Mark escorted Eliza down the steps leading from the back of his house. The soles of their shoes met soft green grass and stone-paved paths that were bordered by flowerbeds and box hedges. In the center stood a marble fountain with a wide, shallow basin for water to pool. The gentle bubble and gurgle of the spray helped to hide the noise of Mayfair, which stood just beyond its walls.
They sat together on the fountain’s edge. Eliza grew tired easily, and he sensed that she needed to rest for a moment before continuing their ramble.
She took a deep, bracing breath. “So this is where you’ve been hiding all the sunshine and fresh air in London.” Her smile brightened as she teased him. “You’ve been keeping it for yourself!”
Mark laughed. “Believe me, I pay for the privilege.”
He’d worked hard for his home and was pleased with his success, though he rarely found time to enjoy the outdoors. His life revolved around the Bank, which suddenly seemed a shallow and empty existence. Why could he not prioritize a walk in his garden every evening or take tea among the plantings of irises, foxgloves, and purple alliums? Perhaps he too needed to feel the sun on his face…
“You’re welcome to come out here any time you like,” he said. “I only ask that you remain discreet. No cutting cartwheels on the grass or dunking your toes in the basin.”
Eliza feigned disappointment, asking, “What about my fingers?” Her blue eyes glimmered with mischief as she let her hands hover over the pool. Without warning, she plunged her palms into the crisp, clear water and splashed him.
She was like a child who couldn’t resist playing in a puddle in her Sunday clothes. She was boisterous and badly behaved. Intent on doing the very thing he’d asked her not to do—namely, not to draw attention to herself.
But her laughter was infectious. Her grinning, upturned mouth looked imminently kissable. Mark wondered when he’d last felt so delighted, so amused, so enchanted by another person. He’d lived alone for a long time. He had grown too quiet, too sober. Too bloody dull.
Mark splashed her back for good measure. He pitched a palmful of water into the air, drenching them both. She was small and likely sore, and he never wished to harm her. Despite her hardships, cruel reality hadn’t broken her spirit or her sense of fun.
As long as she was laughing, he sensed, she was living. He vowed never to make her frown.
He caught Eliza’s hands and held them fast. Water soaked the cuffs of his shirt sleeves and dampened the backs of her scraped knuckles. Little droplets dribbled off her nose and chin, and Mark worried that he’d grown wet, as well.
“Enough, girl,” he scolded her softly, “or my neighbors shall come to their windows and shake their fists at us.” He released his grip on her hands, though she did not pull away. They sat in a half-embrace with knees brushing and fingers entwined. Without thinking, Mark reached to sweep aside a wisp of brown hair that clung to her moistened cheek. “You’re fortunate that I have to change clothes for the evening, otherwise I’d be rather cross with you.”
He wasn’t certain anyone could stay cross with Eliza for long.
“Going somewhere?” she asked.
“I am afraid I must attend a Bank dinner tonight with my fellow directors. It’s being held at the home of Lord Revelstoke, so I ought to at least put in an appearance.”
“Seems strange knowing somebody who knows an honest-to-goodness lord…”
“He’s not a real lord. His father was granted a title in recognition of his work in finance,” Mark explained. “He’s the head of Barings Bank.”
Eliza appeared suitably impressed, though he wondered whether she understood the power wielded by Barings, Lloyds, Hoares, and Coutts, Rothschilds, Barclays, and Schroders—Mark could list the great banking institutions of London off the top of his head. He knew them well, and fostered connections within every counting house from the lowliest clerks to the loftiest board members.
It was his business, and he took his occupation seriously.
“Is that how you got your title, Sir Mark?”
“My honors are very old and very Dutch, though one could argue that I earned my English baronetcy after surviving the Panic of 1890 when many of the private banks in London nearly collapsed. I did well for myself amid those dark days. I’m not ashamed of being savvy. You see, I’m not a real lord either, though my future wife shall be known as ‘Lady van Bergen’, which will be a treat for her, I’m sure.”
Eliza laughed at that. “You toffs are silly. Why does it matter where one’s names came from or how one got them?” She tilted her head to regard him. “Would you want a wife who only married you for what you are, rather than who you are? Such things don’t mean a fig where I come from.”
“To some folk, one’s name and noble origins mean a great deal. Why else do we paint them on signposts or chisel them in stone above doorways? Our past and our people make us proud.”
Thankfully, she let the topic drop. He couldn’t argue with a woman who knew nothing about herself, and he didn’t wish to offend Eliza by reminding her of her dubious parentage. Her mother likely hadn’t married her father. Her family had very likely cast her out.
It was a shameful situation for all involved, but her past wasn’t his concern. He wished to see her respectably settled and honestly self-reliant. He’d get her back on her feet in some decent society, and then send her on her way.
Yet, for now, she remained in his care.
Mark stood and helped her to rise. Warm sunshine coaxed little highlights from her hair, making each strand sparkle and shine. She had color in her cheeks and a healthy glow about her. It seemed that fresh air and natural light had done her some good, after all.
“To answer your question, Eliza,” he said as he led her indoors. “I do not desire a wife who only wants me for my money or my name. It wouldn’t be fair, for I wouldn’t care what she had or what she was called. Other things—ambition, intellect, affection, and devotion—are far more important to me.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
