Make Me a Marchioness

by Blackwood, Gemma

  "I read your letter," he said. "I came back the moment I received it. You said some men accosted you?"

  "That's right," said Julia. Again, that hint of guilt behind her eyes. Did she really believe she ought to have done more to fend the men away? "I was lucky to escape from them. Mr Larkin assured me there are no real ruffians in Chiltern, and Lord Kit said it was my own fault for..." She gulped. "Well, I do not want to repeat what he said."

  "I will have words with him," said Charles. "He ought to have more faith in you."

  Julia dropped her face into her hands and, to his alarm, began to sob. "I have been so afraid, my lord!"

  "Come now. Come, you needn't be afraid any longer." Charles stroked her soft hand with his. Such small, delicate hands she had! And so far from appropriate, that he should have the privilege of touching them! "I am here and I will see to it that footmen patrol the grounds until the source of Annabelle's mysterious footsteps is found."

  "But what if Mr Larkin is right?" asked Julia, raising her reddened eyes. "What if it was all nothing – simply Lady Annabelle's overactive imagination?"

  She looked so fragile and frightened that it was all Charles could do not to take her into his arms and hold her until her shaking stopped. "Then I am glad that you wrote to me all the same, even if all I can do is put your mind to rest."

  "You are too kind, my lord..."

  "You deserve kindness." Charles found himself staring directly into Julia's eyes, his face only inches from hers. He caught the sweet scent of lavender wafting from her hair, which hung loose about her shoulders. He felt a sudden desire to bury his face in that sweet scent. "Now, let me escort you back to your own room. Annabelle will be awake soon and she will be troubled to find you upset."

  "Quite right," murmured Julia, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve. Charles produced a handkerchief from his pocket, which she accepted gratefully. "Thank you, my lord. I do hope it wasn't too much trouble –"

  "Not another word about it." Charles rose to his feet and offered her his arm. "You have the attic room, I believe?"

  "Yes, my lord."

  Julia slipped her hand around his arm, leaning against him. She weighed almost nothing at all. Charles wondered whether the cook had been feeding her properly. It would certainly be a shame if those delightful curves wasted away.

  In that manner, Julia leaning on him gratefully and Charles trying desperately to keep his thoughts appropriate, he led her back upstairs.

  "Has there been any other evidence of strangers invading the grounds?" he asked, hoping to allay some of her fears. Julia hesitated.

  "There was something strange a little while ago. I didn't think it meant much at the time, but... it was odd."

  "Tell me." Charles laced his fingers through hers, ignoring the voice in his head that told him he shouldn't. The nearness of Julia was enough to overwhelm his better instincts. He wanted nothing more than to take her face in his hands and kiss her fears away.

  For a single, delicious moment, Charles indulged himself in the fantasy of kissing Julia. Then she spoke, and what she said shattered his every desire.

  "Annabelle found something in the garden. A sort of crown woven from honeysuckle. There was no way she could have done it herself, and..." Julia frowned. "In all my walks around the grounds I never saw honeysuckle. It was very late in the season for it. Perhaps the crown used the last of the flowers."

  A fist of pain closed around Charles's heart. "Did you say...honeysuckle?"

  "Yes." Julia looked up at him with wide, trusting eyes. "Is something wrong, my lord?"

  "No," said Charles, though the strain in his voice spoke otherwise. He tugged at his collar, suddenly desperate for air.

  He knew the place where the honeysuckle grew. And, as far as he knew, no-one had stumbled upon it for years...

  Julia was still staring at him, growing concerned. Charles fumbled for an explanation.

  "Forgive me, Miss Mallory, I am growing foolish. It's only... the memories that honeysuckle brings me..."

  A golden autumn morning. A honeysuckle crown placed upon a head of hair as pale as straw. Sarah's laughter.

  "Did any of the servants admit to making the crown?" he asked hoarsely. They would pay for it with their positions, if they had truly trespassed on that hallowed ground.

  "I didn't think to ask," said Julia. "I'm sorry, my lord, it just didn't seem important at the time. And Lord Kit took it away from me, in any case."

  Yes, of course. Kit must have guessed how Charles would feel about honeysuckle in the house again.

  "Not to worry. It wasn't your fault." Charles's breathing was growing easier. What did it matter, after all, if some other young courting couple had happened upon that particular glade in the woods? He was the landowner, not a tyrant. "It disturbs me greatly to think that Annabelle is becoming fanciful. Seeing people in the garden. Attributing simple things to the supernatural. You know she lost her mother at birth."

  "I did not," said Julia. "I only knew that the late Marchioness had passed away."

  Charles coughed to hide his confusion. He was confessing more to Julia than he ought to, but it all felt so simple, so right. He was sure he could trust her to treat his feelings with kindness.

  "I often feel, here in this house, that Sarah's spirit is still with us."

  "That is a sweet thought, my lord."

  "Sweet and sad in equal measure. I do not wish Annabelle to be wedded to the past, as I am. She must be dissuaded from her silly notions about fairies and... and ghosts."

  They had reached the door to Julia's attic bedroom. Below them, he heard the maid trudging upstairs with her carefully-balanced cup of tea.

  "No ghosts," said Julia softly. "Yes, I quite understand."

  She looked at him with such pity that it was all Charles could do not to sink his head onto her shoulder and beg her to comfort him.

  Not for the first time, he had the strange impression that the only place he might find relief from Sarah's ever-watchful presence was in Julia's arms.

  The maid appeared with the tea, and the moment passed. Charles avoided Julia's gaze, not knowing what strange urges it might instil in him next.

  "I hope you are able to rest, Miss Mallory," he said gruffly. "I will go and see about setting the footmen to patrol the grounds. When I am finished, there will be nowhere you feel safer than Harding Hall."

  If only he could say the same for himself.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After spending the day in bed, sipping tea, dozing, and quietly reading a novel, Julia began to feel embarrassed about her behaviour of the past few days. Seeing Edmund had given her a shock, naturally, but it did not now seem worth the trouble of summoning the Marquess all the way back from Cornwall. She had worked herself up into a ridiculous state and she only had her employer's sympathy to thank for the fact she hadn't been immediately dismissed as hysterical.

  She rose from bed to take a peek out of her window and was reassured by the sight of a footman marching up and down in the garden, blowing on his hands to relieve the cold. Guilty as she felt to send the servants out into such freezing weather, she was glad to see her concerns being taken seriously. Surely Edmund would not dare approach Harding Hall now? She hoped he would give up and retreat back to London. Perhaps he would even forget her.

  A tentative knock at the door heralded the arrival of Sally, the maid. "Pardon me, Miss, but the Marquess would like to know whether you're well enough to join him in the library."

  "Please tell him I am quite recovered," said Julia, tingling with a mixture of nerves and something she didn't quite understand at the thought of seeing Charles again. "I will join him as soon as I am dressed."

  "Thank you, Miss." Sally bobbed a quick curtsy and was gone. Julia wished she'd thought to ask her what sort of mood the Marquess was in. He'd been so kind to her that morning – too kind, almost – but he might have reconsidered things now.

  How could she make him see that there was serious danger afoot, with
out revealing her connection to Edmund?

  Julia stared into the mirror, caught by a horrifying realisation midway through brushing her hair. The answer was clear: she couldn't.

  For the sake of Annabelle's safety, and the safety of everyone at Harding Hall, she needed to tell Charles the truth. The time for honesty had come. Her brother was a dangerous man with a contempt for the aristocracy that ran deep. Hers was not the only life at stake.

  Julia pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle an angry sob. So, she would never be free of Edmund. She had always suspected it, but her months at Harding Hall had soothed her into thinking that perhaps she had managed to forge a new life for herself. A new life she would be allowed to keep.

  It was not to be. Tears wouldn't help her.

  Julia finished dressing and went down to the library with a new resolve in her heart. Let the consequences be what they may: she would not put the inhabitants of Harding Hall in danger any longer.

  Charles was sitting at his desk, a book in his hand. Julia felt a strange jolt as she realised that it was the very book she had been reading that morning – The Bride of Lammermoor by Sir Walter Scott. Charles looked up in time to catch her smile.

  "Has something amused you, Miss Mallory?"

  "Only that we have the same taste in novels," she answered, taking a seat in response to his gesture towards the chair. Charles laughed.

  "You must keep this a secret from Lord Kit. I can't have my masculine reputation impugned."

  "On the contrary," said Julia, "I think the world would be a much happier place if more men read novels rather than spending their days traipsing around the countryside, hunting and drinking and –" She clapped a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, my lord, I spoke out of turn."

  "Not at all," said Charles with a wry grimace. "I don't doubt that you're absolutely right. Well, much as I would love to discuss the intricacies of Walter Scott with you, Miss Mallory, I have asked you here to talk about my daughter."

  "Of course." And it was perfectly natural that Annabelle was all he wanted to talk about. There was no need for the flicker of disappointment in Julia's heart at all.

  "I took the opportunity of passing some time with her today," said Charles. "Kit did a...rather assiduous job of keeping me updated, but he does not have the same priorities as I do. I must confess I don't care a bit whether Annabelle has memorised her times tables or not. I am interested in her comportment, her accomplishments in terms of music and art, and above all her happiness." He beamed, a sunlit beam which filled Julia with warmth. "I am pleased to tell you that I was simply amazed to see the progress she has made. Her manners – her attention span – her skill with a paintbrush – they have all undergone the most impressive material change. I never imagined that simply employing a governess would have such a positive effect. I wish I had found you years ago."

  Julia would have appreciated this praise much more if she were not so distracted by the thought of her impending confession. "Thank you, my lord, but there is something you should know..."

  "What is it?" Charles rose from his seat and walked around the desk, sitting in front of her. It was a casual pose more suited to a schoolboy than the Marquess of Chiltern. Julia felt a rush of affection for him that left her speechless. Charles, seeming to understand, bent down and took her hands in his. "The most important thing to me, after Annabelle, is that you are happy here. I fear that Harding Hall has little to offer someone used to London's finest society."

  Julia laughed bitterly. How far from the truth he was!

  "There is something the matter," said Charles. Suddenly, his hand was on her face, lifting her to look him in the eye. His gaze pierced her. "Tell me. Would you like more time to yourself? A visit to your friends in Westbourne Hall? After the change you have wrought in Annabelle, I am minded to give you anything you desire."

  Julia's lips parted, despite herself. She licked them slowly, feeling her mouth dry with nerves.

  With Charles standing here before her, pinning her to the chair with the intensity of his gaze, warming her cheek in the palm of his hand, there was truthfully only one thing she wanted.

  It was as if he read her mind. Slowly, tenderly, his thumb brushing a gentle line from the corner of her mouth to her collarbone, Charles leaned in and kissed her.

  Julia was so amazed that for a long moment she did absolutely nothing. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. Her world was filled with the hammering of her heart, with Charles's lips, with the rough but wonderful sensation of his chin on hers.

  He broke away. "Forgive me, Miss Mallory, I..."

  "You may call me Julia," she said. She felt so light-hearted that she was amazed she was able to form words at all. "If it would please you."

  A smile, small and shy, turned up the corner of Charles's mouth. "Yes, that would please me. That would please me greatly. And you – you must call me Charles. Only when we are alone, mind. I would not want the servants to receive the wrong impression."

  And what is the right impression? Julia wondered dizzily.

  "I do have one request," she said, forcing down the words please kiss me again. Her hand went involuntarily to her lips, remembering how strangely soft his had been.

  "Anything," said Charles.

  "The Duchess of Westbourne is nearing her time of confinement. When the child arrives, I should very much like to go and visit them. Only for a short while."

  "Ah." Charles's face darkened. "A dangerous time for a woman."

  Only that morning he had told her that he'd lost his own wife in childbirth! Julia wished she had not mentioned it at all.

  "Of course you must go," said Charles, shaking off his momentary shadow. "When will the child be born? It must be quite soon."

  "A few months more. It is expected in February."

  "Then you shall have a week in February to visit with them. I will give you a footman to accompany you on the roads. It is a grim time of year to travel, but a new baby..." Again, the shadow of pain passed behind his eyes. "A baby is always a cause for celebration, and rightly so."

  His eyes slipped past her, focusing on something on the wall above her head. The back of Julia's neck prickled. She glanced back.

  A portrait hung on the wall. A beautiful woman, blonde-haired and kind-eyed, sitting on a grassy knoll, surrounded by flowers.

  Julia knew without asking who the woman was. She got to her feet, suddenly desperate to leave. "If that's all, my lord."

  "Charles, please," he reminded her. Julia struggled against the strangeness of it.

  "Charles. May I be dismissed?"

  "You are not my servant, that I should dismiss you."

  "All the same, I... I would like to write to the Duchess at once to tell her the good news."

  "Of course." Charles moved towards her again. Julia stepped back, even though every part of her was straining towards him, fascinated by the idea of another kiss. "Julia, I want us... I want us to be friends."

  "Yes, Charles." Apparently she had been turned into a complete ninny by the force of a single, close-lipped kiss. If Julia were alone, she would shake herself.

  "I will not apologise for kissing you," he said. "But I think it is best if we both forget what has happened here today."

  "I couldn't agree more." What was she saying? Her heart had never agreed with anything less. But her head... yes, her head knew it had been no more than a moment of passion, easily given away by the type of man Charles was, and just as easily forgotten.

  She would rather die than let him know how deeply it had affected her.

  "It's for Annabelle's sake," said Charles apologetically. "Romances can be so messy."

  "I wouldn't know," Julia admitted. Her life in London had given her no occasion for romance. Something flared in Charles's eyes at those words, something hot and eager. Something he extinguished as rapidly as it appeared.

  "Friends, then?" he asked, extending his hand. Julia hesitated before taking it. She did not know what she might ignite between the
m by touching her skin to his once more.

  "Friends," she said, giving him a firm handshake that would not have disgraced a man.

  She did not realise until she was back in her own room that she had not said a single word about Edmund.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Julia had plenty of time to sort through her troubled feelings for Charles in the weeks that followed, for she seemed never to see him at all. Though the patrol of footmen continued daily through the grounds, that was the only indication of any change in Harding Hall's occupants. The Marquess rose early, ate breakfast before anyone beyond Sally and Miss Graham were awake, went riding, and returned only briefly before departing again to spend his evenings in the company of Lord Kit and his crowd of young bachelor friends. His visits to the schoolroom had stopped altogether. Julia supposed it must be due to his trust in her teaching methods. She did not wish to guess at a deeper motive behind his absence.

  Annabelle fretted without her father. She was more severely affected by his neglect now that he was close by; at least when he was in Cornwall there was no hope of seeing him. Julia checked with Peter Kildare each evening whether the Marquess wished to kiss his daughter goodnight, and was always met with the same answer: "His lordship is not presently at home."

  Charles was running away from something. Whether it was his daughter, his memories, or Julia herself, she could not guess. When Mrs Potter and Miss Kelsey discussed the change in him in hushed voices of an evening, Julia refrained from joining the conversation. The last thing she wanted was for someone to suspect what had passed between them.

  She knew now that, much as she might long for another kiss in the depths of her own heart, it had been the worst kind of inappropriate behaviour. She was a governess, he a Marquess. Even when she set aside the problem of her unsavoury family connections, it was simply an untenable fantasy to imagine there could ever be anything more between them.

  She could have forgiven Charles's moment of weakness much more easily if it did not return to her each night in her dreams.