Property: that was what he considered his wife. "And whatever this traitorous act might be, how do you know Ransom Deverell was responsible?"
He spoke through gritted teeth. "I followed her when she went to his house. I saw her leaving the place after she must have told him. But I'd suspected an affair for some time. So you see, I have proof."
But he also had the wrong brother. Mary clasped the door handle tighter. "You have made a great error. The next time you take justice into your own hands— or put it into the hands of your thugs— I suggest you ask your wife for the truth.”
"I will not discuss this with Elizabeth. She and I will never talk of it. We will go on as we always have."
"Of course. Why be honest with each other? A great many other unpleasant truths might come out. You're fortunate, Lord Stanbury, that your actions did not cause Mr. Ransom Deverell to be killed. Would you have boasted of it then to me, I wonder?"
"I did not come here to tell you any of that, and certainly not to boast. I came only to warn you against tying your name to that reprehensible family."
"Well, then you have done the service you came to perform. Good evening."
He paused to shake his hat at her and deliver one last piece of advice. "Think, madam, what you do. Think on it with care!"
"Yes, indeed." She smiled sweetly. "I must think with great care about whether or not I should tell True Deverell what you did to his son. Whether I would want to be responsible for the consequences of giving him that information."
He did not look at her again, but marched out into the snow. Mary closed the door firmly and then slid the bolt across. Today it felt more satisfying than slamming it.
She knew that, with the threat of True Deverell's retribution hanging over his head, he would never have a moment's peace again. Holding George's fate in her hands was a remarkably fortifying sensation. Quite possibly wicked too. But a long overdue revenge for the time when that circumstance had been reversed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
"Dearest Mary;
My mother wrote to give me some news that has left me in utter despair. You cannot possibly consider marrying my wretched brother! Assure me at once that she has misunderstood in some dreadful way.
You know he is a rake of the highest order and will break your dear, tender heart. He is my brother and I must love him, but no sensible woman would volunteer herself for that duty. My beloved Mary, write back as soon as you can and explain to me how this wicked idea might have come to dwell inside my mother's head. I shall be quite bereft of sleep and comfort until I read, in your own hand, that you are safe from making such a heinous mistake. Your heart was broken once before, and I will not stand by and allow it to happen again in the hands of my brother…"
The story was indeed all over town, as George Stanbury had warned. Wherever Mary went, faces turned to watch and hands covered lips to whisper.
What did she care?
In fact, lurid curiosity brought new customers every day to Beloved Books, all of them eager to get a look at the pitiful woman who was engaged to marry the worst rake in London. But they found nobody to pity. Mary, who had experience of keeping up appearances, held her head up and wore a smile upon her face. She even served tea with Sunny's excellent scones and cakes, putting them out on the counter to entice her nosy customers further inside the shop.
As Christmas Eve approached, she put a special display in the bow window, decorating with holly, mistletoe, and two newly purchased oil lamps that kept the window cozily lit even as it grew dark out. That glowing scene drew more folk across the street to look in and browse.
The takings steadily increased.
An old newspaper cutting was sent to her anonymously by some busy body, whose identity she did not care to know. It told her about the fatal curricle accident that had left a woman dead and Ransom Deverell suspected of murder. In lurid detail the article spoke of the young woman's injuries and how she had been left face down in a stream on the Cornish moor.
And her name was Sally White.
Mary had known about the accident before. Raven told her of it, years ago, but she had never known the name of the young woman who was killed.
So now she knew that this was the woman about whom Ransom suffered bad dreams. The reason why he feared sleep and did all he could to avoid it.
Despite the fact that he was cleared of all culpability in Sally White's death, there were still folk who considered him guilty. They had made up their minds about him and he must have given up trying to sway the tide of public opinion. He shrugged it off, laughed and pretended he had no conscience. It was his way of managing and surviving.
* * * *
Sister;
I hope you are well. I am not in the best of health, but you know I never complain.
You will wonder why I have not written this past week, but I have been very busy dashing here and there with Lady Charlotte. At last I have a moment to put pen to paper, although I fear her ladyship will shout for me again presently.
Her ladyship is quite a demanding companion and seldom satisfied. For a lady with everything at her disposal, she is sorely riven with discontent. I am left quite at a loss as how to cheer her spirits.
My feet ache, and I have a blister. Also a sore tooth. I fear I am growing a wart.
I am not so fond of champagne as I imagined I should be.
If you could send me some of your headache powders, I would be grateful. Lady Charlotte does not like me to use hers for fear of running out. She does not like me to use much of anything that is hers.
How is Mr. Speedwell, that dear fellow? I suppose you are huddled together over the fire and imagining all my grand adventures. Of which I am having many, of course, far more than I can tell you about in this letter, for there simply isn't room.
I suppose you miss me dreadfully.
It is quite cold at night, even in Mayfair I wish I had borrowed that shawl you offered, but I daresay you are in need of it more than I, Mary. How warm we used to be in that little bed together.
Yours with great affection,
Violette xxx
The "great affection" had been run through with one bold line of ink and replaced with "love". At the bottom of the paper one final sentence was scrawled in messy haste.
I may come home sooner than planned, if you are desirous of it and ask me to come, for I should not want you to miss my company too long and I know how you both depend upon me.
Absence, it seemed, had indeed made the heart grow fonder. Even an absence of only five days.
On that same morning, Mary received another letter. Also short, it took far fewer attempts to conceal its purpose and required less scratching out to correct erroneous spelling.
The Honorable Miss Mary Ashford;
When I am released into the wild again, I shall expect a full explanation and apology from those infamous lips of yours.
You deserted your post at my side and left me to the care of wigged buffoons, a betrayal of unforgiveable proportions.
You and I have much to discuss.
Prepare yourself.
Annoyed and inconvenienced,
The King of Siam.
* * * *
Mary wrapped the parcel of books and slid them across the counter.
"Thank you, madam." She smiled, hiding a tired yawn for it was Christmas Eve and it had been a very busy day. "Do come again."
The customer agreed that she would and gathered her children to herd them out through the door, which stood open for them already.
A gentleman was holding it for the lady and her family. A gentleman balanced precariously on crutches and pulling faces at the children, who ran, screaming, out of the shop.
She could hear Mr. Speedwell cracking nuts in the parlor while he warmed his feet by the fire. Occasionally there was the chink of glass as he poured himself another sherry. He would not have heard anybody else come in, or even the screaming of the children. Fortunately he couldn't hear her heart beat eithe
r.
The man pushed the door shut with one crutch and then made his way down the aisle toward her, cursing under his breath.
Mary finally got her own feet to move and came out from behind the counter. "Mr. Deverell, I did not know you would be out and about so soon. And in this weather."
His face was still a little worse for wear, but much improved from what it had been when she last saw it. Those dark, mischievous eyes were back to their usual arrogant self, taking her in with swift, merciless critique. "Hoped I'd be locked up a while yet, eh?"
"Nobody locked you up! It was for your own good."
His lips curled. "And I am almost my old self again, so although I should like to punish you for defying me and leaving my presence, it seems I cannot. My father informs me I must be polite and thank you for all that you did. It seems I will live after all and it is all due to your persistence. So you only have yourself to blame that I'm still here."
Her heart felt as if it had wings that could not quite raise it off the ground, although they tried hard. Something held it down. Not knowing what to do, she hovered on her toes, hands tightly clasped.
"You've been industrious." His gaze scanned the shop with evident approval and surprise. "I almost did not recognize the place. Two dozen spiders must have been rendered homeless. I could even see through the damned window as I came down the street."
"I took some of your suggestions and put them into practice."
"Then I’m entitled to a share of the profits?"
Mary longed to touch him, to hold his face and kiss him. "I suppose so." Who cared about silly profits? He was well again. He was standing, exuding that commanding aura again, as he did the first time he entered her shop. Whenever he was near he swept all other considerations out of her mind and heart.
"Come here, Miss Ashford," he said crisply, resettling both crutches under one arm.
A part of her felt as if she ought to object to his tone, but the rest of her was too impatient and yearning. She went to him, and he curled his free arm around her waist, drawing her close.
"Don't hurt yourself," she muttered.
"Turn your face up to me. I want to look at you."
So she did. At that moment she would do anything he asked without question.
And then he lowered his mouth to hers and melted a kiss into her lips. It ran like molten silver through her body and caught fire with everything it touched on its way down. She placed her hands on his chest and felt that glorious strength stirring, surrounding her, giving her shelter.
When their lips parted, his eyes searched her face, looking for something with that familiar smoky, smoldering intensity. She would never be able to keep secrets from this man, she realized. He opened her easily, turned her inside out.
"I hope you don't think to back out of this marriage lark, as you called it," he said sternly. "I know you only agreed in the first place to keep me quiet, not expecting me to live long."
She gasped. "That is not the case." But she had expected him to change his mind once recovered. Mary hadn't dared hope he'd keep a promise.
His arm gripped her firmer, pressing her tightly to his body. "You belong to me now."
Her struggling heart was off the ground, its little wings succeeding in lifting the weight at last.
"No," she said with a little smile. "You belong to me."
* * * *
Ransom wanted to carry her out to his father's carriage, but he could not. Soon though, when he was back to full strength and walking without crutches. Then she had better watch out!
"Mary, you look different."
"Do I?"
He squinted. "Younger. Naughtier."
Laughing, she reached up and tweaked his chin with her thumb and forefinger. "Don't flatter me."
"I didn't mean to. Don't want you getting vain." Frustrated by his crutches, he squeezed her even tighter with the one arm he could use. "I came to bring you home with me."
Her eyes opened wider, clear and shining like cool water in two silver cups. "Home?"
"I want you back in your nursing duties at my bedside. I do not care to spend another night without you."
She hesitated. "I'll need a moment to pack my things."
"No, you won't. You won't need any things. You need only me."
* * * *
That evening they dined with his father. The mood was merry, as it never had been in that house as far as Ransom could remember. He stayed quiet, letting the others talk, for he was content merely to look at Mary and listen to her voice.
She was very clever, bright, and witty. Not only did she entertain him, but he saw that she pleased his father. No small feat. For once in his thirty years Ransom had a female companion of whom he need not be ashamed or embarrassed, but proud.
That she tolerated him enough to marry was quite remarkable, but he was so grateful for it that he did not care to study her motives any longer.
It would have to be enough for now, and in the future he would hope for more. He would work damned hard to win her heart.
Because he was very much in love with her.
And just like that it happened. Somewhere between the soup and the oysters, Ransom understood how much trouble he was in. Because he was fiercely in love with Mary Ashford.
Finally he had a name for this feeling that had plagued him. Until that moment he hadn't been able to identify it. Or had not wanted to admit it. He thought it was lust, combined with the need to possess and protect, a desire greater than anything he had ever felt.
But there it was, between the last sip of consommé and the tinkle of a raw oyster shell falling to a plate. Love. A realization as unexpected and sudden as it was deeply felt and undeniable.
How extraordinary.
Ransom Deverell had fallen foul of something he never thought would affect him. It had crept up and taken hold before he knew what was happening. And now he was beset with a new worry, for how could he make her love him in return. How could anybody love him?
Later, just as the dessert was served, another guest arrived and was shown into the drawing room. Smith came to whisper in Ransom's ear.
He got up. "Mary, will you help me?"
Instantly she left her sorbet, and hurried around the table to let him lean on her. He took a sweet breath of her perfume as his arm went around her shoulders. Together they walked across the hall to the drawing room, Mary having no idea who was waiting there for them, but focused on helping Ransom by bearing part of his weight.
At the door he stopped, put his hand under her chin and raised it to see her eyes again. "Mary, I will protect you for every day of my life and yours. Do you know that?"
Her eyes were quizzical, but warm. "Yes. I do."
"I don't care why you're marrying me. I only care that you do marry me. I will never let you be unhappy, not for one day."
She blinked. Her lips parted in surprise. "Why do you think I'm marrying you?"
That was a question for which he had no answer, but could only look down at her, suffering. "When we first met, you pretended not to know me or anything about me. But you do know, don't you? Everything. You must have heard all the rumors."
"Yes."
"You know how I was involved in the death of a young woman. Sally White."
"Yes." Her face was solemn. "But it was an accident."
"It was my fault. I should never have let her take the reins that night. Should never have drunk as much as I did. I was reckless and careless, as a result of which she died. I may not have struck the blow that killed her, but she would not have been wandering on the moor that night, injured and unprotected, if not for me and my stupidity." It had flowed out of him like blood from a wound and she listened, eyes wide, her hand in his.
After a pause she said, "Do you know why you suffer bad dreams about Sally?"
He swallowed. "Because she haunts me."
"No. Sally doesn't haunt you. She knows it wasn't your fault. Ransom Deverell, you have bad dreams because your conscience w
on't let you rest."
"My conscience?" He frowned.
"Yes, my darling. Despite all opinions to the contrary— your own included— you do have a conscience. Which means that you are redeemable, after all, even if you like to believe you're thoroughly wicked." She laughed, rising up to kiss him on the lips. "Don't look so alarmed. Your secret is safe with me."
How simple she made it all seem. There was hope in her face, clear and determined. Nobody else ever looked at him the way she did.
He brought her fingers to his mouth. "Mary, Since I am now being good..."
She looked skeptical.
"... and utterly honest, I have a confession to make."
"Oh, dear."
"Until just a few moments ago I did not realize I was in love with you."
That wiped the smile off her face. She stared, unblinking. "Oh...oh, dear."
"I thought it was lust," he continued, kissing her fingers. "I thought it was ...anything else. I knew I had to keep you with me, next to me for the rest of my life. But somewhere between dinner courses I realized the truth. I'm in love with you, Mary. Completely, utterly, unequivocally." He looked at her, waiting to see if she would run away screaming.
Finally she sighed and shook her head. "You only just decided you love me?"
"That's not what I said." He scowled, gripping her fingers and not letting her pull her hand away. "I didn't know what it was before now. How could I, since I'd never felt it before?"
"Better late than never I suppose."
"Well, I can't expect you to feel the same, of course," he muttered gruffly.
Then she smiled, her eyes shining with amusement. "Don't you know already?"
Ransom sniffed. "Know what?"
"I fell in love with you the very moment you ravaged my door handle."
His first instinct was to celebrate this news, but then the rest of her sentence sank in. Glaring down at her, he demanded, "That's all it took?"
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