Let him go now with some pride intact, she decided. Let him imagine that she might have said 'yes', if only he had asked in time.
So Mary released her grip on the marble statue, gave a sad smile and said, "Dr. Woodley, you have been a very good friend and I hope that will not change in the future."
"My dear Miss Ashford!" He clasped her hand and kissed it with more fervor than she had ever seen from him. "I will not turn my back upon you in the dark days to come, although others undoubtedly shall when they learn of this strange choice."
Apparently an engagement to Ransom Deverell was the first step in her descent to hell. After a pause to arrange her thoughts and calm her temper, she replied, "I must ask you to keep this matter a secret for now, Dr. Woodley. You are, in fact, the only person outside this house who knows."
As she walked him to the door, he promised not to speak a word of her engagement to anybody.
"What about the patient's head, doctor?" she asked. "Could he be suffering confusion?"
"He may have had a slight concussion, but he seems to have his wits about him now. Certainly knows where he is and who he is." He sniffed. "Had enough arrogance to give me short shrift."
Taking his bag from the footman, he was about to leave when Mary stopped him.
"But what can be done for his comfort while he heals?" She refused to think that Ransom Deverell might die.
Dr. Woodley paused as he waited for the footman to open the door. "Keep him rested, the head of the bed elevated. I shall send over some laudanum to help with the pain. But in all likelihood rot will set in and the lung will thoroughly flatten, unable to take in air. The tissue will continue the decay once it is begun." He exhaled a gusty sigh. "Unless, of course, he recovers."
"So in your learned opinion," she said with just one stubborn, wiry vine of anger creeping through her voice, "he might die. Or he might live."
He tipped his hat. "Precisely, my dear Miss Ashford. You see the lot you have taken on. I will send the bill to Mr. Deverell, shall I? The sooner the better, I expect." And he walked out into the snow.
She stood for a moment in the silent hall, watching the footman close the front door.
There was one final glimpse of Dr. Woodley pulling up the collar of his coat before he stepped into his carriage and then the outside world was shut out.
It felt significant to her in that moment— the deep thud of that door, keeping her here, in this strange world, while everything else she once knew went on as it always did on the other side.
Here, she had turned onto a new path, to walk in the unpredictable world of the Deverells, where men cursed freely in front of women and spoke to them as if they were equals. Where passionate tempers flared without any attempt to hold them in. Where orgies had been held— according to gossip. Where men declared they were going to marry women they hadn't even asked. And where "Peelers" and the law were not welcome. They dispensed their own justice, it seemed.
Well, she could not turn her back on Ransom now, could she? Whatever happened, fate had brought him to her and he had asked her to save him. Dr. Woodley called it the "lot" that she had taken on.
He might die, or he might live. But could that not be said of anybody, every single day?
Chapter Eighteen
Smith had bathed him with water from the washbasin, dressed him in a nightgown he didn't even know he possessed and then put him to bed. There he sat, propped up with pillows and bolsters, extra blankets spread over him, curtains drawn to keep out daylight, and the fire lit to chase off any chill. He was meant to be sleeping, but for Ransom it was too quiet.
He hated the quiet.
Where had they all gone?
Earlier, that somber doctor had come and poked him about for five minutes, but all examination had ceased when Ransom told him that he was going to marry Mary. The fellow couldn't get out quickly enough then.
Now they left him alone with only the gentle tap of snow at his window for company.
The pain burned like fire, and sometimes it felt as if the flames touched every part of his body. Other times the blaze decreased to a smolder, glowing ashes dropping from one bone to the next. Breathing was less of a Herculean struggle than it had been when he first regained consciousness, but it was still a challenge.
Feeling very sorry for himself, he was about to throw an ornament at the wall just to make a noise that would bring somebody to his room, when he heard the soft click of a door opening and turned his head to see Mary Ashford's face peeping in.
"About time you came to see me," he exclaimed. "Were you hoping I'd be dead by now?"
Still she hovered by the door. "I merely wanted to be sure you were in bed and resting, before I go home."
"Then come here, woman. I'm not going to eat you. Not today anyway." He managed a little grin, although it hurt. "I haven't the appetite at present."
"I really shouldn't come in."
"Why not? Who's going to tell? Besides, we'll be man and wife soon enough."
From what he could make out of her face in the flickering firelight, her lips had gathered in tight disapproval. It frustrated him that he couldn't see her clearer.
"Oh for pity's sake, Mary, come in and open my curtains. Let in some light from outside before I suffocate. For some reason Smith decided to make the room as dark and stifling as the grave. I need to see some life, even if it's only pigeons."
So she finally came in, leaving the door ajar, to cross his chamber and open the curtains. Snow piled on the ledge outside although it had mostly stopped falling now. He felt instant relief now that he could see daylight. Air. And Mary.
"I hear you were rather difficult with Dr. Woodley," she said.
"He wanted to poke me about. I wasn't having it."
"He's a doctor. How do you expect him to examine you?"
"That's his conundrum to solve, not mine. Besides, the fellow is my rival for your hand. He might have tried to finish me off."
"Rival! What nonsense you speak."
Framed in that cool, angelic white light as she tied back his curtains, Mary was a tidy, graceful figure, her noble profile the sort that could be very accurately captured in a silhouette. Some women had features that were less well-formed, little smudged noses and chins without character. They were badly formed watercolors compared to his "Contessa", and their profiles would be indistinguishable from any other. But not Mary.
He did not know why she had this hold over him. From the start he'd tried to keep her in his company for as long as he could, in order to uncover all her secrets and get to the root of this fascination. Was it simply because she had resisted him, while other women could not? No, it was something more than that. Something indefinable.
"Why are you going home already?" he muttered, belatedly realizing what she'd said. "You're supposed to be lifting my spirits and sitting here with me. I'll pay you twenty guineas for the service."
"I have an appointment with a dressmaker for my sister, but I will return to visit you later. If I am still needed."
"You are."
"And there is no fee required."
Her movements were quick and efficient, her fingers deftly adjusting the pleats of damask silk where they tumbled to the carpet. She stood a moment, looking out into the street.
"I hope you are pleased with this infernal mischief," she said, her back still turned to him. "How long do you expect to get away with it?"
"I beg your pardon, Mary, to which infernal mischief of mine do you refer?"
She turned, hands clasped before her. "This marriage lark."
He said nothing. In truth, he was surprised she'd gone along with it so far. He'd expected her to deny it vehemently to his father the moment she heard about it. The fact that she hadn't protested, gave him a slender ray of hope. But then, she was always very polite and soft-spoken, even when telling him off.
Head tilted to one side she looked at him. "I thought at first you did not have your wits about you— that you were merely confused. But n
ow I wonder if you meant to sport with your father. He tells me you are fond of tricks and pranks. He is not, however, so easily taken in as you think."
"Is that what you imagine you are to me? A joke? You told me that you know yourself, Mary, and I thought you knew me too. It certainly felt as if you could read me like one of your beloved books."
Watching him steadily, she did not reply.
"The truth is, Mary, when I lay in the street, kicked and beaten, I could think only of you and of how I should have known you sooner. I've been given another chance, however long it lasts— one night or two— and I intend to make the most of it."
Her lips parted slightly. Had she been holding her breath? Here he was, struggling for his, while she withheld hers deliberately, rationing herself. Ransom knew that once he recovered he would never take his breath for granted again and every gasp of air he inhaled would be put to good use.
"I should have asked you properly, I suppose. But you weren't there at the time to ask."
For a moment it looked as if she might laugh. Her brows lifted, her eyes glittered, the corners of her beautiful mouth wavered.
"Would you marry me, Mary Ashford? I shan't trouble you long, but I ought to have somebody visit my grave and I'd rather have it be you than anybody else."
* * * *
How long did he have? How long did anybody have? Life was not permanent and circumstances could change in the blink of an eye. She should know.
"Your father is very anxious and concerned about you," she said, changing the subject, moving closer to the bed.
He gave a little snort. "He hides it well."
"That doesn't make it any less genuine."
"My father and I have a difficult association, of a sort that was foisted upon us both against our will," he wheezed. "You would do better to stay out of it."
But if she married him, would she not become a part of his family? A Deverell?
If she married him...if she married him...
A half hour ago it stunned her that she was even considering it, but when all was said and done he was just a man in need. And she was a woman with needs.
He was attracted to her and she to him. But to more than the outer surface.
Engagements were often arranged between people who knew less about each other than they did. Look at her and George Stanbury, for instance. She had already spent more time alone in the company of Ransom Deverell than she ever had with George. Probably more time alone with him than most engaged couples spent.
Yes, she could find plenty of reasons to make it seem quite reasonable.
If I had a good woman, Mary Ashford, to put me to rights, I might become a worthier man.
She looked around his room until her gaze stumbled to a sudden halt. On the far wall was one of Uncle Hugo's paintings she had not seen in years— so many years that she'd forgotten its existence. He had painted it one summer, dressing her up to look like a young woman of the Renaissance. "There is an innocence and purity to you, Mary, and it will not be there much longer. I should capture it while I can," he'd said. "These moments are so fleeting and when you are older you will forget."
"See." Ransom Deverell winced at her from his bed. "I told you, didn't I?"
It seemed rather indecent that her portrait had been hanging on his bedchamber wall all this time. His father must have purchased it, of course.
"You've been witness to my antics since I moved in," the patient teased. "Finally you decided to step out of the frame and put a stop to my wickedness once and for all."
"That sounds rather brave of me."
"You are brave, Mary. Look how you stood up to me!"
"I was hungry. I'm very curt when I'm hungry."
He eyed her with gentle bemusement.
Uneasy, she touched her braid again, wishing her hair was pinned up and tidy.
"Oh, before I forget," he pointed to the mahogany dresser. "I have something of yours in the top drawer."
"Mine?"
"Go on. Look." His arm dropped wearily, his eyes drifting shut.
Mary crossed to the dresser and opened the drawer. There was a small package inside with her name penned upon the paper, the handwriting surprisingly careful and neat.
"I meant to give it to you that evening I had you brought here, but you left in a confounded huff before I could. You may as well have it now."
Cautious, she removed the parcel and unwrapped it. "My mother's brooch! And the silver earrings. But how did you...?"
She couldn't finish, too overcome.
"I saw you on Jermyn Street, the morning you brought me David Copperfield. Don't be embarrassed and don't mention another thing about it. From now on if you need money, you come to me and I won't want any of your precious treasures in return. Well..." he chuckled and then flinched, one hand to his side, "not that sort of treasure."
He must have followed her that morning then and seen what she did. At the thought of him chasing her down St James Street and around the corner in the rain, she was astonished and yet very grateful. "You really should not have done all these things for me... the hamper...and the collection of overdue bills...that was all you too, was it not?"
Squirming against the pillows he was reluctant to accept her thanks, brushing it all aside as if it was nothing. "So what is your answer, Mary? Will you save me?"
"Are you going to offer me twenty guineas again?"
"Mary, I would give you anything you want to be the companion of my last hours. I thought I'd made that clear."
"Companion?"
"To sit here with me, read to me, tell me what's going on in the world. Wait with me while I sleep, so that you can wake me if you see me having a nightmare..." He paused then, out of breath for a moment, apparently. She saw genuine fear in his eyes before he could blink it away and continue in a more teasing tone. "The sort of thing you do for my mother. Although I don't need to be told when a bonnet makes me look younger." Impatiently, he gestured her closer. "I know you could never sit at my bedside unless we have a formal arrangement between us. We must think of your impressionable younger sister, of course."
Mary regarded him skeptically. "That is all you want from me?"
"For now it's all I can have, is it not? Once we're properly married and if I improve, naturally, your duties will expand." His eyes had recovered their customary naughty gleam as he followed her progress toward his bed. "But we can address those matters when we come to them. Your sawbones suitor said that in my state I shouldn't get too...agitated. So don't tease me, temptress."
She shook her head as she leaned over to straighten his quilt. "Why would I agree to an engagement with a man like you?"
He thought for a moment and then said somberly, "It is a risk, of course. But on both sides. You'll have to place a bet on me behaving myself, and I'll have to place a bet on whether or not we are compatible in bed, since I'll be marrying a woman of whom I have no..." he wheezed, "previous intimate experience."
Her fingers knitted together, she looked down at him. "Perhaps we should swap wagers. After all, I'd be marrying a man of whom I have no intimate knowledge. And you shouldn't be so sure I'd behave myself."
His frown eased, his eyes slowly growing lighter. "Very well, my truculent, persistent wench. What do you want from me?"
"I can agree to an engagement, sir, and we will see what happens. After all, we have known each other for only a short time and your health is more important than thoughts of marriage."
"I'll have to be satisfied with that then. For now. I suppose you hesitate because I may not recover the strength to service you physically and you want your chance to wriggle out of it, should I fall short in the breeches."
"Nothing could be further from my mind," she exclaimed. "I meant only that your recovery is a priority and, after that, we can talk of the future. Whatever it holds for both of us." Aware of the fact that he did not make promises, she did not want him to feel cornered.
"Well, I can't imagine what else there is to think ab
out. It's on my mind most of the time."
"What is?"
"Taking you to bed." Catching his breath, he managed a pained grin that was oddly endearing. "You might as well know that, if you mean to marry me."
"I appreciate the warning, but I'm sure I shall endure. If you will." Without thinking she reached over and swept a dark lock of hair back from his bandaged brow. He closed his eyes and opened them again, staring heatedly.
Oh, what had she done? Had she just said 'yes'?
Suddenly she thought of her sister. How would she tell Violet? How did one broach such a subject? Would it show all over her face immediately?
She had resisted dinner with the rogue, and now she had agreed to an engagement. Perhaps she was the one with concussion.
Warm fingers tangled with hers, drawing her hand to his chest. "I think you'd better kiss me," he said. "And make our agreement binding. Just don't bite me this time."
She looked at his bruised, scraped and swollen face, all his good looks gone. Never had he been more handsome in her eyes.
Carefully she bent over and delivered a shy kiss to the corner of his mouth, not wanting to hurt.
There was no sound in the room suddenly but the beat of her own heart.
* * * *
The last time he thought he was at the gates of hell, he had been angry, full of spit and fire, but this time was different. He was not that same foolish young man anymore, of course. Six years had passed since then and he had, against all expectations, matured.
Now he was engaged. Ransom Deverell, the Determined Malefactor, the man who said he'd never marry, had allowed this woman to take up residency on his moor. In a matter of weeks, she had caused him to act like a love-sick fool, yet she claimed not to know how it was done.
Suddenly the door flew wide open and Damon strode in, already shouting, "What the devil did you say to Elizabeth? You sent her away, didn't you? You put her off and told her to leave me! How dare you interfere?"
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