When Angels Fall (47 page)

“I won’t be brought to the altar with you dragging me by the ear,” the marquis said in a growl. “So I see no point in discussing this further.”

“You see no point? See
this
point then!” With that
Holland’s fist shot out, squarely meeting with the marquis’s jaw.

From instincts borne of many brawls, Tramore didn’t even pause to sort out what had happened. Instead he retaliated. He punched Holland twice across the face, then slammed him against the bookcases.

But Holland, too, was swift. He artfully sidestepped the marquis, then shot in and out, avoiding Tramore’s punches like a Roman athlete.

“Your bloody crude methods won’t save you from the beating you deserve!” he cursed.

“Jones, your pretty moves are no match for experience! You’d best quit now while you have the chance!” the marquis threatened.

“I was a master at boxing at the university. Let’s see if I can recall . . .” Suddenly Holland’s fist went out and he landed a punch in Tramore’s gut. The marquis doubled over, but only for a second. His fury peaking, Tramore lunged for Holland and slammed him to the floor. Chairs scattered and floorboards groaned as the men rolled back and forth. Holland got in another two cracks to the marquis’s jaw before Ivan tried to put his head through the paneling.

Fighting as if for his very life, Holland broke free and scrambled to his feet. Then he promptly forgot his sense of sportsmanship and the gentlemanly art of boxing. With a fury he didn’t know he possessed, he kicked Tramore in the kidneys, then landed a punch to his side.

“You braying ass! I should have done that long ago!” he panted.

“What brotherly concern, Jones!” the marquis rasped, wiping the blood from his mouth. Obviously hurting, he stiffly got to his feet. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you fight more like a jealous lover—”

With that, Tramore did his worst. He lunged at Holland like a wolf and slammed punches into his head. When Holland could take no more, the marquis finished him off
with a jab to the gut. Holland slid down the wall, nearly unconscious.

“I’ll see that Lissa never marries you!” Holland said, slurring his words. “How could I have ever thought to lower her to such circumstances! It’s bad enough I’ve had to work for such a bloody bastard! But to sentence a poor girl to marry you, there could be no worse hell!”

Ivan couldn’t help himself. He knocked Holland cleanly across his face, almost breaking his fine English nose. Then he eased himself to the floor, and fell back against his desk, catching his breath.

His hand went to his fob pocket. He dug in it and finally produced a ring—an engagement ring—which he held reverently in his hand. But then his temper flared.

Crushing the ring in his grasp, he gave Holland’s unconscious form a disparaging glance. “Bloody
bastard
!” he hissed. Yet it was unclear whether those words he’d uttered were for Holland, or for himself.

When Holland came to, he stiffly rose from the floor and looked about for the marquis. Tramore was nowhere in sight. Holding his battered head, he scooped up some of the lavender rose petals, then stumbled out of the house. When he arrived at Harewood, he found Lissa and Antonia finishing their breakfast in the eating room. Without a word, he appeared at the door and let Lissa’s gasp signal his entrance.

“My God, Holland, what happened to you? There’s blood all over your face,” Lissa cried.

“Mr. Jones!” Antonia stood. She frowned at Holland’s battered face and promptly called for some assistance.

“Holland, did someone attack you?” Lissa whispered.

“On the contrary, I was the attacker.” Holland studied her grimly. “Go collect your things, we’re leaving for Nodding Knoll this instant.”

“W-what? Why?” she stuttered, a dread filling her breast.

“I shall fill you in when we’re at the train station. Suffice it to say I am now no longer Powerscourt’s estate manager.”

Lissa stared at him fearfully. “What happened, Holland, between you and the marquis?” She wasn’t sure what was going on, but it was clear Holland had been in a fight and she had the horrible feeling the fight had been over her.

“Lissa,” Holland stated fiercely, “I am the head of the Alcester family now. You’ll do as I say. No more questions. Get your things.”

Her cheeks colored with anger. She had been glad that Holland had come into the family and taken the family’s burdens from her. Now, however, his authority rankled her. She had helped the Alcesters survive for five long years after their parents had died, and now she was not about to be ordered about by anyone.

“Holland, I shall go when you explain—”

Holland did nothing but open his palm. Inside were several crushed rose petals—the exact same color she had worn last night. Suddenly her legs felt as if they were going to give out. Holland had been to Ivan’s house and somehow found the petals in the library. When he next retrieved a blue satin garter from his pocket, she had to clutch the edge of the dining table just to remain standing.

“I—I can explain,” she began.

“Then go on,” he said, wiping the blood from his chin with a linen handkerchief.

“You think Ivan’s done something terrible. But it’s simply not true. He’s going to marry me. He told me so last night.”

Holland broke from the door and stood before Lissa. A pained, wrathful expression crossed his features. “If he were going to marry you, Lissa, would I look like this?”

She stared at him, unsure of what he was trying to say. Then suddenly she began to tremble.

“It’s not true. He will marry me. Everything has changed, do you understand? Ivan wouldn’t deny it now. Not now!” she practically screamed at him.

“Lissa, go get your things. We’re leaving here. If he wants to marry you, he can find you easily enough in Nodding Knoll.”

Wretchedly she turned away. She felt as if the very ground she stood on was falling away from her feet. Holland was about to speak again, but she couldn’t bear to hear another one of his accusations. She covered her ears and ran upstairs to pack.

Somehow she had to think. Somehow she had to stop all the madness that was exploding around her. The entire situation had to be a terrible misunderstanding. But as Lissa watched Antonia’s maid gravely pack her dresses, she was at a loss as to what to do. Holland was on a rampage and Ivan had yet to show at Harewood. A hack was already waiting in front to take them to Euston. Even as she thought all this, the maid was folding her last gown.

“Why isn’t he here?” she fretted, and ran to the window. Down below, Holland was seeing that there was room atop the hack for her last trunk. All he was waiting for now was her.

“When Ivan arrives, I know things will be set right again. But that Mr. Jones has absolutely no patience!” Antonia rose from a small settee and began pacing the floor.

Inconsolable, Lissa looked out the window.

“Are you ready?”

She spun around and found Holland already in her doorway. A pained expression crossed her features when she noted the puffiness and swelling on his face. He would soon be black and blue. She only wondered how Ivan had fared in this skirmish.

“Holland, you must be reasonable. Please let us wait until he arrives—”

“I’ve left my post, Lissa, and I must move from the bailiff’s house. I cannot delay. If the marquis wishes a word with you, he can make an appointment at Violet Croft.” Holland watched the footman pick up her last trunk. When he was gone, he held out his arm. “Evvie is waiting,” he told her.

Wondering if she would ever see Antonia again, Lissa gave her a last desperate hug. She then took Holland’s arm and they went down to the carriage.

The train ride to Cullenbury was interminable. Holland said scarcely three words the entire way. When they finally arrived back in Nodding Knoll, Lissa had never been so grateful to see Violet Croft. Holland saw her settled in, then he immediately went to Powerscourt to begin his move. Lissa spent the rest of the afternoon sobbing into Evvie’s shoulder and trying miserably to explain the situation to her.

Hardly a day had passed before there was word the marquis had returned to the castle. Lissa was anxious to hear from him, to try and settle the rift that seemed to be tearing her apart, but no word came down from Powerscourt. Another day passed and the silence grew ominous. Holland expressly told her to beware of the marquis should he try to see her while he was not around to chaperone.

By the third day she was beside herself. She miserably wandered the little rooms of Violet Croft, every now and again going to the window to stare at the towers of Powerscourt. When she felt she would go mad if she spent another day brooding at the walls around her, she grabbed
up her bonnet and cloak and went to wander the estate grounds instead.

She had just found the path that had once been Alcester House’s carriage drive when she heard the music. In wonder, she walked closer to the estate and began to discern the delicate sound of a balalaika being played. It was a sad, mournful tune, and it brought back a flood of memories, both painful and tender. As if the ghostly notes were beckoning her, she moved toward the stable. She should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. She entered the decrepit stable building and found Ivan sitting on the stoop of the tack room, the balalaika in his arms. It was as if the past five years had never been. He was again the Alcester stableboy and she was a young girl, full of hopes and dreams for the future. Entranced, she stood near the door and watched him. He was too intent upon his playing to look up, and for a moment she allowed herself to be captured by the dark, dreamily reflective melody.

But the moment vanished in an instant. For no apparent reason, he became disgusted with his playing and abruptly stopped. He pushed the balalaika away and cursed. The pups, whom she now noticed had been lying at his feet, sensed his foul mood and quietly skulked away. Then, without warning, he looked up. His gaze met violently with her own.

“My lord,” she stated, sounding far more cool than she felt. Suddenly Holland’s fears seemed to eat away at her boldness and she clasped her hands over her mantle to keep them from shaking.

He stood. There was something in his eyes that welcomed her—warmth, relief. But there was something in his eyes that made him hold back. It was wariness.

“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.

“I was out for a walk. I heard you playing.” A wry smile tipped her lips. “For a moment I thought you might be a ghost.”

He stood. “I’m no ghost. I came here to think.”

She paused; her entire body began to tremble. Everything she wanted seemed to be slipping through her fingers. Now she must grab it back, or let it go. “To think about what, my lord?”

He looked down at the balalaika in his hands. Then his eyes swept the scenery around him—the stables, the Great House in the distance, the fields, everything but her. “I’ve decided to buy Alcester House. Should I do it, Lissa?”

She was taken aback. There was so much they needed to say to each other, yet this was not any of it.

“Why would you want to buy this place, Ivan?” she whispered.

“I no longer find any pleasure seeing it so downtrodden.” He looked at her.

“You would never live here. Your place is at Powerscourt.”

“But you would like to live here again, wouldn’t you?”

She put her trembling hands to her cheeks. What was he saying? He would buy her Alcester House? And she would live there and he would live at the castle? They would live apart? Holland’s accusation rang in her ears.
If
he were going to marry you, Lissa, would I look like this?

She stumbled back. Tears welled up in her eyes and she vowed to run all the way back to Violet Croft before he could see them.

“Lissa.”

He stopped her. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her gloved hand. Still she didn’t face him.

“Do you no longer want to live at Alcester House?” he asked gently.

“I want to live with my husband. At his home,” she blurted out.

“At Powerscourt?”

She could hardly whisper her answer. “Yes,” she told him wretchedly.

With a strong, unwavering hold, he turned her to face him. As if in disbelief, he asked, “How can you love me? How can you possibly love
me
?”

She again wiped her tears. Her voice shook when she answered him. “I love you simply because no matter what I do, I cannot stop feeling this way.”

Her words seemed to cause him pain. He didn’t move to her. Instead he turned away completely. His head lowered and he rasped, “Despite all attempts to make it otherwise, I am a bastard, Lissa. I was born a bastard. I am still treated like a bastard. I’ve spent most of my life shoveling dung and wearing rags.” His voice faltered. “What, in that, could possibly be worth your love?”

She looked at his forbidding back and she felt completely helpless to make him turn around.

Finally she whispered, “I loved you when you wore rags and I love you now. You’ve helped me protect my brother, you’ve been generous to my sister.” Despite herself, she began to cry again. “All for a girl who scarred you for life. Oh, my lord, how could I not love you? I weep every day that I ever caused you such harm.”