by Shana Galen
“None of us do,” Dane said, “but when the duchess summons you, you obey.”
“Why? Is this her house?”
His look darkened. “It is my house, and she is a guest. As are you. Please join us.”
Marlowe thought about arguing, but she was curious as to why everyone felt the need to scramble over themselves to please this duchess, like the cubs tried to please Satin. This duchess might be a useful person to know.
And there had been the mention of tea. Surely that meant there would be food to eat. “Since you said please,” Marlowe replied, coming around the desk. He held out his arm to her, but she breezed past him. She did not want to touch him if it was not necessary. But before she could escape, he caught her arm and pulled her back. She gasped in a breath when he hauled her against him. For a moment, she was dizzy at the feel of his body against hers. Her gaze met his, and the world seemed to spin.
“Do not embarrass me or my mother, Marlowe,” he said, a warning in his voice.
She blinked. She could not think of a single thing to say, and her gaze dropped to his mouth without her permission. What would those lips feel like pressed against hers? What would his hands feel like on her body?
“Marlowe?”
She jerked her gaze up again. He leaned close, his lips brushing her cheek and then grazing against her ear. She shivered, and her legs wobbled. “You may look beautiful,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear, “but I haven’t forgotten what you are and where you come from.”
With a jerk, she stumbled back, putting as much distance between them as possible. “Don’t worry, Maxwell. I know exactly who I am.” She whirled and walked away.
Once in the drawing room, Marlowe stopped cold. She’d had a moment to recover from Dane’s closeness. She didn’t know why she should be affected by him so. She must be weak from hunger. But all thoughts of food vanished—well, almost—when she took in the room. It seemed every room in the house was more beautiful than the last. This one was rectangular and quite spacious. The large windows allowed in so much light, Marlowe felt almost as though she were outside. There were more chairs and couches than she could count, and just now a footman wheeled in a cart with several very promising-looking trays.
Dane entered behind her. “Sit down,” Dane whispered in her ear, “and keep quiet.”
Marlowe took a step forward then halted again. Where should she sit? There were far too many choices for someone used to sitting on the cold, hard ground. She was actually rather grateful when Dane steered her to a couch and then took a seat beside her. Of course, she immediately realized she was too far from the tea cart. She was already salivating at the cakes and sandwiches displayed on those trays.
The countess poured the tea and made some comment or other to the duchess, who then remarked, “Of course, with my annual ball commencing tomorrow night, I am on the verge of collapse. It is so exhausting to plan a ball, do you not think?”
Marlowe did not think the duchess looked ready to collapse at all. In fact, she had already bitten into a tea cake, and Marlowe was worried that the countess was taking so long pouring the tea, all of the sweets would be gone before she had a chance to try one. She leaned forward, ready to filch a cake, but Dane grabbed her elbow and hauled her back. “Sit still,” he grumbled in her ear.
“Oh, but your balls are always the most wonderful affairs,” the countess said, handing Susanna a teacup.
“Thank you.” The duchess fixed her gaze on Dane, and Marlowe aborted her next attempt to snatch a cake when the duchess’s gaze flitted briefly to her. “Lord Dane, I must admit I was surprised and dismayed to learn you had not accepted the invitation to my ball.”
“I…” Dane began, then he looked at her. Marlowe frowned at him. Why the devil was he looking at her? “I am afraid I have a prior commitment. I promised Miss Marlowe I would take her to the theater.”
“Oh?” The duchess looked at Marlowe. “Your cousin.”
“Distant cousin,” the countess said. “Very distant.”
“I see.” The duchess sipped her tea and reached for another cake. Marlowe tried to scoot forward to grasp one herself, but Dane wrapped an arm around her, hidden from the view of the duchess, and held her firmly in place. The countess handed her a teacup, but he accepted that as well and set it where she could not reach.
“Clearly, I must extend the invitation to Miss Marlowe. Then all of you may come together.”
“No!” the countess cried.
“Duchess,” Dane said, drowning his mother out. “That is very kind of you, but not necessary.”
“Rubbish. The ladies will be so disappointed if you are not in attendance, my lord. Unless…” She studied him and then looked at Marlowe again. Marlowe felt Dane remove his hand. Now was her chance to steal a cake, but the duchess was staring at her. “Unless you have an announcement, my lord?”
“Absolutely not!” the countess cried again. “No!”
“Ah.” The duchess smiled. “I see we must wait to wish you happy. In any case”—she rose, and everyone else followed suit. Dane dragged Marlowe to her feet—“I must return to oversee the preparations. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow night.”
“Oh, but we will be at Northbridge then,” Susanna said.
The countess whirled. “Do not be silly, Susanna. We will be at the duchess’s ball, of course.”
The duchess nodded and waved the countess away. “I shall see myself out.”
Everyone looked after her, and Marlowe took the opportunity to shove two cakes in her mouth and stuff three more into her hands, which she then hid behind her back.
“So we are not going to Northbridge Abbey?” Susanna said when the door had closed behind the duchess.
“We are going to Northbridge,” the countess said, “but not until after the duchess’s ball. If I had not been so distraught earlier”—she glared at Marlowe, who had just popped another cake into her mouth—“I would have remembered the ball is tomorrow night.”
Dane clasped his hands behind his back. “I will cry off. I’ve had my fill of balls.”
“No, you will not,” his mother said. “You will anger the duchess.”
“Surely you do not intend to bring Marlowe?” he said, gesturing to her and frowning when he saw she was reaching for another cake.
“I do not see what choice we have,” his mother said, putting a hand to her forehead. “I feel a megrim coming on.”
“But, Dane,” Susanna argued, “if she is the daughter of Lord and Lady Lyndon, they may wish to spend time with her before she is introduced publicly.”
“The daughter of the Marquess of Lyndon!” the countess exclaimed. “Is that the story she is telling you?”
Marlowe put her hands on her hips, accidentally squashing one of the tea cakes. “And why is that so hard to believe?” she said, mouth still full of cream. “I could be Lady Elizabeth.”
“If you are Lady Elizabeth,” the countess said, “I will get on my knees and kiss your feet! You are a common beggar, that’s what you are.”
“I’ve never begged a day in my life,” Marlowe said. “Never needed to.”
“Because you steal what you want,” the countess said.
Dane stepped forward. “Unfortunately, the question of Marlowe’s true parentage will have to wait. Brook says the Lyndons are hunting in Scotland at present. It will be several days before they can be reached.”
The countess sank onto a couch. “I need a tonic. Fetch Edwards. She knows what to make.”
“Mama, let me take you to your room,” Susanna said, assisting the countess. When they were gone, Marlowe sat down and pulled the tea tray to her chair, lifting a sandwich and trying it.
“You are going to weigh ten stone if you keep eating like that,” Dane said.
Marlowe shrugged. “I can’t let it go to waste.”
H
e sat down opposite her, rested his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head in his hands. Marlowe ate another sandwich, trying to ignore how dejected the earl looked. She didn’t really care if he was dejected, did she? Of course, watching him pout made enjoying her meal a bit tricky. Finally, she sighed and said, “What is it?”
He looked up at her, his eyes weary. “Nothing. You go on eating cakes.”
“I can hardly do so in peace with you looking like someone just choused you out of your last shilling.”
“It’s time to make a decision, Marlowe,” he said, and she didn’t much care for the look in his eyes. They were full of determination.
“What kind of decision?” She suddenly felt quite full, and set the tea cake she’d been holding back on the tray.
“You must decide whether you will stay or go. Brook is occupied with another investigation, and the Lyndons may not be back in Town for weeks. I can’t keep you here against your will any longer.”
“Then let me go,” she said immediately, but for the first time she was not certain she meant it.
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” Was it?
“Then you are free to go.” He sat back and spread his arms over the back of the couch. She narrowed her eyes at him.
“Just like that? I can go?”
“You may go. I won’t stop you.”
“Ha!” She jumped up, snatched several tea cakes, and started for the drawing-room doors. When she reached them, she pushed them open, then peered back at him. He was still sitting on the couch. He wasn’t even looking at her. She really could simply walk through the door. She scampered down the steps, into the vestibule, and saw the butler. “He”—she notched her head up to indicate the drawing room—“says I can go.”
“Very well. Good day to you.” The butler opened the door, and Marlowe looked over her shoulder.
Dane wasn’t coming for her. He was really setting her free. She stepped outside, into the sunshine and the brisk spring air, and stood on the stoop, staring down at the boot scraper. She knew which way the flash ken lay. She’d never had any trouble finding her bearings in the city. If she walked quickly, she could reach it in less than an hour. Wouldn’t Gideon be surprised when he saw her dressed so finely? Satin’s eyes would nigh pop out of his head.
Of course, she would have to give some sort of explanation, and she’d have to think of a way to talk Satin out of robbing Dane’s house. He would want her to go back, to make a pretense of visiting, so she could pocket a few valuable items. Satin would be full of plans, and Marlowe would have to go along with them. She might protest, but after a few beatings and days of starvation, she’d agree. She knew she would. And why not? She’d never cared about the swells before. They had far more than they deserved. They wouldn’t miss a few glim-sticks or feeders.
But the fact was, Marlowe did not want to steal from Dane—or from anyone. For the first time, she wondered what it would be like to have her own house, her own candlesticks, her own forks. What if she had a home instead of a space on the floor of a dirty flash ken? What if she had a family who loved her instead of a bunch of cubs always looking to double-cross her for their own gain?
She had Gideon. That much was true. He was like family, but though Gideon protected her from the worst of Satin’s tirades, he couldn’t save her completely. Not without getting himself killed.
Marlowe sat down on the step and nibbled one of the tea cakes. It tasted almost stale to her now. Dane had said she needed to make a decision. If she returned, she was back under Satin’s control. She was back to being a thief, back to starving, back to running from the Charleys and the Watch and dodging Satin’s fists.
If she stayed…
What was wrong with her? How could she even think of staying?
Because if she stayed, she had a soft bed, clean clothes, a full belly, and a chance. What if she was Lady Elizabeth? What if Lord and Lady Lyndon were her parents? What if Satin had stolen her away from the life she should have had, the parents who loved her?
Loved her.
No one had ever loved her, but these Lyndons loved their daughter. They’d gone on searching for her all these years. They must have loved her very much.
Marlowe clenched her hands together and closed her eyes. She had spent years pushing the memories down, years fearing the vulnerability they brought with them, but now she opened herself to them. The sounds of the carriage wheels on the streets, the hawkers’ distant cries, the church bells tolling the hour faded away. She remembered…warmth. The memory must have come from some time before Satin, because she had never felt warm when she’d lived with him.
She remembered…softness. Again, where had a memory of softness come from, if not a time before Satin? She shut her eyes more tightly and remembered rocking, a soft bosom, the scent of…some sort of flower. She didn’t know the name. An image of a man in a coat and the sort of neckcloth Dane called a cravat came to her mind. He was going out, and he gathered her in his strong embrace and kissed her, the hair on his chin scratching her.
She turned, and there was a woman—
Marlowe opened her eyes. No, she could not remember her, could not see her now. Tears were already threatening to spill over. Mama. Marlowe clenched her hands until her blunt fingernails dug painfully into her flesh. There was no crying. No sniveling. She must be strong—except, what if she did not have to be strong anymore? What if, for once in her life, she did not have to take care of herself?
She turned and looked at the town house behind her. This was not her world, but perhaps it could be. The other cubs would have killed for a chance to live in a place like this. Should she abandon her one chance before she even had all the facts? If she was Lady Elizabeth, her whole life would change. If she wasn’t, well, then, no harm done. She’d go back to Satin, and everything would be like it had been before.
Except, as she rose, she knew if she walked back into that house, nothing would ever be like it had been before.
***
Dane closed his eyes and laid his head on the back of the settee. She was gone. She’d actually walked away. It had surprised him. He’d thought a thief like her would see the value in staying, would see the opportunity it provided. Either she was not a very good thief, or she actually had morals. Scruples. Terrifying thought, that. He’d have to start thinking of her—of all her ilk—differently.
The house was suddenly eerily quiet. It must have been quiet before she’d come, but he’d never noticed how silent it was before. He should take advantage of the quiet and return to his library to work. But he knew he’d find the volume of Shakespeare on his desk, and he’d think of her.
Perhaps she’d taken it with her, although since she couldn’t eat it, she’d probably left it. And what did he care if she’d left a book on his desk? What did he care if he’d think of her when he looked at the chair in his room or climbed into bed? She was gone. He was done with her, and good riddance.
The drawing-room doors opened, and Crawford stepped inside. “Is she gone?” Dane asked, letting his head fall back again.
“Yes, my lord.”
He sighed. “Well, it was a diverting few hours, wasn’t it, Crawford? I suppose it’s back to the ledgers and the balls and the bickering in Parliament.” And it was back to the simpering misses, the daughters of barons and viscounts, hoping to improve their stations by marrying an earl like him. Back to conversations about hats and horses and the weather. “Do you know, Crawford,” Dane said, “she and I never once discussed the weather.”
“That is too bad, my lord.”
“Is it? I detest discussions about the weather. Marlowe was…interesting.”
“To say the very least, my lord.”
“And she was”—he’d thought about saying beautiful, but that might shock Crawford—“really quite pretty in Lady Susanna’s gown. I could almost imagine she rea
lly was Lady Elizabeth.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“But she’s gone now,” Dane said.
“For the most part, my lord.”
Dane sat forward. “What do you mean?”
“She is sitting on the front step, my lord.”
“Doing what?”
“Nothing that I can ascertain, my lord. Just sitting.”
“Why?”
“I do not know, my lord. I came to inquire as to whether you want me to ask her why she is still sitting there? Or should we send a footman to shoo her away?”
“Like a stray dog?”
“Exactly, my lord.”
Could he fault Crawford for seeing her as such when he was no different? “I’ll speak to her.”
“You, my lord?”
Dane rose now, feeling unaccountably invigorated. “Perhaps she forgot something.”
“Forgot, my lord?” Crawford followed Dane out of the drawing room. “We burned her clothing, your lordship.”
“There was a book of Shakespeare,” he said, jogging down the stairs and arrowing toward his library, moving quickly now, worried he might miss his chance.
“My lord, I assure you that girl cannot read.”
“A gift is a gift, Crawford,” Dane said entering the library and sweeping the book from his desk and into his arms.
“As you say, your lordship.” Crawford had resumed his position at the front door, and he opened it now. Marlowe turned, looking rather surprised to see him. It was just as Crawford had said. She was seated on the stoop, the midmorning sun glinting on her light brown hair and making some of the strands shine like gold. She pushed up, and Dane waved the book in his hand.
“You forgot something.”
Her brow furrowed, and then she gave a short laugh. “That book is your sister’s.”
“I believe she made a gift of it to you.” He took her hand and pressed the volume into it.
Marlowe looked down. “I can’t read it, and Satin will just sell it.” She held it out to him. “You keep it.”