She stormed past Marcus, followed by her entourage. Everyone now seemed to be looking in their direction. Marcus scowled at the old battle-ax and bit back a choice insult that would have further burned his bridges with the entirety of the gathered company.
“Ignore her. Ignore all of them,” he said softly, “you need not be concerned by them. You’re safe here.”
She looked up at him with bright, pale blue eyes. A lock of brilliant gold fell across her temple, and he felt an urge to stroke it away, the better to look upon her delicate, beautiful face.
“I am causing you so much trouble,” she said mournfully.
“It is the duty of a gentleman,” Marcus replied kindly.
She reached up and took his hand. For a long moment that could have been seconds, minutes, or hours, Marcus let her hold his hand in hers. Her touch was warm and smooth, her eyes were precious gems that he could not look away from. The room, the ball, the Dowager Countess, everything faded from Marcus’ awareness. She stood on tip toes and kissed him. A detached part of Marcus’ mind told him that he should break away immediately, step back from this woman, distance himself.
That voice told him that for a woman to publicly kiss a Duke, a woman who was not his wife or even his fiancée, would be grounds for a scandal that would be talked of for months. That she would be labeled a harlot, and he, a rogue. But that voice could not compete with the feeling of rightness that went along with kissing her. Her fingers tightened around his, pressing his hand to her chest. He could feel her heartbeat beneath his fingers, the rapid tattoo thrumming beneath her breast.
That thrum was fast, getting faster as her kiss deepened. His own heartbeat raced along with it as though to catch up. He slipped a hand around her waist, holding her close to him and spreading his fingers against the small of her back. The servant’s dress was not thick, he could feel her body beneath the thin material, could trace the gentle curve, could almost feel the softness of her skin.
It was the shocked murmur of the assembled worthies that finally broke through the bliss in which Marcus had been enveloped. His beautiful visitor was the first to become aware. She suddenly pulled away from him, her face scarlet, a hand going to her mouth. She stepped back, looking past him to the faces that he knew must now be looking their way. Every eye weighing and judging them. He wanted to throw them all out. Wanted to tell them all to go to hell.
But he couldn’t. As bewitched as he was by theMiss Voss, if that’s who she was, he knew that he had a duty to his name, to his family. Miss Voss looked horror-struck. She turned and fled up the stairs, tripping and falling once but scrambling back to her feet with a sob. Marcus made to pursue her but felt a strong hand on his arm.
“Better not, old chap. Let me, as her doctor,” Luke said quietly, “I think there are enough rumors flying around about you as it is.”
Marcus turned to look back at the crowd. He hated them all at that moment, despised the need to crawl for their approval. He nodded reluctantly, gritting his teeth.
“Very well. Go now. Make sure she is safe.”
“You can rely on me. Do you know who she is yet?”
“The daughter of the Earl of Sawthorne, I think,” Marcus said.
“Sawthorne? She is a Voss?” Luke said, then seemed to think, “Selina, yes, the Voss daughter is called Selina. I’m sure of it.”
“Do me a favor, Luke. Ask her. I cannot, not if I am to maintain this pretense of being…”
Marcus stopped abruptly, casting suspicious eyes about for anyone who might be close enough to overhear.
“Rest easy, Valebridge,” Luke said and tapped the side of his nose. He jogged up the stairs and out of sight.
Marcus took a deep breath and then turned to face his guests, forcing a smile that was almost painful.
CHAPTER8
The evening ended prematurely. It never recovered from Marcus’ brusque manner with his guests. The Dowager Countess of Claydon had mingled with the other guests, spreading poison in her wake. Marcus sat in his study, on the first floor of the castle’s eastern wing. It had a vaulted stone ceiling and stone worked grotesque moldings at the corners of the ceiling. A fireplace dominated the room, its stone black. The chimney breast rising from it was inscribed with the Roy family coat of arms.
Armor stood to attention around the room in between dark bookcases lined with dusty volumes. Marcus lounged in an armchair with frayed and faded upholstery, facing the fire. A full tumbler of brandy was in his hand, hanging over the side of the armchair. His dark eyes were lit by dancing flames.
I am worse off now than I was before. I have made an enemy of Claydon, an influential old crow feared more than she is respected. I can count on the fingers of one hand those who did not want to leave at the earliest opportunity, with Luke being one of them. Damnation!
He could see the stories spreading out from this night like a plague. The roguish Duke. The reclusive Duke. Consorting with servants and courtesans. Insulting his guests and berating them for upholding decent and proper values. With a flash of anger, his arm lashed around and hurled the brandy into the fire, glass included. The flames roared briefly higher, and the glass exploded against the ancient stone of the fireplace.
I should ask her to leave. She is responsible. She should have remained in her chambers, but she chose to come downstairs though she was not of sound mind.
But that wasn’t fair, and he knew it. Truly, she had not been of sound mind, disorientated by her illness and the trauma that had made her flee Sawthorne. The kiss had been in response to his kindness, an expression of gratitude and relief to be finally somewhere safe. She had no idea of the damage she was doing.
Selina. Selina. What happened to you? What happened between you and my brother? Growing up in this snake pit, he must have been the worst of men, surely. But to have won your heart…
He steepled his fingers before his face, closing his eyes and trying to focus his mind. As a boy, he had fled into the towering Cumbrian hills whenever the world grew too much for him. In the lee of an ancient boulder that had probably watched the Romans march by and found calm within himself. It had become a useful exercise that he could replicate anywhere, though it was always the sight of those brooding hills that he brought to mind to achieve it.
The answer was clear. There were two solutions and only one of them was acceptable to Marcus. A knock at the door disturbed him.
