What the Marquess Sees

by Amy Quinton

  Oh, Dansbury.

  Oh, this man, this man.

  He could charm the socks off a snake. She envied the woman who would claim his heart.

  But it would not be her. Not that she didn’t consider herself worthy; she had far more confidence than that. Now. But she was finished with society. His world now was her past. She was looking forward to being gone from society for good. Her experience at the Pump Room had reminded her of that.

  It was then that she recalled and realized the point of her earlier dream. Her life had been a living hell, but that part of it was over. She was free. Reborn from the ashes of her previous life. And despite everything that had happened this night, despite being faced with a nightmare of a person from her past, she was now free of that past. And she was all that much stronger for her trials.

  Beatryce fell asleep rejoicing in her newfound knowledge. In her freedom. Life, for her, began now.

  Chapter 35

  “The curve of your lips rewrite history.”

  ―Oscar Wilde

  “Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.”

  ―Sigmund Freud

  The Next Morning…

  Dansbury opened his eyes to a face full of blonde hair. Beatryce. She was still in his arms.

  They’d fallen asleep that way, just as they were after her confession the night before, though much of it was fuzzy in his mind. Carefully, he leaned up on one elbow, the rest of his arm trapped beneath her, and looked down at her, so peaceful in her slumber. She wore a small smile on her face, and he was pleased that she slept well despite everything. He reached over with his free hand and gently brushed her hair out of her face. She scrunched her nose as the ends of a few strands tickled her there.

  He wanted to remain where he was for a little while longer. All day, in truth. He was comfortable. Warm. It would be cold out from under these covers.

  He felt surprisingly clear headed despite being concerned in liquor the night before. He’d drunk a lot of water before turning to his whisky. Perhaps that had been the key to his lack of a hangover, despite his best attempts at procuring one.

  Sigh. But there was no use in delaying the inevitable. He had a madman to find. And a traitor. This, all of it, had to end.

  Then, he had a sister to find.

  He looked back down at Lady Beatryce and shook her gently on the arm. She didn’t move. He laughed, she was decidedly not a morning person.

  He shook her again. “Beatryce, love. Wake up.” He leaned forward and kissed her nose. “Wake up, darling. Time to rise and shine,” he said in a singsong voice.

  Beatryce stretched and moaned with contentment. His thoughts threatened to turn decidedly south. He suppressed the impulse, for now was most definitely not the time.

  “Come on, my dove. We have some bad guys to catch.”

  Beatryce blinked open her eyes, saw him, and smiled before she closed them again.

  He suddenly felt adrift at sea, a man unmoored.

  He fell back and stared up at the canopy above the bed. He was stunned; he felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.

  What the hell was he going to do?

  Nothing. Nothing! It was just a thing born of being in danger. Together. That was all. It had to be all. He was not ready. Not her!

  He ignored his feelings as best he could and sat up, pulling his arm from beneath her and pretending to be his carefree self. He was good at that; he’d had to do the like many times before in his line of work. Inside he was in turmoil, but only he would know it.

  Beatryce immediately rolled the other way, turning her back to him. He slapped her on the arse as he turned to get out of bed. “Come on, lazy bones. We need to get moving.” She only snorted and grunted in response. Nice and ladylike.

  He placed his feet on the floor. Shite. It was bloody cold.

  “Hmmm. All right. I’m coming.” Beatryce murmured, then promptly let out a soft snore. He laughed. Then, crawled back on the bed.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” He sat up on his knees a minute as he thought about how to proceed.

  God, he was in trouble.

  He ignored that, too.

  Then, he rubbed his hands together as he wondered if she was ticklish. No time like the present to find out.

  Real trouble.

  He placed his hands on her sides and began his torture.

  Ah. That woke her.

  She shrieked; then, started laughing as she yelled, “No. No. Dansbury stop! I can’t…I can’t take it. Oh my, no. No. No. Noooooo…” between great guffaws. She pushed at his hands, but he was stronger. And relentless.

  Well, he had an answer to his question. She was most definitely ticklish.

  Eventually, he released her. Though he was loath to do so; he was having far too much fun. And making her laugh made it easy to ignore his inner turmoil.

  She rolled out of bed on the opposite side now. Bent over and heaving as she recovered her breath. She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes. “Ooooh. You do know I give as good as I get, don’t you?”

  “Is that a promise, Lady Beatryce?” he taunted in return.

  “Why yes it is, Lord Dansbury.” She responded with a smile.

  “Well, I’d like to see you try.” He goaded as he darted off the bed and dashed for the door. He opened it and rushed out to make good his escape, but not before a big, fluffy pillow hit him in the arse.

  He ran from more than just her retribution.

  *

  His behavior was more than a little bizarre. He’d just been faced with his psychotic brother who, it turns out, is alive after all these years—and clearly responsible for their parents’ deaths, and yet he teased her and laughed as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Was he that kind of man? One who suppresses unpleasantness rather than face it head on? Who brushes off serious concerns with a joke and a laugh or two? One who would wait until the pressure built and built until he had no choice but to explode?

  Or was he truly so carefree, brushing everything off with the ease of kicking the dirt from one’s boots?

  She was betting the former and it concerned her.

  Self-preservation kicked in. With a madman on the loose, her very life was still in his hands. What would happen if he flew off into a rage at the wrong time? Would she be in more danger? Not from him, per se, but less protected while he wrestled with his demons?

  That did it. She knew she was falling back on old habits. Again. But she wasn’t truly safe until the madman was captured. So, she would dress. Then, she would find Dansbury and prod him in order to set him off before his burden grew and he detonated on his own, at the wrong time and place.

  Her opportunity came a few hours later.

  Chapter 36

  “My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart, concealing it, will break.”

  ―Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew

  “So you haven’t had it easy after all. You’ve just successfully buried your emotions and hid them from the world. Have you ever dealt with them? Or properly grieved? Did you even mourn your parents’ deaths?” Beatryce attacked the minute she walked into the library. She hit low, regrettably, but her aim was true.

  He’d greeted her arrival with a smile. She hated to see it fade from his face so rapidly. But it did; the change was immediate. Of course it was. She’d struck with the precision of a viper, guaranteeing a reaction from him.

  He closed the distance between them in a few steps, all but marching in righteous fury. A violent storm in human form. She stood her ground.

  “Fuck you!” He all but yelled when he was close enough for her to feel his warmth.

  She suppressed the urge to hug him, but grinned anyway, pretending as if she enjoyed her attack. “We’ve already done that.”

  He just looked at her somewhat stupefied as if surprised she would say such a thing, anger and puzzlement warring in his eyes.

  But she was relentless
, her life might depend upon it.

  “You’ve never had to work for a damn thing in your life, have you?”

  He sliced his hands in the air. “You know nothing about me.”

  Keep telling yourself that, D.

  She didn’t bother to argue that point. “Or are you just now realizing you are not perfect in every way?”

  He stood there, shaking in fury, but otherwise, he kept his hands to himself. He was in her face now, though. Close and searching her eyes. She felt his breath, hot upon her skin. It made her uncomfortable as it sawed in and out. She nearly squirmed beneath the intensity of his gaze. She almost lowered her eyes. Almost.

  Then he smiled.

  Ah, hell. He’s going to do it again.

  “Those were cold and heartless things to say, Bea,” he said with a soft, almost gentle tone as he brushed his hand against her cheek.

  She tried to retain the upper hand. She lifted her chin. “But that doesn’t make them any less true.” She said it in defiance of his kindness. Besides, everything she’d said was true, though it was cruel of her to point them out in such a way.

  “Sure. But I know what you’re doing. That self-preservation instinct has kicked in again, hasn’t it? Misguided to be sure, but rearing its ugly head.”

  “La, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes. You do. We had this conversation yesterday, remember? What do you hope to gain by provoking me this way?”

  She realized she wasn’t going to fool him, so she admitted the truth. “Self-preservation, what else?”

  “How so? Explain your thinking.”

  She sighed. “I wonder if you have even dealt with things the way one should. That you are suppressing these emotions. A man like you needs to confront his demons head on, or shatter from the emotion within. But I can’t let that happen. Don’t you see? My life depends upon you.” It sounded stupid now that she’d said those things out loud; her argument sounded weak, even to her own ears.

  “And do you feel better now, having said all those things?”

  Her shoulders slumped as she admitted the truth. “No. I feel bloody awful.”

  He took her in his arms. She leaned her head against his chest and could hear the vibrations from his voice through his chest as he said, “Ah, Bea. You’re learning. A few weeks ago and you wouldn’t have cared.”

  “I’m worried about you, all right?” Why did her mouth persist on admitting the truth? She should just stop now, but she seemed to be the one ready to explode, if only with the truth of her feelings. “I just don’t understand how you can so easily set aside your emotions. I feel like mine are constantly bubbling just beneath the surface, threatening to overflow at any minute. I’ve always felt that way. So I exercise, at night, to give myself an outlet.”

  “You’ve always given me the impression that you are the same, that you’ve always been quite divorced from your emotions, though in a more negative way, I must admit.”

  “It may have appeared that way, but the appearance was false. I just worked extra hard to make everyone believe that. Self-preservation again. If people believed they could hurt you, they would try.”

  “That is a pretty cynical view.”

  “We’re talking about the ton. I’m not so far off the mark, am I?”

  “Too true. Too true. But back to the emotions churning just beneath the surface…perhaps I am the same?”

  “Perhaps, but I doubt it.”

  “Don’t. I’ve seen much. Things that would make even you squirm with the telling. And I’ve had to make hard decisions…the kind that have gotten people hurt. Irreparably. Even killed. Those costs are hard on one’s soul if one doesn’t know how to manage it. But I am relentless in my pursuit of the truth. I will put people in danger if I have to, innocent people even, in order to see justice served.” His eyes told of true horrors his mouth hesitated to speak.

  He touched his forehead to hers, and in a soft, low voice said, “One of my closest friends had, or has, I should say, a brother. We were on an assignment in France. It was dark, but we had a plan. My plan. It should have gone all right, despite the high risk.”

  He paused to inhale a deep breath.

  “But it didn’t?” She prompted, softly, slowly.

  He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “But it didn’t,” he answered back, “and it wasn’t the first time, but this time the man was my friend’s brother; his twin.”

  Oh, that must have been horrible, for all of them. She hesitated to ask, nevertheless, “Did he die?”

  “No. But he was injured gravely and is forever disabled. Mentally. Unable to care for himself. Unable to say more than a few words…a three year old cloaked in a man’s body.” Dansbury’s body seemed to shudder from deep emotion. “His family would have left him in Bedlam, but my friend broke with his family to care for him. For the rest of their lives.” His voice cracked on the word Bedlam, demonstrating how deeply he felt.

  Oh, Dansbury. “You feel guilty, don’t you?”

  “I am guilty. Yet I know I would have made the same choices were I to have the chance to do it all over again. That knowledge is difficult to live with; it takes a toll on one’s soul.”

  Oh, did she understand the sentiment all too well. And perhaps he had finally realized that they were all too similar on that front. She peered up at him and brushed her hand across his brow; would that she could remove the troubled look in his eyes as easily as all that.

  “Bea. Never…” He leaned in to whisper low in her ear as he slid one hand up her arm. Slowly. Gently. “…never doubt that I feel…” He paused and took in a deep breath; she felt it to her toes, it raised the flesh on her skin. Everywhere. The other hand was on her side, his thumb touched her just beneath her breast. “I feel…Bea. I feel deeply.”

  Then he kissed her.

  She lost her mind in his kiss. Relinquished all of her control. She poured the depths of her humanity into it, letting go of years of suppressed emotion. His mouth was soft, so soft. His lips warm and smooth as they caressed hers.

  Then she opened for him and he claimed her with his tongue and his hands. She was rapidly losing control for this was no mere kiss, but a merging of souls.

  “Ahem.” A third voice interrupted her joy, her ascent into heaven.

  Dansbury pulled back, but he did not let her go. He touched his forehead to hers and sighed. “Ambrose. How about knocking next time?” He kept his eyes closed as he spoke.

  “I did. You were too preoccupied to hear.” The duke was angry, Bea could hear it in his voice. She didn’t blame him. His closest friend was kissing her, of all people.

  Dansbury pulled back and looked at her. His eyes said he was sorry.

  Hers told him not to worry about it. She was made of stronger stuff.

  They turned as one to face the duke.

  The man stood there, his arms braced on his hips. He was scowling, make no mistake. Beatryce just smiled.

  Dansbury squeezed her hand. “Bea, Ambrose and I are headed out this morning to see if we can discover the whereabouts of my brother, Edward. We’re hoping to find some clues at the mill that will give us a chance to come up with a plan of attack. We don’t expect to apprehend him, yet.”

  She squeezed his hand in return. “Then I’ll stay and keep your aunt company while you search. Good luck.”

  She was not the type to break down into hysterics over fear for his safety. She would suppress such emotion. Ironic, that.

  Chapter 37

  “A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love.”

  ― Stendhal

  Stonebridge and Dansbury rode out to the abandoned mill to search for tracks and gain some knowledge of where Edward had raced off to the night before. It was a long shot, but it was all they had at the moment. Kelly knew to go back and cover his and Edward’s tracks unless they wanted to be found. Dansbury was a damn good tracker. They all were, but Dansbury was the best. And Kelly knew this.


  Neither Stonebridge nor Dansbury spoke as they rode their horses to the mill. Stonebridge hadn’t breathed a word about the kiss he’d witnessed in the library. It was only a matter of time, though.

  The duke waited no more than five seconds once they’d reached the mill and dismounted to raise the subject.

  “She stopped by Grace’s room yesterday.”

  Well, that wasn’t what he expected. No need to identity the ‘she’ in this conversation. “And?”

  “And she apologized for everything.”

  “She did?” He was surprised, in a way. A spark of something flared to life in his chest. Was it joy? Appreciation? Pride?

  “She did. Grace believes she was sincere. I have my doubts, of course.”

  “As you say.”

  “My wife is far too trusting. Sees the best in everyone.” Ambrose smiled with pride at this.

  He was entitled; Grace was a good woman.

  “Cliff, she’s been a very bad woman in the past. She’s done horrible things to people.”

  “I know.”

  “She lies.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re a right jackass.”

  “I can be.”

  “You were supposed to say, ‘I know.’”

  “I know.”

  Both men laughed at that. “Well, I’m glad we got that straight.”

  “I believe we’ve had a similar conversation before,” said Ambrose.

  Dansbury remembered calling his friend an ass not too long ago. “At least once.”

  “But our roles are now reversed.”

  “And that is why I’m telling you to leave off.” He gave his friend a pointed look, a warning.

  “But I wouldn’t be a very good friend if I didn’t try.”

  Cliff folded his arms across his body. “Fine then. You’ve tried. Now let it go.”

  “All right. I will leave you to hang yourself. You are a grown man and should know what you are doing. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I do.”

  Ambrose’s words seemed like a premonition. For the first time in his life, Dansbury wondered whether or not he did, in fact, know what he was doing.