The Marquess (38 page)

Humming softly, he gave the door as polite a nod as he had
the clerk downstairs and sauntered into the office. Gray light seeped through a
filthy window illuminating a clerk’s tall desk and stool, walls of books,
a few battered wooden desks, and another door at the rear.

As if he owned the office, Michael strolled to the rear
door, fiddled casually with the latch, and swung it open with a twist of his
wrist. Dropping the small tool into his pocket, he wandered through the larger
room, admiring the heavy draperies covering the floor-to-ceiling windows as he
pulled them back to let in light. He poked about among the avalanche of papers
cascading from shelves, files, and desk, and generally assessed the
room’s contents. Finally deciding on a towering wooden file cabinet in one
corner, he systematically worked his way through the drawers until he unlocked
the one he wanted.

Admiring the drawer’s contents as he fingered through
them, he kept one ear open for the sound of early arrivals. Voices carried up
the stairwell easily, giving him more than enough time to open a leather
satchel he’d discovered in his earlier perusal. The contents of the
drawer fit neatly into the satchel, leaving a bit of space for a few other
objects that caught his discerning eye.

Still humming a slightly wicked sea chantey, he closed the
satchel and strolled out of the office, locking drawers and doors behind him.
On the landing, he lifted his hat to a clerk just arriving, sauntered on down
the stairs and out to the street.

He was whistling “Black is the Color of My True
Love’s Hair” by the time he summoned a hackney and settled onto its
torn leather squabs.

* * * *

Dillian woke in bed still wearing her wrapper. Puzzled, she
lay against the pillows, trying to remember the events of the previous evening.
Recalling the incident in the garden, she blushed and restlessly threw off her
covers.

Only then did she remember that she’d fallen asleep
watching Gavin occupy the lower hall.

Surely, he hadn’t played so free as to carry her to
bed, or he would not have stopped at just leaving her in bed with her wrapper
still on. Knowing the extent of the marquess’s lust, she could imagine
what would have happened had he entered her chamber unchaperoned. She must have
wandered back to bed on her own.

That didn’t quench her restlessness. Washing and
donning one of her old gowns, Dillian listened at Blanche’s door, heard
no one stirring, and hastened down the stairs.

She found no sign of Gavin’s presence in the long hall
below. The scraps of wood and tools he’d scattered across the carpet were
gone. She started to check behind the floor-length draperies but discovered a
footman leaning his chair against the front door. He blinked sleepily at her,
then leapt to his feet and moved the chair back where it belonged.

She’d never seen the man before. Her only attempt at
hiring servants had resulted in Michael and Blanche’s appearance in
dreadful disguises. Perhaps the caretaker had found someone. The footman
blushed at her continued stare and crossed his hands behind his back, taking on
a formal stance.

“Who hired you?” she asked with more curiosity
than anything else.

“Earl of Mellon, miss,” he answered.

The Earl of Mellon—was that not the name of the
marquess’s friend? Dillian narrowed her gaze. “Does the earl not
keep his own house to guard?”

The footman started to shrug, thought better of it, and said
crisply, “Yes, miss, but I was told to come here.”

She didn’t see much point in asking by whom. She knew.
Without continuing the discussion, Dillian drifted toward the dining room to see
if any hint of breakfast had appeared. To her astonishment, she found a place
set at the table with a lovely yellow rosebud in a crystal bud vase beside it.

The caretaker and his wife had more than enough to do
without setting tables and cutting flowers. Meals had been taken as Dillian and
Verity found them.

Blanche had little notion of the kitchen’s location
and relied on Verity to serve her. They usually ate in their rooms rather than
in this formal hall. Dillian contemplated the place setting and wondered if the
caretaker’s wife had decided Lady Blanche ought to receive more
respectful service.

No, that couldn’t be it. They’d kept Blanche
disguised and hadn’t informed the servants of her presence. Dillian
stared at the rose with perplexity. Surely, not ….

Gavin? She looked around the room for some trace of him, but
better sense won out. Granted, she had teased him once with a rose by his
bedside, but Gavin didn’t possess the romantic instincts to mimic the
gesture. Michael must have placed this here for Blanche.

Reaching that conclusion, Dillian wandered on toward the
kitchen stairs. Before she passed the ornate pilasters at the end of the room,
a maid scampered through the doorway bearing a tray of steaming dishes. She
bobbed a curtsy at Dillian and began arranging silver serving dishes on the
sideboard.

A maid? Not even stopping to question this new arrival,
Dillian turned around and retraced her steps back up the stairs to
Blanche’s room. Knocking, she let herself in at the first sound of
someone stirring on the other side.

She nearly fell over with shock when a man’s broad,
naked back rose from the lacy pillows.

One dark eyebrow cocked inquisitively as Gavin peered over
his shoulder. “You could have waited until I answered,” he
muttered, running his hand over his unshaven jaw and shoving his hair out of
his face.

In utter shock, Dillian gazed around the pink and white
room, then returned to the totally incongruous image of muscular, bronzed male
flesh rising out of lace. White silk partially covered the dark hairs of his
chest as he turned over. Pillows with pink-embroidered roses and hearts framed
the black mass of his curls as he sat up against them. A canopy of white lace
tied back with pink ribbons shadowed the strong angles of his jaw and the mocking
curve of his mouth.

It was one shock more than Dillian could take this morning.
Laughter bubbled, laughter she hadn’t released in so long it practically
hurt as it escaped. She held her stomach against the ache and bent over with
the force of her howls, collapsing on the nearest chair as Gavin scowled and
threw his long—very naked—legs over the side of the bed. The image
of a man’s hairy legs in Blanche’s maiden bed brought more gales of
laughter.

A genuine smile even curved Gavin’s lips as the silken
coverlet slid to the floor, revealing a neatly crocheted pink blanket beneath.
When Dillian breathlessly pointed out the fluffy slippers beneath his feet, he
lifted one with his big toe and admired it, casually heedless of his
nakedness—until he stood up and crossed the room toward her.

Dillian abruptly stopped laughing.

She backed toward the door, uneasy with the sensations rising
when confronted with this large, lean, decidedly naked man approaching her with
a determined look in her eye. She didn’t dare lower her gaze any farther
than his obstinate, and neatly cleft, chin. “No,” she said
adamantly, although he hadn’t offered a word.

“Then, remove yourself quickly. Miss Whitnell, before
I do something rash,” Gavin answered. “I generally bite the heads
off people who laugh at me, but I’m willing to make an exception in your
case only because I can think of many more pleasant things to do with you.”

To Dillian’s surprise, she didn’t take his
advice and run. Something in the way he mentioned people laughing at him made
her hold her ground. She pressed her hands back against the solid wooden door
and dared to meet his eyes. “Did you decide yourself above being an
object of humor when you became marquess or before that?”

He halted in front of her, his broad bare feet not inches
from where she stood. His hand rubbed his scarred jaw, but the curve of his lip
no longer mocked as he regarded her. “Michael laughs at me with impunity.
I haven’t beheaded him yet.”

“Why is that, do you think, my lord?” she asked
daringly, forcing him to look deeper into himself and away from the touchier
subject of why he hadn’t taken off her head.

He saw through her ploy quickly enough. Placing a hand on
either side of her, he pinned her in place. “Not for the same reason I
didn’t take off yours, I can swear. Now will you get out of here and allow
me to dress, or will you join me in a tumble on that confection of a bed?”

She didn’t have to look down to know he was well
prepared for the tumble. Gulping, she edged toward the door latch. He lifted
the arm barring her way. “Tell me where to find Blanche, and I’ll
be on my way.”

“Very sensible,” he agreed, retreating a
fraction to grab a pair of trousers thrown across a chair. “I would hate
to profane that maidenly bed with what I have in mind right now. You’ll
find your lady on the next floor up, where an intruder wouldn’t expect to
find her.”

Dillian opened the door, poised for escape, but she
couldn’t resist one further look back. “The rose?” she asked,
almost wistfully.

He grinned, making his dark eyes twinkle. “I’ll
let you guess.”

Dillian soared out of the room on winged feet. She
couldn’t believe just that laughing smile could make her feel this way.
In a moment, she would be sensible.

In a moment, she would realize that the Marquess of Effingham
had no business in this house, that he couldn’t possibly have put that
rose there, that she would have to call the watch and have him thrown out
before he committed something disastrous. She would remember his insults,
remember his rotten behavior, and she would scream bloody murder until he threw
up his hands and went back to his Gothic ruin. In a moment. Not just yet.

Of course, in a moment, she remembered she was the penniless
daughter of the infamous Colonel Slippery Whitnell, and the light-hearted feeling
went away without her ever having to consider the other points. She made a
suitable mistress for a marquess. She could never be anything else. That smile
meant nothing more than his desire to see her in bed again as soon as possible.

By the time Dillian found Blanche, leaden shoes had replaced
winged feet.

* * * *

Gavin winced as he looked in Blanche’s enormous gilt
pier-glass to adjust his neck cloth. The reflection staring back at him was an
alien one. In his attempt to suit society’s idea of a gentleman, he wore
a dark blue superfine frock coat with a gold embroidered waistcoat of white
silk, and fawn nankeen trousers, all of which cost him a small fortune out of
his own pocket. He ought to bill the ladies for his expense.

The wretched starched neck cloth wrapped around his throat
until he feared to lower his head, but its pristine whiteness served as
contrast to his already dark coloring, making him look more savage than
civilized. He hadn’t bothered having his hair trimmed, and it curled about
his neck in unruly abandon. If he didn’t do something about it soon,
he’d have to tie it back in a ribbon as Dillian did.

Though he didn’t recognize the elegantly clothed
creature framed by Blanche’s gilded angels, he didn’t see the
monster he expected, either.

Standing back, Gavin gave the cloth one more adjustment and
surrendered. The man staring back at him didn’t precisely look English,
but he didn’t look as deformed as he had expected.

He rubbed at the raised red marks on his cheek, but somehow
Dillian’s casual acceptance of them had dwindled them to just scars, not
the grotesqueries he’d seen them as. He still fought the urge to pull a
hat down over his face, but he clenched his jaw and ignored the urge. He had
plans for this day, and hiding in dark comers wouldn’t accomplish them.

Taking the front stairs two at a time, he eagerly awaited
the light of approval in her eyes at the new Marquess of Effingham.

“Do you know where Michael is?” The voice he
sought drifted upward from the front salon.

“Not since you threw him out of your room last night,”
Blanche replied lightly. “You really shouldn’t be so mean to him.
He’s making this whole thing a great deal more fun than it would have
been otherwise. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he would fall in love with
you, and the two of you could marry and live happily ever after? You could have
the Grange to live in and raise a dozen little O’Tooles. You deserve that
kind of happiness, Dill.”

Gavin froze on the bottom step.

Dillian’s laugh echoed through the hall. “I can
picture it now with a dozen little imps disappearing and reappearing at will
all through the house and stable. I would need put bells around their necks.
Don’t lend your dreams to me, Blanche. I’ll not ever marry.”

Gavin was already heading toward the back of the house,
bypassing the front salon, as these words followed him out.

Of course she would marry. Blanche had been entirely right.
Dillian ought to have a half-dozen little cherubs running about her feet,
making her smile, keeping her busy and out of trouble. She was meant for
sunshine and laughter. He couldn’t picture her haunting the sidelines of
London society in the shadow of her cousin, but he could see her swirling in
circles on the green grass with her face turned toward the sun and her skirts
billowing around her.

Mischievous elves belonged in the country, not the city. A
mischievous elf like Dillian might possibly be the perfect solution to the imps
of hell that kept Michael wandering.

He’d never given Michael the kind of home he’d
needed. Michael had a nature as wide and generous as Dillian’s. He needed
a home, love, and support. He deserved a laughing woman on his arm and in his
bed.

Gavin had only offered him darkness and scorn, a life of
hand-to-mouth existence. He’d thought a roof over his head and food in
his stomach would suffice, but not for Michael. He’d known that. He just
hadn’t acknowledged it.