The Marquess

by Patricia Rice

  Outraged, Dillian sent him a scathing glare, to which he would undoubtedly have been impervious even had he seen it. “Your generosity is overwhelming.”

  “Thank you. In light of my prior experience with British gratitude, I think so.”

  “You are nursing some grudge and taking it out on Blanche?” she asked with incredulity.

  “I am merely protecting myself and my interests, as any sane man would do.”

  Adding coldhearted and unfeeling to the list of epithets to throw at his head, Dillian refrained from commenting. Instead, she asked, “If you do not plan to be seen by the staff, where will you stay? Surely you cannot accomplish everything in the course of a single day.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve lived off the land before. Do not concern yourself.”

  The idea of a marquess living off the land opened her eyes a little wider, but she knew better by now than to give her opinion to this man. “We will need some means of communication.”

  She almost heard amusement in his voice when he responded, “I can assure you, I’ll find some way.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that at all. She almost liked him better when gruff and stiff-necked. Amusement did not bode well.

  “Why are you doing this?” she demanded. “Why don’t you just throw us out of your grand palace and let us solve our problems ourselves if you despise us so much?”

  He gave that irritating shrug again. “Because, regardless of what anyone might think, Michael is important to me. If he wants Lady Blanche protected, I will do what is necessary—within reason—to protect her. Michael and I occasionally disagree on what is reasonable, but he understands my position. He will accept it when I send Lady Blanche home.”

  Dillian shook her head, unable to fathom the workings of this man’s mind. He found an impertinent footman important but would send away an heiress who could make his fortune? For the first time it occurred to her that she might be traveling in the company of a madman. She sent him a surreptitious glance, but she could see only the silhouette of his improbable hat and long coat, with its collar turned up to conceal his face.

  “Your priorities are fascinating,” she said dryly, then proceeded to ride the rest of the way in silence.

  * * * *

  “The gate’s closed,” Gavin informed her, riding back to the clump of trees where he’d left her. “There’s a guard asleep in the guardhouse. The sun will come up shortly. Is there another entrance?”

  He imagined her raising those expressive exclamation points she called eyebrows, but he couldn’t see her face clearly in the predawn darkness. She had told him the front gate would in all likelihood be rusted and unused. Someone had obviously seen to the security of the gate without the lady’s orders.

  “The postern gate,” she answered without hesitation. “With decent horses, we could jump several sections of the wall where the stones have fallen, but I wouldn’t want to attempt it with these nags.”

  She urged her tired mount into the woods surrounding the estate. Gavin followed and found himself focusing on the sway of Miss Whitnell’s breeches in the gray light of dawn. She had well-rounded hips with ample flesh for a man to bury his fingers in. It didn’t take any effort to imagine sinking his fingers into those soft curves.

  The memory of holding her against him burned indelibly in his mind. He knew this obsession had more to do with the fact that he’d abstained from women for too long than the desire for this particular woman, but he was tired and his mind found this path easiest to follow.

  He would keep their meetings limited to darkness, where he couldn’t see so much of the lady’s splendid figure. That hideous coat couldn’t conceal the swelling temptation of her breasts.

  Gavin gritted his teeth and concentrated on the path they took. When they reached the gate, he dismounted and opened it for her, then caught the reins of her horse.

  “Leave your mount here if you’re to enter unnoticed. You can say you sent the carriage back easier than explaining why there is only one horse in the stable.”

  She nodded and without thinking, Gavin hauled her down. He knew the moment he wrapped his hands around her waist that he had made a mistake, but he didn’t falter. The heat of her burned through his gloves, but he merely set her down on the ground.

  He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes in the shadows as she stared up at him. He didn’t want to know. He stepped back and gestured for her to proceed.

  “I can walk the rest of the way myself,” she said without inflection.

  “I will see you safely inside.” He didn’t know why he said that. He had better things to do than make certain this obstinate wench stole into the house without mishap. Some remnant of his upbringing must have intruded through his weariness.

  After tying the horses, they slipped through the shadows of dawn in silence. Dewdrops wet their boots. An occasional overhanging branch dripped moisture on their heads. In the distance, birds sang a cheerful wake-up call to the sun. The May morn already held a warmth that heated the fresh scents of grass and wildflowers and promised sunshine.

  Gavin couldn’t remember ever wanting a tumble in the spring grass so badly.

  The urge to procreate must come naturally with the rising sap of spring, he thought sourly to himself as they finally reached the back of the stable, protected by the new leaves of an apple tree.

  “You will send me some word this evening?”

  Gavin thought she almost expressed anxiety, but he knew concern for himself didn’t reckon into her question.

  He scanned the expanse of drive and yard between their hiding place and the house. He doubted if the servants had even risen to start the fires yet. The house wasn’t overlarge but a pleasantly sprawling vine-covered brick with classical features.

  He eyed the old vines and nodded, hiding amusement at the interesting images they wrought. “Which room is yours?”

  Gavin knew she didn’t trust him, but not for the reasons she should. She merely gave him a quick glance, then counted the windows until she worked out which one was hers.

  “The fourth from the back. Each room on this side has a double casement except the corner rooms. The rear corner belongs to Blanche.”

  “Go, then. When you reach your room, open the window so I’ll know you’re safe.”

  She relaxed at what must seem to her as a friendly admonition. In moments, she was across the yard and entering by a side door with a key she found under a jardinière. Gavin shook his head in disbelief at this lax procedure. He marked the second item needing correcting on his list. The first was the guard at the gate.

  He waited, keeping his eyes trained on the fourth window. She shouldn’t dally. If she had any sense at all, the servants would find her firmly ensconced in her own bed when she rang for them. For some odd reason, he had confidence in her sense.

  Gavin slid back into the shadows of the trees as soon as that window flew open. He could see her slight figure outlined against the opening. He gave no indication that he’d seen her. She would just have to guess at his whereabouts from now on.

  She hadn’t realized yet that he’d turned the tables on her.

  Chapter Eight

  She and Verity had done their work well, Dillian decided the following evening as she looked at the heavy tray on her dressing table, discreetly loaded with enough food for three people. In a single day, the servants had accepted the signs that Blanche was hiding at the Grange.

  After a week of scavenging whatever leftovers she might find, Dillian was now presented with the opposite problem.

  Gazing ruefully at her far from svelte figure, she didn’t think she needed to make up the lost meals. She wondered if she could somehow sneak this surplus to the mad marquess.

  Deciding he could very well figure out how to obtain his own meals, she carried the pot of tea and some of the food down the hall to Blanche’s room. She might as well make this pretense as realistic as possible. If one of the maids should wander down the hall and see her room empty
, they would believe her dining with the invalid.

  Balancing the tray, Dillian turned the latch and edged the door open with her hip. Swearing under her breath for not thinking of bringing a lamp or candle, she closed the door behind her and more or less found her way by memory to the table by the corner windows. The view of the gardens from here was lovely in the daytime. During the evening, the spot became chilly. She pulled the heavy drapery and lit the lamp.

  A powerful arm grabbed her around the waist, and a hand smothered her mouth. Screaming into a hard palm, Dillian kicked backward and tried to drive her elbows into her captor’s stomach. He merely held her tighter, not painfully so but with an almost gentle caress that brushed upward, freezing her more assuredly than anything rougher.

  “Remind me never to sneak up on you in the dark again,” a familiar voice murmured with mocking amusement. “As much as I’m enjoying the pleasure of holding you, I’d rather keep what hide I have left.”

  Dillian bit spitefully at his palm, but he removed it before she could cause harm. She swung around and glared at the bane of her existence. The marquess wore his black cloak and hood again, but he had the hood thrown back. Lamplight flickered over the faint scars on his jaw, but she noticed the heat of his dark gaze more than the scars. She backed away.

  “You had some good reason for startling me out of three years’ growth?”

  He shrugged, and she thought she saw his lips twitch in what might have resembled a grin. Her imagination was getting the best of her. This black-hearted scoundrel wouldn’t know how to smile. She glared at him until he replied.

  “I’ve noticed a tendency for people to scream when I appear. I didn’t want all the servants running up here.”

  “Fustian!” She threw the word he had used earlier back in his face. “You just wanted to get even. And I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself from now on.” Not knowing how else to deal with the disturbing look in his eyes or the way his hand had made her feel just moments before, she hastily changed the subject. “Have you eaten? The servants have brought me enough food for three people.”

  The look he sent the tray of food almost equaled the one he had given her. Any man who employed two cooks obviously had an appetite. Dillian lifted one cover to reveal a steaming bowl of nourishing broth, suitable for an invalid. She nearly laughed at his frown and lifted a second. Lamb pie was obviously more to his liking.

  Knowing she’d left a considerable dinner back in her own room, she merely poured herself a cup of tea and watched as the marquess took her place at the table. She let him make hasty inroads into the meal before inquiring, “Have you looked over the grounds?”

  He grimaced at the pitcher of water that was the only beverage left. “I don’t suppose you could convince them that an invalid needs coffee?”

  “I might convince them that I would prefer it. Blanche detests the stuff. Are you planning on making a habit of breaking and entering?”

  He raised his eyebrows mockingly. “Like you?” Without expecting a reply, he sipped at the water. “The place is easy enough to break into. Country houses are never sufficiently protected. If I made thievery a habit, I would forget working in the city. No one ever locks doors in the country. Or if they do, they keep the keys under flowerpots.”

  He sent her a look that made Dillian grind her teeth. “There are more holes in your security around here than there are trees in the woods.”

  “All right. I’ll give the butler a stiff warning about checking all the doors and windows downstairs before he retires. There’s only the one key outside. We’ve always kept it there. Certain members of Blanche’s family had rather irresponsible habits of losing keys and coming home at an hour when the staff slept.”

  He didn’t comment on this, but continued, “That’s just the tip of the iceberg. One guard cannot stay awake twenty-four hours a day. The gate needs either to be locked or staffed around the clock by people willing to stay awake. The walls are hopeless. Anyone but a three-legged cow can climb over them. You’ll need guard dogs running loose at night to warn of any unexpected visitors. In addition, although this may sound ridiculous, I recommend buying a flock of geese.”

  “A flock of geese?” Dillian almost laughed, but the stormy expression on the marquess’s formidable visage prevented it. His scowl forewarned of thunder and lightning if she did not take heed. Impossible man. Glaring back, she set her cup soundly back on its saucer. “Why geese?”

  “A truly determined intruder can locate and distract the dogs. He couldn’t possibly walk past a gaggle of geese without causing a commotion and getting himself pecked to pieces first. Most wouldn’t even think to try before the geese were upon them.”

  That made sense. She’d had the experience of riding down the road when a gaggle of geese decided to cross it. They didn’t move for anyone, man or beast. She nodded thoughtfully. “All right. The geese are easier arranged than the dogs. I don’t know where I’ll find dogs trained to guard the property who won’t eat geese.”

  “Make inquiries. It shouldn’t be difficult. Have you gone over the staff yet? Have they hired anyone new?”

  She would like to take umbrage at his arrogant assumption that she could handle everything with a sweep of her hand, but the fact that he so casually accepted her ability to carry out his commands weakened her ire.

  Dillian poured more tea and watched him slice happily into Cook’s best pudding cake. He didn’t eat as if starved but more as if he savored every bite after a long period of deprivation. She would order wine as well as coffee for tomorrow. She wanted to see a look of ecstasy on those harsh features. It might almost make him human.

  “The guard at the gate is the only person I don’t know,” she admitted. “Blanche only kept a skeleton staff here and brought her personal staff with her when she visited. They’re all here now, and I’m quite certain they would walk on water for her if she requested. She saved most of their lives the night of the fire. They’ll sit up nights and watch the windows if I ask.”

  “It won’t hurt having one of the footmen patrolling the ground floor regularly when everyone else is asleep,” he said, helping himself to her cup of tea now that he’d finished the cake. “Give strict instructions about keeping all strangers outside, although I can’t imagine an arsonist coming to the door.”

  “No,” she answered gloomily. “If they mean to burn us out again, it will come as you feared. I’ve already heard all about the riots and the hay burnings. The staff is terrified that the radicals will send the mob here. No amount of geese and dogs and guards can stop a mob.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “Does a mob have reason to come here?”

  “Does a mob have reason for anything they do?” she asked caustically. “I have seen them rampage through the streets of London, overturning carriages with old ladies in them, breaking windows and stealing anything available. Out here in the country they cannot lay their hands on as many goods, but on the other hand, there is no one to stop them.

  “I cannot say that they have no reason for anger,” she continued. “Now that the war is over, the army has dumped thousands of men into the streets without pay, without jobs, without hope of finding employment. The poor rates are soaring as high as the price of food. Only the rich benefit from the Corn Laws. The economy is in a crisis, and our government sits on its hands and claims everything must stay as it always has been because change is worse than revolution. I can’t say setting hayricks on fire serves any purpose, but I understand their frustration.”

  He gazed at her thoughtfully. “You’re as angry as they are, aren’t you? I keep forgetting you’re hired help. You have the manners of a lady. You remind me a great deal of one of my cousins. She was raised as a lady but knows the curse of poverty.”

  Dillian waited for the inevitable question about why a lady hadn’t married instead of becoming a paid companion, but he didn’t ask. Asking questions indicated interest. The marquess had no interest in a penniless dependent. She would do be
tter to remember that before her imagination flew away with her.

  “I doubt that your cousin knows what it is like having seven children in a one-room hovel, starving to death while her husband is gone daybreak to sundown scraping together enough pennies to pay for the roof over their heads. Enclosures have robbed the poor of their ability to raise their own food, and no one pays enough so they can buy their own. On top of that, the poor tenant farmer must pay the poor rate out of his meager sales while the wealthy landowner who collects rents instead of selling crops keeps his hands in his pockets. The situation is outrageous.

  “Blanche has done what she can, but her powers are limited until she comes of age. Everything she suggests must be approved by her trustees. So far, they haven’t agreed to her desire to pay her tenants’ taxes.”

  The marquess sat back in his chair, seemingly relaxed as he listened to her tirade. His shirt gleamed white in the candlelight, contrasting with the darker coloring of his skin.

  Dillian couldn’t believe that she sat here actually talking to this madman. Despite the starkly aristocratic structure of his face and the elegant lines of his figure, she knew this man as a reclusive eccentric at best. A demented American came closer. What interest did he have in the economic and social disasters of a country he so blatantly despised?

  “And this Neville you mentioned is one of the trustees?” Long, thin fingers peeled at an apple with a fruit knife.

  Captivated by the sensuous grace of his movements, Dillian answered without thinking. “No, but his solicitor is. Neville and Blanche are first cousins. Their grandfather was the fifth Duke of Anglesey. He had three sons. The eldest, of course, was expected to take over Anglesey. Blanche’s father, the second son, made a career of the military, so her mother stayed mostly at Anglesey.

  “Her grandfather had a falling out with Neville’s father, the youngest, who wanted to make changes that no one else thought necessary. So Neville’s family moved to London when Neville was quite young. Blanche’s grandfather doted on her.