Janice Preston - Mary and the Marquis

‘I have you to help with what I cannot manage for myself, though, do I not?’ Lucas grinned at the easily construed suspicion in Mary’s eyes. ‘So, I shall ask again, Mary. Where have you been, since yesterday, when I awoke.’

‘Oh, since yesterday. Sleeping, for the most part,’ she said.

‘All day? Until now?’

‘Well, not quite until now. I did eat. Speaking of which—’ she removed the cover from the bowl on the tray ‘—you should eat this before it gets cold.’

Lucas peered at the contents of the bowl and grimaced. ‘You must have been very tired.’ He picked up the spoon with little enthusiasm.

‘I cannot deny it was a relief to sleep in a bed again.’ Mary cast a meaningful look at the chair by the side of his bed.

Remorse nudged Lucas. Hadn’t Trant said that Mary had barely left his side whilst he had been ill? He had been lying here, frustrated by her absence, without a thought as to what she and the rest of his household had been through.

‘How often did you sit with me, Mary?’

‘Every night, my lord.’

‘For pity’s sake, stop “my lord”-ing me. You are not a servant.’

‘What should I call you then, my l...sir?’

‘I should prefer Lucas, but I have no doubt you will deem it improper, Sensible Mary. And, in that case, sir will do.’

‘Yes...sir,’ she said, her lids lowering, but not before he glimpsed her expression. She clearly didn’t appreciate the nickname as it wasn’t the first time she had shown resentment at his use of it. But he had more pressing issues on his mind.

‘You stayed here for four nights running? All night? With no relief?’ he growled, vexed to think his servants would take such advantage.

‘It was my idea to sit with you during the night,’ she blurted out, with an anxious glance that piqued his curiosity.

Why was she suddenly on edge? Was she worried about his reaction to her answers? He knew she was not timid. What had he said to prompt this change?

As he watched she visibly took control of her emotions, drawing an audible breath before saying in a firm voice: ‘It was the least I could do, with everyone else so busy every day. You are not to blame Mrs Lindley or the others, for I insisted.’

He raised a brow. Come, this is a bit more feisty. Good for you, Mary.

‘And did you not sleep—in a bed—during the day?’

‘I find it impossible to sleep in the daytime.’

Her lids drooped, concealing her thoughts again. Lucas suppressed his frustration. He could not fathom her lightning changes in mood. Why was she so guarded?

He turned his attention to his food. ‘Do I really have to eat this...this...stuff?’ He poked at the gruel with the spoon.

‘The doctor said gruel is all you’re allowed. For now,’ she added quickly as she sent another anxious glance in his direction.

Why did she react as though she expected him to fly into a rage at any moment? What, or who, had caused her to view him with such trepidation? Had the servants warned her that his mood was, at times, on a knife’s edge?

And can I blame them if they have? He was aware his temper had been unpredictable of late, despite his best efforts to conceal his worries.

Lucas forced the scowl from his brow and relaxed his jaw, determined to coax Mary into a more relaxed frame of mind.

He eyed the bowl of gruel again, then looked at Mary, raising a brow as he smiled his best winning smile. Mary returned his look, her suspicion again clear.

‘It is too difficult to feed myself. I haven’t enough strength,’ he said, his voice a weak croak. ‘Please help me, dearest Mary.’

Mary pursed her lips, regarding him with narrowed eyes, then huffed a sigh as she sat on the edge of the bed and took the spoon from his slack grasp. Her wariness had vanished. His strategy had worked.

She dipped the spoon into the gruel and lifted it towards his mouth. Swiftly, he captured her hand, registering the tremor of her slender fingers as he did so.

‘Take care, Mary,’ he chided. ‘You almost spilt some. I will steady your hand.’

He retained his hold as he guided the spoon to his mouth, relishing the sensation. As his lips closed around the bowl of the spoon, he looked at her, pleased with the success of his strategy as he saw the hint of a blush stain her cheeks and a smile hover on those luscious lips, although he still read caution in her beautiful blue eyes: caution and the merest hint of desire that promptly set his pulse soaring. He forced the gruel down, tearing his eyes from hers in an attempt to dampen his wayward urges once more.

Chapter Five

Mary’s blood quickened as she fought to control her reaction to Rothley’s touch. She felt the colour rise into her cheeks as her eyes met his and she was afraid he would read the desire the mere touch of his fingers had awakened deep within her.

She watched as he swallowed the gruel. The moment he released her hand, she snatched it away and replaced the spoon in the bowl.

‘Perhaps if I hold the bowl for you?’ she suggested, lifting it and holding it level with his chest.

Her eyes kept straying to the dark curls just visible in the open neck of his nightshirt. Determinedly, she fixed her gaze on his face. He appeared to have temporarily forgotten his questions, but she was sure he would revisit the subject sooner or later. Her brain scrambled in an effort to invent a convincing story that did not reveal the existence of her children, but it was hard to concentrate on anything other than Rothley.

‘This is disgusting,’ he said, as he pushed his bowl away. ‘Have you tried it, Mary?’

‘No, but it is not I who has been ill. You must know it is good for you—it is all your stomach can cope with, after eating nothing for days. And if you do not eat, your strength will take longer to return and you will have to remain confined to your bed. Please, try and eat a wee bit.’

As he ate another spoonful, Mary pondered her physical reaction to him. Why did she still desire him, despite the tales of his past? There was no room for such a man in her life, not even for a short time. She was a mother with responsibilities and she would not expose her children to another man who resented their very existence.

To be fair, although Rothley had been a touch tetchy—and could he be blamed after what had happened?—there had been no angry outbursts such as she had been led to expect. At least, not yet, but then her father had never been as bad when sober. It was only when drunk... Mary suppressed a shudder at the memory. She recalled the stench of alcohol when she had found Rothley. Had he been drunk that day?

She had, out of necessity, become adept at avoiding confrontation, whether with her father or, more recently, with Michael, whose temper had spiralled in tandem with his drinking. He had become ever more violent and the more Mary had been forced to adopt the role of appeaser, the more she had resented the necessity to repress her own feelings in order to pacify him.

Was the pattern set to continue whilst she remained at the Hall? And what about when she and the children arrived at her old home? Her father was unlikely to welcome her with open arms after she had shamed him by running away on the eve of her seventeenth birthday. Yet again she questioned her wisdom in going back, but what other choice did she have? Homelessness and starvation? The workhouse? No choice at all. At least she would be there to protect her children. There had been no one to stand between Mary and her father when he turned to drink after her mother had died.

Were there no men, she wondered, with something akin to despair, who did not believe it their right to intimidate and abuse those who had no choice but to pander to their every whim?

‘Mary, Mary...’

The quiet words pierced her reverie and she came back to the present with a gasp.

‘Will you tell me what you were thinking about?’ he asked, then smiled ruefully. ‘No, of course you won’t. But you looked so very solemn, Mary, sitting there, your thoughts turned inwards, your face so very sad. Can I not help? What is it that fills your eyes with such dread?’

A lump formed in her throat, but she was determined not to cry. She stretched her lips in a smile.

‘It is of no matter, my l...sir,’ she answered. She glanced down and saw he had hardly touched his food. ‘Please eat,’ she said. ‘It must be cold by now and that will not improve the taste, I can assure you. The doctor will be pleased if we can report you are eating well when he next visits.’

‘The doctor? You mean Robert Preece? How many times has he visited?’

‘Every day whilst you were fevered, sir.’

Rothley’s jaw tightened as his brow lowered.

Mary tried to quell her trickle of unease. Why should you imagine he’s angry with you? For heaven’s sake, stop being such a ninny! Her disquiet remained, however.

‘His last visit was yesterday morning, a short time before you awoke,’ she added.

Rothley said no more, but finished his gruel, his expression growing more and more disgusted. He settled back with a sigh. Mary busied herself with clearing away the tray, her awareness of his dark gaze following her making her slow and clumsy in her task.

‘Come, Mary, leave that and sit down—’ glancing over, Mary saw Rothley slant a knowing grin at her ‘—on the chair, if you prefer. I would know more of the mysterious lady who happened to be walking through my woods at the very time I had need of her.’

His expression said it all: he knew precisely the effect he was having upon her. Her resolve steadied as she remained where she stood. Did he believe she would fall at his feet in response to his manly allure and handsome countenance? Mayhap he had reason to so believe, after that kiss, but he would find she was made of sterner stuff, she vowed. She would not allow her treacherous body to dictate her relationship with this man.

‘There is naught to tell, sir. I was passing through. There is no mystery.’

‘Where is your destination? Is there no one to worry over your non-arrival?’

Mary laughed and, even to her ears, it had a bitter sound. ‘There is no one to worry over me. I am in no hurry to leave.’

Rothley indicated the chair by the bedside. ‘Please...sit down, Mary.’ He waited until she sat before saying, ‘You still have not revealed your destination, which leads me to wonder why?’

Mary twisted her hands in her lap. How much could she divulge without letting slip the existence of the children? Mrs Lindley and Ellen had both urged her to conceal their presence from Rothley, but had not said why he was so opposed to the idea of children at the Hall. Nor was she inclined to reveal her family name, given the past acquaintance between their fathers.

‘I do not go there by choice,’ she said. ‘I have no alternative.’

‘You claim there is no mystery, yet I find myself more mystified every time we speak. If it gives you no pleasure to go to this place, why go? Why did you not remain in...wherever it is you have travelled from...and find employment there?’

‘I could not remain there, sir.’ It was a weak reply, but Mary could think of no other. She could read the scepticism in his eyes.

‘If you will not tell me your destination, tell me where you have travelled from, Mary, and why.’

‘I am a widow, sir...’

‘That much I do know.’

‘You asked me a question. Be pleased to permit me to answer.’ She was determined not to be cowed by him.

He grinned at her, unabashed. ‘My apologies, Sensible Mary. Please, do continue.’

Mary took a deep breath. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Why should she be ashamed of escaping the dreadful fate her father had planned for her?