The Marriage Masquerade

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  “No. I came up here to see about you. Alice told me.” She released Yancey’s hands and pointed to the white cat still seated regally on the foot-wide stone windowsill. Unbelievably, the sleek cat ducked its head in seeming acknowledgment. “She saw you come running in here. From behind the garden. Over by the benches under the elms. With Sam. And then she came and got me at the carriage house.”

  Disbelief coursed through Yancey. She hadn’t seen any of the cats there. Or Nana. Yet that was exactly where she had been with the duke. How could Nana know that? Surely one of the gardeners had told her. But something else nagged at her. “Did you say the carriage house? What were you doing in the carriage house? Did the dowager perhaps arrive?”

  That would be awful. Yancey just didn’t feel up to another confrontation today.

  “No, no. I was locking Mrs. Convers inside.”

  She said that as if it explained everything. Yancey stared at the wizened old woman. “I’m sorry, but who exactly is Mrs. Convers?”

  Her Grace Nana waved a hand in dismissal. “Sam calls her my nurse and companion. I call her my warden.” She leaned in conspiratorially toward Yancey, all but whispering now. “Mrs. Edgars is next, you know.”

  Yancey frowned, seeing in her mind the tall, angular, unsmiling, unwelcoming woman who had shown her to her suite of rooms yesterday. “Do you mean the housekeeper?”

  “Do you mean the housekeeper?”

  Startled to have her words repeated, Yancey sat back, roving her gaze in an assessing manner over the much older woman’s face. To Yancey’s dismay, Her Grace Nana’s eyes seemed suddenly cloudy, not so focused, and her expression slack. Yancey slumped. The poor old dear was gone, at least in mind and spirit, if not body. Now what had caused that?

  “A little bird told me I might find you two up here.”

  The unexpected sound of the masculine voice from behind her jerked Yancey around and had her leaping off the bed in one movement. Her back to the wall, she faced the duke, her heart pounding, her hands fisted.

  “Samuel, dear,” Her Grace Nana greeted him, her voice full of affection. “I seem to have misplaced my nurse.”

  Yancey looked from the man to his nana and back to him when he replied, his voice patient and warm. “I’ve heard. But I think we’ve found her in the carriage house.”

  “Ah,” the old lady remarked, sounding as if a great mystery had just been solved. “So that’s where she’s got to.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” The duke had directed his comment to Yancey.

  But she was in no mood for idle chatter. “What are you doing up here?”

  Standing just across the threshold, with his arms crossed over his chest, he lolled with a shoulder leaned against a wall comprised of cold, massive stone blocks. “I used to come up here all the time when I was a boy. Sometimes with my brother on a rainy day. We’d be here for hours fighting many imaginary battles and countless invading armies. But now, when I want to be alone, when I want to see something eternal, something bigger than myself—I mean the mountains—I come up here. But I believe, in this instance, what you’re doing up here should be my question to you.”

  He hadn’t advanced on her, but she still felt a need to step back. As it was, she had to tip her tongue out to moisten suddenly dry lips. She roved her gaze over him. Was he actually bigger? Taller? Even more muscular and imposing than he’d been out of doors? Or was it the room’s confining dimensions that made him seem so? That had to be it. Just as she’d done yesterday when he’d surprised her in her bedroom, Yancey wondered how long he had been standing there and how much he had heard. In her mind she damned the well-oiled door to this room for not squeaking a warning to her. She also damned the cats as well for having done nothing to give away their master’s presence.

  “Any one of the cats here got your tongue?” He idly pointed to the three felines in attendance.

  He always asked her that. Perhaps if she weren’t so tongue-tied around him … Yancey raised her chin. “Very amusing, Your Grace.”

  “Ah, then they don’t. Excellent.” Holding her attention with his piercing slate-gray eyes, he held a hand out, as if he wanted her to take it.

  Never. Yancey took another step back, only to butt into the table behind her, which elicited a startling yowl out of the offended cat sitting there. Yancey whipped around, her hands held to her chest. The white cat crouched down and hissed at her. Yancey jerked back.

  “Jane, stop that. You’re being a bad girl.”

  This reproof had Yancey pivoting to Her Grace Nana, who’d just chastised the cat. The older woman caught Yancey’s eye. “It’s not you, dear. It’s Scotty. She doesn’t like him.”

  “But Scotty’s not…” Yancey thought her voice sounded weak and so far away … as if she were at the other end of a tunnel. All of a sudden these people seemed oddly strange to her, as if they were malevolent and were closing in on her. She didn’t know whom to trust or what was real or imagined. She put a hand to her temple, wondering what was wrong with her, why the room was slowly spinning. Did no one else feel it?

  She put a hand out, seeking a solid presence to cling to, but finding none. “Scotty’s not up here,” she got out, hearing the slur in her words.

  “But you’re mistaken, Miss Calhoun. Scotty is right here.”

  This came from the duke. As if made of lead, as if unable suddenly to control the movement of her head, Yancey did her utmost to lift her gaze until she could see the duke. And there was Scotty standing beside him.

  “No,” Yancey whispered. He hadn’t been there but a moment ago. She could not make heads or tails of this. Had the butler materialized out of thin air? In a puff of smoke? Had they all gone mad—or had she?

  “Help me,” she begged, her knees feeling weak, a hand outstretched to the duke.

  With an oath and a frowning look of sudden concern, he started toward her. But that was when the floor rose up to meet her … and the world went black.

  * * *

  “Shhh. She’s coming around. Be quiet now. Don’t scare her.” Sam punctuated his admonitions with a fierce frown all around the canopied bed, in the center of which lay Miss Calhoun, who was returning to consciousness following her swoon in the tower.

  Standing in the circle around her bed were Scotty the silent butler, Robin the tearful lady’s maid, Mrs. Edgars the glaring housekeeper, Mrs. Convers the recently rescued and irate nurse, Nana the oblivious, her three cats—Mary, Alice, and Jane—and Mr. Marples the dog. The cats were on the bed. The short-legged dog yapped frantically, wanting also to be atop the bed. One of the cats hissed at him. Stiff-legged with outrage, the terrier growled right back.

  “Quiet that dog, or I’ll clear this room,” Sam all but growled to Miss Calhoun’s lady’s maid.

  Wide-eyed with fright, yet dropping a curtsy, the girl wordlessly plucked the frantic wire-haired terrier off the carpet and held his squirmy body in her arms. Petting it, she shushed it and stared at Sam.

  He nodded his thanks to her, which seemed to frighten her more, and then turned to the florid-faced Mrs. Convers, his nana’s nurse. “Dampen a cold cloth for her head.” Scotty’s turn was next. “Open those windows. The breeze will do her good.”

  Nana nodded, repeating, “The breeze will do her good.”

  As Scotty lumbered past, bent on doing Sam’s bidding, the stout nurse curtsied to Sam, said, “Yes, Your Grace,” and hurried over to the washbasin and dry sink tucked away in a corner of the room. In a moment she was back with the dripping cloth and made as if to place it on Miss Calhoun’s forehead. Before she could, Mrs. Edgars plucked it from her, saying, “Give me that. You’re dripping it everywhere. I will tend the duchess.”

  But Sam surprised his housekeeper—and himself—by taking the rag from her. “In fact, I believe I will tend her.”

  His housekeeper looked as if she could slap him. “I must protest, Your Grace. I hardly think you—”

  “You hardly think at all if you think to gainsay me, Mrs. Edga
rs.” Sam leaned in toward her, daring her to say another word. Wisely, she did not, instead firming her severe lips into a straight line. Satisfied, Sam righted himself and said, “Leave us. All of you.”

  En masse, they all turned and, following Scotty, filed out. Mrs. Convers gripped Nana’s arm, so the cats fell in, single file, behind them. Still holding the dog, the lady’s maid was next. Mrs. Edgars was at the rear and herding them all as if she were a shepherd and they her flock. Once she stepped over the threshold into the suite’s sitting room, she arrowed an angry look Sam’s way. But she did close the door behind her. Sam didn’t know what to think about her impertinence. Perhaps he’d had too lax a hand with his household staff of late. Perhaps he needed to pay more attention.

  But alone at last with Miss Calhoun, Sam dismissed his housekeeper from his mind and placed the washcloth on his supposed wife’s forehead. But Miss Calhoun, in a semiconscious state, frowned and swiped at it, dislodging it. Sam spoke low and soothingly to her and put it back in place. Slowly she writhed, moving her arms and legs and tossing her head from side to side. The cloth again dislodged and a tiny moan escaped her. Sam plucked the wet rag up and tossed it to the nightstand. Obviously she wasn’t going to hold still for its cooling benefits.

  He perched a hip on the side of the bed and watched her. He knew that should she awaken and find him thus, his positioning would appear at best unseemly to her. But for the life of him, he couldn’t step away from her. Nor could he help but notice at such close quarters how disconcertingly young she appeared with such pink cheeks and the childlike pout of her full lips, her slender neck, and unblemished skin. She was beautiful. Delicate. Like a flower. Or perhaps a nymph from the sea. More affected than he cared to admit, Sam had all he could do not to caress her cheek or stroke her hair.

  He focused on her long red hair, trying to name for himself its color. Auburn? Burnished gold? Copper? None of them, yet all of them, seemed to fit. It depended on whether or not she was in the sun. And even now the thick tresses had fallen like silken waves about her.

  Just then she moaned again and writhed with an unintentional sensuality that nevertheless stunted Sam’s breathing. Instant carnal images burst into his mind’s eye, as much appalling him as exciting him. The things he saw the two of them doing together hardly seemed appropriate under these circumstances with her in an impaired state. But there they were, even despite her being fully dressed and only semiconscious, for God’s sake. Not for the first time in his life was Sam chagrined by the willful turns his masculine brain would take when shown a beautiful woman. Very unsettling, much as if a rutting beast lived within him.

  He’d grown used to that aspect of his nature, but did prefer instead the idea of the civilized gentleman able to control his baser instincts. Yet … here the images were, and Sam’s moment of shame was bowled over by his desire for her. Causing him increasing physical agitation, his mind insisted on showing him pictures that boiled his blood, images that depicted her as God made her, naked, beautiful, proud, writhing atop a bed—his bed—and moaning, under him, and calling out his name—

  She opened her eyes, revealing them to be a deep forest-green. Sam felt his heart rate pick up. Still, he managed what he hoped was a neutral enough smile.

  She didn’t return it but blinked rapidly, as if still in a daze. Then, suddenly, her gaze landed on him and held. She frowned, much as if she couldn’t quite place him. Sam said nothing, giving her a few moments more to clear her mind. He knew the moment conscious awareness came to her because her eyes opened wide and she froze, croaking out a single, accusatory word. “You.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Yes. Me.” The duke’s gray eyes, the rich color of slate, roved lingeringly over her as she lay there on the bed. Yancey had all she could do not to squirm under such scrutiny. “Do you remember what happened, Miss Calhoun?”

  Her first response was to nod and murmur, “Yes. I think so.” Certainly, consciousness had come back to her in a rush. So had memory. And she believed she had the morning’s events pieced together. They weren’t flattering to either one of them, so Yancey shied away from bringing them up. However, she did call herself relieved to realize that though they were alone in her bedroom, they were both fully dressed. That left only one thing to nag her now. “How did I get here?”

  “I carried you, of course.”

  A shock of awareness, tempered with embarrassment, had Yancey blurting, “Oh, I hope I wasn’t too heavy.”

  He chuckled at her expense. “Spoken like a true female. Allow me to reassure you that your weight is trifling, Miss Calhoun. I wasn’t even winded when I laid you down here.”

  Upset with herself for being so typically female, something she liked to think she wasn’t, Yancey lowered her gaze. “Well, still, I’m glad to hear that.”

  Only belatedly did she realize that in order not to look into his eyes, she’d settled on the man’s powerful biceps and his broad chest. All she could think was he’d held her close and tight against his body for the entire distance from the tower to this room. Try as she might, she had no memory of the experience, but of course, she concluded, she wouldn’t. She’d been unconscious. Her next intruding thought told her that this was twice in as many days that she’d been held in his arms without her consent and without being conscious of it.

  Before she could decide how she felt about that, the duke shifted his weight off the bed and caught her attention, pulling her back to the moment.

  He stood and leaned over her, fisting his hands atop the bedding and to either side of her. Startled at this bit of familiarity on his part, and though still a bit fuzzy-thinking and so very thirsty, Yancey instinctively tensed. She felt small, an insignificant presence, a person of no defenses, and she didn’t like it. Her heart pounded. What could he mean to do?

  As if answering her unasked question, the duke said, “I would ask you to forgive me, but I find I’m not the least bit sorry for what I’m about to do.” With that, he lowered his head to hers and kissed her possessively on her lips.

  The shock of initial contact rocked through her, intense and riveting, awakening her senses. His lips against hers were warm, full, firm … and questing. His clean scent, so very male and musky, his body still retaining the elemental scents of the outdoors, heated her blood with desire. Yet, shocked by the suddenness of his ardor and his actions, Yancey felt pressed into the bed and gripped fistfuls of the bedding under her. Almost immediately, though, and before the kiss could deepen, the duke pulled away from her.

  Yancey opened her eyes, distressed to realize that she had at some point closed them. Didn’t that lend at least the appearance of her acquiescence to what he’d just done? Well, he mustn’t think such a thing, and she must tell him so. But she didn’t know what to say. Her next—and rebellious—thought was, Why should I have to say anything? She wasn’t the one at fault. She hadn’t taken liberties. He had. And she should look to him for an explanation of his actions.

  But as he’d so plainly stated but a moment ago, he wasn’t about to ask for forgiveness. And she knew he wasn’t in the habit of explaining himself. As it was, he stood there beside the bed, watching her. With her mouth slightly open and her lips still wet from his kiss, Yancey wanted to be angry with him. But the unsettling truth was she wasn’t. Instead, staring up at him, she could only pronounce herself glad to be already in a prone position. Surely, if she’d been on her feet, her knees would have given way and she would have fallen to the carpet, so powerful was the effect of his lips against hers.

  Gone, certainly, were any lingering dregs of her faint. But adding to the confusing mishmash of emotions and responses he seemed to engender in her was the realization that she had liked his kiss. She welcomed his advances. How distressing, given her circumstances in being here. If only he would say something, Yancey silently begged him, anything to end this agony of staring and knowing.

  Instantly, he complied. “As you appear to be unharmed by your swoon, I will leave you now.�
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  Stung, humiliated, and dismissed, apparently, Yancey pushed up against the bedding and supported her weight with her elbows. “What? You’ll leave me now? That’s it? That’s all you have to say for what just happened?”

  He cocked his head at a considering angle. Then his expression cleared. “Oh, of course. I owe you an apology, don’t I?”

  Feeling vindicated and thinking that this was more like it, Yancey nodded. “Yes. You do.”

  “Very well.” He crossed his arms over his muscled chest, an expanse only barely covered by his open-throated white shirt. “I apologize again for my behavior out in the garden.”

  Yancey shook her head as if to clear it of cobwebs. She stared wondering at him, thinking, Arrogant male. “The garden? Hang the garden, man. What about what just happened here?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “But I told you I wasn’t sorry for what I meant to do. Tell me … are you?”

  Yes was on the tip of her tongue, but the blasted word would not be spoken. Then it was too late to answer. Her silence had given her away, she knew. And so did he.

  “Well, then, if that’s all…?” He trailed his words off and proved himself a man of his word by turning on his heel and stalking toward the open door of her bedroom.

  Though in a state of disbelief, Yancey watched his retreating figure, instinctively noting the broadness of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, and the swagger in his walk. The combined effect of the man’s parts momentarily stunted her breathing. And because it did, she finally became angry with him. His swagger told her he felt triumphant. She couldn’t allow him that sense of victory over her, especially not after her appalling display of female weakness both up in the tower and then right here with his kiss. She must regain the upper hand. At this point, pride was all she had.