Beauty in Black

by Nicole Byrd

  She laughed aloud and flung her arms around his neck.

  When it was time to change for dinner, Marianne reviewed the dining room and prepared a list of chores that needed to be done. If they stayed here long enough, she would have the marquess’s house in good shape, she thought ruefully. And at least, the work gave her some release from her own frustrations. She thought of Louisa’s complaints and wondered if this engagement would really come to marriage. She could not picture Louisa here. And yet, would the girl really give up such an advantageous match?

  Marianne bathed and changed into a simple black dinner dress. When the dinner gong sounded, she went out into the rose garden, but saw no sign of her charge. Pausing a moment, she stopped to admire a newly opened rose. The velvety crimson petals held all the promise of ripe and mature beauty yet to come. Marianne leaned closer to breathe in the richness of its scent. This was what love should be, she told herself, a blossoming of trust and affection and—yes—passion as sweet as the rose itself. Invariably, that thought led to an image of John, but she shook her head to dispel the vision in her mind’s eye. No, she could not dwell on forbidden joys.

  Coming back inside, she met Louisa on the landing. The younger lady looked a little flushed from her time outdoors.

  “Did you take your parasol with you into the garden?” Marianne asked. “Your aunt Caroline will scold me if I let you become unfashionably bronzed from the sun.”

  Louisa laughed. “Oh no, I’m sure she would not be so unkind.”

  At least the girl’s mood had lightened. She was quite merry at dinner, and it was the marquess and Marianne herself who spoke little as they ate.

  The meals were the one thing Marianne had been unable to make any improvement in; the food was still uniformly bad. The chicken was stringy, the fish underdone. Marianne picked at a limp strand of French bean with her fork; how had the marquess not wasted away on such an insipid diet?

  She was relieved when it was time for her to gather Louisa’s attention with a glance and withdraw. The marquess stood as the two ladies headed for the drawing room.

  But in the hallway she met the butler, his doleful expression looking even more dire than usual. “A special courier with a letter for you, ma’am, from Bath. I trust it’s not bad news.”

  Marianne took the thick packet—what on earth was this?—and sat down, breaking the seal and scanning the contents quickly. Her expression must have altered, because Louisa leaned over her shoulder, her voice anxious, and asked, “Is Aunt Caroline all right?”

  “Yes,” Marianne answered slowly. “The family is well. But—”

  She paused. The marquess had followed them to the drawing room; had the servant told him about the late arrival of the letter? “I wrote to your uncle, Louisa, about our concerns for your safety, and he has proposed a solution I had not considered.”

  “What? Can we return to London?” Louisa asked eagerly.

  “No, rather the opposite. He thinks we should go to France,” Marianne explained, knowing her voice sounded flat. “At once. He has sent along the necessary paperwork for our travel; lawyers are efficient in that way.”

  “Go abroad?” Louisa’s voice squeaked.

  The marquess frowned, then turned and gazed at the fireplace. Marianne read the letter again, still feeling stunned.

  “He says we must keep you safe, and until we know who poses the danger and how to avert it, a quiet sojourn in a country village in the south of France might do the trick.”

  “A village? Not go to Paris, but to a village!” Louisa bit her lip and fell silent, and the marquess also said nothing.

  Say something, Marianne thought, glancing at his silent form, his face hidden as he bent over the hearth as if inspecting the small fire within. Tell me you do not wish me to leave!

  But when he spoke, he said only, “You would realize one of your dreams, then.” His voice sounded gruff, but then it often did.

  “What?” Marianne felt befuddled; she did not grasp his meaning.

  “Seeing the French countryside,” he reminded her. “One of the places where you wished to spend time, if I recall. And if the journey will keep Louisa safe . . .”

  “Of course,” she murmured. Her brother-in-law Charles was Louisa’s legal guardian; he made the final decisions. Nor could she abandon Louisa now. She would have to go . . . she had no choice, and the marquess was not even going to protest her absence.

  Louisa looked at them both, her expression now calm, but she said nothing.

  “I suppose we should go up and begin packing, then,” Marianne told her charge, trying to sound content with the new plan.

  “I will have a carriage ready for you after breakfast,” the marquess said. “We are not that far from Dover; passage will be easily arranged. I wish—”

  Marianne held her breath, but he paused and did not finish. There was nothing for her to do but say good night and go up the stairs, with Louisa coming silently after her.

  In her bedchamber, Marianne told her maid to begin packing the trunks, leaving out only a traveling costume to don in the morning, and the usual necessities for grooming.

  She gathered a pile of shifts and folded them absently while she tried with less success to sort out her feelings. It was true, what the marquess had said. She had wished to visit France, but now, somehow, it was all different . . . she could find no elation at the thought of new vistas and picturesque landscapes . . . because John would not be with her.

  When she and Hackett had put away most of the clothing and the trunk was nearly full, Marianne told her maid to leave the rest for morning. She donned her nightgown and got into bed, sending her maid off to get some sleep.

  But for Marianne, sleep would not come. Leaving John . . . it was a bitter blow. Yet, her brother-in-law was no doubt correct about Louisa’s welfare, and she had no logical answer for his arguments. She must leave, for Louisa’s sake.

  But not like this . . . with so much left unsaid.

  Marianne rose and, drawing a wrapper about her shoulders to cover the thin nightgown, paced restlessly up and down the room. She had been bound to silence by his engagement to her niece, but increasingly, Marianne found it hard to believe that Louisa was really in love with the marquess, or that she really meant to see this engagement through to marriage. And to leave John so alone, so abandoned—

  Pent up for too long, her own emotions could be constrained no further. Like a rain-swollen torrent bursting a dam, her feelings surged beyond her control when she imagined their parting.

  Despite his scarred face and his scarred soul, his past haunted by a vicious father and a sad, lonely mother, she loved this man, loved him with a depth and an intensity she had never felt before. She could not allow John to retreat into his lair again like a wounded beast, to live alone and unloved. Would he avoid the society of his fellow men, lock away the restless curiosity and the passion she now knew he possessed? It was such a waste, such a travesty.

  She would not allow it.

  She had a vague idea where his bedchamber was located, and even though it was a scandalous—more than scandalous—thing to do, she had to speak to him. She marched to the door of her bedchamber and eased it open.

  Louisa slept in the next chamber. Although its door was shut, listening hard, Marianne thought she could detect the girl’s soft, even breathing.

  The hall was quiet and dark. Marianne tied the belt of her wrapper more firmly about her, picked up her candle from her bedside table, and slipped into the hallway.

  At least there was no sign of any servants. Hopefully, they were all in their rooms, sleeping soundly.

  But when she reached the landing, Marianne lost her nerve. She could not simply march up to his bedchamber and rap on the door. He would think her the most dissolute of women, totally lacking in any feminine modesty or sense of honor.

  No, this was no way to go on. Taking a deep breath, she sighed. She would have to go back to her own room and wait out the night. Tomorrow, she would someh
ow find a quiet moment before they departed, and she would tell him—what? She wasn’t sure.

  But just now, the hours stretched ahead like years. With her emotions in such a state of flux, there was no way she could sleep. A book, she thought, at least she could go down and find a new book to peruse. Even though she doubted she could concentrate, it might distract her enough to pass the long night.

  So she turned and went down the steps very quietly, heading this time for the library. Her slippers made little sound on the carpets as she made her way through the wide shadowy halls, and she was so absorbed in her thoughts that she had opened the door and stepped across the threshold before she realized there was already light in the room. Candles burned on the tables and the large desk, and someone sat in a leather chair turned toward the empty hearth.

  Startled, she hesitated, lifting her candle.

  The marquess jumped to his feet. He was dressed in a heavy brocade dressing gown, and his hair was delightfully tousled.

  “Marianne! I mean, Mrs. Hughes, what—”

  “I came down to get a book.” She flushed as she felt his gaze scan her state of deshabille. “I—I couldn’t sleep.” She took a step backward. She had longed to find him, and yet, now that he was here, she seemed to lose her tongue, not to mention her sense of purpose.

  “Please, do not allow my presence to perturb you. If you wish to be alone in order to choose a book—”

  He actually approached the doorway, and though his tone was formal, his gaze was—she thought—hungry. And it heartened her. Some of her courage returned. She set her candle down on a nearby table.

  “My lord, what were you about to say to me tonight?”

  “Say?” He stopped and then came a little closer.

  She felt the vibrance of his nearness, the unconscious appeal of his wide shoulders and well-muscled limbs.

  “Only . . . only that I wish you did not have to go,” he said, his voice very low. “But I cannot say what else I wish until Louisa is safe, and I can tell her . . . well. It may not matter. Many women have drawn away when they obtained their first close view of my face . . .”

  Marianne could not bear the pain in his voice. She put up her hand and touched his cheek lightly, smoothing over the faded pockmarks. How could anyone think these so very bad, and how could any female fail to see beyond them to the strength and the goodness and the virile male power of this man? They would turn him down for such a trifle?

  “They were fools, then,” she said.

  He looked at her in surprise. “I am not blaming them,” he told her, his voice husky. “I know that I am a sight unfit for delicate eyes—”

  “No, no,” Marianne interrupted again. “You cannot think so!”

  He put up his own hand as if to hold her fingers still, then instead turned away. Marianne stared at his back as he braced his arms and leaned against the heavy library table.

  “The first time I left my bed, still shaky from the illness and the long feverish days, I took a walk about the grounds. Everyone except my old nurse and my mother, who insisted on tending to me while I was ill, had been kept away from me because of the danger of contagion, but there was a kitchen maid in the back courtyard tossing out potato peelings to the chickens. She was only fourteen or so and newly come to the household. I came upon her before I realized someone was there, and when my shadow fell across her, she turned, startled. When she saw my face, she burst into tears of fright.”

  The heaviness in his tone tore at her heart. “My lord—”

  He continued, his tone dogged. “I know that I am unsightly, Mrs. Hughes. I hardly dared to hope that any lady would be able to accept me as husband. But I wanted an heir badly, and your niece was kind enough to agree to my suit, even if I didn’t precisely offer—well, never mind. But I suspect she has lost her enthusiasm for the match. And since I no longer feel the enmity for my younger brother that I did, perhaps the urgency of my desire to set up my nursery has faded. I admit, I have lately had dreams that a woman might love me, might feel for me what I felt for her—”

  Oh, heavens. He was in love with Louisa after all? Marianne felt the pain constrict her chest. If it hurt him this badly, she would hound the girl into accepting him! Although what that would do to her own heart, she dared not think.

  “But perhaps I have been fooling myself. Mayhap I am meant to live alone,” he finished.

  “Nonsense,” she said, too loudly.

  At least it broke through his musing; he turned to look at her again. “I don’t wish to inflict myself—” he started.

  Refusing to listen, she shook her head, “You are no ogre to frighten children and repel ladies of delicate constitutions.”

  “But—”

  “I know, you startled the kitchen maid. But you were just beginning to heal then, my lord, the marks on your face were likely still red and inflamed. They have faded over the years, you know. I find them barely noticeable.”

  He shook his head. “You’re very kind. But how can I forget my unsightly appearance when people stare at me in the street?”

  “Then they are rude and unmannerly! One of my friends has red hair. She is sometimes stared at, too—that does not make her a monster.” Marianne came closer to him, determined that he should not impose such an unjust sentence upon himself.

  “And do you think that a woman—that a woman like you, for example—” he paused.

  Marianne thought her heart pounded so hard that her chest must reveal its tremors. “My lord?”

  “I do not wish to disgust you, nor hurt Louisa, but I fear I will not be able to marry your niece.”

  “Why?” Marianne almost whispered.

  “Because I love another woman,” he told her simply. “If she will have me, one day, when I am free, I will tell her just how much I wish to have her in my life.”

  Marianne had to clear her throat to make the words come out. “And who is this woman, my lord?”

  He reached for her hand and lifted it to kiss, very gently. “I think you know.”

  She had not dreamed it, after all, those times when the air had seemed to vibrate between them, when she had felt it almost impossible to resist coming nearer.

  Now she did not have to resist.

  He swallowed hard. “But my blemishes . . . they are not slight.”

  Marianne lifted her hand and touched his face. “Slight,” she insisted, running her fingers lightly down his cheek, over his chin. “Very slight.”

  She heard him take a ragged breath. He covered her fingers with his own, pressed her hand against his face.

  “Marianne!” But then he paused again. “You don’t know the whole of it, my dearest. And if I repulsed you, I don’t think I could bear it. Perhaps it’s best not to put it to the test.”

  “I will not allow you to hide behind your fears,” she said, her voice firm. He stared at her in surprise, but she felt almost as much astonishment at herself. Who was this woman so determined to force them both toward the moment of truth? She thought of her protestations of contentment with her single life, and how she had disavowed all interest in remarriage, in a lover, in any affair of the heart.

  But she had not met John, then.

  “You must give me more credit than that, my love,” she told him.

  He hesitated, then, without speaking, he pulled open his robe, and she saw he wore no nightshirt beneath it. And, as he turned toward the candlelight, she also saw what she was meant to see.

  The scars did not stop at his face, of course. The pox had covered his whole body, and his chest, hard with muscle, also showed signs of the deadly sickness. The scars were deeper here, if perhaps more widely scattered, and no doubt, his arms and legs were also marked.

  She touched his chest and felt the quiver of response run through him. She looked up at him so he could see that she smiled, that her gaze was open and untroubled. Then she bent and kissed the nearest pockmark, kissed it gently as if she could heal him with her caress.

  “Oh, my love,
” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion and desire. And suddenly, despite his still healing wound, he swept her up into his arms.

  She had a momentary qualm about his arm, covered now only by a small strip of bandage, but John seemed untroubled by her weight. She put her arms around his neck and allowed him to carry her to the settee, settle her gently there, and bend down to kiss her.

  His lips were firm and sure, and she answered the kiss, and the hunger that she felt beneath it, with her own urgency. She had waited so long for this, not even knowing she was waiting, until the right man triggered her long-buried thirst. Like a woman wandering so long in the desert that she has forgotten the taste of cool clear water, she pressed her lips against his in elated surprise, surrendering herself to every impulse, while her body responded in ways she almost did not recall.

  Her breasts pressed hard, nipples erect, against the wall of his chest as he leaned against her. He kissed her lips, her throat, her eyes, even the dark curls that edged her brow.

  It had been too long. For weeks she had watched him court Louisa, when all the time she had wanted his hand on her arm, his lips on hers, his body inside her to incite her to passion more intense than the short interludes she had once shared with her boyish husband.

  Thinking of her husband, she felt a moment of guilt, but she pushed it aside. She was no longer Harry’s wife. She could not harm him, nor was she constrained by any vow. Death had parted them, ended the marriage contract, and she was free to love again.

  Indeed, her marriage seemed a lifetime ago. She was another person now, older, more sure of her feelings, more womanly of body, and perhaps with a larger heart and more capacity for both love and desire.

  Certainly she had never felt this rush of yearning that left her almost trembling. She pushed her wrapper aside, hoping he would do the same.

  And John lifted himself enough to discard the heavy robe. She had a brief look at the long lines of his legs, the well-made chest and abdomen, even the private male areas that she had not glimpsed since the advent of her widowhood.