After the Kiss (21 page)

Marcus lifted a supercilious brow. “Miss Sheringham and I were merely strolling through the forest, Julian, when she tripped and fell. With your support, and that of the Earl and Countess of Denbigh”—he nodded to the arriving couple—“I am certain we can pass off this incident as the innocent encounter it was.”

“Innocent?” Julian shook his head as he stared at his cousin’s tangled hair. “I think not.”

Miss Sheringham took a step toward Julian. “You could not be more wrong, Julian. Captain Wharton has acted entirely the gentleman with me.”

Marcus saw that no one present believed her, not even the irrepressible Countess of Denbigh.

“He did nothing I did not allow,” she persisted.

Julian snorted derisively. “Your defense of the rogue only makes you both look more guilty, Eliza.” He turned to Marcus and said, “I demand to know your intentions toward my cousin, Marcus. I expect you will be riding to Ravenwood this afternoon to pay your respects to my brother and to ask for Miss Sheringham’s hand in marriage.”

Miss Sheringham gasped. “I do not wish to marry Captain Wharton.”

“You should have considered that before you kissed him!” Julian snarled.

Miss Sheringham turned pleading eyes to the Earl and Countess of Denbigh. “Please, Charlie, is there nothing you can do to help me?”

Marcus watched the countess wring her hands.
She exchanged a guilty glance with the earl, who said, “I am afraid your cousin is right, Miss Sheringham. This scandal will not soon be forgotten. You may avoid marriage with Captain Wharton, but you should know he may be your last chance for a suitable alliance. You are ruined, my dear. From this day forward, no gentleman of the
ton
can be expected to make you a proper proposal of marriage. I am sorry, but that is the brutal truth.”

Miss Sheringham put a hand to her mouth, but an agonized cry nevertheless escaped. Her eyes welled with tears as she stared at the earl in disbelief and dread.

“I am waiting, Marcus,” Julian said.

Marcus knew they all expected him to propose, even Miss Sheringham, who, in all likelihood, would refuse him. No doubt his brother would be disappointed in him if he abandoned her to her fate. But his reputation could not get much worse than it was. And he would not be forced into anything. He would rather endure the scandal.

He was sorry for Miss Sheringham’s plight. But there was nothing he could do to help her without condemning them both to a lifetime of unhappiness.

Over the sudden lump in his throat he said, “I have no intentions at all toward the lady, Julian. As you would realize if you stopped a moment to think.”

“Do you hear that, Eliza?” Julian said. “The infamous Beau has no intention of making an honest woman out of you. Oh, he will gladly take everything you have to give. But he offers nothing in return. I expect it must have been exciting to have such a notorious
gentleman’s attention, but you would have been better served—”

“Julian, please stop.”

Miss Sheringham pressed her fingertips against her temples, where Marcus could see the pulse beating erratically.

“Leave her be,” Marcus said rage growing inside him at Julian’s attack on his cousin.

“You have no right—”

“Leave her be,” he said in a deadly voice.

“I am waiting for your declaration, Marcus,” Julian said.

Marcus fought the desperate urge to offer for her.

Remember Alastair’s marriage
.

He felt sick inside and angry and torn. The words that came next were wrenched from some dark place inside him.

“You can wait until Doomsday, Julian. I will never offer marriage to any lady. Especially not to your cousin.”

Julian pulled off one of the white gloves he wore with his hussar’s uniform and slapped Marcus across the face with it.

Miss Sheringham gasped.

The earl swore under his breath and grabbed the countess to keep her from jumping into the fray.

“Pistols at dawn?” Marcus asked through tight lips.

“Presuming I can arrange for a special license to wed Miss Sheringham myself before the morrow.”

Marcus felt his heart jump to his throat. “What?”

“I owe that much to my cousin,” Julian said. “You were my friend. I trusted you with her. I allowed this to happen. I will make an honest woman of her, if you
will not. And I will do it tonight, in case your aim is truer than mine in the morning.”

While Marcus stood stunned, Julian turned to Miss Sheringham, took both her hands in his, looked into her tear-bright golden eyes and said, “Will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife, Eliza?”

Marcus watched her swallow, saw her stare into Julian’s dark eyes. He knew what she was looking for. He hoped that she found it.

“Eliza,” the countess said. “Please do not make a decision to marry because you think it is your only option. I will—”

“Charlotte,” the earl warned. “I believe you have interfered enough in this young lady’s life.”

Eliza met the countess’s troubled gaze and said, “I have not, and I am not now, doing anything against my wishes.”

“I am waiting for your answer,” Julian said.

Her voice was a bare whisper. “Yes, Julian. I will marry you.”

A moment later, the countess was by her side supporting her. The earl stepped between Marcus and Julian and shook Julian’s hand.

“Congratulations, Major Sheringham. You are a very fortunate man.”

Marcus waited for Julian to agree, but he made no reply. Marcus felt furious with his friend for marrying Miss Sheringham if he did not want her. But he knew no way to remedy the situation unless he proposed himself. His stomach churned, his eyes misted, and his nose stung.

He simply could not bring himself to do it.

Marcus suddenly realized the earl had given him
the cut direct. The slight hurt. But it was only a taste of what he could expect in days to come.

It would be much worse for Miss Sheringham. The
ton
had a long and vindictive memory where young, rebellious misses were concerned. She had made the right decision accepting Julian’s proposal. Besides, she loved the man.

Even if Julian did not love her.

Marcus had never felt so empty inside, so completely bereft.

The Duke of Braddock appeared from the trees and hailed them. “Major Sheringham. Captain Wharton. I am afraid I have bad news for you. Bonaparte is on the march. All soldiers have been recalled to their regiments. You must ride to the coast tonight. You sail for the Continent at dawn.”

Marcus exchanged a look with his friend, the man who had fought beside him in so many battles. “It seems you will have to wait a while to spill my blood.”

Julian met his look with disdain and loathing. “If I am lucky, some Frenchman will save me the trouble.”

Marcus heard a gasp, but could not tell whether it had come from the countess or Miss Sheringham.

“My only regret,” Julian said as he looked into Miss Sheringham’s eyes, “is that I cannot stay and marry you now, Eliza. I offer you the protection of my name while I am gone. And I look forward to making you my wife when I return.”

He turned to leave, but Miss Sheringham called him back. “Julian!”

Marcus watched her cross to Julian, put her hands on either side of his face to draw his mouth down to hers, and kiss him tenderly on the lips.

Something twisted painfully inside him. He could not seem to catch his breath. It was as though someone were squeezing his chest and would not let go.

“Goodbye, Julian. God be with you.”

Julian managed a smile. “Do not fear, poppet. I will come back safe to you.”

He was gone a moment later.

Miss Sheringham turned to stare at Marcus. He had never seen such a tormented look in his life.

The earl and countess stood protectively on either side of her. He wanted to explain why he could not marry her, that it was nothing to do with her, but a failing in him. He could never trust a woman, not even her. But whatever he wanted to say would have to be said in front of the sheltering couple. And he could not—would not—lay his heart open to anyone but her.

He settled for what could be said.

“Goodbye, Miss Sheringham. I cannot offer much to allay the trouble I have caused you, except to say I will protect Julian with my life. I wish you joy together.”

He did not expect a reply. He had pivoted to leave when he heard her whisper.

“It was not there, Captain. I looked, but it was not there.”

He hesitated, swallowed over the aching lump in his throat, and walked away.

“
U
ncle Marcus is crying,” Reggie whispered.

“How do you know?” Becky whispered back.

They lay flat on their stomachs in the dark, heedless of the damage being done to their matching shifts by the damp, moldy stone floor. Uncle Marcus had been hiding out in the east wing of Blackthorne Abbey for nearly a year, refusing to receive them. Today they had decided to see him, whether he wanted to be seen, or not.

Getting in through the door had proved impossible, with Griggs blocking the way. They had been reduced to spying on Uncle Marcus through an ornate wrought iron grate set in the wall of the drawing room.

The narrow black grate, which traveled from floor to ceiling, looked merely decorative from their uncle’s side of the gray stone wall, but it concealed the presence of a room on the other side that could be reached only through a secret passageway.

They had first discovered the mazelike corridors that honeycombed the stone walls of Blackthorne Abbey three years ago when they were mere babes of six. Within moments of entering the narrow passageway
from a bedroom in their wing of the Abbey, they had been hopelessly lost in the coal black labyrinth. When their father found them hours later, near where they were now, weeping and scared out of their wits by cobwebs and crawling creatures, they had been more than willing to promise never to enter the passageway again.

That had been a long time ago. Dire situations required dangerous solutions. For the first time in nearly a year they they were able to see their uncle, and were shocked by what they had found.

Uncle Marcus was crying.

Becky peered through the iron grate, listening carefully for a grown-up version of the sobs or whimpers or wails that normally accompanied crying. “I don’t hear anything, Reggie.”

“No. But he is crying, all the same. I can see a tear on his cheek,” Reggie said. “Do you think he is remembering Father and wishing he were here?”

“Perhaps,” Becky conceded in a quiet voice. “Miss Stipple said this morning that it is exactly one year today since Father disappeared at sea. And eleven months and thirteen days since Uncle Marcus came home from Waterloo so horribly wounded and disappeared into this ‘decayed, dilapidated, and decrepit’ wing of Blackthorne Abbey.”

Becky mimicked the haughty tones of their latest governess perfectly as she continued, “ ‘The new duke might as well have drowned with his brother, as little use as he is to you children or anyone else.’ ”

Becky exchanged a resolute look with Reggie. They had let Miss Stipple know such feelings were not appreciated in the most direct way they knew.
Reggie had filled her plate full of breakfast foods from the sideboard and “accidentally” spilled it in Miss Stipple’s lap on the way to her seat. Becky had jumped up from her place at the table to help Miss Stipple clean up the mess. And easily managed to spread shirred eggs and porridge and a heaping spoon of jelly onto her face and into her hair.

Miss Stipple had immediately retired to her room, swearing they were “devils” and no one could control them, and as soon as she could find another position, she was “departing this madhouse!”

“We must do something to get Uncle Marcus to come out of hiding,” Reggie said. “Otherwise, we are going to end up with another of those horrid governesses.”

Becky put a hand to Reggie’s mouth. “Shh! Uncle Marcus will hear you.”

Reggie pried Becky’s hand away and hissed, “Maybe I want him to hear! Maybe I want him to—”

Both girls held their breath as their uncle frowned in the direction of their hiding place. He sat slouched in one of two wingback chairs that faced the mammoth fireplace.

Becky had never seen Uncle Marcus when he did not look top-of-the-trees. Until now.

He wore no jacket, and several buttons were open at the neck, revealing a tuft of golden hair at his throat. His white shirt points were long past wilted, and his neck cloth dangled, half untied. Fawn pants fit like a second skin, but showed stains where he must have spilled his drink. His booted feet—where was the spit-polish shine?—extended before him, crossed at the ankle.

The heavy black curtains over the windows made daylight dark as night, and the flickering flames cast an eerie shadow on his face. Nevertheless, with his head angled toward them, part of the scar on his face became visible above a heavy beard and the Brutus cut he had allowed to grow wild.

No one would have recognized this man as the Beau.

Becky saw the dread on Reggie’s face and knew her own expression must be equally distressed. It was impossible to look at Uncle Marcus without wincing. One imagined one’s own pain at the infliction of such a terrible wound.

The distortion at the edge of his right eye from the slashing sabre cut was not nearly as bad now as it had been before the wound healed. But every time Becky saw the remaining scars, she remembered the horror of the fresh wound, instead of seeing the thin, almost white, spider web of lines that were all that remained to mark his pain.

In the first days after Uncle Marcus had returned to Blackthorne Abbey, the maids and grooms and footmen were forever gasping and averting their eyes when they caught sight of him. The maid-of-all-work screamed and fainted dead away. Uncle Marcus could have dismissed them. Instead, he had taken himself from their sight.

Little remained of the fun-loving uncle they had known. His eyes were hooded, his mouth—what Becky could see beneath the dark golden beard—was grim. The beard hid part of the thin white line that trailed from his eye, down his cheek past the edge of his mouth, all the way to his chin. He reminded her of
a thunderstorm, dark and menacing, hovering ominously overhead, waiting for the right time and place to strike.