Although, even when that happy day arrived, her future did not necessarily shine brightly. Radford Barnes would have no way of hurting her, not really, not once Lorraine was safely married. Yet, if so little as a whisper grew around Elizabeth's return to Society, so equally would Elizabeth's chances for a proper marriage plummet.
She supposed she must marry a Cit, a wealthy man of no social standing. It would be a comedown for a knight's daughter, but one Elizabeth would embrace so long as the fellow was a kindly man.
There were few other options open to a woman other than marriage: she could become a companion, or a governess, or perhaps she might qualify to teach at a school for girls. Papa would make sure Elizabeth did not starve or truly want despite a humble income, and a life of service might actually be a good way to keep her days from feeling stagnant and useless.
Elizabeth did not know how she would cope with being a spinster, but she feared her carnal nature would make it a long and miserable existence. Marriage to a Cit seemed more in keeping with her character, and then she would at least have the joy of children, God willing. Perhaps she could love this husband of hers ... perhaps she would come to crave running her fingers through his hair, and want to kiss the weighty concerns of the day from his brow, and perhaps rejoice to see her children had their father's eyes....
Elizabeth looked to the man at her right elbow, quietly eating his meal, and saw his pale eyes and knew with a heavy heart that she had to leave Lord Greyleigh's home.
She ought to speak to him this very moment. She ought to inform him she was well enough to travel, to remove herself as a burden from his household, to get on with living the life that was to be hers. But she wanted to stay. She longed to stay just a few days more, or perhaps so long as a week ... ?
She had only one good excuse as to why she should stay, and that was the recovery of her jewelry. Curious then, that the very thing she had been praying for, that her jewels would all be promptly found and returned to her, she now prayed would take
a while and give her a reason to linger. Already today two more pieces had been found: her other hair comb and one of her ear-bobs set with golden topaz stones.
The comb had been affixed into the bristles of a broom, and the earbob had dangled from the delicate frame of a miniature in the portrait gallery. Since Elizabeth herself had gazed at those portraits but a few days past, the earbob had obviously been recently added. Counting the earbob's twin and another set of earbobs, there were only nine pieces yet missing.
Elizabeth glanced at Lord Greyleigh—Gideon, he'd bid her call him—and knew with a heart that grew even heavier that it was not her future she feared to face, but a future that would never bring her again in contact with Gideon.
Could she bear never to see him again? What manner of fool was she, to have attached such importance to a connection that now existed only half as long as her ill-fated "marriage" ever had?
Despite her inner remonstrances, she knew she would not tell him she could leave, not yet. She convinced herself more of her jewels needed to be found first.
The real question at the moment was, would she tell him not to carry her in his arms back up to her room, as he had carried her down to supper? The embrace had proved too intimate, too troubling to any peace of mind Elizabeth strove to find when she thought of leaving this house. Her fingers had itched to play with his hair, with the nape of his neck, and she'd had to bite her lip to keep the impulse at bay.
"You do not eat," Gideon observed now, the right side of his face half lost in the night's gloom. She shook her head, and he pushed his own plate away. 'The meal is not very good tonight. I think Cook has difficulty with drafts in his oven on these stormy nights."
"I am sure he is not to blame. I believe my appetite is at fault," Elizabeth said, also pushing her plate away. Servants moved in at once to retrieve the unwanted plates and utensils.
Gideon leaned forward, his crossed arms resting on the table, a little more of the candlelight now illuminating his features. Candlelight was kind to him, softening his startling coloring, picking out the handsome lines of his face, making his eyes appear more silver than blue.
"When I mentioned I play chess by mail with my brothers, you indicated you know how to play," he said. "Shall we indulge in a game?"
"That would be lovely," Elizabeth said on a sigh, relieved not to have to return to her room, where she had already spent too much time in too much thought about the future. With the wind pushing at the windows and rain dashing down the chimneys to hiss as it struck the fire on the grate, the storms, both internal and external, could make for a long, fretful night. Better to spend an hour or two in the simple contemplation of a game.
One of the footmen was sent to fetch a chessboard, bringing it back to the dining table. "Will this suit?" Gideon asked Elizabeth. Since the table sat before a massive fireplace and its cheerily hissing and popping fire, and Elizabeth had borrowed a shawl to match the dress she also borrowed, she agreed the corner of the dining table would suit quite well. Gideon stood to half turn her chair for her, then did the same to his own, and they faced one another over the board.
"I hope we did not disturb one of the games you play with your brothers," she said as she helped set up the pieces.
"I keep their letters to study the flow of the play, so I can easily reconstruct the game," he assured her.
"Ah, good. I would not wish to disrupt something that two brothers had between them."
He nodded, and even in the dim light Elizabeth could not miss the faint upturning of his lips, as though at some fond memory.
"I think you must miss them, your brothers, living here all alone as you do," she said.
When a long silence ensued, she looked up from the board, intrigued to see his jaw working.
"I do miss them," he said after a long pause. "Although I am happy they have a place in the bigger world."
That struck her as a curious thing to say, but he brushed past the moment by declaring her pieces were white and thus must move first.
They played for a while in silence, concentrating on the flow of the game. Elizabeth glanced occasionally at Gideon's face as he considered his moves, and wondered how she could have ever found his appearance alarming. Startling perhaps, yes, but his mouth lacked a tightness and his eyes a mocking sarcasm that had marked Radford's face. Of course, that could just be hindsight speaking, for not so long ago Elizabeth had thought Radford's smile to be a kind one. Or had it just been charming? She was foolish to even try to judge from appearances, she knew, for her judgment was flawed and had once led her astray.
Still, she thought, Radford Barnes and Lord Greyleigh must surely be judged two entirely different kettles of fish. The former had already proven his lack of worth, and the latter... well, it did not matter. Elizabeth need not concern herself, for it was not likely she would ever see Gideon again once she was quit of his home.
Perhaps it was the sound of the wind soughing outside the windows, but Elizabeth felt a touch of melancholy steal over her. She sighed to herself and reached for her bishop, just as Gideon reached to straighten a knight on its square, and their fingers brushed together. Their gazes collided next, and Elizabeth instantly forgot where she had meant to move the piece. Her hand remained suspended in air, the chess piece caught between fingers that tingled from that accidental touch.
It was his gaze that unnerved her most, though, for she wondered if he saw a physical awareness in her eyes such as she saw in his. They were male and female, alone in this room. The darkness cloaked them in intimacy, as if their voices could not reach beyond the small circle of light, nor anyone gain entrance from outside.
They sat thus, staring wordlessly into one another's eyes, tension tightening between them, causing Elizabeth's lips to part as if she needed to draw more air. Was it her imagination, or did Gideon begin, very slowly, to lean toward her?
Something gave a sudden bang, and Elizabeth startled and dropped her bishop. "What was that?" she asked
in a strained voice, as she tore her gaze from Gideon's and turned toward the sound. "A shutter come loose?"
A servant had already entered the room at the alarming sound and crossed to the windows. "Yes, miss," he assured them both after a moment. The candle he carried showed the shutter on the other side of the glass, swinging freely in the wind. It was the work of a moment to open the window and secure the shutter
on its hook once more, by which time Elizabeth had turned back to the board to retrieve her bishop and make her move. If her heart pounded almost painfully beneath her borrowed gown, it was no doubt because of the startle she had received.
The servant departed, and Elizabeth and Gideon were alone once more, with candles that barely managed to light the surface of the chessboard, let alone illuminate the room. All the same, that moment of intimacy had been broken, perhaps purposely, for Gideon did not again raise his gaze to fully meet hers.
After only a few more moves she gave a little squeal of surprise, seeing that the "check" move she had intended was in fact "checkmate." Gideon tipped his king, at last raising his eyes to hers, and she was relieved to see at least a hint of amusement there.
"You bested me!" he cried, as though from genuine surprise. "Best two out of three," he proposed at once, already moving the pieces back into place.
"You are smiling," Elizabeth accused. "You did not let me win, did you?"
"In chess? No, indeed, madam. There is no letting someone win in chess. You took the game all on your own. If I am smiling, it is to hide my agony at losing."
"Liar," she said, but she did not mean it, for she had played a game or two before, and she knew she played adequately despite the distractions of the weather and her own thoughts. "My sister, Lorraine, likes to play chess," she said, and it was only when he looked up once more, a startled light in his eyes, that she realized she had revealed something personal, by naming her sister.
Gideon did not say anything, though. He did not build on the moment, did not push her for an explanation or more information.
In that moment, that very moment when he granted Elizabeth her privacy and asked nothing of her, she knew she loved him.
How long had she known?
For that matter, how long had she known him! Seven days? A mere week, half of which she had been too ill to lift her head from her pillow. It was ludicrous to say she loved him ... but she knew she did, with the same certainty that Elizabeth knew her own name. It might be no more than the love of one friend for another, but it was the kind of bond that unites people for life. She knew it, felt it all the way to her very marrow, and shuddered at the knowing. Her head swam with the knowledge, and to keep her lower lip from trembling, Elizabeth had to catch it between her teeth.
How could this be? But, then again, who was she to try and divine a mystery, a blessing, a joy? She could not; she could only know the instant when it was upon her, and thank God for it, and wish there was some way to keep things exactly as they were at this very moment.
But just as her heart had begun to soar, it was brought crashing back to earth by reality. To be a true friend to him, she ought to disappear from his world and never speak or write to him, promise or no promise that she would. She had nothing to offer him but an association with a fallen woman—which could hardly enhance his already forbidding reputation. Nothing had changed. Nothing but her very heart.
"Gideon," she said, glad he had granted her permission to call him by his given name. He looked up from the board, no doubt alerted by the quality of her voice that something had altered.
"Elizabeth?" he said, his voice soft and inviting.
"I just wanted to say that, as soon as my jewelry, or at least most of it is found, I am well enough to leave."
Gideon sat back in his chair, clearly taken by surprise. "But the surgeon said—"
"I am much better, truly. I think Mr. Clifton was overcautious."
"I see." His voice was of a sudden hoarse. He cleared his throat and made an offering gesture with his hand. "Naturally a carriage is at your disposal whenever you wish it."
"Thank you. The day I leave depends on the jewelry being found, of course."
"Indeed. Yes." He looked away into the deep gloom of the room's corner, but then he sat forward, leaning toward her. He hesitated a moment, as if he paused to rethink what he'd meant to say, but then he rushed on. "Elizabeth," he said, his face arranged into lines of concern. "You need not tell me where, but I would like to know that you have a place to go to—that you have a home waiting for you somewhere."
For a moment gratified tears teetered on the verge of erupting, but Elizabeth blinked them back. He was a caring sort, she already had seen that; although the world called him odd, he was a good man, and she had to tell him as much. "Gideon," she said, her voice trembling, "you are the very best of all men."
"Nonsense," he said, and she could tell the word was a reflex. He had once upbraided her for calling herself "nobody," and now she understood why he had scolded her; she could not let him get away with degrading his own worth.
"What other men do you know who take in all these wounded people? Who gives employment to those who otherwise would not find any?" she declared. "I saw your new valet in the hall just this morning, making his way about on his crutches. He looked so pleased, so thankful to be here."
Twin spots of color formed on Gideon's cheekbones. "A one-legged valet!" he grumbled. "How much help can he possibly be to me? I was a fool to hire the man."
"Not a fool, Gideon. A wonder. A marvel." Elizabeth reached out and touched his hand, wanting him to see she meant what she said. Sensation arced between his fingers and hers, and when he looked up, the light irises in his eyes were almost obscured by wide, black pupils.
"You do not know what you are saying," he said hoarsely. "If you knew how empty I am inside . . ."
"Empty? How can you say such a thing? Look at all you have done for me, a complete stranger. Look around you at everyone who is near you! At first I thought this the oddest of households, full of one-eyed girls and maimed footmen—but, Gideon! They may be maimed, but they are happy. They are not begging on the streets. They have real work to do. If this household is strange, then may it please God to make even more households like it! How can you feel empty when you do such good in the world?"
"Because it is all a fraud," Gideon said, snatching back his hand, as if her touch pained him. "I only choose the people I think who will do well, who will make me look good. I offer charity, but for all the wrong reasons."
Elizabeth stared at him, and he looked away as though shamed.
"But, Gideon," she said, speaking very softly, "of course you would choose those who would thrive. What purpose would be served by trying to help those who will not help themselves? Even the Bible says we are not to throw pearls before swine. Do you not see? Did you think you could help even those who are unwilling or unable to accept your help?"
Gideon slowly turned his head to face her once more, and there was an agonizing mix of dread and hope written across his face. Elizabeth reached for both his hands, wanting to touch him, needing to.
"You have been too strict with yourself, I think. You have forgot that charity can be given to, but never forced upon a person."
"But I do not care about anything, nor anyone," Gideon whispered, his words a confession. "I have wanted nothing more than to escape this place, these responsibilities. I have lived for months now, perhaps years, thinking of no one but myself."
"Nonsense!" she repeated his own frequently issued comment. "If you did not care, would you have hired Simons's friend from the army as your valet? Would you have taken me in, a bloodied, half-dead stranger? You may be wearied by all that sits upon your shoulders, but not because you do not care."
"I do not feel as though I care," he said very softly, but the words lacked conviction.
"A man who does not care, who has no feelings, would not miss his brothers," she told him, giving him a steady look, defying him to say otherw
ise. "Why do you not take a holiday?" she suggested with a tentative smile. "Even God rested on the seventh day, you know."
He gave a little laugh and hung his head-, shaking it as though in denial. But when he glanced up at her again from under his lashes, she thought she saw that the dread had been chased from his eyes.
"I am sorry. I did not mean to unburden myself on you like that," he murmured.
Elizabeth took a deep breath, then let it out. "It is the sort of evening for sharing burdens, I think," she said, glancing toward the window as though she would be able to see the wind and rain they could hear, but which the shutters hid from sight. "Now it is my turn, my lord."
"Gideon," he corrected even as he lifted his head to gaze at her in surprise.
"Gideon. I would like to tell you my story, as I said I would."
"You said you would write." His eyes clouded with confusion. "Later. When you were free to—"
"You deserve to hear it from me directly. You have been very kind, my lord. Gideon. I owe you my life. I wish to repay that, albeit very poorly, with the truth. That is, if you would hear it."
He stared into her face, then nodded.
So she told him everything, about how Radford had courted her, that she had allowed herself to believe his words of love, had wanted to believe them, had wanted to love him. She told him of her new stepmama, who longed to have the stepdaughters out of her home, how if Elizabeth married it would solve so many difficulties. She reaffirmed that Lorraine was her sister, and it was for Lorraine's sake that Elizabeth could not go home, and why.
"Pardon me if I do not tell you the name of Lorraine's betrothed," she said, staring at his right boot, unable to look him in the eye and admit to the series of follies that had brought her, unconscious, into his home. "But suffice it to say the man conducts the slowest, most circumspect courtship ever known to man. Until Lorraine has wed him, I will do nothing to bring a hint of scandal near her."
The Misfit Marquess Page 19