He removed his hands from his brow, slouched back in his chair, and concentrated on the female before him. She was plain, as her father had said, but not displeasing. She had an ordinary face, with ordinary features, and perhaps if just one of those features had been out of the ordinary, had been remarkable, then she could have been quite breath-taking. But every feature was ordinary. From the average brown of her hair to the solemn brown of her eyes. And her skin was certainly too brown, far beyond the realm of fashionable and more in the area of commonness.
Her form, petite and rather delicate, as suited her small stature, was not voluptuous in the least, and induced thoughts of efficiency rather than romance. Her hands were small, but the nails of her fingers were cut short, showing she viewed them more as tools to be used than a point of vanity. Even now, after giving him an appraising look, she took out a side of pork and cut off strips with a large knife and settled them into a cast iron pan to fry. To this, she added eggs, and then using a bread knife, cut off slices from a loaf, placed them in a toasting iron and opening the door to the stove fire, propped it just above the flames. She took out a large mound of churned butter from the pantry and set it on the table.
All of her actions, St. James observed, were done with practiced economy and efficiency, relaxed concentration on her nondescript face, and he was suddenly moved by the thought of a hummingbird hovering in mid-air as it gathered nectar from a morning-glory. And if Miss Murdock were not as flashy as that hummingbird, she was certainly as riveting in her effortless complacency as she went about her tasks.
He could well believe that no one had ever found her exciting, but as St. James watched her move about in the dark of early morning, with her hair undone and down her back, and a faint streak of soot still upon one cheek, and her robe fluttering open to reveal her thin gown that was moved by her slender legs, it occurred to him that he had more excitement than most in his thirty and three years, and that it was very pleasant indeed to allow her silent serenity to wash over him, like a balm on an itchy patch of skin.
And if her solemn eyes met his from time to time, taking his measure with a quiet and somewhat timid curiosity, he did not blink, but met her questioning with a sudden sureness that he would not have guessed at. For he was quite certain that Miss Murdock was precisely what he needed for his plans, and for the first time, he thought it may just be possible that he not only complete his endeavor, but survive the completing of it.
The coffee was ready and Miss Murdock filled his cup, placed it in front of him. He declined her offers of cream and sugar, and instead took it black. She watched his long fingers as they wrapped about the cup with a simple and elegant grace. He raised the cup to his lips, paused a moment as his gold eyes focused on her. Nonplused, she turned, took a cloth and removed the hot skillet from the stove. She fixed him a plate of side, eggs and toast. She put out some homemade peach preserves, and then when she saw that he had all he needed, she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table, its wide, wooden expanse separating them, leaving her at one end and he at the other.
He viewed the plate of food, which he had not asked for, for a moment, and then without comment, picked up his fork and began eating. Lizzie sipped her coffee. She watched the slight trembling in his hands wane, and his foray into his meal became more sure. His eating was sporadic. He would take several bites and then pause for long moments at a time to sit and drink his coffee and look at her, eyes unblinking, mouth unspeaking.
His lips, she noticed, were tight, compressed and rarely moving in either smile or frown. His face was pale, certainly much paler than her own, and in contrast made his dark hair seem nearly black. His brows were arched, even in rest, and when by chance he arched one higher in a quizzical look at her and her glances, it gave him a satirical look. There was a harshness about him, an unforgiving, unyielding aura that was at a disparity with his casual, indifferent demeanor, his disheveled appearance, and the lazy languidness of his movements.
Only his eyes sealed the two seemingly divergent parts of his character, shifting constantly not from motion, for they were always quite steady, but from emotion and mood, looking at one moment morose and in another flickering with excitement, and then he would hood them with his lids, making the little sparks of gold that were still discernible all the more tantalizing to her. For some reason, she felt she would give quite a bit to step into his head and view his thoughts for a single moment.
At long last, he pushed his plate away, much of the food left uneaten, and Miss Murdock got up from her chair and refilled his cup with coffee. She rinsed her own cup and placed it on the sideboard, then turned to him. “I can make that room up for you now, if you wish, milord.”
As she was standing but a foot or so from him, he reached out and caught her hand, making her start in surprise. She did not try for release, only stood steady, her heart giving an uneven beat in her chest and looked at him, wary of his next move.
“What is this, Miss Murdock?” he asked, his voice teasing. “Are you nervous that the disreputable Duke of St. James is about to take advantage of you in your kitchen?”
As she did not answer, only tugged at her hand and stared at him with her solemn eyes, his own eyes narrowed as he continued. “Well, at one time, and if you were a woman of a different caliber, I may have.”
Lizzie flushed, could not decide if she should feel relieved or insulted, or disappointed. “I have no doubt, milord, that you are capable if you so wished,” she answered. “But I am sure that I would be poor sport for a man of your tastes and so you would do better to merely release my hand and allow me to make up your room.”
He did not release her hand, instead tightened his grip and leaned back in his chair, forcing her to take an awkward step forward. St. James looked up into her face, her just shy of panicking eyes. “How am I to go about this?” he asked. “I have been pondering just this question for over an hour now, and I still have no clue.”
“I am sure I do not understand you,” Miss Murdock replied. “I am also sure that what you need now after being fed is sleep, and that whatever answer you are looking for will be there for you in the morning.”
“No, Miss Murdock,” he shook his head. “I will not be here in the morning and you need not make up a bed for me. So you can quit worrying your head about that task. I feel I have put you out quite enough for one night at any rate. Although I am afraid I am going to have to put you out quite a bit more.”
“I—It was no hardship,” she said. Her voice was breathless and she blamed it on the fact that he had begun to rub her hand with his thumb, the soft, hypnotic reassurance of a mother rubbing a baby's back. And as a baby is lulled into sleep, she felt as though she were being lulled into a spell that consisted of nothing but that single moving thumb and those two golden eyes. She gave a sharp pull on her hand, gaining abrupt release and losing her balance. She reached behind to steady herself and her palm came down on the still hot stove. “Ouch!” she squeaked, and her injured hand flew to her mouth.
St. James rose, banging his knee in his haste. “Damn it, Miss Murdock. What did you think I was going to do to make you burn yourself getting away?” He grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand from her mouth.
Miss Murdock, finding his question unanswerable, her hand smarting, and herself feeling a good deal foolish, lashed out in return. “What any young female would think when a drunken scoundrel takes their hand and there is no proper chaperone! I should slap you if it were not hurting so badly!”
“You may slap me with the other hand, if it should make you feel better,” he informed her. He studied her injury. “I imagine it is quite painful.”
“As if I needed you to determine that. Simply allow me my hand back, and I will draw some water and soak it.”
“No, Miss Murdock. You must use butter. My grandmother has always said so.”
“Then you may go fetch your grandmother's butter, for I shan't waste any of mine.”
He raised his head, and his g
old eyes met her angry brown ones. “Ah, the first challenge. Your way or mine? I think you should learn now that it shall be mine.” He stepped to the table, her wrist tight in his grasp, forcing her to step with him. He moved the plate with the great pat of butter upon it to the edge of the table and forced her hand into it. He pushed it down so that she was unable to keep even her fingers from it, and when he pulled her hand up, her hand print was imbedded in the butter.
“You simply could not resist ruining the all of it, could you?” she asked, furious.
“Oh, but, Miss Murdock, when a lovely hand such as your own is at stake, what is a mere pat of butter?”
He released her wrist and she wrapped her injury in a dishcloth. She wished to wash the butter from it, just to spite him, but she could not see the sense in it, as it was on there now and was soothing to some degree. Still turned from him, she told him in a muted little voice. “You need more coffee, sir, for if you see my hand as lovely, you are obviously still drunk.”
Which caused him to laugh, a full, rich laugh that surprised her out of her crossness and had her looking at him with stark curiosity, for she would have never dreamed from her short acquaintance with him that he could be capable of such laughter, free of sarcasm or rancor or jadedness.
“I see,” he said at length, “that I shall have my way, but that you shall always endeavor to have the last word.”
“Yes, milord. I can see how that is so, since you are leaving, and I must ask to be excused now, and there will be no further conversation between us, then I have managed to have the last word,” she told him and turned to leave the kitchen.
Her uninjured hand was at the door frame and with one more step she would have been into the hallway when he spoke. “You are mistaken if you think there will be no further conversation between us.”
She hesitated for just an instant, but it was an instant too long, for his next words had her turning to stare at him. “For we became betrothed at approximately one hour after midnight.” He raised the lids of his eyes, giving her the full impact of their golden stare at her look of shocked disbelief. “So you see, Miss Murdock, when I leave here shortly, you shall be accompanying me.”
Chapter Five
“You expect me to take you seriously?” Miss Murdock asked.
“I can not, at this point, expect any thing from you, Miss Murdock.”
“Indeed, I am glad we are in agreement on that,” she returned. She paused another thoughtful second in the door and then with a little sigh, went back to stand before him. “Milord, you are drunk. It is nearing dawn. I will make up a room for you and you shall sleep and tomorrow you will have forgotten your foolish statement, as I will have. Surely, you see the sense in that?”
“I am no longer drunk, Miss Murdock, but nearly sober, to my regret, after two cups of coffee and the meal you placed before me.
Sober enough to know I am not displeased with the alliance I have made.” He pulled a chair out. “Come, Miss Murdock, and be seated. I am sure you have questions.”
“No, milord,” she shook her head. “I am too tired to humor your
odd fancies.”
“Ah. But your father was in a more agreeable mood.”
“My father tends to agree to a great many things when he is drinking,” she returned with a rueful grin. With her eyes twinkling, she added, “as I daresay, do you.”
“You refuse to take me seriously for even a moment, Miss Murdock.”
She made a sudden weary gesture. “Indeed, sir, please do go on, for I see that you are quite set upon it. It will only needs cleaning up in the morning if I do not attend to it now any rate.”
He raised a brow. “I applaud your indulgence, Miss Murdock.” He sat himself, his fingers drumming on the table before him in light contemplation. “I asked your father for your hand. He has agreed.”
“I am sure I am quite flattered.” She gave a little laugh. “It is not often that I receive proposals at dawn, even from drunken suitors. Indeed, I do thank you, even as I must decline. Regretfully, of course. Is it possible for me to return to my bed now?”
“You are being difficult, Miss Murdock,” he observed.
“Indeed, I think I am showing remarkable restraint.” Her amusement waned. “Please do not pursue this ridiculous conversation any further.”
“Miss Murdock, I realize this must be difficult for you,” he took pains to explain, “but it is important that you accept that I am serious. Can you at least entertain that assumption for the purposes of this conversation so that we may discuss your concerns at this circumstance?”
“I am to assume,” she said with a wry twist to her mouth, “allow me, please, to state this correctly, that a duke, moneyed and privileged and despite a certain sordid reputation, still a desirable match in marriage, by those far more suitable than myself, has settled upon my being his wife after, of course, only one meeting, where I was covered with mud and running a horse into a fence.” Half smiling, she awaited his answer, but he gave none, only waited for her to continue. She made an impatient gesture with her hand. “The whole idea is ludicrous. What could possibly motivate you?”
“My motives are no concern of yours, Miss Murdock. I would rather you consider your own concerns, as I had asked.”
“You believe that after I give your suit the consideration I am sure you believe it deserves that I will leap upon the obvious advantages to me and agree?” she asked, her tone somewhere between disbelieving and offended.
He gave an impatient little sigh and rose from his seat. He turned from her and strode the room. He paced back to stand before her. “Must I list them, Miss Murdock? For I find it distasteful to have to enumerate my 'desirable' qualities.” His lip curled in an unsuspected ugly wrath that had Miss Murdock sobering from her prior glibness. “List them, Miss Murdock. Let me hear you say the words so that I know you understand completely what you are to gain. If one, indeed, looks upon it as gain.”
“I can assure you, that I am one that does not, milord,” she said in sudden icy anger. “But I will list them as you ask as the sooner this interview is complete, the sooner I may return to my own business, and you may return to yours.”
He made no answer, only stood, waiting, for her to continue.
She drew in a breath, calming herself. “Your title, I suppose.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
“And it is purported that you are quite. . . well off.”
“On the mark again, Miss Murdock.”
“Your family's standing in society,” she added. She glanced at him, hoping he would be satisfied, but he closed his eyes for one brief instance and when he opened them again, he raised a brow to her at her hesitation to continue.
“Anything else, Miss Murdock?” he asked, his voice mocking. “Any other reason why most any female in society would view me as a desirable match in marriage?”
“Maybe I should begin listing your un-desirable qualities, milord,” she retorted. “Your ego, your reputation—”
“But we are still on the desirable list, Miss Murdock. I am sure if you merely search about your mind but another moment you should be well able to come up with one more reason.”
“Oh, very well,” she said, exasperated, but pushing on precariously. “You are not displeasing to look at. Is that what you wished to hear, milord? Does that flatter you and satisfy you? Tell me, do you often go through this charade so that you may gain glory for your vainness from some naive country bumpkin when I am sure you have had enough simpering females throwing themselves at you for years now?”
But he leaned forward, placing his hands upon the arms of her chair and spoke down to her, his face near hers. “I merely wished to hear you say it so that I am sure you are aware of it,” he told her, his gold eyes glinting. “I do not know you, Miss Murdock. I do not know what is important to you, what you find desirable. I merely wish you to realize, that if your young heart fancies romance, it shall be available to you, no questions asked and with nothing w
ithheld.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she exhaled. “Are you mad? You speak of a marriage of convenience where you have no feeling for me or I for you and you speak of this matter as though it were another bargaining chip upon the table—”
He released the chair arms, paced away from her. “The 'catch of the decade' I was called ten years ago, Miss Murdock.” He turned back to face her. “Now—well, that decade has passed, has it not? My reputation has grown, and although not many would care to dismiss my suit out of hand, the doors of those families that have no need of further wealth have been closed to me. The peers I have with daughters of marrying age are content to settle for a marquis or an earl, the fellow of course being a little more, how shall we say it, commendable in his morals.”
He paused and when he continued, his words were quieter but much more pointed. “But for the daughter of a Squire to be so squeamish, Miss Murdock, well, it nearly boggles my mind.”
“Does it?” Miss Murdock asked with sudden icy rage. “It is true
that I find your reputation distasteful—”
“I am so shocked to hear it.”
“—But what I find more distasteful is your thinking that you may stroll in here and offer me your ridiculous proposal and have me leaping for it as some starving dog at a piece of meat.” She rose from her seat, beside herself with rage. “Allow me to, for a moment, fulfill your expectations: Oh, thank you, milord, for choosing me! I have been made complete now that you have humbled yourself and sought my hand. My life, I am sure, will be naught but a fairy tale, where I may wear fine gowns, and ride in a fine carriage with fine horses. And I shall spend all of my allowance on fancy hats, and luxurious furs, and eat sweetmeats all day while I have a dozen or more servants to fetch me whatever I care for.” She drew herself up, her worn gown and falling hair taking nothing from her disdain. “Is that what you expected to hear, milord? For if it is, you are wildly mistaken. If you think that I am flattered by your choosing me to fulfill some cold motive on your part, you are most decidedly wrong. When and if I am ever chosen as a wife it will not be for some calculated reason, I should hope, and I will certainly not agree to a marriage based on a proposition that, among other things, offers your body as something to be gained for my amusement.” Her face was flaming with embarrassment but her outrage was such that she was not even aware of it.
In the Brief Eternal Silence Page 6