And perhaps that was why the thought of the mysterious Elizabeth sickening unto death caused his breath to catch in his throat. They had made some manner of. . . call it a connection. They were peers—if persons of opposite genders could be called peers—Elizabeth's clothing, her accent, even her very carriage gave her away. She was not of the common class; she had been born to money, or at least to privilege.
It was more than that, however. Gideon had his club and his interactions with the aldermen of Severn's Well. He also had the occasional social invitation, even if the things were issued with the hope they would be declined. Had he wished to put himself out just a little, do the pretty and offer the occasional invitation in return, he could have had more time in the company of those of his own station in life. Once Mama was passed away and there was no one left to protect, Gideon could have become a sociable creature.
He had even made a few feeble attempts, mostly for his brothers' sake, before they were wise enough to flee this house filled with painful memories. But it had not taken Gideon long to realize that the shallowness of gossip stemmed from the meanness of people's hearts, and what had not been tolerable when his mother was alive, was no more tolerable now that she was dead.
Conversation consisted of rumormongering and inanities. Dancing should have been entertaining, but he had soon realized it was really all about courtship. Gideon had no need of a wife, just another burden on shoulders that had already absorbed the weight of the Greyleigh estate. Even when it came to card playing, Gideon had deliberately chosen Elly's because the play was serious if light, because it was not the venue for political posturing as was found in some men's clubs.
No, Society had little to offer him. Would going abroad prove different? There would always be shallow people, that was the curse of mankind, but perhaps in places of learning or great beauty, some semblance of the peace and veracity Gideon craved could be found. His brothers had thought there was some to be found, and they had only ventured as far as London and Brighton respectively, so perhaps Gideon was not too far wrong to hunger for the world beyond Severn's Well.
Yet, now the world had come to him, in the form of Elizabeth. She was, after a fashion, the perfect mirror of what Gideon sought: newness, mystery, intrigue. Most important, she was a woman who demanded nothing of him, because she meant to keep her peace within herself. The strain of having a madwoman once again in his home had proved no real strain at all. Perhaps that was because he knew she would leave.
And I have called others shallow, Gideon thought with a wry sniff, as if he scented his own hypocrisy.
He realized he had forgot to ask the surgeon how much longer Elizabeth would need to recuperate, were she to come away well and hale from this fever.
Gideon found he was frowning again, and he gave a brief shake of his head as if to cast off dark thoughts. But perhaps here was just yet another sign of madness, that the gesture was meaningless and the dark thoughts uppermost in his mind as he made his way up the stairs, toward her room.
It is that woman, Elizabeth thought with vague surprise, the red-haired woman, the supposed ghost. The figure was turning, turning, as if she danced one of those newfangled waltzes, except her arms were empty of a partner. Elizabeth blinked and turned her head against the pillow, the better to see the woman, who moved and dipped to some music Elizabeth could not hear.
Elizabeth knew she ought to call out. Not so much to the woman, but to someone else to come and see the red-haired stranger as well. But her teeth knocked together so that she could hardly hold her head still, let alone force her mouth to shape words. She was dimly aware there were layers of blankets atop her, but the chills had a hold of her and no amount of covers would chase the shaking from her limbs. If only someone would build up the fire on the grate, then she might be warm enough.
She forced her head to turn, with the jerky movements of a marionette, and saw that a large fire already roared in the fireplace. The snaps and pops of fresh wood giving up its sap were clearly audible. To build the fire any higher was to invite a conflagration too large for the space. God help her, that meant there was no hope of getting warm.
When she turned her head once more to look at the red-haired dancing woman, no one was there. The creature had disappeared. Or had she ever really been there?
One part of Elizabeth understood she was caught in the grip of fever, the kind that roasts you one minute, and freezes you the next. But that understanding was detached, like something she had read in a book.
Mostly she just felt. Pain in her heel, ice in her veins, her teeth grinding together.
When next she was aware of being in her room, night had fallen. A branch of candles burned on the table, the one that had once held her jewels. My jewels! she thought in panic. Where are they? I must find them. She struggled to sit up, but something hard and firm pushed her back down to the mattress.
Elizabeth focused outward and found the something that was hard and firm—Lord Greyleigh's hand on her shoulder. "What are you doing here?" she asked, amazed by the reed-thin squeak that was her voice.
"Jeannie's time has come, and Polly is helping the midwife. You are quite ill. Would you rather Frick or Cook attended you?" he answered.
"No," she whispered.
It was difficult to tell in the half-light of candles, but she thought he smiled ever so slightly. "Good," he said. "Sleep."
His voice was deep, deeper than she had remembered. It had a reassuring quality to it, a resonance that could warm bones. Warmth! Ah, praise God, she was warm at last.
"I am burning alive!" she cried, and some tiny corner of her mind knew that hours had passed since she had last spoken. She threw back the blankets and would have peeled off her night rail if the movement to shed the covers had not exhausted her utterly. She could not lift her head. Why was that? Why was it so horribly, torturously hot in here? Why did her head ache and feel as if it would burst with every pulse of blood that beat through her veins?
"Hold her while I pour water in her mouth," a male voice said, and then she was drowning, but it was a good drowning, one that quenched a terrible thirst. Had she drunk salt water? Was that why she was so thirsty? Why would she do that? She knew better.
She was swimming . .. but in a warm bath, too warm. Was she in a bathing pool, such as she had read the ancient Romans built? What were they called? Scauldoriums? Something like that, something too hot. Where was the way out? She had to get out of these horribly hot, wet clothes that threatened to drag her to the bottom of the pool.
Someone loomed nearby, a girl, a Roman girl who put a cool cloth to Elizabeth's forehead.
"Thank you," she said to the young Roman girl. "What is your name? I would like to hire your services again when I come back to the baths."
The girl looked startled ... but then Elizabeth saw a ghostlike figure shake its head, even as it slowly dawned on her she was looking at Lord Greyleigh, at the unbound length of his flaxen hair. She liked the look of it, down around his shoulders as it was now.
"She does not understand," Greyleigh said, his voice sounding to Elizabeth's ears as if he spoke through cotton wool... or perhaps it was her own hearing that muffled his words. Certainly, her head was pounding. Greyleigh had spoken to the girl, not to her, and Elizabeth felt a behindhand jolt of indignation at the idea that he could mean that she did not understand. She understood perfectly, even if everyone insisted on mumbling.
"Tis the fever. Ignore anything she says," Greyleigh said in that strange, thick voice. How odd that Greyleigh should be here ... at a Roman bath. . . .
It was too much, too confusing. Elizabeth let the warmth overtake her, let oblivion reach out and claim her and make her its own.
"Tis the fever. Ignore anything she says," Gideon instructed firmly. The maid nodded—he was fairly sure her name was Meg—and was clearly out of her element.
But who else was there to help? Jeannie was having her child, Polly attending her, and the only other females in his bachelor's home
were laundry maids who seldom set foot above the kitchen stairs. He should have long since hired a housekeeper ... but "should have" was of no value at the moment.
"Her bed is soaked with sweat," Meg said, round-eyed with concern. "Her night things, too."
Gideon wondered if he blanched, for he certainly felt as if all the blood raced out of his head. "You could pile fresh linen on top of the old."
"Well, that's as may be." Meg looked doubtful. "If you like, m'lord." She chewed her lip, then burst out, "But m'mum used to say that's how folk take ill unto death, lying atop wet linens, sir."
"And in wet bedclothes," Gideon could only agree. He gave the maid a stern look. "Are you absolutely certain no other maids are about tonight?"
She shook her head. "There's a dance—"
"At Llewellyn's barn, so you said." He had been vaguely aware he'd granted permission for his servants to go off to dances; even more dimly aware that Vicar Llewellyn encouraged the occasional dance as "healthful recreation for the laboring classes."
Gideon looked down at the soaked linens and shook his head as if to shake off indecision. "Well," he said in that same firm tone, "we must change her things then."
"Wte, m'lord?" Meg said on a gasp, surprised into questioning him. "I mean, d'you think it seemly?"
"Are you strong enough to change her clothing and all this bedding by yourself, while moving Miss Elizabeth with a minimum of fuss? I will not have her disturbed overmuch." He sounded short-tempered even to himself. "No? Then I shall have to assist you."
"As you say, sir," the maid murmured, her eyes wider than ever.
She moved past him to the linen cupboard to fetch fresh sheets and blankets, and a dry night rail from the wardrobe.
"I will hold her, and you will do the, er, actual changing," Gideon ordered. He sat on the bed, sliding an arm under Elizabeth and lifting her into a sitting position. He slid in behind her, propping her against his own chest.
She muttered on a half sob, "I hate you!"
"I am sorry—" he began to apologize, but then he saw her eyes were open, but unfocused. She was not speaking to him, but to someone inside her own mind.
"Ignore her," Gideon reminded the maid, who reached to unbutton Elizabeth's night rail. The gown was soon pulled over Elizabeth's head, leaving her naked from the waist up and her lower extremities covered only by a blanket. Gideon could not think where to put his hands, especially when Elizabeth threatened to teeter to one side. He caught her arms, steadying her against his chest. "The clean night rail!" he growled at the maid from between gritted teeth.
The fresh gown was quickly pulled over Elizabeth's head, but getting her arms through the long sleeves took more time. Gideon was too aware of the warm, naked back pressing into his chest, the curve of a breast that slipped into view. He ought to avert his gaze, but he was afraid he might not catch Elizabeth should she tilt again under Meg's ministrations.
Even though he told himself not to be foolish, that this was a sickroom and gender was meaningless here, it did have meaning. The woman in his arms was not related to him. and she was ill, and he was concerned for her. Yet even under the circumstances she was comely, lovely, soft. Devil take him! He could not detach awareness of her femininity any more than he could smother the embarrassment he experienced for her sake.
At last she was dressed and buttoned, and Gideon slid out from under her. even as he kept her balanced against his arm. to keep her from the damp sheets. It was the work of a minute to hoist her into his arms.
"I will hold her while you change the bedclothes."' he said to the maid, and nodded at the pile of blankets. "Put one of those over her so she does not take a chill." The maid complied, and Gideon crossed to the nearest chair, where he sat carefully. He settled Elizabeth across his lap. freeing one hand, with which he adjusted the blanket so as to block out errant breezes. She stirred once, then resettled, her head tucked against his chest, as if she sought warmth and security from him. Were she conscious, she would no doubt be able to detect the beating of his heart beneath her cheek.
Finding no more adjustments needed to be made to the covering, his hand hovered over the blanket, and then slowly rose to touch her cheek. She was flushed from the fever, and her long black hair only half held in its plait. She did not stir when he allowed the backs of his fingers to brush her cheek, nor when he wiped away a tear trail that had run down into her hairline. He had not realized how much he had wanted to touch this face, to feel its contours under his fingertips, until the opportunity was irresistibly presented.
Then his hand froze, his fingers trembling against her cheek as he recalled the very words that had run through his mind: he was concerned for her.
Another man might think nothing of those five simple words, but Gideon knew them for what they were, what they represented in his life.
God help him, he cared about what became of her.
Chapter 13
Gideon had not cared, he knew, about anyone for too long a time. All he thought of, all he had craved for months, was escape.
His yearning to be free had started before his mother had died. Once she was gone, the need had trebled and had begun to consume him, had chased all Gideon's noble intentions from his head.
He had planned to be the benevolent Lord Greyleigh, taker in of strays, employer of the crippled, judge of none, restorer of happiness. And for a while, he had succeeded. For that matter, he succeeded in that aim even now . . . except for himself. Gideon made everyone around him happy, but not himself. He'd even made his brothers content—buying a commission for Benjamin and handing a hedonistically large sum of the ready to Sebastian, who had desired to game and wench and try to discover all of Brighton's other iniquities.
Still, it all could have been good. Gideon could have gone on playing Lord Bountiful... if only he had not seen through his own intentions to the hollow truth beneath: he had begun to "do good" out of rote.
His heart was no longer automatically squeezed at once by the sight of a twisted leg or a starving face. He had begun to wonder if some people did not invite their fates. He had started to pick and choose who should know his munificence. He looked for those who might blossom under his care. His charity was not freely given. It came with a price: he expected those he selected to prosper, to change, to grow, to become what he wanted them to be.
To Gideon's horror, he began to wonder if what he was doing could even be labeled "charity." He did not freely give to one and all. He had expectations. He was like one of those moneylenders in the temple whom Jesus had condemned. He was the rich man who loudly cried out his prayers instead of humbly begging God's forgiveness, a man made of bluff and blow, all artificial goodness, a fraud.
He had searched their faces, this motley staff of his, and he had seen their contentment, but it was too late to delude himself any longer. If he had somehow managed to bring some happiness to these poor, benighted people, then he had bought it at the cost of his own soul. They did not know they had been "rescued" by a scoundrel, but their lack of knowledge did not mitigate Gideon's sin, his pride, his folly.
His father had been a shallow, unkind man, who had tortured his wife with critical words and unkind looks because she could not be the helpmeet he desired her to be. He had never tried to see into her confused eyes, never forgave her for being imperfect. He had been harsh with his sons as well, although Gideon had never been able to figure exactly why, except perhaps they'd had the gall to not be exactly like Papa.
Gideon had desired to be entirely unlike him. But, despite his best intentions, he had only managed to shadow his father's path. The soured Greyleigh blood had run true. Gideon had become a monster cloaked in fine clothes, no better than his father, picking and choosing those who could change in such a way as to make Gideon feel superior to his dead parent. He may not have shouted, he may not have struck out with his hands and a sharp tongue, but he had learned to manipulate others. Gideon's manner of manipulation was simply more subtle, even allowing Gideon to fo
ol himself for a long time.
The irony was, the charity charade continued to play on. Gideon still did his good deeds, still found employment for the weak and the wounded—but within he was hollow—hollow and deranged, surely. He did not know how else to act, and so even though each new face that sought his help, his support, dragged him deeper into the quagmire of empty charity, still he went doggedly on.
He could just be a landowner, like a thousand other men. He could order the aldermen of Severn's Well never to send another charity case his way. He could build fences around his property, could refuse to see the needy just outside that fence. . . . But his only hope, his only redemption, was that even if his heart was empty, perhaps the acts themselves were not. Perhaps God or fate or that something otherworldly that surely looked into men's souls, would think acts were enough, even without faith, or truth, or love.
Only now . . . now he had touched this woman's face, and an old, old emotion had laced through him, had pierced that hollow organ he called his heart.
She was still a burden. She was still a stranger. But somehow this unconscious, fever-racked, helpless creature in his arms had moved past Gideon's rigid sense of duty, into something that could only be called caring. Something in her, in the smiles she had given him, or the promise to one day be completely honest with him, something had caused her touch to reach down to his very soul.
He sat, cradling Elizabeth, feeling shattered, but, too, feeling suddenly and keenly alive.
"My lord?" A voice penetrated the seething fog of his thoughts. He looked up at the maid, dimly aware she had been repeating the words several times.
"Yes?" he said, his voice a croak, as though he held back tears.
"The bed is ready, my lord."
Gideon stood, surprised to find his legs would hold him even though he trembled all over. He took several deep breaths, regaining a measure of control, and crossed to the bed. He and the maid tucked Elizabeth in, then he sat once more in the chair as the maid changed the dressing on Elizabeth's foot. Elizabeth grimaced as the maid worked, but did not truly rise to a conscious state.
The Misfit Marquess Page 14