He should have known her immediately. He should have recognized in her that same rare quality to which he had responded in Henry Beecham, that quality that must have been her soul. He should have recognized her poet’s voice. Indeed, he had recognized her voice and been enchanted each time she revealed it.
But there was that face. And that decidedly feminine shape. He glanced again at her sleeping form. He could not have reasonably ignored what she could not hide.
Certain mysteries still puzzled him. That last poem had not been the careless jotting of a moment; she had labored over it. The timing led him to think she actually might have cared for Reggie, that those elated, strangely poignant lines were a final dedication to lost love. That thought was troubling enough-so was the possibility that her sense of loss was for Jeremy. She clearly had the warmest sentiments for him, and he for her, else why would he have gone haring off after George during the height of hunting season? Jeremy had been shocked by their speedy marriage. Perhaps the two of them had understood each other too late, else they might have been long gone by now. Yet the dedicated effort to collect Beecham’s funds was baffling; Jeremy was one of the wealthiest of the wealthy.
There was a very real likelihood of someone else, someone she had kept as hidden from him and from her uncle as she had hidden her own poetic life. He would not have believed such deception possible-had she not proved it.
He frowned as he watched a soft, gray light fill the courtyard below, a promising gray like his wife’s beautiful eyes. He was amazed she had managed to look at him, to speak to him all these weeks! No woman could be trusted. How artful she had been, even in pseudonym: Harriet Ashton … Henry Beecham. Harvey Oakleigh, he embellished silently, Hayes Birchmere, or perhaps even Horatio Larchmont.
The smile came unbidden, forcing him to acknowledge his reluctant respect for her. She had played a clever game, right under his far too superior nose. Would he not have attempted as much, had his talent been as great, had the constraints of family and position proved as severe? In all honesty, she had, as Henry Beecham, given him months of pleasure. In the person of Hallie Ashton, she had tantalized him daily. He had admitted as much when he had pressed ahead with marriage. He had wanted her and had known he wanted her. He had taken what he wanted.
Yet he could not keep her-that was without question. Henry Beecham’s spirit was not one to be imprisoned. And she was in love. The poem had said as much. Though a fierce jealousy pierced him, he knew he must release her. But he would see her safe; she would not be running off alone in the middle of the night.
His gaze traced the smooth curve of her forehead, one delicately arched brow, the full, gently parted lips. She enchanted him. He adored her. Yet, though he loved the woman and the poet, his honor demanded some small recompense. He prayed that she would wake, that those wide eyes would meet his again in full awareness. Only then would he apply her own artful methods, to compel her to explain.
Hallie woke to gaze blankly at Marksley, standing near the foot of her bed, just where the duvet edged the darkness. He faced the window, and the faintest watery light distinguished his profile. His jaw was obstinately set, as though he were angry.
She tried to say his name, but her voice rasped painfully in her dry throat. Still he heard her, for he instantly turned. He poured her a glass of water before coming to sit on the side of the bed.
“Careful now,” he said softly, sliding a warm hand gently behind her shoulders and raising her just enough to let her drink.
Hallie closed her eyes as she swallowed gratefully. When she opened them again she read something in his dark eyes that mystified her. Despite the relief he so clearly felt, some other emotion warmed his gazesome keenness or passion that disconcerted her.
As he lowered her shoulders again to the pillow, which he supported with others, she raised one hand to brush the hair from her forehead. But he captured her fingers and surprised her by planting the softest of kisses upon her palm. The touch made her whole arm tingle.
“What on earth were you thinking,” he asked softly, “to waltz into a gypsy camp unannounced?”
“I was … worried. About you,” she said simply, disarmed by pain and his closeness.
“Me?” The single word seemed to scoff. To Hallie’s sensitive ears, it was too harsh. “Why would you have worried about me?” he asked.
His skepticism tamped her impulse to intimacy and stopped her from admitting more.
“I … can’t think.” She moved her free hand to her throbbing forehead. “If my head is any measure, I shall have difficulty thinking in future.”
“The doctor will be in this morning. He’ll be delighted, as am I, at your return to us. And there must be something in his magician’s bag for the pain.”
He still held her hand.
“You were … seeing to George?” she asked.
“Yes” With a light kiss to her fingers, Marksley placed her hand on the blanket and sat back. His regard was speculative. Hallie noticed absently that he appeared disheveled, but his tousled hair, shadow of a beard and open throat were not unattractive. He looked as he had the first morning she met him.
She wished her head did not hurt so.
“George Partridge is Henry Beecham, my dear,” he told her. “I should have guessed. All the signs were there, had I been alive to them. I already know the man better than I might have anticipated. We had a good laugh over it all as the doctor patched him up” Marksley actually dared laugh again. “George was well enough to return to London yesterday. I have pressed him to help with The Tantalus.”
Hallie’s head refused to clear. A good laugh? George as Henry Beecham? She frowned. She had to recallMarksley had never told her Beecham was a stranger.
“I did not know … you had never met Beecham.”
“Had I forgotten to tell you that? How odd.” His gaze held hers. “Beecham’s identity has tormented me for more than a year. But you must have been aware of his secret, for you called him `George’ just now and that night in the library. Do you not remember?”
She tried to swallow.
“How do you know George?” he asked very low.
“He was … a friend of my father’s.”
“Ah! I see. So he had you sworn to secrecy. I presume you placed the poem in the drawing room Saturday night.”
She could not meet his gaze. “How long … have I been here?” she asked.
“More hours than I care to count. At least a day and a night. ‘Tis Monday. The whole household has been eagerly awaiting your recovery. In fact, if I am not very much mistaken, I hear Mary and Mrs. Hepple on the stair.” He rose from the bed, leaving Hallie suddenly bereft.
“What hit me?”
“A frying pan, my dear. Wielded by an expert.”
“And the gypsies?”
“Gone early the next morning. I am sorry, for they helped George. ‘Tis their nature to flee any possibility of trouble with the law, though it was an understandable mistake. Against the light, wrapped in a blanket, peering in upon us in her wagon, you must have looked threatening. She could not tell you were a woman.”
“She ?”
Marksley grinned.
“An octogenarian grandmother, their most convincing fortune teller. Unfortunately, she could not see your palm.” He smiled. “You see why I’ve not informed Squire Lawes of your injury. Though of course, if you should prefer-”
“No, no. I must have frightened her.”
“All the same,” and his voice took on a sharper edge, “She had surprising strength. She might have killed you, my dear. I regret that I was moved to confiscate her weapon”
Sensing his resolve even as he stood there by her bed, Hallie could well imagine how inflexibly tough he might have been with anyone else.
“What a … boisterous evening, to be sure,” she managed, earning another laugh and, astonishingly, a quick, cool kiss against her pounding forehead.
Mrs. Hepple and Mary beamed as they noticed Marksley pulling away
from her. They made much of her recovery and offered to bring her anything she might want.
Hallie glanced at Marksley as he observed them. If you would just keep kissing me, she implored him silently, I would need nothing more. But he kept his distance from their bustle and excused himself when the women proposed to help her bathe.
Hallie submitted to their care and listened with strained attention to Mrs. Hepple’s chatter regarding the events of the past two days. She mentioned that “Mr. Partridge” had stayed only through the previous morning and that he had left them well fed and with only a sprained wrist, not a broken arm. Hallie knew she must write to him. George had kept her secret, even when confronted with Marksley’s false conclusion regarding Beecham. George had been a most loyal friend, yet she had not thanked him even for his help in obtaining her funds.
Hallie’s anxiety regarding George grew so great that when she returned to bed she requested some writing paper. Despite a maddening weakness in her fingers, which made positioning the pen and paper difficult, Hallie expressed her gratitude for George’s help, her apologies for drawing him away from his studies, and her heartfelt wishes for his quick recovery. She would, she claimed, soon straighten out the Beecham matter.
As soon as the page was dry she leaned back, exhausted, and contemplated the shadows on the plastered ceiling.
George as Henry Beecham. It made so much sense. George was everything Marksley would believe as Beecham: learned, observant, sensitive … male. And during her illness, George had somehow managed to convince Marksley. Or Marksley had simply assumed.
George was so very quiet. If he were to have infrequent contact with Marksley in the future, perhaps Hallie could encourage George to continue to pose—
Her hand shook above the letter, leaving an inkblot upon the page.
This must stop, Jeremy had said. The sharp words haunted her.
Not only illness made her weak. She no longer recognized herself. She was so greedy for Richard Marksley’s company that she now lacked even courage to leave him, though she at last possessed the means. And as for telling him the truth … what had happened to her resolute attempts of the other night? Now she had George Partridge lying for her!
Jeremy might claim she had lost “only” her heart, but she did not like the calculating creature she’d become. She had reasoned that by maintaining Henry Beecham she was preserving something Marksley valued and wanted, perhaps the only thing he wanted from her. But he would also have wanted honesty.
She had not known love could be so selfish. Apparently, she and principle had parted ways.
She was so very tired.
With a sigh, she folded her letter and put aside the pen and writing box.
“Is someit wrong, milady?” Mary asked, coming to remove them.
“I shall have to write more later, Mary. I am too tired now.” She rested her head against the pillows. Even that slight pressure revealed the tenderness on her scalp. As soon as she felt well enough, she promised, closing her eyes, she would confess to Richard Marksley. She was tired of subterfuge. She would make no further demands upon him. He had done so very much….
Hallie slept through the remainder of the day, waking only for a light tea and an unexpected visit from her husband. He appeared refreshed and had tidied himself considerably. Once again neatly outfitted, the Viscount Langsford looked infinitely less approachable than he had early that morning. The task of explaining herself to him seemed even more difficult.
“You have a sympathetic crew most concerned about your accident, and most eager to welcome you once again to their company,” Marksley told her, walking only to the foot of the bed, where he grasped one of the posts. “Mrs. Lawes and her daughter are tempting us with another invitation to dinner-once you are feeling much better, naturally. The vicar has inquired as to your health, and Mrs. Mayhew sent over her best wildflower honey, which I highly recommend.” Again, Hallie remarked the appraisal in his gaze. “I belatedly remembered our friend Jeremy and sent a note along to him at the inn, only to hear that his father called him home yesterday for Rowena’s nuptials. Have you met Jeremy’s sister? No? Well, it is a growing mystery to me why so many are impulsively marriage-minded these days” Marksley treated her to a selfconscious smile. “Should you wish to send a message, I will most happily forward it.”
“Thank you. I have … had some difficulty writing.”
“Have you? I am sorry to hear it. I know how dedicated you are to your journal entries. Though, when one has been unconscious, one should make allowances-” He bowed, but his expression was amused. Enough so that Hallie decided he had a low opinion of female scribblings. The thought annoyed her, but she could do little more than glare at him.
“No doubt, my lord, having been favored with the very best in literature, you would find my trivial reflections most tedious.”
He surprised her by smiling even more fully.
“I would have no means of judging, my dear, unless you were to permit me to read them” He quit his position to walk around to her side, within a few inches reach of the night table and her journal. Hallie gazed wide-eyed from the book to his pleasantly smiling face. When he moved his hand, as though to reach for her journal, Hallie cringed. But he placed his warm palm against her forehead.
“I am delighted to see you better, Hallie,” he said softly and with unexpected sincerity. He only slowly withdrew his hand. “I feared I might lose you”
He held her gaze for a long moment. Confronted with the too-discerning gravity of that look, Hallie glanced down and plucked nervously at the edge of the bed linens.
“Thank you,” she replied just as softly. She felt peculiarly enervated, lethargic. She heard his small sigh before he turned to walk to the window. The reflection of lanterns, ablaze along the terrace below, softly highlighted his face.
“Once you are well, Hallie, I should like to hold a gathering-a soiree, if you will-at Penham. To introduce Beecham-” he turned briefly to smile at her frozen features, “George Partridge, that is, to some of my acquaintance. My aunt and uncle depart for Bath on the morrow-the waters promise some relief to the Earl-so the Hall is mine to command. I would make all the arrangements, of course, with the help of Mrs. Hepple and Gibbs. You need not trouble yourself with a thing, apart from continuing to improve apace and wearing your very best frock on the occasion. A tall order, I know, but `twill not be done without you.”
“Does-does George Partridge know?”
“Yes indeed. He is anticipating his introduction, in his persona as a most acclaimed poet, to an eager public.”
“Is he? I should think, that having hidden away, having … dissembled for so long, he might prefer to remain anonymous.”
“Having dissembled for so long you think he might wish to continue to dissemble?” Marksley’s look was daunting. She could not gauge his mood, which had become an obstacle. She focused her attention desperately on the far corner of the room, so that she would not have to face his scrutiny. “Tell me, my dear; since you claim an acquaintance with Mr. Partridge, do you think that very likely?”
“No. But he must have had a very good reason for engaging in the ruse in the first place.”
Marksley did not respond immediately. Hallie could feel his attention, like a strangely searching caress, upon her face and nervous fingers.
“He wanted to write popular verse, my dear. Not a pursuit a respected scholar of etymology will embark upon without first testing the waters. Reputations are fragile things.”
“I see” But Hallie did not truly see. Had George really fabricated such an intricate explanation? The George Partridge she knew was an unassuming man who could, and would, remain silent for hours at a time. His vocation, after all, was to listen. He might never reveal a secret, but, by the same measure, he was most unlikely to trouble to construct a lie.
“I should not keep you, Hallie, though it pleases me that you appear to be recovering your strength and spirits. Is there anything you need, anything I m
ight bring you?”
Hallie looked at him and almost pleaded, Stay here with me. Even the thought brought the blood to her cheeks.
“There,” Marksley noted. “You appear to be regaining some of your color. I hope you will be fit enough to join me for a meal tomorrow,” he said, even as he moved to the door. “Cook has been most disappointed, having experimented only briefly with menus for newlyweds.”
“She must be excited by the prospect of your soiree.”
Marksley raised an eyebrow.
“Indeed” And as he bowed and left the room, Hallie thought she heard him mutter, “as are we all”
By the next morning, Hallie could no longer bear the confines of her bedroom. She asked Mary to help her dress. When the maid in turn insisted on accompanying her downstairs to the dining room, Hallie found she could not object. The first sight of the stairs left her feeling more than a little dizzy. But she carefully negotiated her way to the hall, only to be told by Gibbs that Marksley had already breakfasted and left on Apollo to visit tenants.
“I had wanted to join him, Gibbs,” she said.
“Yes, my lady. Perhaps once you are well.”
“But I am well. As you see, I … Thank you, Gibbs.”
She would have to do something immediately about this perception that she was little more than an invalid. But much as she wished to stride confidently into breakfast, her legs intended her to do something else altogether. Hallie reached a chair and gratefully grasped the back, only to notice at least three hovering, concerned faces. Her husband must have set the whole household to watching her.
“I am quite all right. Please carry on,” she told them, even as she dropped into her seat.
Beside her place Marksley had left a stack of papers, which she recognized as her own. These are Beecham’s, he had written. I thought you might like to review them before our soiree.
The Honorable Marksley Page 15