by Regina Darcy
“Yes, my lord.”
The door opened quietly and swiftly. The Marquess came into the room.
He was still dressed as he had been; Honora was relieved that he was not wearing a dressing gown or some inappropriate attire. What would she have done, she wondered, had he entered with amorous intentions? Perhaps it was better not to know.
He lighted the candles by her bedside.
“There,” he said, as the candles created dancing orbs of light around them. “I wished to speak to you and as you have seen, it is impossible to do so with my aunt about.”
“She is very kind.”
“She is kindness itself, but she is a confounded nuisance at times like this.”
“It is fortunate that she is here as a chaperone.”
“Yes . . .”
Silence descended into the room as both occupants pondered the risk and consequences of discovery.
Of course it was fortunate, Michael thought. If he wished to marry Lady Honora, her reputation could not be tarnished. She could not be subject to any more scandal that had already come her way as a result of her running away from the Duke.
He froze in his tracks when he realised where his thoughts had taken him.
This was folly. What nonsense was he thinking?
Marriage! Why, he was an expert at dodging the shackles imposed by matrimony.
Even as he was denying his feelings for Honora, his gaze travelled over her features like a desert-man staring at water.
Someday, yes, certainly, a man was obliged to marry… But not now.
Not yet.
Lady Honora was here under his protection. She was not a woman of loose morals, like Lady Penelope, she was not a harlot or a Cyprian. She was, at least he supposed she was, an innocent, pure and inexperienced. And while she was at Dennington, she must remain so.
“My lord?”
“Hm? Oh, my apologies, I was . . . thinking. You shall write a letter to your parents tomorrow, assuring them that you are well. I’ll send Jason to post it.”
“I will write it, but I am not sure that it will suffice. They want me to return. The scandal . . . my father is very proper. He does not approve of scandal.”
“Then he ought not to be marrying you off to a man who is engulfed in it. Or was, at the time. I suppose the years have faded the memories.”
“Papa does not pay heed to gossip.”
Michael frowned, her papa sounded as if he must be a man of unyielding principles whose beliefs would not change, even if the face of the truth. “And your mother?”
“She does not defy Papa.”
“I see.” And he did. It was, quite likely, the same scenario that played out in grand manors all across England. Dutiful wives, tyrannical husbands, and children born into the pattern. But Lady Honora had not been dutiful. She had fled.
“You must promise me,” he said, “that you will not withhold what you know from me. I will help you all I can, but I must know all that you know.”
“I have told you everything.”
“Are you quite sure?”
She nodded, her guileless green eyes as open as a child’s. She was not practised at lying, as a frequent fibber he could tell.
“I feel as if I was such a silly girl,” she confessed. “I was so happy on the night of my engagement ball. How fortunate I was, I thought, to be marrying the Duke of Ivanhoe. But I failed to notice what should have been obvious.”
“What do you mean? I doubt that he was likely to confess that he had murdered his wife on the night that his engagement was announced.”
“He is so distant. I ought to have realised that. He is not . . . he seems to be bound in secrets. He . . . I foolishly thought that he must love me. Is that not silly? To confuse marriage and love. How very provincial I must seem.”
“It is not so strange,” Michael said, speaking slowly because these thoughts echoed his own beliefs; that a marriage made in love was the ideal, however this belief was buried deep within him lest he be seen as a romantic.
A love match seldom happened, of course. He himself did not expect to marry for love… Had not expected to marry for love, he corrected himself. As his gaze settled on Honora, he prayed that his affections were reciprocated.
“Do you not think me a fool?”
“Lady Honora,” Michael said, his voice so sincere that she could not doubt him, “I do not think you a fool. I think that you are brave and noble and honest. Where would you find a fool in that?”
He did not expect her to cry, but he suddenly realised that her slender shoulders were shaking with sobs.
“My lady,” he said, “I did not mean to drive you to tears.”
“You have been so kind,” she told him. “I have put you in danger, and your household is upended because of me. I spoke the truth before; I wish that women could defend themselves. Then it would have been on me to challenge the Duke for my life, and the only danger would have been to me.”
“That would not answer,” Michael replied. And, though he knew it was a dreadful breach of propriety, he moved from the chair to her bed, holding her in his arms as she sobbed.
“I am afraid,” she cried, her tears wetting the front of his shirt. “I am so afraid!”
“Do not be afraid. I am here and I will see that you are safe. Go to sleep. I will not leave your side until you are safely dreaming. Dennington will be your haven. No one will trouble you here.”
He held her in his arms, not letting her go, as she cried out her fears, murmuring words that attested to her experiences the night that she had fled the Duke’s home in the storm, and then tonight, as she had been rescued by Michael’s stalwart footman, Jason. Gradually, the words became less audible and the sobs ceased. But her sleep was fitful and Michael did not wish to let her go, only to have her wake to find him gone. It was not proper, but no one would know, he reminded himself, and it was better to let her sleep with a sense of safety.
How defenceless she was, he thought as he looked down upon her sleeping face, illuminated by the candlelight as if she were framed in a portrait. How easy it would be to slip the nightgown from her shoulders and avail himself of her beauty. But he was not a violator of women.
He did place a single kiss upon one shoulder, bared by her movements. She stirred but did not waken. Michael moved closer to her. He did not know how long he would be in the bed with her, but he would not leave until her fears were gone. She had endured much this night and before; much more than any woman he knew. It was to her credit that she had been able to sustain her composure as long as she had.
He blew out the candles, allowing the room to remain in darkness. Let her sleep, he thought.
***
Honora did sleep. The quiet of the room and the soothing darkness all around her, the fortifying presence of the Marquess next to her, all contributed to slumbers that were deep and restful, the best night’s sleep that she had had since the tumultuous night of her engagement ball, when she had first learned that the Duke of Ivanhoe, her fiancé, was not what he appeared to be.
She stirred and moved. Then she felt the presence of someone in the bed: a strong, unyielding leg, a muscled arm, and the strands of unruly curls brushing against her forehead.
Honora gasped and looked down at herself. Her nightgown was in complete disarray, one shoulder indecorously bare, so low, in fact, that the swell of her bosom was visible. She pulled the garment up and tugged at the bedclothes.
The jarring motion disturbed the Marquess, who had fallen asleep at some point during the night.
“What has happened?” she demanded in a frightened whisper. “What have we done?”
It was the first time she had awakened with a man in her bed. But it was not the first time that the Marquess had opened his eyes to find himself in bed with a woman.
He grinned at her. He had a night’s growth of stubble on his cheeks and his hair, never perfectly coiffed, was a mass of rebellious black curls. His green eyes, still heavy with sleep, had a lo
ok of sensuality in them.
“What do you suppose we did?” he inquired in amusement.
Then he regretted his flippant tone, as her eyes widened with dread.
“It’s not so bad, you know,” he said, addressing her unspoken fear. “But we did nothing. What you plainly fear did not happen. Not yet, anyway. I stayed the night so that you would sleep. You were troubled last night and you had been through much.”
“We did not . . . I am . . .?”
“You are as you were when you arrived here,” he said. “So, unless you were entertaining lovers at the convent—which I doubt the Abbess would have sanctioned—you remain in the same state as you were. You are safe.”
As the relief transformed her features, he whispered, “Do not think, my lovely, that because you are safe, I am a saint.”
He lowered his mouth to hers, to find her lips pliant and, despite the fears she had intimated, willing. This kiss was as scorching as the one he had bestowed upon her when she arrived the night before, the more so because she was familiar with his lips and sought his kiss as ravenously as he sought hers. Innocent though she undoubtedly was, Michael knew that there was a woman within her, ripening and waiting for the passion that awaited.
The burgeoning urgency of desire forced him to recognise how perilously close he was to seducing her, and he forced himself to separate from her.
“You are safe, my lady,” he said, his voice roughened and his breathing laboured, “but I am not a saint. The virgin that you are now is a temporary impediment to the sating of what we feel; the woman that you will become awaits us.”
She looked puzzled.
“When this has ended,” he said as he rose and leaned over her, “and we are free of the Duke and the propriety that confines us, then we shall find a more satisfying conclusion. When these troubles are over, you shall be free to become the woman that you are. And I shall be there for that unveiling. Good evening, Lady Honora.”
With a single kiss upon her cheek, he was gone.
The turn of events was so surprising that it took a while for Honora to muster the energy needed to get up from her bed after the Marquess’ departure.
Her mind was still in turmoil as she went to the window. It was still quite dark out as late night blackened into very early day, too early for light. She had slept well, but not as long as she had thought. The presence of the Marquess in her bed—what would Lady Hestia say if she ever knew that such a thing had occurred—and his cryptic words did not create a sleepy atmosphere. Instead of going back to bed, Honora knelt on the floor, her hands clasped in front of her in prayer.
Was she a vile, shameless sinner, a fallen woman because she had found herself responding to the Marquess’ kiss? Was she one of those women who would be chastised for having decadent habits?
London was rife with women of loose morals, she knew. There were the women who sold themselves for money; they were, she believed, women of the lower classes, who behaved in unseemly ways, to earn their living. But there were also women of high degree who were the daughters of the aristocracy, who entertained lovers even though they were married. London was rife with those women as well. Such women were condemned for their actions.
Why were men not judged the same? Were women held to a higher code and had she, because the Marquess had spent hours alone with her in her bed, summoned judgment upon herself? Her mind thought of the sermons she had heard in her lifetime. The Whore of Babylon. She recalled the phrase, although the context eluded her.
But if she could be judged for the thoughts in her head, then she was damned and condemned to the fiery pits of hell, for she knew that, had the Marquess not pulled away from his kiss, she could not have refused him. What had he said, It’s not so bad, you know. And, little as she knew of the intimate coupling between a man and a woman, she was awakened to the truth of his words. For, in his arms, his lips upon hers, she had sensed that this was but a prelude to something even more stirring and overwhelming, a driving force that could bind a man and woman together in a secret and private bond.
She had felt nothing of this when the Duke gave her a decorous kiss upon their engagement. She had not felt her flesh turn fiery with need, nor her mouth yearn for his. His kiss had been something remote, not this signal to a wildness that she had not known existed within her.
Would God punish her for what she felt? But it was God who created men and women, her brain told her. The commandments said that adultery was a sin. They did not say that love was the same. Honora sighed.
It was too complicated for her to unravel. Whether what she felt for the Marquess was bawdy and sinful, or the natural response to love, how was she to know? Girls were not taught to think of such things in an analytical manner. They were expected to do as they were told by fathers who impressed strict rules upon their daughters but gave license to their sons.
All she could do was pray that God, who knew her heart, would forgive her if she had sinned, guide her if she was lost, and strengthen her to do what she must do. It was God who governed the men who governed the women in their lives, and surely God would not deny her heaven, when her earthly life was complete, because she had disobeyed her parents and fled her marriage, to be rescued by a man to whom she found herself attracted.
Honour thy mother and father.
That was another commandment. She had not honoured them with her flight, because her marriage was their wish.
The Marquess had but an hour before been on that sheet, sleep having overtaken him as he sought to comfort her. But he had not ravished her. He had honoured her maiden state. What had he meant, though, when he said that there was a woman inside her. It was very mysterious.
She was a woman. What else could she be? There were men and there were women. That was very clear. She could not fathom what he meant. Nor did she understand what he meant when he said that he would be there for this unveiling of her as a woman. Did that mean—
Honora glanced down at her shoulder, still exposed because the nightgown that Lady Eleanor had provided did not fit properly. Was Lord Michael talking about—
She blushed. Unveiling. Did that mean undressing, and was he speaking of—
Dear God, Honora prayed,
Forgive me for having carnal thoughts. I seek your guidance in my trials. I do not wish to sin. I am uncertain of what I am to do. I no longer am sure what is right and what is wrong. The Duke of Ivanhoe, to whom I am betrothed, is not the man I wish to marry. I fear him and I fear what will happen to me if I become his wife. But how can I dishonour my parents when they wish for this wedding to take place? How can I expose them to public ridicule and scandal by remaining hidden from them and from the Duke? The Marquess. . . Holy God, I seek your forgiveness for my feelings. It is the Marquess of Dennington that I wish to marry, and it is to him that I wish to yield. I know that I am only a girl and that my thoughts are untutored, but I beg you to hear my prayer. I do not wish to be a sinner, or a disobedient daughter. It is my earnest desire to please you in all things. But can I not please you and my heart as well?
Was that a selfish prayer?
Not my will, but Thine. That was what she had been taught. Was her will so far apart from God’s?
Please, God, she prayed with a sudden sense of urgency, let all be well. I lay my trust in Your Providence and Your mercy. Protect me and look out for those that I love. I am your servant and I seek your will above all things, O God. Amen.
TEN
The people of the village of Twickendale did not regard the Duke of Ivanhoe with the same loyalty that they bestowed upon the Marquess of Dennington, partly because Ivanhoe was seldom in Twickendale and the Marquess was known to prefer his country estate to his London home. Such loyalty, combined with the attention that the Marquess paid to his tenants and their livelihoods, inspired a level of dedication that Ivanhoe would never see. It was doubtful if the absent Duke even realised that this trait was lacking in the people of his own estate. He was occupied elsewhere.
But the villagers were alert to the fact that something was different. Strangers had been seen in the vicinity, strangers who had no discernible purpose in being there. They were not peddlers bringing goods to trade, nor labourers seeking work in the summer months when the fields were in need of men and women to tend to the crops. They were just there, furtive and inquisitive. The villagers did not like being asked questions by strangers and they presented to these men a stolid countenance which made them seem lacking in wit.
But they were not lacking at all. They knew their village, its routine and its population and they were aware that something was out of joint.
Harvey Sterling, the steward for the Dennington lands, was apprised of this observation when he was enjoying a tankard of ale in the local tavern. Lazy Jock, a local farmer so named because he seemed to work all the hours of the day, excepting that period of time in the evening when he quenched his thirst at the Carving Tree Tavern, approached Sterling and sat down across from him.
Sterling nodded at the man.
“Evening,” he said, wondering what was about. He knew the villagers and mixed with them easily, but they enjoyed their own social circle and he enjoyed his.
“Aye. Reckon you know summat’s about?”
“What something?” Sterling inquired, wondering if somehow, word had gotten out that Lady Honora was now a houseguest at Dennington, even though her presence was a closely guarded secret among the household.
Lazy Jock studied the contents of his tankard. “Strangers.”
“In the village?”
“Aye.”
“What sort of strangers?”
Sterling resigned himself to a difficult conversation. Lazy Jock Callader was not given to doing a lot of chatting.