss Grace Wren?”

  His meaning wasn’t clear. “I ... I am no one really. Except that I am here to marry the marquess. Since you know him so well, I expect he has spoken of this event.”

  “There has been some mention. What is in your parcel?”

  Grace held it the tighter. “Just some things.”

  “Just some things you carry around in the middle of the night whilst you search out a hiding place?”

  “No—” How could he know? “That is ... they would not be valuable to anyone but me.”

  “They?”

  “My things,” she said, desperately trying to think of a way to leave.

  “But they are very, very important to you, aren’t they?” he said softly.

  “You are like me,” Grace said, and immediately wished the words away. But they had been said. “I mean, you feel things others don’t always feel.” And they were both hiding something for which they cared very, very much.

  “I doubt if we are at all alike,” he said. “No deep intellect is required to see that you hold something dear to you. But that is your affair. If you should require a place to keep possessions in safety, why not use the window seat behind you?”

  She glanced back.

  He moved without sound, setting aside the brush and cloth and leaning past her to lift a heavy oaken lid. “There. It is yours, and you have my word that neither I nor any other shall touch whatever you choose to leave here. Do you believe that you can trust me?”

  “Yes.” It was true because they were alike, she and this stranger. How miraculous to chance upon someone so obviously different from oneself in every visible way but whose very heart touched one’s own. Relief made her stupidly weak—and grateful. “Thank you! Are you certain ... You are sure the marquess would not mind?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Carefully Grace bent to set the parcel into the deep space. As she straightened, she found his face close to hers. “Thank you,” she said again, and awkwardly played with the thin gold chain at her throat.

  “The pleasure is mine.” He tilted his head, looking upon her so intently that Grace felt heat rise to her skin. “Oh, yes, the pleasure is definitely mine.”

  She took a deep breath and could not fail to note that his gaze briefly shifted to her breasts. “I was right, wasn’t I? This was the marquess’s special room?” This deep, trembling sensation was not something she recalled feeling before.

  Putting the lid of the window seat down, he straightened. “Yes, indeed.”

  “I wish I had known him then.”

  “Fate brings us surprises,” he said.

  Grace frowned. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Mm?” The green of his eyes was so searing, it had the power to burn. “I simply meant that sometimes reality proves quite different from that which our imagination has anticipated. Yes, indeed, reality can present us with some interesting prospects.”

  “I’m sure I do not understand you, sir.”

  “No, I’m sure you don’t. But you may one day.”

  She might like that. “You say you are the marquess’s companion.”

  “His closest companion.”

  “I thought that was Mr. Innes’s position.”

  “He would be the first to tell you I am closer.”

  This was most puzzling. “You deal with his ... personal needs, perhaps?”

  Once more there was that smile that made her want to smile, too. “His most personal needs.”

  Now she understood. “So it is you who need me.” Impulsively she rested a hand on his arm. “And the marquess himself, of course. But you need me to help you look after him.�
��

  His manner of taking his bottom lip in his teeth caused the oddest sensation within her. “In a manner of speaking,” he said.

  She leaned closer. “I really am very capable, you know. My mother is not at all strong—in some ways, that is—and I nursed my father through his final illness. You will not find me one little bit hesitant in dealing with the ... with whatever needs to be done.”

  “Whatever?”

  “Whatever,” she agreed fervently. “And he will find comfort in a woman’s gentle touch—the touch of someone bonded to him.”

  “What a delightful thought.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  His hand, warm and strong, covered hers upon his arm. “You need never beg my pardon.”

  Truly, men could be so difficult to understand.

  “Why did you agree to marry a man you have never met?”

  Grace bowed her head.

  “Come.” He shook her gently. “Answer me this.”

  “It ... It was a solution.”

  “To what?”

  Was the decision she’d made wrong? “To the problem of how to care for my mother,” she told him in a rush. “And to finding a way to be free to make my own choices.”

  With his forefinger he eased up her chin. “Now you speak in riddles. What choices could a young female possibly want to make for herself?”

  There it was again. Even in this sensitive man. The wretched and annoying male certainty that females were inferior and in need of guidance in all things. “Really, it is too infuriating. Why do men think they have the right to tell women what they should do and what they should want? And what they should think, for goodness’ sake? I wish to marry a man who considers me his equal in all things. I should like to help him with his business and the decisions he makes. And I should like him to consult me when he is troubled and expect me to give him comfort and to offer sensible advice.” She paused for breath. “And I want to have to ask no man’s permission to do what I consider important.”

  There seemed a loss of focus in his eyes. “Extraordinary.”

  “Oh, fie! There is no point to this, and I cannot imagine why I am speaking of such things. This is not something I speak of, and it is amazing that I should have chosen to tell you.”

  “Amazing? When we are so alike? You already told me as much, you know. But I am confused. How will your marriage to the marquess aid you in achieving your goal?”

  Grace blushed once more. “I would not have thought of such a plan if Mr. Innes had not approached Mama and me at Lady Armstrong’s. He came to a salon there, and Lady Armstrong introduced us. Afterwards he reacquainted himself with me at several gatherings. He said he had been told about me and wished to approach me on a matter of business.”

  “But how did you—”

  “He asked me many questions and was pleased with my answers,” Grace said quickly. “Just as he was pleased with the exceptionally boring ... um, the quiet life I have lived. At first his suggestion seemed quite appalling “

  “Appalling?”

  “The thought of marrying a decrepit old man for his money.” She clapped her hands over her mouth. “I mean—”

  “You mean that marrying a decrepit old man for his money repulsed you before you considered the money in more depth?”

  “Yes ... No! Well, not exactly.” How dreadful she sounded.

  “I am not clear as to how you intend to use this money to fulfill your requirements whilst your husband still lives. Other than taking care of your mother, that is.”

  “Oh, I could not! No, no, I have every intention of being the very soul of kindness, a true pillar of strength to my husband whilst he lives.

  “But once my duties are discharged, there will be no impediment to my seeking a husband of my choice, d’you see. Then it will be no different than a man of means seeking the wife of his choice ... As men always have ... I’ll have the means myself ... d’you see ...?

  “Men have always done it, haven’t they? Wealthy men?” Surely any reasonable man would understand. “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think that if you were rich, you could easily find a wife who would please you?”

  “It appears less and less likely.”

  There was an altogether confusing inflection in his voice. And why was he watching her so strangely? “Anyway, Mr. Innes said I would be very well compensated for my efforts.”

  His eyes narrowed even more. “A bargain. Your young life for an old man’s pleasure?”

  Grace felt fuddled, and yes, more than a little unnerved. “Mr. Innes’s offer was sincerely made. He made it clear that all that is required of me is to care for the poor old man in his final days and to take care of his remaining earthly desires.”

  He coughed and averted his face. “Mr. Innes explained all this to you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And he said you would soon be free.”

  She frowned. “That is what I’m sure he implied.”

  “You would not have considered coming here to marry a man who was not on his deathbed?”

  “Oh, no!” Why would he ask such a question? “I’m sure that if he were young, he would not have been at all what I wanted in that kind of husband.”

  “What, I wonder, would your kind of husband be?” The comment was evenly enough made, and Grace did not anticipate his next move. He reached out and caught an untidily trailing tendril of her hair between finger and thumb and tugged lightly. “No doubt you would want a man who told you often that you have the most glorious mass of pale blond hair he has ever seen.”

  The careful pull on her hair spun a thread of intimacy between them. “The matter of a suitable husband will not be at all difficult,” she said.

  He increased the pressure on her scalp, pulling her closer until she stood almost toe to toe with him, looking up. “Perhaps there is already a fortunate man waiting for you somewhere?”

  “Absolutely not!” Grace tried to ease her hair from his fingers.

  “So adamant.” Abandoning the tugging, he concentrated instead on smoothing her cheek with the back of a finger. With his thumb, he stroked her bottom lip. “I have no doubt that you would make a passionate wife for a young and virile man.”

  Tingling warmth spread in Grace’s belly—and lower. “This seems an inappropriate conversation,” she told him, and heard the breathlessness in her voice. “I should return to my chamber.”

  “Which chamber is that?”

  “One with a silly name. The Delilah room, of all things.”

  His hand fell to her shoulder like a stone, and his fingers closed on her neck. “Who put you there?” he asked sharply.

  “Mr. McWallop,” she said, aware of the pressure of long, strong fingers at her throat. “Apparently there was none other anywhere near readiness. It is all purple and rather vulgar, but quite comfortable. This castle needs cleaning,” she finished uncertainly.

  “You shall have a different room soon enough.” A white line formed around his compressed mouth. “No one is supposed to enter that chamber. I ordered it locked.”

  She did not imagine his anger. “I expect they forgot. In the morning I’ll mention your concerns to—”

  “You will mention my concerns to no one. Not a soul. Do I make myself clear?”

  Grace opened her mouth, but no sound came.

  “You will not tell a soul that you came here tonight. Or that you saw me. Is that also clear?”

  She nodded.

  “Now you will leave.” He did not remove his hand from her neck. “But you will return tomorrow night at precisely the same time.”

  “Could ... could I not come during the day?”

  “You are never again to enter this room without my permission.”

  “Perhaps the marquess would like me to look after it for him.”

  “He would not.”

  “But it would ease a burden for you, and—”

  “It is unseemly for a female—parti
cularly one in such a peculiar circumstance—to argue on such a matter.”

  Grace found a little courage. “I think you would do well to remember who you’re speaking to. I am shortly to be your master’s wife, and as such, you will be mine to command.” She did not sound particularly courageous.

  His touch gentled and slipped to her bare shoulder. He rubbed the sensitive skin there with his palm. “I will be yours to command?” A fresh smile made of his face a dark and devilish mask. “Tell me, Miss Wren, how will you know when you meet the man you wish to marry ... after the marquess’s death, of course?”

  “That is simple,” she said, defiantly shrugging free and slipping past him. “I shall feel it, sir, as I feel anything that matters to me.”

  “And how will this momentous event feel?”

  Grace backed away toward the door. “It will feel full of love. I will feel the man’s love for me with my heart and soul.”

  “And you will never doubt that his love is for you rather than for the enormous wealth you plan to command?”

  “No doubt at all!” she told him triumphantly. “Because he will not know I have money until after he has declared his love. And I will love him.”

  “This love is essential?”

  “It is everything.”

  “A pretty notion.” He put his hands on his hips beneath his coat. “But at least we know there is no misunderstanding in what you intend to do at Kirkcaldy. You intend to use the marquess, just as he intends to use you. And that is quite fair, do you not agree?”

  Every word he spoke felt like a trap, although she could not guess why that should be so. “I agree.”

  “And what if the marquess lingers on somewhat longer than you anticipate?”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. “Then I shall simply have to make the best of it.”

  “Perhaps you could consider turning to another who is, as you have already suggested, very like you. Time might pass quite pleasantly in the company of one with whom you share so much.”

  He was offering her companionship. Friendship!

  Grace brightened. “You really are very perceptive and forward-thinking for a man.” Her more favorable impressions of him had been correct. “Of course. That is a perfectly wonderful idea. I accept and I intend to enjoy every moment of our time together. Thank you.”