He had the infuriating urge to laugh. Even Michael couldn’t make him laugh much anymore. It took a certain level of lightheartedness to truly relax and make the chest and throat open up enough to laugh. He used to do it. He couldn’t precisely remember when he’d stopped. He didn’t start now.
“No thanks to you, we don’t have rats. I threw out that disgusting concoction before the maids found it. If you’re truly concerned with Lady Blanche, you may breakfast with her while I decide what to do with you.” He stood with his back to the window, diluting the effect of his appearance by casting it in shadow.
“No matter what you do or say, you won’t force her to marry you, you know,” she said conversationally, rubbing her ankles. “So if that’s your plan, you may as well give up on it and let us go now.”
An undertone of amusement laced his voice as he replied, “By all means, toddle on. This place isn’t exactly equipped for guests, as you may have noticed.”
Her head jerked up then, and he could see the flushed color of her cheeks beneath those brunette curls. Damn, but she had the most delicate nose he had ever seen, and sooty black lashes that curled nearly to her eyebrows. Gavin wanted to lick her and taste her and bite into her apple cheeks. That wasn’t all he wanted to do. He grudgingly acknowledged the almost painful surge of lust in his loins. He remembered more precisely why he didn’t keep company anymore. Only paid whores would allow him to do what he wanted to do with this female, and he never paid for his women.
“Your hospitality has been enchanting so far,” she answered with a heavy tone of irony that stirred his blood even more. “I particularly enjoyed the tied-to-a-chair bit. But now, if you will excuse me, I have need of freshening up. I’ll be happy to join you in Blanche’s room shortly.”
Gavin watched with interest as she stood and nearly fell again. The damned woman had more courage than sense, he decided. She caught the chair arm and balanced there precariously while the blood rushed from her feet. It probably hurt like the devil, he surmised. He could carry her upstairs, but he wouldn’t. He knew better than that.
“I’ll tell Lady Blanche you’re coming.” Ignoring her predicament, he crossed the room and let himself out.
Dillian dropped back to the chair, cursing. She pulled an ankle onto her knee and massaged it, still cursing the filthy beast who’d left her here to suffer. She should walk out and disappear again just to spite him. She had the uneasy feeling he hoped she would.
She couldn’t drive the image out of her mind of the proud marquess standing there in front of that window, displaying his ravaged face for her to see. He was tall, but not in the least bulky as she had expected. He wore only a loose shirt and trousers that defined his lean grace and aristocracy. The Marquess of Effingham had long, elegant bones that practically made her drool. The width of his shoulders filled his shirt comfortably, and she’d felt the strength of him the night before. This marquess knew the meaning of physical labor. He hadn’t developed that physique by lurking in dark comers.
The unmarred side of his face had handsome deep-set eyes and an aristocratic nose almost too pretty for a man. His strong jaw and dark black eyebrows could intimidate even in repose. Even without the scars.
The scars—well, a face like that would have driven women mad if seen in perfection. The scars added a character she wagered hadn’t been there before. In his youth he’d probably been one of those handsome twits who thought their pretty looks should buy the world.
Of course, she wasn’t too crazy about the character he’d developed now. Feeling her feet returning to normal, Dillian attempted standing again. If she meant to eat in company today, she would have to prepare herself accordingly. She’d be damned if she would wear these breeches to breakfast.
* * * *
Half an hour later, gowned in her French creation, Dillian entered Blanche’s room the proper way, through the doorway instead of the wardrobe. She couldn’t do much with her hair without a bath and a maid—not that she could do much with it even then—so she had pulled it back from her face with a ribbon. Curls still bounced against her cheek, but they didn’t fall in her eyes for a change.
Her gaze instantly swung to the tall man sitting by the window. Blanche had drawn the draperies so she might see the light of morning through her bandages. The sun fell on the marquess’s scarred visage, but Dillian noticed the dark defiance in his eyes more than the surface damage to his skin. She felt that look like a knife in the stomach. She couldn’t tell if he wanted to murder her or do something else unspeakable, but it stirred her insides.
Then his gaze fell to the long-sleeved, low-necked French gown, and his mouth twisted into a caricature of a smile. Dillian wished for a concealing shawl.
“Empress Josephine, I assume?” he asked caustically.
“I don’t believe they called her empress during this period.” Refusing to let him intimidate her, Dillian pulled the skirt of the gown out to examine it more closely in the morning light. “I don’t think it’s more than twenty or thirty years old.”
“What? Are you wearing the French gown you told me about? Come here, let me feel it.” Sitting in the chair on the other side of the window, Blanche reached her hand out in the direction of Dillian’s voice. As she ran her fingers over the smooth silk, she said wistfully, “I wish I could see it on you. It feels lovely.”
“I’m sure you’ll see it shortly,” the man in the window said, “after Michael returns with the physician. Suffice it to say that your companion looks quite exquisite in blue, although the neckline is a trifle daring for this hour.”
Several things struck Dillian at once. The marquess had evidently figured out who she was, and Blanche had completely given her away by speaking of prior conversations. The uppermost thought, however, revolved around the tray of food on the table between Blanche and their host. She had never developed a lady’s delicate appetite.
Since the room had no additional chair, Dillian helped herself to a muffin and perched on the edge of the bed. She wished for a good cup of tea, but the marquess evidently preferred coffee and hadn’t bothered bringing up a cup for her. Daring him with a look to make an objection, she bit into the muffin.
“You don’t mind about Dillian, do you?” Blanche asked anxiously. “She’s been afraid that you meant me harm, and she wanted to be free to help if necessary. I told her she was foolish, but. . .” She shrugged elegant shoulders wrapped in a shawl Dillian had found for her.
“Does she have another name besides Dillian?” the monster asked, as if Dillian weren’t present at all. He buttered a roll and politely faced Blanche as if they sat properly at the dining table.
Too consumed with hunger to object, Dillian merely helped herself to some sausage, rolled it up in a piece of toast, and continued eating. She’d learned a great deal about eating without plates or cutlery this past week.
“I’m sorry. My manners have gone begging. Dillian Reynolds Whitnell, the Marquess of Effingham, Gavin Lawrence. Dillian is my c…”
Dillian reached over, knocked Blanche’s hand as she reached for her cup, and helped herself to some jam. “Blanche’s companion. Her father was in the military and spent a great deal of time from home. I’m rather a substitute mother.” She cringed inwardly that Blanche had revealed her full name, but the marquess seemed oblivious of the notoriety associated with “Whitnell.”
Blanche took the hint and blithely continued, “My mother died when I was very young, and Father never took the time to seek another wife, much to the despair of his family, I believe. But I think of Dillian as the sister I never had. She’s scarcely old enough to be my mother.”
The marquess followed this conversation without expression, but Dillian could almost hear the wheels of his brain clicking. She considered most men mindless, but she had the nagging feeling that this one had a positive labyrinth for a brain.
But the conversation was quite innocent, and he couldn’t make more of it than was there. As a good companion should, Dillian merely
smiled and nodded polite agreement.
The marquess sent her a withering look. She continued smiling. He’d never really introduced himself as a marquess. She had assumed it from the family history, and Blanche said Michael had confirmed it, but for all they knew, this man had simply taken over an abandoned derelict of a mansion, hired an accomplice, and kidnapped an heiress. For all she knew, they could work for Neville. So she smiled and let him think what he would.
The monster listened politely to Blanche’s chatter as the meal disappeared, but Dillian sensed his attention lagging. If he meant to woo an heiress, he had a lot to learn. She scarcely blinked when he spoke into a lull in the conversation.
“Perhaps I could persuade the two of you to explain why Michael feels it necessary to keep you hidden here? I understand there is some question of someone deliberately setting the fire, but I find difficulty in believing a young lady could have made enemies who would dare do such a thing. I think it’s time we have a frank discussion.”
Even though she couldn’t see, Blanche turned to Dillian for help.
Dillian longed to hand the problem over to someone stronger, more experienced, and more powerful than she. She wasn’t at all certain this reclusive monster fit the description. She liked what she saw in his face, but she couldn’t trust her instincts. Neville had always seemed innocent enough also.
The silence grew embarrassingly longer. Effingham raised an eyebrow. Dillian clasped her fingers into her palms and stared down at them.
“We don’t wish to slander an innocent man,” she hedged, finally. “But the fire wasn’t the first incident. It would seem far safer if Blanche disguised herself until she comes of age in a few months. Then she would have control of her own affairs, and there should be no further interference.”
“I see.” He glanced in Blanche’s direction.
Dillian could see the path his thoughts had taken. With her face scarred by burns, her eyes wrapped in bandages, and with all that long blond hair, Blanche would be rather hard to disguise.
He cleared his throat without expressing his opinion out loud. “I cannot keep the two of you hidden from my servants much longer. I employ only four, but they move about in the village frequently. Everything that happens here is known in town within hours. You might find it safer staying in a much smaller place that can be guarded by professionals. Michael made mention of another estate. Could it offer adequate protection?”
Dillian tried to hide her surprise. She had assumed the man had fallen in with Michael’s suggestion that he woo and win Blanche. The match was nearly irresistible on his part. He would have a wife who couldn’t complain of his scarred visage, one who brought considerable wealth to salvage his obviously bankrupt estate, one with a title and background matching his own. Besides all that, Blanche had beauty and brains, even should the disfigurement of the burns not go entirely away. Any man would want her. This one wanted to send her away. It made no sense.
But Blanche responded eagerly. “I have my estate in Hampshire. There are others, but this one is close by. It belonged to my mother. It is small, but surrounded by good woods and a wall. The gate is seldom used, but I could have it staffed. Is that what you mean?”
The marquess frowned. “I would have to see it to know. Woods could conceal intruders. Even a good patrol couldn’t find them at night. Perhaps when Michael returns, I could leave him here while I take a look at the place.”
The door to the sitting room drifted open, revealing a slender, auburn-haired figure in shirtsleeves lounging against the frame.
“You plan on leaving me where? With all this loveliness?” He winked in Dillian’s direction. “Hello, she-devil. Found you finally, did he?”
Chapter Six
Blanche heard O’Toole’s voice, but the Irish accent had mysteriously changed. She frowned and remained silent while the others argued around her.
“I’m not inclined to address foul villains who abduct helpless women in the middle of the night.” Dillian apparently ignored the intruder and spoke to the marquess. “I think it best if you escort the rogue from the room.”
The marquess, as usual, had his own ideas and ignored Dillian’s waspishness. “Where’s the physician?” he asked O’Toole.
“I couldn’t very well bring one here now, could I? Unless you wished to hold him captive, of course. While I find that a compelling notion, you tend to scowl when I use my own initiative in such a manner. I didn’t want you frightening the ladies with your scowl, so I called on Cousin Marian.”
“Marian! What in the name of the devil does Marian know about burns?”
“Nothing, nodcock, but she knows the best physicians in London. She’s to ask them the best treatment for a maid who accidentally set fire to herself. We should hear from her shortly. Marian is the most efficient of creatures.”
Blanche listened to the marquess grumble under his breath and felt a surge of irritation. They talked about her eyes while ignoring her presence. She wanted these bandages off. She wanted to know the extent of the damages now. While attempting to follow conversations through the medium of her other senses challenged her, she would much rather look the marquess in the face when he grumbled like that. She hadn’t had an opportunity to talk to Dillian alone since the marquess had found her. She wanted to know what the man looked like.
“Couldn’t I disguise myself as this Marian’s maid and go with her to the physicians?” Blanche asked. The notion seemed the most practical one to her.
O’Toole laughed. She wanted to fling something at him. He was a servant, for pity’s sake. How dared he laugh at his betters?
“London physicians may be quacks, but they’re not fools, my lady. One look at you, and they’ll know you’re no maid. And since the duke is tearing the country apart looking for his injured cousin, they’ll surmise quickly enough who you are. The only reason I felt safe in asking Marian to do this much is because she and that hard-headed husband of hers seldom travel in ducal circles, although they could, should they so desire. She has never met Neville, although she’s ready to take his spleen out at your command.”
Blanche still didn’t see why she couldn’t disguise herself as a maid, but she didn’t like causing harm to a lady so willing to help a stranger. O’Toole’s attitude irked her, however, and she reprimanded him. “His Grace to you, O’Toole. Whatever suspicions you may harbor, you have no right speaking of your betters like that.”
She heard O’Toole start to reply, but Dillian talked right over him. “Did you bring my lady’s clothing? She cannot travel to Hampshire dressed in a nightgown.”
“Hampshire?”
“You’re not going to Hampshire yet!”
O’Toole and the marquess responded at the same time. Again, Blanche noticed, O’Toole gave the floor to the other speaker. She thought that extremely odd behavior for a smooth-tongued Irishman. But today, he didn’t seem Irish. With a face and hair like his, he could scarcely be anything else. Of all the assorted strong characters in this room, his was the enigma. Yet he was only a footman. Or was he?
Blanche almost missed the marquess’s response while she pondered the problem.
“There is no sense in traveling to Hampshire if the estate can’t be protected adequately. If someone is looking for you, they’re bound to look for you there.”
“I fail to see why we can’t just stay here for the duration. Who in their right minds would come looking for us here?” Dillian spoke with irritation.
“I would much rather see that my servants and my home are safe,” Blanche answered implacably. “I would not impose on Lord Effingham more than is necessary. We owe him a great debt as it is. I don’t see why I couldn’t arrive quietly at night and slip in the back way. No one would need know I’m there but the servants, and they’re all loyal. I can’t believe anyone would bother us so far out in the country.”
Her calmness cast a pall over the angrier voices. O’Toole used the momentary silence to advantage.
“I fear you a
re wrong in that, my lady. Radicals are stirring unrest across the country, but I fear it is more than Radicals burning hayricks near your home. The surrounding countryside is in an uproar. They set fire to a neighboring barn last night. If someone means you harm, the atmosphere is perfect for it.”
Even Dillian grew silent as she swallowed that, Blanche noticed. She had good reason. The estate in Hampshire rightfully belonged to Dillian as much as to her. They had their own reasons for keeping that quiet.
“Michael, you can stay here with the women,” the marquess said. “I’ll go investigate. We can’t expect Lady Blanche to live in this miserable hole until she comes of age. We have to get to the bottom of this.”
“What do you intend to do, my lord?” Dillian asked scathingly. “Terrorize them into behaving?”
O’Toole answered for the marquess. “Gavin is a military hero of sorts. He’ll make an army out of your servants, no doubt.”
Dillian’s reply was an exceedingly impolite and unladylike invective. The marquess made a similar comment as he pushed aside the table and evidently started toward the door. Knowing Dillian’s thorough condemnation of anything military, Blanche sought some way of defusing the situation, but she didn’t think fast enough.
Dillian called after the departing marquess. “I’m going with you!”
“I’ll tie you to a chair first!” was his reply as he slammed the door after him.
Unable to see her cousin’s face, Blanche could envision the frustration and fury on it. Dillian not only despised military men, she didn’t take well to threats. It was a wonder her cousin hadn’t thrown something after the infuriating marquess.
O’Toole’s comment following the lord’s departure didn’t surprise Blanche in the least. “Here, let me throw it for you.”
The unmistakable sound of a teacup smashing against the door followed.
Again, O’Toole spoke encouragingly. “It was an abominable piece of porcelain anyway. We wouldn’t want Lady Blanche encountering such a monstrosity once her bandages are removed would we? There’s no sense in keeping the saucer now that the cup’s gone, you know.”
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