The Misfit Marquess (8 page)

Completing four hops away from the bed brought her within reach of a high chair back, which she grasped with relief and a labored sigh. A few more hops forward brought her to the tapestry, which she pulled back from its left side, same as the maid had done.

Nothing—no window, no door, just as before. There was a line where two strips of wallpaper met, but one slightly lifted edge proved there was nothing but wall behind them.

Elizabeth shrugged the tapestry over her shoulder, splaying her now free hands against the wall. She inched along the wall's length, scarcely able to see except where combined light from a branch of candles and the fire on the grate barely crept past the edges of the tapestry, but feeling with her fingertips.

"Ah!" she cried as her fingers found an edge, a crack perhaps, halfway along the wall's length.

She needed more light by which to see, so she gathered up the heavy tapestry, folding it in her arms, atop her shoulders, piling it on her head. She scrambled to make it stay in place, but it kept insisting on falling from her grasp, its weight and awkward size nearly unmanageable. Perspiration dewed her upper lip and forehead, and a trickle of moisture ran down her back, but the humming just on the other side of the wall persuaded her to try again and again.

At last she realized she need not hold up the tapestry, but instead turned and pushed against it, hopping forward until she had it extended so far out into the room, nearly to the bed, that light could flood around the edges. She awkwardly reversed her position, the tapestry pushing heavily against her head and shoulders, but it was enough to let her see the dim outline of a kind of door. It was covered with the same yellow-and-white paper as the rest of the wall, the pattern expertly matched to aid in the door's blending out of casual sight, especially in the half-light of evening. The oblong shape sported no knob, hinges, or decoration, but it was the shape of a door all the same. Elizabeth realized in amazement that, without the humming to prompt her, she could have lived in this room for a dozen years without ever discovering the door's presence behind the tapestry.

Her heart in her throat, she hopped forward, only belatedly becoming aware the humming had stopped. The tapestry's weight pushed her insistently forward until she was once more touching the wall, running her fingers along the door edges she now knew existed. She pushed, with no result. She tried to find purchase by which to lever the door toward herself, but her nails proved ineffective. A hairpin missed by the maids who had taken down her hair proved useless as a lever with which to pry open the door.

Wearily, Elizabeth worked her way free of the tapestry. She spent a long time clutching the chair, trembling from fatigue. How quickly one lost one's strength from lying abed, she thought to herself, even as she wished she had thought to exit at the other end of the tapestry, nearer the head of her bed. This way, she must not only achieve the bed's surface, but then push her way up toward the headboard, a feat that seemed increasingly infeasible to muscles gone shaky with pained fatigue.

Should she manage to get to the bed without first collapsing, she thought wryly, at least she would be able to sleep there in peace. She had proven to herself that there was no mystery, no ghost—only a servant, surely, using a long-forgot hiding place or passage. There was no threat here, nothing that could not be banished by some simple investigation and a refusal to be cowed by tall tales.

She hopped forward, each movement now a torturous reminder that she ought to have stayed abed, but feeling a glow of reasoned triumph all the same.

The next morning Gideon quietly opened the door to Elizabeth's room, deliberately without knocking. He quickly and boldly made a circuit of the room with his gaze, although he was prepared to retreat quickly if needed. When no feminine cry of outrage met his action, he narrowed his gaze on the bed, quickly ascertaining that Elizabeth was not there.

No, that was not true, she was there, but oddly splayed across the foot of it, only the top coverlet serving as a blanket to her.

With a frown Gideon quietly closed the door, then turned his back to it and stared across the room toward the bed. An old emotion swelled in his chest for a moment, but it was not an emotion such as to raise tears. Anguish, yes, but never tears. Only cold, frosty glares and imperious, demanding words had ever got him what he wanted—tears had been rewarded with scorn and denial, and he had long since forsaken their release.

All the same, it took tremendous effort to push away from the door and softly step across to the bedside. He looked down at the prostrate being, some fanciful corner of his mind half fearing to see his mother's face there, but Mama's pale blond curls were absent.

Elizabeth was so dark of hair, as if designed to be the perfect foil against his own white-blond mane. Her inky tresses had been left unplaited to fall to hip level, where the loose, natural ringlets tangled, crying out for a good brushing. Hers was not the kind of hair that was easily managed, but must be disciplined into patterns, and best when the air was not humid. In her sleep, several wisps had formed around her face, making delicate ringlets that made her appear more childlike in sleep than she was presumably in age.

She must be, what, nineteen, twenty? If her mind had been whole, she most likely would have married by now. She might have no dowry, for all he knew, but her face was pretty, and that could serve well enough as a girl's dowry to a man who liked what he saw. No, pretty was not the correct word —striking, or unique was perhaps the better word. She was apple-cheeked without appearing heavy, perhaps because her nose was a tad thin, making a balance. Her mouth was well shaped, the lips of even size and not too wide, and she had good teeth. She was fortunate enough not to be terribly pale, even though that was all that was fashionable, because with her dark hair it would have made her appear sickly rather than genteel.

What a waste, Gideon thought, that this charming package should contain a befuddled mind. She claimed otherwise, but then the afflicted always did.

In her slumber, all was innocence, and even her strange positioning at the foot of the bed seemed innocuous. But how many times had Gideon looked upon the seemingly innocuous only to later recognize a symptom of disordered thinking? Disorder, disease, mania —they were cruel, unforgiving of even the most blameless of victims. Mama had been blameless. Mama, curled on her bed, an unearthly keening accompanying endless tears. .. .

He reached down and touched Elizabeth's shoulder, shaking her lightly. "Elizabeth," he spoke quietly, knowing that the dreams of the disturbed ought not be intruded upon abruptly.

Elizabeth blinked once, then appeared for two heartbeats to slip back into slumber, only to open her eyes and focus with instant clarity upon his face. For a moment, disappointment crossed her features, and he knew she had dreamed she was someplace other than here in his home. He could hardly begrudge her that, since it was his own dream to escape this house, but something in the vulnerability on her face tugged at him, making the lump reform in his chest, making him feel un-befittingly angry.

"I have come to inform you that callers have arrived," he said, and at least his voice remained gentle even if he was not so at his core.

"Callers?" she murmured, her brow wrinkling in bewilderment. "For me?"

"Local women, from the parish. St. Bartholomew's. They were told that you could not recall your family name. They are concerned, and wished to meet with you."

"I am nobody," she said, and the anger in him flared and danced, then died out, becoming nothing more than a dim pain between his temples. Mama had claimed the same, had been made to feel useless and worthless, a nobody. Echoes—this house had too many echoes.

"You are somebody," he said firmly. He extended his hand to her, and felt a tiny measure of victory when she placed her fingers there. He helped her sit up, the coverlet and her hair both falling to pool around her hips. The fabric of the night rail she wore was well used and thinning, and in the morning light it was possible to see where the fabric ended and her form began. The cool morning air had brought her nipples erect, and a dusty pink shadow showed through the material as well. Gideon forgot for a moment to avert his gaze, struck by the sight of a luscious form surrounded by dark tresses, but then he recalled himself. He had seen many a night rail over the years. He knew how to work without letting his mind take in what the eyes must see.

"Your own clothes were ruined beyond repair, except for your slippers," he told her, "but I will have a dressing gown sent in for your use, for modesty's sake. Would you mind if a maid put your hair up? Or at least plaited it? It would be more seemly."

"Must I see them? These callers?" Elizabeth asked, her distress clear to read in her gaze.

"Yes," he answered simply, with gentle firmness, as one would to a frightened child. "They only wish to be sure you are well cared for here." At her continued anxious stare, he added, "It is good of them to come."

"Just tell them I am well."

He shook his head, and before she could say anything more, he scooped her into his arms. She gave a small squeal of surprise and glanced at him with approbation. "What do you think you are doing?" she asked with a briskness that betokened more affront than aggravation.

"Carrying you to this stool, where your hair may be combed out."

At least she made no further protests, instead turning to the looking glass set before the vanity stool on which he had perched her.

"Oh! I do look a fright." she admitted at once, reaching up to comb her fingers through her tangled locks.

Gideon was not so stupid as to reply to such a comment from a female, so instead he made her a bow. "I shall send a maid to you at once. Is ten minutes a long enough time in which to make yourself ready, do you think?·

She stopped raking her fingers through her hair, and looked up at his reflection, their gazes meeting in the silvered surface of the looking glass. "You want these people gone as soon as possible." she stated.

He was faintly intrigued by the way Elizabeth tilted her head. an obvious sign of comprehension. Mama had often not heard his questions, living as she had in a world of her own making, but then again she had also had a habit of blurting out sudden comments or observations just as this lady did. "It is as obvious as that?" he murmured.

"Why is that 0 " she asked. "Why do you not want the ladies to call upon you?"

He was not concerned for what the church ladies would make of him. or even of Elizabeth. If the fates were kind, the ladies would find something to make them whisk the dark-haired lovely from his home. No. what interested him was the clarity with which Elizabeth spoke, the flash of sanity she seemed to exhibit. She was having a "good day." as Mama used to call those days when she appeared alert and aware of the people and situations around her.

He shrugged in answer to her question. "I am not a social man."

"Why not?'

Ah, now there was a question more in keeping with his experience, a question such as a childlike mind would pose, wanting to understand subtleties that could never be explained with mere words.

Instead of answering her. he repeated his earlier question. "Is ten minutes sufficient time to be readied?"

"Yes," she said, turning back to her reflection in the looking glass.

Gideon knew he should turn and leave, but there was something in the set of her shoulders that made him linger a moment, that made him glance once more into the reflection in the looking glass. Their gazes met there, and locked for a moment. How tempting it was to search for sanity and reason there, to hope the clarity of her unblinking gaze meant clarity of mind, but he knew better. God save him from old memories, he knew far better.

He bowed then, annoyed at himself for the stiffness in the gesture, and strode from the room and down the stairs. He went at once to summon a maid to bring a dressing gown—one of Mama's old ones—for Elizabeth. For she surely required something to cover her charms.

Although, he thought with a spike of dark humor, the church ladies might be all the more likely to whisk Elizabeth away from his evil influence were they to see her in the dishabille he had witnessed.

Chapter 7

Blushing, Elizabeth gratefully received the dressing gown from Polly's hands. Lord Greyleigh must have seen what Elizabeth had eventually noticed in the looking glass—the diaphanous nature of her night rail. What must he think of her. stretching and sitting up in a gown that revealed too much?

On the other hand, what was she to think of him? How had he come to be at her bedside, awakening her? Had she been so lost to dreams that she had never heard his knock? Why had a maid not been sent to awaken her?

And what had been that look on his face? For the first time she had caught an expression there other than annoyance or cool indifference. He had appeared almost. . . pained, as if looking upon her had caused him some injury. The thought made her flush with embarrassment, but it was an awkward embarrassment that did not quite make sense.

She knew she was not ugly—only a few days ago she had believed Radford when he had whispered in her ear that she was beautiful. Love had made her beautiful or so she had thought at the time. But even if she had not believed his words, her own looking glass told her that the face there was not the sort to make a man blanch. Men had never fallen at her feet in adoration, but neither had any male called her ugly since she had achieved the changing age of thirteen.

What injury, other than repulsion, could she represent to Lord Greyleigh? What had made his cool demeanor crack for that brief moment and reveal pain, or upset, or some other emotion at which she could only guess?

But there was no time for questions now, for a bevy of presumably keenly interested local ladies waited to meet with her.

And what was she to tell them, the truth? Of course not, for the truth did no one any good, least of all Lorraine and Papa. Then the half truths she had told Lord Greyleigh? Or the truth as he so obviously believed it to be, the lie she had first allowed him to believe—that she had come from the asylum?