He turned and nearly ran into one of the maids as she came up the hallway.
“Excuse me,” he said as she stepped out of his way with a bent head. He looked more closely at her. “You are Lady Marianne’s maid, are you not?"
The young woman lifted her gaze. “I am, my lord. May I help you?”
“Perhaps. I’m looking for her. Do you know where she might be?”
“She retired to her chamber a while ago,” the maid said. “But she hasn’t yet called for me to help her ready for bed, so she’s likely reading or sewing there. Would you like me to find her?”
Sebastian’s mouth went dry at the idea of Marianne in her bedroom. Alone. He shook the thought away. “Er, no. If she’s retired, I wouldn’t want to trouble her. I’ll speak to her tomorrow. Thank you.”
The maid curtsied slightly and then walked away. He waited a moment, then cursed beneath his breath as he started toward the stairs. Hewouldhave this conversation with Marianne tonight. Before she allowed herself to get caught up in what might be a foolish friendship. At least he had to help her keep her eyes open, didn’t he?
Only that didn’t feel like his purpose as he stepped up to her door and knocked. He waited a moment, but there was no answer. Was it possible she’d fallen asleep? He knocked again, this time a bit louder. Still there was no reply.
He was about to step away, to go look for her again, when he bumped the door and it opened slightly. His breath caught. Entering her private rooms was not only rude, but it was scandalous. The exact kind of thing that could inspire her brother’s rightful rage or even harm her reputation. What heshoulddo was close the door firmly and either send for the maid to fetch her or just wait until morning to talk to her.
“Probably would be best for me, as well,” he muttered to himself as he stared at that cracked door.
And then he pushed it open and stepped inside.
Although he’d known Marianne for as many decades as he’d known her brother, he’d never seen her private chamber. Of course he wouldn’t. He’d never found himself curious about it, either, but now he stared around the antechamber and his breath caught.
It was lovely. She had decorated it beautifully, with unique art and dried flowers. There were sketches framed on the walls, too, ones he thought she might have done herself over the years. He vaguely recalled her sometimes having a blank book for that purpose when they hiked around the estate in the summer. And there were piles of books everywhere, on almost every surface. The room looked lived in and treasured, a little feminine escape from a world where she mostly spent time with her brother or friends like the ones gathered here this week.
“Marianne?” he called out as he drew a finger across a table that contained stationery, quills, a wax seal for letters. He recognized her scrawling, messy handwriting on one of the pages, though he didn’t read the words. He only thought of all the letters she’d written to him over the years and smiled.
“Marianne?” he repeated as he came closer to the door across the antechamber. The one that led to her bedroom. He briefly pictured her curled up on her bed, dozing. Pictured crossing to her and waking her with a kiss. Where would a kiss lead in the dark quiet of a private room? Would he be able to stop himself from losing control if she wrapped her arms around his neck and…
He shook his head and opened the door to the adjoining bedroom. “Marianne?”
Only there was no one inside. Her bed was perfectly made, her fire burned low. There was no candle or lamp lit to ease her reading or drawing or sewing. She wasn’t there.
He definitely should have left then, but he found himself violating her privacy further than he already had by stepping fully into the room. Again, it was a beautiful chamber that contained all the depths of Marianne’s personality. There was a cozy chair by the fire decorated in a pretty woven fabric of pinks and yellows and blues and more books beside it, as well as a half-finished blanket she must have been crocheting.
She brought the things she loved into these four walls, including a few miniatures on a dressing table by the window. He moved toward them and smiled at the picture of her brother staring back at him. This was a likeness made just after he’d inherited his title. There was one of the two siblings together as well, Marianne’s lips just barely smiling like she was trying not to laugh and Delacourt’s eyes slightly cast toward her.
There was a larger likeness of their parents on the table. Unlike the other portraits, there was no warmth to them. But then again, that reflected their reality just as much, if Sebastian recalled correctly. The late earl and his wife had had a volatile relationship. One that had led to the countess’s early demise, which had been whispered about endlessly. The scandal had cut short and ultimately damaged Marianne’s coming. And her father’s drinking and loud, uncouth cruelty to everyone he had encountered in the following years had done nothing to help her recover from that loss.
As he picked up the silver-framed painting to look at it, he realized that there was another hidden behind it and the discovery of it made his knees wobble a little. It was him. His miniature was placed here with the rest, a very old piece done when he was still in school. How had she even gotten this? And why had she kept it?
He placed the portrait of her parents back where it had belonged and caught his breath, which was suddenly short. He didn’t know why or how she had the picture. More to the point, he shouldn’t care about it either. He had come into this room without her permission and he didn’t want to see anything more of her internal life.
He was about to turn and flee when he noticed a large sheet of heavy vellum that was folded haphazardly next to the collection of portraits in front of a pretty jewelry box with an intricate design of brass overlayed on it.
He didn’t recognize this handwriting, and for a moment his heart leapt. What if it was from an admirer? Even Lanford? Would that explain Marianne’s absence from the places Sebastian believed she should be?
He picked it up, hating himself even more for these betrayals after betrayals he was committing against her. But it didn’t stop him from unfolding the sheet.
Only to find that it wasn’t a passionate letter from a lover at all. It was a list entitledDaring to Live Before I Die, Things to Do.
Sebastian’s nearly toppled himself over as he rushed to the fire to read the message more clearly in the light there. Die? Was Marianne dying? No, this wasn’t in her hand. And it didn’t seem to be a man’s hand either, for it was delicate and neat and decidedly feminine. And then he recalled her friend’s death. Claudia. She’d been ill, hadn’t she? Perhaps knowing she would die.
Was thisherlist?
His gaze darted from one item to another, not even in the correct order in his panic, and his eyes widened:
Learn to Play Billiards.
