His expression turned grim. “I have been forced enough in this lifetime, my lady. No one will ever force me to do anything again. I do what I wish, when I wish, and anyone who dares to oppose me can go to Hades.”
She swallowed against a fresh tide of tumult. Her heart ached for this man, so beautiful and yet so broken. The horrors of war and his imprisonment surely haunted him, much in the same fashion as her old injury. She would have the lingering pain and the limp to remind her forever. His reminders were internal, scars and wounds she could not see.
It seemed she was being given a glimpse of the real Searle. That he was not the polished, poised gentleman who had whirled her about the ballroom earlier, but instead, the man who spoke in a velvet voice wrapped in razors. A man whose eyes reflected the grim realities of what he had faced.
A man who seemed haunted.
He sank to his knees before her.
Her heart leapt into her throat. “My lord, whatever are you doing?”
“Tending you.” His hands settled upon her slippers. “With your permission, of course.”
“My injury is an old one, Searle,” she protested. Good heavens, he could not intend to lift her skirts. “There is nothing to be done for it now, though I thank you for the concern.”
“What happened?” he asked gently.
“I was sliding down the bannister at Marchmont, our country estate, and I fell to the floor below.” She paused, thinking of that long-ago day which had changed her life forever. Sometimes, in her sleep, she recalled the sensation of falling, the rush in her stomach, the fear clawing up her throat, and the brief sensation of weightlessness until the inevitable landing.
“Good God.” His rigid jaw flexed.
“I landed on my feet rather than my head.” She flashed him a smile of false brightness. “I will be forever thankful for that, even if the fall cursed me with this limp.”
“Does the musculature in the affected limb grow tight and painful, my lady?” he asked.
His question surprised her, because it seemed as if he was not only concerned for her, but as if he may possess a knowledge of the aftereffects of injuries such as the one she had suffered. Perhaps his time as a soldier had taught him.
It was a matter of course that the muscles in her lame leg grew tight and burned, because her leg pained her and she accommodated for it. Excursions such as balls were particularly trying as they required her to be upon her feet for longer periods of time. Though this evening had been different. Ordinarily, she never danced.
“Yes,” she admitted softly. “But you need not worry for me, my lord. I have a liniment I shall apply upon returning home this evening. A day of rest will help immeasurably as well.”
A day of rest or five since her invitations to balls were growing sparser by the year. She had no new engagements for days. Not even a musicale, which she always found abominably boring.
“Which part of the limb did you break?” he asked, remaining where he was, upon his knees before her.
How disconcerting it was to have this large, strong, intimidating man humbling himself, intending to offer her aid. What a perplexing man he was, intent upon dancing with her and then dancing with a string of younger, more beautiful, more eligible ladies as if he had forgotten her existence. Only to seek her out once more.
“The lower half,” she revealed, feeling awkward and breathless all at once. Anticipation and something else, something far more wicked and far more vexing, rose within her, vying for her attention. “The country physician was able to reset the bone, but I was a wayward child, and I did not allow it enough time to properly heal.”
She had been desperate to flee from her bed, her leg immobilized by linen doused in camphor spirits, egg white, and lead acetate. And she had removed herself from her bed when no one had been attending to her, hobbling about her chamber in practice for the day she would be free. But the bandages upon her leg had not been firm enough to hold the bone in place enough and make the bone heal cleanly.
“I have seen similar cases.” The rumble of his delicious baritone shook her from the past. “On the field of battle. Will you allow me, Lady Leonora?”
She was not certain what he was requesting permission for, but his hands had already found her ankles, curling naturally around them in a heated grip that left her swimming in far more than memories. His thumbs now paid court to her anklebones, rubbing slow, sensual circles over them in much the same fashion he had her collarbone.
She ought to tell him no. The denial was on her tongue. Leonora knew how dangerously near she treaded to utter and complete ruin. If they were discovered here alone…
What would change? Something inside her shifted, altering. As a girl, Leonora had been reckless and wild. As the woman who had been forced to live with the repercussions of the actions of her past, she had grown careful. Very careful. She was no longer the girl who slid down bannisters for the wind in her face and the sweet trill of rebellion down her spine.
She was no longer the girl who believed herself invincible. Who believed she would never fall. Mama had admonished her time and again. She had warned her against sliding down the bannister. But Marchmont Hall possessed a curving mahogany staircase that traveled through three stories. It had been irresistible. Perfect for sliding on her rump.
Until it hadn’t been perfect any longer, and neither had she.
“My lady?” persisted the marquess, the man whose hands had already begun to glide up her calves in unison.
For some reason, she did not see any need to inform him she possessed only one infirm leg and not two. For some reason, she did not move away or tell him to keep his large, warm hands and knowing touch to himself.
Instead, she sighed. A complicit sigh. Her body was wanton, and so was she, but she was also tired. Tired of being Limping Leonora, of living her life for propriety only to spend an eternity on the edge of the living. It was as if she inhabited a Purgatory of her own making. Here and now, in this moment, she was willing to toss her caution aside for the first time in years.
But this man was no banister slide.
“It is the left one, my lord,” she told him, but her voice was breathless, and he did not seem to hear her.
When his long, strong fingers began to expertly knead her flesh, she forgot to care.
He discovered muscles she had not known she possessed, aching muscles, tight muscles. Muscles that relaxed beneath his gentle touch. He had not lifted the hem of her gown or petticoat and chemise. Instead, he had simply slid his hands beneath them, maintaining her modesty except for two inescapable facts.
One: he was touching her limbs.
Two: the heat of his caresses through her stockings told her he had removed his gloves beneath her skirts before beginning.
And while she was enumerating facts, she had another to add to her list: her entire body felt as if it belonged to another. The juncture of her thighs pulsed and ached. Her breasts tingled. Her mouth was dry. Her heart thumped with relentless persistence.
Tenderly, he worked his way up her calves to her knees. She could not be certain if it was the soothing effect of his massage or the manner in which his proximity and touch ravaged her senses, but her bad leg did not even ache. She felt as if she could dance a dozen minuets as long as she was in the Marquess of Searle’s arms.
Throughout his ministrations, he had not taken his gaze from her. Those vibrant orbs scorched her, pinning her to the settee, making her incapable of both the ability and the desire to preserve her reputation and flee.
“Your countenance has relaxed, my lady,” he observed, satisfaction underscoring the deep rumble of his voice. “You no longer have a vee between your lovely brows.”
He thought her eyebrows lovely?
Her cheeks burned, and she wanted to look away, to shield herself from his probing stare, but she could not. “It feels much better, thank you, my lord.”
Both limbs felt better. She felt better. And her cheeks went hotter still at the realizatio
n, for she was being an unseemly wretch. She was spoiling her reputation. Ruining herself with each moment she lingered. It had taken her a long time to once again heed the call of the forbidden, but she was listening. She could not stop.
His expression did not change. He remained fierce and intense, his jaw hard and angular, his mouth set in an uncompromising line. There was precious little charm in him now, but he needed none to lure her closer to his dangerous flame.
“I am sorry the dance pained you,” he said at last. “It was not my intention.”
His words warmed her even further. “My old injury is not your fault.”
His caresses traveled higher, reaching her knees, his long fingers dipping into the hollows there. “Nevertheless, I ought to have been more considerate.”
Suddenly, she recalled the sight of him dancing with Lady Sarah, ethereal with her golden hair and lustrous beauty. Her fingers tightened in her skirts, twisting the soft fabric. “You were paying me a kindness, my lord. We both know no one truly wishes to dance with someone like me.”
“Every gentleman in London would be fortunate indeed if he could dance with someone like you, Lady Leonora.” He massaged back down her calves once more rather than traveling higher.
How she wished she could believe him, for she possessed common sense and the distinct, bitter memory of every disappointing year since her comeout. She longed for him to skim past her garters and connect with bare flesh. “Experience suggests otherwise, my lord.”
Before he could respond, the door to the chamber opened. A chorus of gasps and exclamations of her name intruded. Her shocked gaze settled upon the threshold where Freddy, Mr. Kirkwood, her mother, and the Duke and Duchess of Whitley stood. The countenances staring back at her were reflections of astonishment. It was clear no one had expected her to be within, a gentleman for company.
No one expected her worthy of ruination. How grim.
All the voices sounded at once, rushing over each other, some demanding, others outraged.
“Leonora? Are you injured?”
“Good God, Searle, have you lost your bloody mind?”
“Everyone get inside,” Mr. Kirkwood issued the last directive, his tone one which brooked no opposition. “If we linger here, we are only doomed to draw a crowd and that is the last mistake any of us can afford to make.”
Their unexpected audience filtered into the chamber. Mr. Kirkwood closed the door and turned to face them, his expression one of concern as he eyed Leonora. “My lady, are you well?”
She wet her dry lips, acutely aware the Marquess of Searle had yet to remove his hands from her person. He clasped her now instead of massaging, almost in a possessive grip. As if he feared relinquishing her.
It made no sense.
“I am perfectly fine,” she reassured her host and the rest of the assemblage which had gathered to witness her ignominy. Mama gaped at her, her expression a marriage-minded mother’s eerie confluence of delight and concern. “Lord Searle escorted me here because my leg gave out, and I could not walk unaided.”
The instant the falsehood left her lips, she wondered at her reason for uttering it. To save him, she reasoned. To spare him the injustice of being forced to wed her and avoid her ruination. There was no need, after all. Thanks to Mr. Kirkwood’s quick maneuvering, the only people within the chamber were all familiar and trusted to her.
The polite world need never know the Marquess of Searle’s hands had been beneath her skirts. That his hands were still beneath her skirts, even now.
Why had he yet to remove them?
She could not think of a single explanation.
“None of that explains why Searle is making himself familiar with…” At a pointed look from Freddy, Mr. Kirkwood halted, rephrasing his words. “My lord, you have impugned the honor of a guest within my home. A guest who is dear to both myself and my wife. You must answer for this grave injustice.”
“I will be more than happy to make Lady Leonora my wife,” Searle said without hesitation, his voice booming clearly in the shocked silence of the chamber.
Everyone went quiet.
Leonora went still.
And the marquess’s hands remained firm and strong upon her, unrelenting yet gentle. Surely, he did not mean to wed her?
His green gaze never wavered from hers, and what she saw burning in their vibrant depths shocked her. Determination. Solemnity. Promise.
“What if Lady Leonora does not wish to wed you?” Freddy demanded, stealing Leonora’s attention with her outrage.
Freddy was the sister Leonora had never had. There was a question in her gaze, and Leonora knew she must answer it. She also knew she had not an inkling of the manner in which she should. In the end, she pressed her lips together and nodded.
“She may not have a choice, love,” Mr. Kirkwood cautioned, giving Freddy a look of undisguised adoration.
“I am afraid that what Lady Leonora wants is immaterial,” Mama said then, taking command of the chamber with a firm voice that belied the invalid she often was. “My lord, though you are kind to be concerned for my daughter’s welfare, you have nevertheless placed her reputation in great danger. You will wed her as expediently as possible, and you will also remove your hands from her person at once.”
With a wry grin, the marquess extracted his hands at last, and Leonora had to bite her lip to keep from protesting the loss of him.
“My lady,” he said to Leonora alone, speaking quietly, his gaze riveted to her. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She swallowed. Nothing could have prepared her for this moment. For the Marquess of Searle, heralded hero, most sought after bachelor, more beautiful than she could even comprehend, proposing to marry her. How she wished he were proposing because of a true wish to marry her rather than out of a misplaced sense of duty.
“I will not be your obligation,” she told him firmly. “But I do thank you for the offer. You pay me a great honor.”
He remained where he was, upon his knees, his gaze as intense as ever. “I did not ask you to be my obligation, Lady Leonora, but to become my wife.”
Hope and desire rose within her, warring with pride. From the moment she had taken her curtsy, she had wanted nothing more than to marry and start a family of her own. Perhaps here, at last, was her chance. It was not what she wanted. There was no romance or love between them, but there was something else…something physical and undeniable.
Perhaps it could be enough.
She inhaled slowly, never taking her eyes from Searle’s. “Yes, I will be your wife.”
His eyes closed for a brief moment, and the mask he wore dropped, revealing the man. He looked as if he had just been declared the victor of a bitter war.
What had she done?
And who, precisely, was the Marquess of Searle?
Chapter Three
Morgan’s seed had been planted, and the Earl of Rayne was, at long last, returning to England. What the earl did not know—could not know—was he was already too late to save his darling sister.
Hours ago, in a ceremony attended by the Duke and Duchess of Whitley, the Kirkwoods, the dowager Lady Rayne, and Morgan’s cousin, the Duke of Montrose, Lady Leonora had become the Marchioness of Searle. And Morgan had become exponentially nearer to gaining his retribution.
He watched her now as he introduced her to his domestics, this stranger who was his wife. Her lovely countenance was animated as she spoke to his housekeeper, Mrs. Arbuthnot. She was painfully beautiful and also kind, and the combination made his chest tight.
For the past few weeks, he had seen her on only a handful of occasions, deliberately keeping their interactions limited and few as the necessary preparations for their nuptials were underway. He had no wish to court her or get to know her better. Nor did he desire to make a connection with her that ran any deeper than the physical. She was his wife now, and he would bed her, but that was all. Anything else, and he ran the risk of developing a weakness for her.
Her worth to him was not in her compassion or her gentle beauty.
Her worth to him was in the suffering he could visit upon the bastard who had sent him to hell on earth. The scars on his flesh, hidden beneath the respectable trappings of a gentleman, burned in reminder.
“Mrs. Arbuthnot will see you to your apartments,” he announced, the need to escape making him intervene. “I have other commitments which require my attention.”
His new marchioness’s gaze met his, her expression falling. “May I speak with you for a moment, my lord?”
He ground his jaw. “A moment and no longer, my lady.”
Her frown had returned, that lone vee marring the otherwise smooth, creamy skin of her forehead. And her limping was more pronounced. The nature of the day had required a great deal of standing. More than she was probably accustomed to. He hated himself for making her frown as much as he hated himself for taking note of her wellbeing.
He escorted her deeper within Linley House, away from the prying eyes and ears of the servants who had gathered in preparation for their first arrival as husband and wife. It was a deuced old custom; one he should have eschewed as it would have garnered him the opportunity to leave immediately upon delivering his new marchioness to the doorstep.
“What is concerning you, my lady?” he demanded.
She flinched, presumably at the cold, emotionless tone of his voice. But she would do well to accustom herself to the man he truly was. War had robbed him of all softness. His compassion was as dead as his charm and his soul.
“It is merely that this is our wedding day, my lord,” she said hesitantly. “I was hoping for the opportunity to spend some time with you, for us to get better acquainted.”
Hope had no place in their marriage, and she would be wise to learn it now.
He flashed her a grim smile. “I married you out of necessity, my lady. Not because I wish to be your friend.”
There was hurt in her eyes, but he refused to feel the slightest prick of guilt for being the cause. What had she expected of a forced marriage and a whirlwind, scarcely extant courtship? Did she imagine they would exchange kisses and declare their endless affection for each other?
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