The Misfit Marquess (19 page)

Slowly he realized his gaze had turned inward, that he had been staring at Elizabeth's face without seeing it, and that she was now staring back at him.

"You are awake!" he said. His outcry was loud enough to wake the maid, who startled and blinked, then stretched with a yawn.

"Your hair," Elizabeth said on a hoarse whisper.

"My hair?" he repeated, standing to reach for the ewer of water on the nearby table. She would be thirsty.

"I dreamt about your hair. That it was unbound, as it is now."

He poured her a glass of water, then turned back to her, tingling quietly at the sight of Elizabeth with coherent, open eyes. "Unbound?" he echoed.

"I dreamt I had become your valet, and you wanted me to cut your hair," she said, licking dry lips.

"That is an odd sort of dream," he said with a small, encouraging smile. He sat down on the bed, sliding an arm under her to help her sit up as he had done once before. A shock ran up his arm, reminding him of another time he had held her very close like this.

The maid tried to assist from the other side, but it was too far a stretch. Gideon mildly shook his head. "Tell Cook we will be wanting beef broth soon," he told the girl, who curtsied and left at once.

He helped Elizabeth take several sips of water from the glass, then she licked her lips again.

"I think . . . you helped take care of me," Elizabeth said, the words more question than statement.

"I did."

She frowned, perhaps from trying to remember. "Did Jeannie have her baby, or did I dream that?"

"She did. A girl. Alice is the name."

"Ah. After Jeannie's mother."

He could move away now, to put down the glass because it was clear she did not want more water at present, but Gideon stayed where he was. Elizabeth's back was warm where she lay cradled upon his arm, no longer from fever but from the normal heat of a body at rest. He hated to disturb her when she seemed content; he hated to move away from touching her.

A knock came at the door, and suddenly Gideon wished he had moved, that they not be found in such an intimate posture, but to retire abruptly seemed churlish. Instead he transferred the glass to his other hand, that his innocent gesture of caretaking might be all the more obvious to whoever came in. "Enter," he said.

The maid had returned. "Mr. Clifton is here, my lord," she announced, stepping aside to admit the surgeon.

"Ah! Our patient is awake! This is excellent news, truly excellent," Mr. Clifton cried with genuine pleasure.

"She was having some water," Gideon said, not quite meeting the surgeon's gaze, afraid there was color rising in his face.

"Fine, fine!" Mr. Clifton beamed at Elizabeth. "I can see the fever has broken," he said, even before he put a hand to her forehead.

"I feel very weak," Elizabeth said.

"Well, you will. That's to be expected." The surgeon patted his vest pockets and frowned lightly. He set down the black bag he had brought with him, opened it, and cast about inside for some object or other. "Did you know you've had quite the sickroom nurse in Lord Greyleigh, my girl?" he asked as he finally found the pocket watch he had been searching for. "The fellow watched over you when things became a wee bit busy around here with babies arriving and all, or so the servants tell me."

"I dimly remember his help," Elizabeth said, returning the surgeon's smile with a tired one of her own. Gideon startled, but if Elizabeth noticed, she gave no sign.

Mr. Clifton picked up her wrist, settled his fingers over her pulse, and consulted the watch. "Well, you're better, but not well, eh? I can see you need more rest. But let us have a look at the wound first, shall we?"

Gideon took this as a cue, slipping his arm from beneath Elizabeth after he lowered her to the pillow. He stepped back, and the surgeon stepped forward, displacing him.

It seemed an abrupt ending to a long night. He wanted to say something, but what?

Gideon turned and strode to the maid, whom he thanked for her help. He gave her a handful of coins, and asked that she divide them with the other maid, Meg, who had helped. Janet blushed happily, and Gideon was reminded why he had once thought it the grandest plan in all the world to make this house a haven for those unwanted and friendless. Elizabeth had done that for him.

"My lord." Elizabeth's weakened voice still was strong enough to stop him at the door.

"Yes?" He turned back to face her, feeling oddly elated that she had called out to him.

"Were I your valet," she said on a tremulous smile, "I would not cut your hair. I would leave it just as it is."

He smiled and made a little blowing sound that implied light amusement, then nodded farewell. He slipped out the door, closing it quietly, and immediately leaned against the wall, aware his heart hammered hard inside his chest. It pounded as if he had run a mile, for no more reason than Elizabeth had implied she liked his hair.

Such a reaction was silly, adolescent even, and he felt a little dizzy with it. Worst of all, he liked the dizzy feeling and did not even try to do anything that might stop the giddiness that bubbled throughout his entire bloodstream.

Chapter 14

Are you a fain Elizabeth opened her eyes, instantly aware that a whole day of nothing but broth and sleep since the surgeon had last come had done much to restore a sensation of health. By the slanting of the light across her ceiling, it was clearly late afternoon.

She was also abruptly aware that someone stood near her bed. She turned her head, hoping to find it was Lord Greyieigh standing there, and was shocked when she saw instead the strange red-haired woman. In her arms, the woman held an infant swaddled in shawls.

"Are you a fairy?"" the woman asked again.

Elizabeth stared, and shook her head ever so slightly.

The woman sighed. "I need to find the fairies." she complained. "I need to give them this."' She opened her hand, revealing a ring that lay upon her palm.

Elizabeth gasped when she glimpsed the distinctive mother-of-pearl and rubies arrangement, a ring brought back from India by Mama's brother. Uncle Frederick. "That is my ring."

The woman scowled, looking very young in her disapproval. She closed her hand around the ring, and shouted. "It is mine! For the fairies".

"Who are you?" Elizabeth demanded, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

The woman's flare of anger died down in an instant. "Lily." she answered with a soft, even shy, half smile.

What a strange, mercurial creature. Elizabeth thought. e\en as she realized she had sat up too suddenly, too soon: a wave of dizziness swept over her. Elizabeth gripped the bedclothes, trying not to teeter forward, trying to find her way out of the downward spiraling blackness before her eyes.

When Elizabeth could focus her gaze again, gasping at the effort, she was not surprised to find the red-haired woman was gone. Even in her distress, Elizabeth had heard the girl moving away, soft, padded steps that told of shoeless feet. A door had opened behind her; not the door to the hallway. It had to have been the door behind the tapestry.

Glancing down at her foot, Elizabeth decided she would not try her luck at standing. What would she learn, even should she be able to open the hidden door this time? Where it led, yes, but anything else of value?

She had already learned some important things, because she had at last seen the red-haired woman well. The woman went about barefoot, and that explained how a person could quietly slip in and out of rooms, unnoticed except when she wished to be. The woman—she had called herself Lily—had seemed to have a youthful manner. Lily acted more childlike than even her young face implied; she had all but thrown a tantrum over the ring.

Could this Lily be someone who had escaped the asylum and who had gone unreported as missing?

She had carried an infant in her arms, cradling the babe with a surety and tenderness that implied devotion. Was this the woman's child—or a younger sibling? Yet, if Lily were indeed feeble in her mind, who would allow her the care of an infant, even if that infant was her own?

What if the child were not Lily's after all ... Jeannie had recently borne a child. Granted, Jeannie was recovering away from Greyleigh Manor, but just down in the village. .. . Most curious of all, the child had not made a sound, not even when Lily had yelled.

Elizabeth shuddered as a second, more gruesome thought crossed her mind: what if the infant were dead? Was that why this Lily had asked for fairies, somehow thinking the mythical creatures might consider such a ghastly offering fair, and as fairies were wont to do, exchange one of their own changeling infants for this too-quiet one?

Elizabeth shuddered, hoping she was wholly wrong as to the girl's reasoning, and that the child was well enough.

One thing was certain: this being calling herself Lily had to be the thief who had taken Elizabeth's jewels. The ring in her possession was proof enough of that.

Lily must be found, and she must be made to return Elizabeth's jewelry. Those jewels were the very key to Elizabeth's future. If she did not have them, Elizabeth had no way to live on her own, away from Papa and his new wife. She had no way to keep scandal at bay for Lorraine's sake.

And, Elizabeth admitted, it would be rewarding to prove the "ghost" did indeed yet haunt Lord Greyleigh's halls.

That afternoon, having been pronounced "much improved" by Mr. Clifton, Elizabeth was convinced of it herself because no dizziness had returned. Indeed, she had even asked to dress.

She was glad she had, because Lord Greyleigh had come to call upon her in her room, bringing with him a pair of new crutches.

Elizabeth took them, knowing she would be grateful for the velvet fabric that padded the top of the crutches where they fit under her arms, and made a few awkward attempts. In a few moments, though, they were quickly mastered. "They will work admirably to help me move about," she said as she beamed at Gideon.

He nodded his approval. "I had them sent from Bristol."

Elizabeth sat in the nearest chair, and wondered if, during her fever, she had felt as warm as she did now. It was not effort, nor the fever that had raced across her skin however, but a glow brought on by Gideon's proximity. Elizabeth recalled only scattered moments from her time in the sickbed, but she did remember that every time she had opened her eyes, Gideon had been sitting at hand.

She sneaked a look at him as he bent at the waist, checking some facet of one of the crutches. She turned her gaze away, so that he not catch her with a look of admiration on her face.

How could she find him handsome? Others would not, she knew. Yes, he had fine features, but they were difficult to note. One had to look closer, had to get past the shock of pale blond hair, and those uncanny light eyes of his. But.. . once one became accustomed to his coloring, other factors came under notice.

His jawline, for instance. Lord Greyleigh had a faultless jaw-line. One might call it squared, giving his features authority, but his jaw was not prominent and did not dominate the rest of his face. It was perfectly proportionate to the rise of his cheekbones. Also, he had well-arched brows, giving him perhaps a faintly sinister air. She might have accused him of applying kohl to give his brows their darker color, but when he had held her in his arms, she had seen for herself they were naturally darker than the hair atop his head, as were his lashes. At present he sported one day's growth of beard, and it showed promise of also being darker. Extraordinary, that nature should lend his face color and drama, and even more drama by kissing the hair atop his head with only the merest trace of gold, like sunlight on linen.

Add to that, he was a well-made man, with good shoulders and a flat stomach that complemented his tailor's efforts. Yes, there was little complaint to be made against Lord Greyleigh's appearance.

But it was not his mere appearance that made Elizabeth feel flushed with heat, but rather the memory of what she had said to him, what she had dreamt of him.

True, in one part of her dream she had been his valet, but then, as happens in dreams, Elizabeth was no longer some faceless servant but herself again, in long skirts and upswept hair. Though now a female, she had still stood beside Gideon in this dream, as he sat in a chair, she still had possessed a pair of scissors, and he had still been bidding her to trim his hair. In her dream she had let the strands play through her fingers and had taken a step nearer him. She had reached with one hand to tilt his face up to hers where she had stood above him. Her dream self had suddenly and strongly rejected the thought of changing this look, so distinctive on him. It had seemed a crime. She had thrown down the scissors and had told him no. He had smiled and nodded, then removed the cloth draped about his shoulders, and her dream self had been vastly relieved.

Silly, that dream. Nonsensical even. But, worse yet, whyever had she told Lord Greyleigh about it?

It was difficult to look casually at him now, with that flaxen hair of his pulled back, loosely held by a black ribbon. She had a burning longing to stand, cross to him, and unbind his hair.

Her fingers itched to run through the strands, to see if they felt as she had imagined them in her dream.

She was a wicked, carnal woman, there was no doubt of that. She knew whence this impulse came, for she remembered being undressed by the maid . .. while lying against Lord Greyleigh's chest, supported by his arms. The memory had been jumbled at first, but it had all cemented into logic and memory when the maid had blushed and answered truthfully upon being asked.

It meant nothing, of course, that Elizabeth's naked flesh had lain against him. He had been fully clothed, at least she remembered cloth beneath her, and he had been aiding a sick woman, not coming to a lover's bed. Elizabeth had not been in her right mind, and if she had, he never would have been in the room, let alone assisting in her disrobing. He had been there merely because there was no one else, not because he had wished to look upon her.

Still, knowing he had held her, had helped her, had sat here in this chamber, at her bedside for hours on end ... she shuddered, struggling to meet Lord Greyleigh's gaze.

Now he had brought her crutches. He had troubled himself to send inquiries if they might be obtained, and he had sent for them all the way from Bristol, at least five miles away. "These will be less effort, and easier on your heel," he had said as he'd presented the crutches.

There was nothing seductive in a pair of crutches, nor in what he had said, but in that moment Elizabeth had felt something that went beyond mere sensual regard in any event. Blinking back appreciative tears, she had felt something inside her flip, as if her heart had begun to pump her blood in reverse. It was more than desire, far more, this feeling trapped deep within her, this feeling she wanted to call friendship but which she knew went much, much deeper. She was changed, fundamentally, but she could never have said how or in what way, but only by whom.

She was still ruined, still could not go home, and her jewelry had yet to be recovered, but in that moment Elizabeth did not feel as poor or as desperate as she had just a few days earlier. Lord Greyleigh had sent for crutches when he had not needed to, and that simple act had been enough to restore her ability to hope for happier moments ahead. Peagoose! she scolded herself, and stared down at her primly folded hands in her lap.

"I inquired into the matter of Jeannie's baby," he said.

Elizabeth brought her gaze up, glad for a neutral topic. "I hope all was well? That the baby never went missing?"

"Quite well, according to Polly. She assures me the child has been with its mother the entire time, and all are healthy and happy."

"Polly has seen the baby? That it remains with its mother?"

Lord Greyleigh gave her a puzzled look. "Of course."

Elizabeth let out a relieved sigh. Maybe there had been no baby after all, merely an impression given by a swaddled bundle of cloth. That was much more pleasant a thought than others Elizabeth had pondered. Yes, that must have been what she saw, as it would explain the "child's" unusual silence.

"Still," said Lord Greyleigh, pulling Elizabeth's attention back to the moment as he came to stand before her. "I do not like the idea of your using these crutches on the stairs. I will carry you when you need to go up or down. Are you ready now for luncheon?" He made a general lifting motion, to indicate he was ready.

"The servants and the chair would serve," Elizabeth murmured, feeling a deeper flush steal across her cheeks.

"Nonsense. You said yourself it was mortifying to be carried thusly. I promise I will not drop you, if that is what concerns you."

"I never thought you would," she replied. There was no gracious way to refuse, so Elizabeth indicated her acquiescence by lifting her arms, which then slid around his neck as he lifted her from her chair.

"You are still a bit flushed," he commented, glancing at her face as he strode from her room.

His comment only caused her to flush all the deeper red, she knew. "The aftereffect of fever," she murmured, fixing her gaze on his cravat.

By the time he had carried her down the stairs and to the dining table, she wondered if she was flushed on every inch of her skin. Being held so near him had flustered her tongue into silence and made every one of her senses tingle with an awareness of where their bodies had pressed together. His scent—clean linen and shaving soap—had made her feel light-headed, and his mouth had been near enough to hers that it had crossed her mind that she might kiss him, did she but dare to do so. When he lowered her into a dining chair, she was aware how reluctantly slow her arms were to slide free of his neck.

Were other women so keenly aware of men? What was wrong with her, to be so responsive to a man's mere touch? Although, she admitted as she gazed at the plate a servant filled before her, while Radford had awakened her to the mysteries of his gender, it was not just every man who made Elizabeth's heart pound as it did now. She sneaked a glance from under her lashes at Lord Greyleigh, and knew that Mr. Clifton could never inspire such a rapid tattoo inside her breast as did this man.

That was the way of the world, was it not? To know attraction, to aid in one's duty to pair off, to couple? While marriage was a contract, a thing of the mind, attraction was designed by its very nature to be physical. The only control one had over attraction was the ability to refute it once it was felt, but one could not keep from feeling it in the first place.

Control of one's emotions was the key. And control was not something Elizabeth could ever let go of again, she knew. The last time she had, she had ruined her life. So it did not matter that a pair of strong arms and piercing, palest blue eyes stirred her blood, for she could hardly act on the strange, strong impulses that pulled at her.

"I want to do something for you," Lord Greyleigh said as he waved away a servant with a dish that apparently did not interest him.

"My lord?" Elizabeth queried, glancing at him.

"I want to order dresses made for you. Now, before you protest, let us be practical. You will need gowns. You are welcome to have my mother's, but they would need to be altered if you do. I think new gowns would better suit. Either way, a modiste's services are required, so since one must be brought in, I would rather see you in gowns that befit you."

He was only being sensible, but Elizabeth lifted her chin all the same. "I agree. But only if I may make the selections myself, and if I may repay you in time. Although I must forewarn you that it may take me some months to have the funds to repay—"

"Very well. Repay me whenever." He lifted his knife and fork, dismissing her protests with the gesture. "I assure you, the cost will not be an inconvenience for me. Please, make any selections you require. I will have a modiste brought from Bristol by tomorrow."

Elizabeth almost gasped; a modiste from Bristol would naturally be more costly than some local female. When Elizabeth was once again at home with Papa—or in a cottage of her own, or employed as a governess or a companion—surely he could be counted upon to settle this repayment debt of hers? Elizabeth looked to the napkin in her lap, her mouth downturned at the thought of this expense she had not even considered. Of course she would require clothing, and she could hardly send home for her gowns there.

But what if this modiste might know her? Granted, Elizabeth's gowns had mostly been made by Madame Chandler in London, and London was a fair distance, but it was yet another concern.

"Bristol?" Elizabeth questioned. "Is there no one in Severn's Well?"

"Not of any skill, no."

"Skill is not so important as speed, in my instance." And anonymity, she added silently.

Lord Greyleigh looked up. "You make a good point. Perhaps the local woman would serve us best. I know she had produced a gown for Mama in less than three days, so she could perhaps have as many as three ready for you by the end of a week. Perhaps she would best suit after all."

"And her name .. . ?"

Gideon's brows slanted together for a moment. "Rowan. Rawson. Something like that."

Elizabeth felt her shoulders relax. "Employing the local woman sounds the best plan." She managed a smile and a nod. "Thank you."

"You are welcome." He nodded, smiled slightly, and returned to his meal.

They shared some desultory conversation, but the notion of the gowns Elizabeth would shortly be in need of somehow left her feeling crestfallen. There was also an awkwardness in sharing a meal with a man of whom she was sharply aware.

Since she could not bring herself to maintain either a gaze or a conversation of any length with her host, in the age-old manner of all guests who did not know what to do at an uncomfortable moment, Elizabeth looked about the room in which she found herself. It was pleasant not to have to eat from a tray in bed, and she was grateful to be at a table once more, and a fine table it was, indeed. The wood beneath the tablecloth was a dark, rich mahogany, with matching chairs of gold-and-blue needlepoint seats and the Greyleigh crest carved into the seat backs. The sideboards were carved to match, and the curtains at the windows were blue with gold sashes. The rug beneath the table was also of blue, with gold and green leaves and pink roses woven into the pattern. It was a charming room, with pastoral paintings that gave the eye something soothing to observe while dining.

The table was finely set with Sheffield plates and crystal goblets. Although the table was not especially large, seating perhaps as many as twelve at a time, it was fitted with four large branches of candelabra, set and ready to be lit during tonight's supper.

Elizabeth sat up straight, staring hard at one particular candle in the center of the nearest candelabra. Without begging her host's leave, she stood, hopping on one foot and clutching the table's edge for balance as she made her way to where the candelabra sat. She reached among the unlit candles, and although she knew Lord Greyleigh was staring at her as if she had proved any doubts of sanity he'd had about her, she reached among the candles and pulled upward, sliding a band from the centermost one. She turned to Lord Greyleigh, presenting on her palm what she had discovered—a ring.

"It is my ring!" she declared, hearing the excitement in her own voice. "This was my grandmama's ring, given to her on her sixteenth birthday by her father." She clutched her hand closed once more and hopped down to where Lord Greyleigh sat staring. She thrust the ring toward him, closing her eyes at the same time. "Here! I shall prove it. Without looking at it again, I will tell you what the engraving inside the band says."

She felt him take the ring from her fingers and hoped he did not see her tremble when his touch met hers.

"Very well," he said, his voice neutral, giving away nothing of his thoughts. "Go ahead."

"It says Tor Emma, My Pearl, Love Papa,'" Elizabeth quoted. She opened her eyes, finding Lord Greyleigh had slanted the ring to catch the midday light coming through the windows, so as to read the inscription.

After a long moment during which he angled the ring, he looked up and said, "Exactly so." He looked back at the ring, a gold band with a large pearl at its center, with descending smaller pearls on either side for a total count of seven. "I have to believe this is yours," he said, handing it to her, but then bewilderment crossed his features. "But how did it come to be on a candle on my dining table?" The look he cast her clearly said he believed she had placed it there.

Elizabeth slipped the ring on her finger, to avert her gaze from his. With his steady regard upon her, she had felt yet again that shock of awareness of him, male and powerful. But, too, she felt his uncertainty, and saw the doubting tilt of his head. She ruthlessly pushed aside the awareness of the former, concentrating on the latter.

"I know you are reluctant to believe that I once possessed a collection of jewelry," she said, affecting a haughty manner. "But I assure you, I brought a collection of items with me into this house. Someone found where I had hid my purse of jewels in my pillow, for when next I went to get my jewelry, every piece was missing. I now believe I know who took them." In fact, she thought, it must have been the same person who had first put them in the table drawer, for Lord Greyleigh had certainly not been informed they existed.

"Oh? And who is this person?" he asked, moving to sip from his wineglass.

"The red-haired woman, the 'ghost,' was in my room again. I believe she took them."

Lord Greyleigh set down his glass with an audible chink. Before he could comment, however, Elizabeth went on. "I saw her plainly this time. I can describe her well for you if you like. Again, I certainly do not think she is a ghost at all, but I am also equally sure she is not a maid in your employ."

"My dear lady—!" He stood.

"There is a hidden door on the east wall of my chamber, behind the large tapestry that hangs there. Did you know that?"

Lord Greyleigh stood still as stone for a long pause, but then he slowly nodded. "There are passages, designed into the original structure by an ancestor, I suppose. But they have long since been boarded shut. My mama took to using them, and it... upset my father to have her appear in various rooms at odd moments."