Beauty in Black

by Nicole Byrd

  “I hope I did not spoil your gathering,” he said, a bit gruffly. “I fear I am not very practiced in a lady’s drawing room.”

  She was about to reassure him when a stout matron passed just in front of them and paused, her expression changing as she glanced at the marquess’s face.

  He flushed and pulled down the brim of his hat, and the woman walked on, whispering something to her companion.

  Pursing her lips in anger, Marianne put one hand, without thinking, upon his arm. “Do not regard it,” she said.

  He gazed into her eyes. Before he put up the usual barrier, for an instant she glimpsed just how much it bothered him, the stares and inquisitive looks from too curious strangers.

  “I can’t blame them,” he said bluntly. “I know I am not an object of beauty.”

  “I blame them!” she retorted. “They are rude and judgmental to consider such a trifling aspect of a stranger’s appearance.” It had been so long since she had considered his scarred face that when she gazed upon him now she hardly noticed the pockmarks. She saw instead his dark eyes and his strong nose, the mouth that tried to hide all emotion but could not always mask his hurt or his rare moments of humor.

  “Trifling?” He looked at her in what seemed to be surprise, and she was prepared to explain to him just how little he should regard the marks left by the illness when he put his hand on top of hers, where it still rested on his arm.

  What a strong grip he had. Even through his gloves she could detect the warmth and the energy that flowed through his whole body, an energy that seemed to spark an instant response inside her. Her belly ached with longings she had put aside long ago, with a hunger she had, in her brief marriage, barely learned to feel.

  But somehow Marianne sensed that it would be different with this man, that if he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers, she would feel a masculine power, a potency as different from her boyish husband as night from day. Her skin rippled with sensation, and the ache inside her deepened. She found herself bending closer . . .

  A woman tittered, and with a start Marianne remembered the mobs of people all about them. The crowd that chatted and laughed and thronged the hall made this no place to indulge in dangerous fantasies. How could she have forgotten? Blushing, she straightened and withdrew her hand, but not without a pang of reluctance.

  “I particularly liked that large landscape of the Alps,” she told him, turning to safer topics. “Its vista is quite breathtaking.”

  “And just as hard to scale,” he agreed, almost beneath his breath.

  Marianne raised her brows, not sure she had heard correctly. What caused the shadow to cross his face? “Are you bored with the paintings, my lord? We can collect Louisa and return home.”

  “I should like to send Louisa—Miss Crookshank—to . . .” he hesitated, and she gazed at him in surprise.

  “I should like her to be happy,” he finished after a slight pause. “Which reminds me, I had something to tell you when we had a moment alone. I sent a man to Scotland to find out more about Alton Crookshank. My hireling has just returned.”

  Marianne felt her heartbeat quicken. “And?”

  “And he was unable to arrange a meeting—he was told that Mr. Crookshank had journeyed to London for an extended stay.”

  “Oh, dear.” Marianne stared blankly at the crowd in front of them, the large, milling crowd, and realized that she had allowed her own desire to see the exhibit to overrule her first impulse for caution. What was she doing, allowing Louisa to mingle in such a crush?

  “We must find Louisa and take our leave,” she suggested with a rush of guilt.

  The marquess nodded, and they rose.

  Louisa spent a pleasant few minutes chatting with Miss Talbert, comparing notes about the best dressmakers and the cunning shop full of ribbons and other notions that she had discovered tucked into a side street. When the other young lady and her mother said good-bye and moved on to finish their viewing of the exhibit, Louisa felt a pang of disappointment. She should return to the marquess now. She did not want him to feel neglected. But she was becoming a bit weary of her chosen good deed. As much as she laughed and teased and cajoled, he never seemed to match her gaiety with any spirit. Oh, he answered her, of course, and he was always polite, but the spark of fun that she and Lucas—well, that she and a friend had once shared—she did not feel it at all. Was this what marriage to the marquess would be like?

  It was a lowering thought, and Louisa had to steel herself before she could smile again and turn to find Lord Gillingham and her aunt.

  But a familiar face caught her attention before she had completed her about-face.

  “Lucas!” she exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here?” Really, she had gone a whole week without stumbling over him, she should have known . . . “I mean, how nice to see you, sir.” She looked about, but could discern no accompanying young lady clinging to his arm or hanging on his coattails.

  For a delicious moment she thought he seemed glad to see her, but then his expression reverted to the cautious mask she was so weary of. The handsome hazel eyes were guarded, but she admired the smooth forehead and the adorable lock of hair that strayed from his careful brushing—she had once been free to push it back, but no longer. Louisa felt the pain of their parting as if for the first time, and she swallowed hard.

  “Miss Crookshank,” he said formally, giving her a slight bow.

  She responded with a graceful curtsy, which gave her time to pull her thoughts together. She must not look so happy to see him. She had some pride left, even if his face still troubled her dreams at night.

  “I agree, most of London seems to be here. Are you enjoying the display?” he asked, his tone no more than polite.

  “Very much,” she agreed. “And you?”

  “Very much,” he echoed.

  She was goaded into replying, “I do not remember that you enjoyed artistic exhibitions. When we went to see that traveling show of Spanish landscapes, you said too much artwork could drive a fellow to drink.”

  He looked a bit self-conscious. “I was only a boy, Lou—Miss Crookshank. I have matured since then.”

  “No doubt,” she said dryly.

  “People change,” he pointed out. “I am simply trying to broaden my cultural horizons, add a bit of town bronze, don’t you know.”

  “Not to mention broadening your social horizons,” she snapped. “Since you seem to be escorting a different young woman every time I see you.”

  He seemed ready to return an angry answer, but, almost to her disappointment, he mastered his first response and answered, with immense dignity, “I am endeavoring to meet young ladies, yes. I plan to marry soon—I am getting past the age of childish indulgences.”

  “I see.” Louisa sustained her restrained pose with some difficulty. She wanted to cry, but she, too, could practice self-control. “Very mature of you.”

  “Besides, you’re always with that ill-favored lord what’s-his-name.”

  “It is rude to speak poorly of a person’s looks, Lucas,” she answered. “And Lord Gillingham is a very worthy man.”

  She put a slight emphasis on the last word, and perhaps it was that which caused her old suitor to remark, “Yes, no doubt, even if he is old enough to be your sire.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she argued. “He is not old!”

  “It hardly matters. With a lofty title, a no-doubt handsome estate and plenty of blunt, I suppose age makes no difference.”

  She gasped. In all their times together, Lucas had never been deliberately cruel. What had come over him?

  “I am not allowing the marquess to court me because of his title or his money,” she flashed back, putting aside any memory of her earlier interest in her fiancé’s exalted rank. Besides, she hadn’t really been serious. “He deserves better than the disdain that too many curious, ill-mannered spectators bestow upon him. He cannot help the scars of an old illness. Anyhow, it is the qualities inside him that make
him a man to be admired.”

  “Doing it too brown, Louisa!” Sir Lucas suddenly seemed to lose all shreds of his much-acclaimed maturity. “You expect me to believe that you really care for this man? He is not your sort, at all.”

  “Just because he is willing to accompany me to art shows and theaters? Because he will stroll with me through the park, which you used to find too tame? He is a man of taste and sophistication . . . He is a man, not a boy!”

  “And I am not?” Lucas’s usually merry eyes narrowed in anger.

  “I did not say that, only—”

  “If he is indeed a man of taste, he deserves better than a selfish hoyden who will desert him at the least provocation!”

  “Oh, unfair!” Louisa blinked against the sudden tears that threatened to slip past her lashes.

  “Sir Lucas?” A petite young lady with reddish-blond hair and delicate good looks had appeared at Lucas’ side. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

  He was here with a companion, after all. Hadn’t he said he was looking for a wife? Louisa felt this was the last straw. She struggled to master her unruly emotions before she was disgraced forever.

  Sir Lucas’s expression was almost comical as he wrestled with conflicting feelings. After a moment he managed a polite—only slightly twisted—smile. “Miss Romney, Miss Crookshank, an old acquaintance from Bath.”

  Louisa sank into a curtsy, bending her head to hide her face. She murmured some kind of greeting, later she could not have said what, and added, “Please excuse me, my friends will be missing me.”

  Then she turned and, almost running, pushed her way through the crowd. She had no idea where the marquess had gone, or her aunt; the mass of people made it hard to pick out any individual among the press. But she caught a glimpse of the door that led out to the street, and she had a sudden longing for escape. If she burst into tears right here, in front of a curious, staring mob, she would never live it down. Hadn’t she already experienced enough social disgrace, after her blunder in the park, to blight her entire Season?

  She pushed past a group of gossiping matrons and was able to slip through the doorway, pausing a few feet on to the pavement.

  She must conquer this heartache; obviously, Lucas no longer cared for her. And if all she had to look forward to was comforting Lord Gillingham’s reclining years, which left her feeling heavy with melancholy, so be it. At least Lucas would grow to see that she could be mature, that she was not as selfish and despicable as he was determined to think. And as for his own much-vaunted maturity, a really mature person would give a friend another chance, she thought, biting her lips to hold back the tears. But if only—

  He had not always been so harsh. A sudden memory of Lucas tenderly taking her hand and pressing her lips with her first kiss was her undoing. The tears began to fall. Oh, folly, she could not be seen like this! She would find the marquess and her aunt and tell them she had a headache—

  She took a few unseeing steps and collided with a solid object.

  “Pardon, miss,” a rough voice said.

  She blinked and saw a street vendor with his cart.

  “Not at all,” she managed to say. “It was my fault.” But the tears were sliding down her cheeks in earnest now. She turned in the opposite direction and almost walked into a stout lady who gazed at her in concern.

  “My dear, are you well?”

  Embarrassed, Louisa managed to nod. All she wanted was to get out of here. Where was her aunt? And, oh, what would she say to the marquess if he saw her like this?

  While Louisa squeezed her eyes shut and tried to think of an excuse for her distress, she heard a familiar voice.

  “Louisa, what is wrong?”

  It was Aunt Marianne, and she sounded concerned. And, of course the marquess was with her. He came forward now with a speed that, in any other mood, would have pleased Louisa no end. But now she only blushed more deeply and tried to push back her tears.

  “It was that rough man—I think he was about to assault the poor girl,” the woman who had spoken earlier insisted. “I saw him accost her, and it was very frightening. No wonder the poor child is upset.”

  “Oh, no,” Louisa said. No doubt, the woman was only trying to help, but she had it all wrong.

  “Where is the man?” Lord Gillingham demanded.

  Louisa looked around but saw no sign of the street vendor. Thank goodness, she could not allow an innocent man to suffer any recrimination. But neither did she want to explain the reason for her silly nerve storm here in this public place.

  “I never! He just slipped away,” the too helpful matron said.

  Aunt Marianne exchanged a glance with the marquess, then took Louisa’s arm. “I think it’s time we took our leave.”

  “Oh, yes, please,” Louisa agreed. “I would like to go home.”

  In the carriage her aunt tried gently to question her, but Louisa only shook her head and gave her an appealing look until Aunt Marianne gave up.

  By the time they reached home, Louisa had managed to compose herself, and when she said farewell to the marquess, she thanked him nicely for the expedition.

  “I deserve no thanks, since I took such poor care of you that a stranger was allowed to frighten you,” he said, his tone grave.

  She blushed. “It was nothing, really,” she murmured. “But thank you for your concern. I do feel safe when you are nearby.”

  She made her curtsy and hurried upstairs before anyone could question her again.

  Once in her room she shut the door firmly and fell upon her bed. And the ready tears surged. Sir Lucas was lost to her forever, and it was her own fault. Perhaps she really was as superficial and selfish as Lucas believed. She should have been more mindful of his injury, on that fateful day in Bath, which now seemed so long ago. She should learn to think more of others. She considered the marquess, perhaps not as much fun as Lucas, not as lighthearted and playful, but a good man and determined to look out for her welfare. Marriage to him would not be so bad, surely.

  And she would not turn aside from his courtship over any consideration of his looks or his sometimes brusque manner. She would not be selfish, this time, she would prove that she had matured beyond her girlhood shallowness, and in the end, she was certain she would learn to love him.

  And then the tears overwhelmed her, and she lay her head upon the pillow, free at last to indulge in hearty sobs.

  Downstairs, Marianne was frowning. “Do you think it was another attack on Louisa?” she asked the marquess. “We must find this Alton Crookshank.”

  He wanted to kiss away the worry lines that furrowed her brow, but he could not. How base she would think him if he tried to court her now. If he had more social graces, if he had not been in such a hurry to find a mate so that he could retreat from the prying eyes and painful social gatherings of a busy city, he would not have mired himself in such a dilemma. Her eyes troubled, Marianne gazed up at him, and he wanted to gather her into his arms and—he had to push the thought away, despite the surge of need that flowed through his whole body and made him ache with a longing he had never felt so urgently before.

  “Marianne—Mrs. Hughes—” he said impulsively.

  “Yes?” She stared at him, and his courage failed him. No, he could not speak, not now. If he could end the threat to Miss Crookshank, perhaps he could then manage to disentangle himself from the bonds with which he had ensnared himself.

  “We will find the man and determine if your niece is in danger,” he promised her. “I will not rest until I know.”

  She smiled at him, such a tempting lifting of her lips that again, he felt the ache deep in his belly. If he could only lean forward and taste that full lower lip, how sweet it would be, how much it would ease the passion in his blood. Yet even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie; kissing her luscious mouth would only lead to more kisses, on the slender pale neck, on the swelling bosom he had only the barest glimpse of beneath the neckline of her silk gown. The heat gathered in his groin, and he
could do nothing to tell her, to show her, how much he yearned for her touch, for her love . . .

  She touched his arm lightly, making him jump—it took a palpable effort to keep from pulling her into his arms. She was speaking; he tried to make sense of the words.

  “I am so thankful for your help, my lord. Otherwise, I would be at my wit’s end.”

  He could only pat her hand, like some gray-haired grandsire whose blood ran as cool as his presently ran hot. He mumbled his farewell and wrenched himself away.

  The footman held open the door, and John made the mistake of glancing into the looking glass as he passed. The scarred, unsightly face that met his gaze sent a rush of icy reality through him, effectively dousing any thought of love or desire.

  What woman would choose to love a man with such an aspect?

  He hurried out and into his hired carriage, anger at his wretched fate overcoming any other emotion. He knocked on the panel to send the carriage moving forward, and, alone, was able to scowl as deeply as he could wish at the empty seat opposite him.

  What woman of sense would wish to marry him? True, Miss Crookshank had accepted him, but he suspected that his title and his estate might have influenced her ability to ignore his disfigured countenance.

  Why did that bother him less than the thought that Mrs. Hughes might make the same bargain? Because he did not think that she would. She seemed to accept him with an easy friendliness, true, but he had not suggested more than friendship.

  What if he did try to kiss her? He dreaded the thought of seeing her shrink away, repelled by such a gruesome visage leaning close to her own, like the last village girl he had been tempted by when his body’s hunger became too urgent to ignore. But the girl’s look of fear, of repulsion, had ended the suggestion of any tryst before it had well begun. He had sent the poor girl home and retreated, as always, to his study and his books, pulling the curtains to dim the lights and hide himself from view.

  Miss Crookshank was younger and might be even more repelled, although he had never yet tried to kiss her. And somehow, it mattered less to him that she might be steeling herself to allow him the pleasure of her company.