The Marriage Masquerade

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  And her costume, a dark blue simple skirt and a white blouse that showed off her arresting figure to its best advantage. Where did it end? Did she never stop in her mounting attractions? Oh, how well his body remembered how it felt to hold her when only her nightgown was between them.

  “I said, do you never get tired of all that?”

  Blinking out of his reverie, and cautioning himself to keep his wits about him, Sam realized he had no idea what she meant. “I beg your pardon? Tired of what?”

  “All that bowing and the ‘Your Grace’ this and ‘Your Grace’ that. Is it ever tiresome?”

  “Most certainly. Especially since returning here after many years spent in America. I found I’d become quite comfortable with being simply Mr. Samuel Treyhorne.”

  She nodded. “That sounds very American. I like it.”

  “Then you must call me Sam.”

  She shook her head no. “Oh, I don’t think I could. Not here.”

  Relenting a bit, if only for the moment, Sam teased, “Not here in the garden? Then how about in the drawing room?”

  “Now you’re teasing me.”

  He shrugged. “Blame it on the welcome sunlight and the enchanting company.”

  “And now you’re flattering me.”

  “Are you going to pass judgment on every action and word of mine?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s my nature to always be weighing things.”

  “I see. They could certainly use you in a counting house, then. But tell me, what in your life cultivated such talents?”

  Now it was her turn to shrug. “Nothing in particular. More of a natural inquisitiveness, I suppose.”

  “Ah, I see. A Calhoun family trait, then?”

  Her expression sharpened. “Yes. Is that where you’ve been leading me? To a discussion of family names?”

  He nodded. “Yes. And to this most inviting bench here.” It sat just off the gravel pathway. Tall elms surrounded it on three sides. “The shade from the trees will cool us.” He held a hand out for her to precede him. “Care to join me, Miss … Calhoun?”

  Again she turned those magnificent green eyes of hers up to him, this time to openly assess his expression, as if his features would reveal his intent. Sam met and held her gaze. Without warning, his body tightened, telling him plainly enough just how much he wanted her. He struggled to appear nonchalant, but he had to discreetly fist his hands to do it.

  “Of course,” she finally said, breaking the spell and showing him she wasn’t afraid of him.

  “After you, then. Careful, though, mind your skirt. The grass is still wet from yesterday’s soaking and then the dew this morning. It could be slippery going for you.”

  Again she sent him an arch expression. Clearly, she didn’t trust him any more than he did her. “Yes,” she drawled, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Sam watched her holding up her skirt as she made her way safely across the grass and over to the bench. He had to exhale and shake his head. Besides being a most pleasing picture of femininity, she also appeared so impossibly small and vulnerable. What was he to do with her?

  Sam finally followed her, behaving much as if she were leading him to his own execution. He must remain on guard with her, he chastised himself, only to instantly defend himself with the notion that he always meant to be, but her effect on him was too great. In fact, even now, though not knowing the first thing about her, except that she purported to have the same name as his wife, he wanted nothing more than to grab her up and toss her to the ground right here and have his way with her. He wouldn’t be male if he didn’t.

  But stopping him, aside from a sense of decency and mature restraint, was his suspicion that such a thing was her game. Only yesterday he’d thought that she’d found out about Sarah and meant to capitalize on her knowledge. Perhaps she meant to seduce and then blackmail him.

  That set off the proper alarms in him. And put him in the correct frame of mind for dealing with the mystery that was this woman who’d simply shown up on his doorstep yesterday in a driving rain and with a preposterous story. Sam narrowed his eyes as he stared at her slender back. Then she turned around, facing him, a questioning look on her face. “Surely you don’t mean for us to sit here, Your Grace? The bench seat is as dewed as the grass.”

  He looked at the bench in question. “Ah. So it is. Allow me.”

  As she stepped aside, Sam pulled out his handkerchief from a pocket and very self-consciously yet gallantly dried the wooden seat as best he could. When done, he signaled for her to be seated. Affecting a benign smile, he watched her smooth her skirt under her and sit down. She then looked up at him and held her skirt out of his way so he could be seated next to her. Tossing his wet and dripping handkerchief to the grass, Sam joined her.

  Once they were both settled, their shoulders touching … or, rather, her shoulder pressed against his arm, given that her stature was so much shorter than his … she took up the conversation, and in a surprising vein. “I feel compelled to tell you yet again that Sarah Calhoun is my real name. I am who I say I am, Your Grace.”

  He’d expected her to avoid that subject, yet here she’d brought it up again. So either she was innocent of the things he suspected her of, or she was very good at her game. “I’m certain that you are, Miss Calhoun. I never meant to imply otherwise.”

  Of course, she saw right through his answer, but she smiled, saying nothing as she looked all around them at the cultivated land and drew in a deep breath. “It’s very appealing out here. I like it very much. Is every May this pleasant in England?”

  “It varies from yesterday’s weather to today’s. And it can change rather quickly, too. It doesn’t do to be caught too far away from a safe haven.”

  She directed her gaze to him. “Is that a warning?”

  Sam crossed his arms over his chest and looked away from her. “Yes. But only a friendly one.”

  “Then I must thank you, Your Grace. And yet you’ve led us away from the manor and now even the garden. I’d say we’re quite out in the open.”

  “No. I’d say we’re quite on our own. Away from everything. And everyone.”

  “Are you trying to frighten me again?”

  He looked over and down at her, so tiny and ramrod straight sitting there next to him on the bench. His heart unexpectedly turned over in a way that had him feeling protective of her, when there was no reason why he should be. “If I were trying to frighten you, would you say I’m succeeding?”

  “No.” She lowered her gaze to her lap and made a show of arranging the folds of her skirt. “Failing abysmally is more like it.”

  Caught off guard, Sam laughed out loud, garnering for himself her surprised attention. She didn’t laugh with him, but he saw lights dancing in her eyes and her lips quirked at the corners. Feeling a bit more at ease with her, Sam nonchalantly put his arm around the back of the bench and her shoulders. She didn’t protest. And again, he had expected that she would. With her under his touch, he became aware that she did not wear a corset. Such an unusual woman, to flaunt custom so. Yet he could respect that, being someone who also bucked tradition every chance that presented itself. “You are a delight, Miss Calhoun, and I really wish you weren’t.”

  She pulled back as if to see him better. Her movement sent her intoxicatingly perfumed scent his way. She raised her delicately arched eyebrows quizzically. “Really? Why is that?”

  “Because I don’t know the first thing about you or what your intentions are here at Stonebridge.”

  She pursed her lips and pointed a finger at him. “That reminds me. I have yet to see the stone bridge. Where is it?”

  Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You want to see a stone bridge?”

  “Not a stone bridge. The stone bridge, the one I assume gave rise to the estate’s name. Surely there is one?”

  “Yes, there is.” He frowned, wondering what this need was of hers to see a simple stone bridge. “But you want to see it now?”

  “Well,
no, not if it’s a bother.” Then, in a mercurial change of mood or tactics, she stood abruptly, giving him no chance to reply before she began smoothing her skirt. “I apologize for taking up so much of your time, Your Grace. I’ve only just realized that’s what I’m doing. And I’m certain you must be a busy man with much more important things to do than—”

  “Not so busy as you’d think.” He stood also, remaining purposely close to her so he would tower over her. “In fact, my first order of business, since your arrival, Miss Calhoun, has become to discover exactly who you are and what it is you’re doing here. All else is secondary.”

  Instantly a picture of injured innocence—or so it seemed to Sam—she held her eyes artlessly wide as she gestured her apparent confusion. “But there is no mystery, Your Grace,” she swore. “I told you yesterday, and truthfully, that your mother wrote to me in America—”

  “Where in America?” He’d surprised her with his question. Her expression lost some of its innocence as her gaze darted here and there. Clearly, she was fishing around with the truth. “Just answer the question, Miss Calhoun. It’s bound to come out as soon as my mother returns home, which could be as soon as today or tomorrow.”

  She firmed her lips. “I have no reason to keep anything from you. And, as your mother will confirm, Chicago is the answer to your question.”

  A thrill of fright and guilt shot through Sam, making him wish he’d never asked her. “Chicago. I see.”

  She cocked her head at a questioning angle. “What do you see?”

  “That you’re no innocent, Miss Calhoun. You show up here with the same name as my wife and from the same city as she is. No mere coincidence, that.”

  The very enigmatic Miss Calhoun frowned. “I agree. But where exactly is your wife, Your Grace? Is she with your mother? Will I meet her today or tomorrow when they return home? Or is that possible?”

  Extreme anger seized Sam in its grip, stiffening his stance. “I warn you to leave off right there. How dare you question me like this?”

  She raised her chin, and her green eyes sparked with a strong emotion. “Because you’re the duke, you mean?”

  “I do not. I mean because you’re rude. This has nothing to do with rank or title, but simple courtesy and respect for me and my privacy.”

  She cocked her head as if in disbelief. “Oh, really? That same courtesy and respect that had you sneaking into my bed early this morning, uninvited—and unwanted, I might add—Your Grace?”

  Sam couldn’t even remember grabbing for her, but in the next instant, his heart pounding painfully, he had seized his guest by her arms and pulled her hard against him. “Tell me who the hell you are—and I mean right now.” He saw the fear in her eyes and heard how his voice shook with rage. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself. By God, he’d done nothing more to his wife than he’d been forced to do. And he was through paying for it. “Talk to me. Tell me how you found this place, how you know about my wife.”

  “I know nothing of your wife.” He’d all but shaken the words out of her, and her voice was a cry of pain.

  But Sam was beyond being moved by it. “You lie. What do you hope to gain by coming here to prey on my troubles? Is it money you want?”

  She shook her head vehemently, causing her hair to swing viciously about her shoulders. Finally it came out of its combs and fell into her face, which was red with her exertions as she tried to wriggle out of his grasp. “No. Let me go. I want no money. I came here because I was asked to do so. I swear it. Please. You’re hurting me.”

  And that was when Sam came to his senses. As shocked as if he’d just come upon the scene and saw himself shaking a helpless woman, he released her. “Dear God, I’m sorry, Miss Calhoun. I have no idea what came over me.”

  But Miss Calhoun, no doubt scared for her life, was having none of his apologies. Stumbling backward, feeling for the bench behind her, yet not taking her eyes off him, she held her mouth in a grimace of fear as she did her level best to sidle around the park bench to get away from him. She shoved her hair back and pointed a shaking finger at him. “You stay away from me, you bastard, or I’ll claw your eyes out.”

  Sam took a conciliatory step toward her. “And I wouldn’t blame you a bit if you did claw my eyes out or worse, Miss Calhoun. I am so very sorry. Please believe me.”

  “Get back,” she growled, her hand held palm out to him. “I warn you—I will defend myself if I must.”

  Although he had serious doubts that she could do any damage to him, Sam knew this wasn’t the time to remind her of his superior strength or size. She was overwrought—with damned good reason—and he, no matter how much he might want to make amends right now, would be best served to just let her go. So, backing up and stepping out of her way, effectively clearing a path for her to get safely back to the house, Sam told her, “I won’t stop you. You’re free to go.”

  Much like some cornered little animal, she warily watched him as she edged along the back of the bench, holding on to it as if it would afford her some protection from him. Not once did she look away from him. For Sam this was a waking nightmare. He saw Sarah, his wife, all over again in this woman’s pose and in her fearful expression. Sam then realized that Miss Calhoun had no more of the bench to put between her and him, so he retreated farther. “I said I wouldn’t stop you, and I won’t. And again, I’m so very sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  But she was already tearing off. Sam held a hand out to her, but she never saw it. Holding her skirt up, she ran, her long red hair whipping wildly to and fro in her desperate flight away from him.

  “Damn!” Sick with disgust for his own behavior, Sam could only helplessly watch her go. He couldn’t look away from her and didn’t, not until she was lost to him when she made a mad dashing turn at the far outside corner of the maze and passed out of his line of sight.

  “Rotten bastard,” Sam muttered to himself. With the tightness of regret in his chest, he continued to curse himself as he stepped over to the bench and sat down heavily upon it. Defeat had him leaning forward over his legs to prop his elbows atop his knees. Then he held his face in his hands and sat there a very long time, slowly shaking his head from side to side.

  * * *

  Badly shaken, and wanting only to be away from the volatile duke, Yancey had entered the round stone tower through a blessedly unlocked wooden door at its base. Propelled by demons she couldn’t name, she had run up the seeming hundreds of spiraling, twisting steps that led to the top. Stumbling, half-blinded by her hair that insisted on matting long, loose strands of it to her perspiring face, she’d lost her footing more than once and tripped over her skirt, banging her shins or skinning her palms. But on and on she’d run as if on some instinctive level she’d known she’d be safe if only she could achieve the top of the tower.

  And finally she was here. Sweating from her exertion and weak-kneed, she braced her hands against the cool dank walls of the tower itself. Bent forward, gasping for air, she kept her gaze on the closed door that greeted her at the very top of the ever-narrowing steps. Yancey reached out and pushed on the door … it swung easily inward. Surprised yet grateful for that, she forced her trembling legs to lift her feet just one more time so she could take the last stair and step over the threshold.

  When she did, she found herself in a small room, one that was crudely furnished. Beyond that she noticed nothing as she sagged to the floor with the blessedly cool wall at her back. Bending her knees, she drew her legs up until she could anchor her shoes’ heels against the worn stone floor under her. She rested her arms atop her knees. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back, concentrating only on getting air into her lungs and nothing more.

  As her breathing slowly began to return to a normal rate, she opened her eyes, wiped at her cheeks, and was surprised to find them wet with tears. She stared at her hands. She’d been crying? Certainly, she was justified, but it was humiliating to think the duke had reduced her to tears and made her run away just by rai
sing his voice and shaking her a bit. In her many cases for Mr. Pinkerton, she’d been dealt much more than that. And yes, sometimes running away had been the only smart thing to do. In her mind’s eye she again saw herself running out of the whorehouse in Chicago with Clara shooting at her.

  So it wasn’t that which had her so upset. Could it be her lingering tiredness from the long journey here? After all, she didn’t yet have her detective’s feet under her, to put it one way. Or could it be the strangeness of the place, of Somerset and its inhabitants? Or the constant state of vigilance forced upon her by not being able to trust anyone here? Certainly, any or all of those would unhinge anyone. Or could it be the duke himself?

  Yancey didn’t have to think overly long about that. It was true, and how she hated knowing that it was. Yes, he’d shocked and frightened her just now. And her first instinct had been to put a safe distance between him and her. He needed time to calm down, and she needed time to rethink how they’d come to such an impasse so quickly. But of more concern to her was her own heart. What if what was plaguing her now was something she simply did not want to acknowledge but must if she expected to keep herself safe?

  All right, then, go on, she urged herself. Admit it. What if the duke—a man who appealed to her on so many levels, a man who had already drawn more sensual and even angry passionate responses from her in less than a day’s acquaintanceship than any other man ever had—turned out to be the mastermind whom she was seeking? Could she bear it?

  She shook her head no. Well, like it or not, if he was guilty, she told herself, then she’d just neatly made of herself a cornered mouse in this tower. All the enraged duke would have to do now was climb the steps and toss her out the narrow window above her. Lovely. Not trusting herself to be able to stand, and with no strength left to defend herself, even should a knife-wielding villain burst in, Yancey sat where she was and belatedly surveyed her surroundings, looking for anything she could use to defend herself, providing she had the strength left to pick it up.