Authors: Charis Michaels
She was taken entirely off guard. One moment he was shouting at the heavens and the next, he carried her. She barely managed an outraged squeak. When she found her arms and legs, aching though they were, she kicked. She pummeled. She made every ineffectual effort to pull away. She wanted him to touch her, but not like this.
“Put me down,” she said, squirming, “I’ve told you I can walk.”
He ignored her and stared sternly ahead, plodding toward the manor house.
“Trevor,” she repeated. “I said, put me down. Oh, why must you make everything more difficult than it needs to be?”
He shook his head and continued forward, refusing to even look at her. Piety shoved him once more and then sighed deeply, wincing at the pain in her ribs.
She gave up. The will to fight was gone. She could not take on his stubbornness, his black mood, and his strength to hold her. Most of all, she could not fight her own will to resist him. She lay her head on his shoulder.
It was hardly an embrace—more of a sturdy haul than anything else—but it was a closeness just the same. It felt familiar, warm, and safe. She snuggled deeper, turning into his shoulder and breathing in the smell of him: leather, sweat, and
him
. She looped her aching arms around his neck and held on tightly, drawing herself closer with each jostle and jut. If he noticed her shift, he gave no indication. He strode on, blazing up the path, across the green, and clipping up the steps to the rear terrace of Garnettgate.
When the sound of his footfalls turned from gravelly crunch to paved stone, Piety tentatively raised her head and peeked at the advancing house in the distance. The first thing she saw was mid-morning tea. The marchioness was there with Tiny and Jocelyn. Several servants stood sentry.
Oh, God, I cannot.
The thought of a spectacle in front of everyone, of having them see her sullied, helpless, discouraged, was mortification renewed. She returned her face to Falcondale’s chest and whispered, “Please, Trevor, no. Can you take me in the side door? To my room?” She could not face them in this condition. She would rather die than frighten them or seem anything less than happy and in control.
“No, I cannot,” he said. “The marchioness will fetch a doctor directly, but first she must know why. And I must speak to your mother.”
T
he marchioness spotted them before Trevor reached the terrace with Piety in his arms. “Falcondale! Must you now carry her? Is it not enough that the two of you pass every waking moment joined at the elbow, with hands clasped, mooning at each other wherever you go?” The marchioness paused in her tirade. “Good God, is that blood?”
Next came the screech of chairs and hurried footsteps. They had been taking some refreshment in the bright, crisp morning sun. Miss Breedlowe hurried toward them, concern etching her forehead. “Piety! What’s happened? My lord, but she is wounded?”
They were upon them then, pawing and patting. In his arms, Piety refused to look up.
Through his haze of anger and fear, Trevor managed to bite out a working sentence. “Miss Grey requires the attention of a doctor.”
The marchioness dispatched a footman to fetch the doctor, while Miss Breedlowe and Tiny tugged gently at her, trying to discover the source of her injuries. He did not put her down. It was possible, he thought angrily, that he would never put her down again.
Piety held to him, hiding her face, while her friends attended to her with wet napkins and gentle fingers. Someone loosened her shoes. Her face was burrowed so deeply in his chest, he worried the wool of his vest would chafe her skin. He leaned down, whispering endearments, promising he would take her inside as soon as he’d seen her mother. She whimpered.
“I require an audience with Mrs. Grey-Limpett,” Trevor told Lady Frinfrock. “Immediately.”
The marchioness studied them both. “Fetch the American,” she told a footman. “She’s just returned from the village.”
“Also,” continued Trevor, “Mr. Limpett can likely be found bleeding upon the floor of your chapel.”
She looked in the direction of the chapel and then back to the earl. “Let him bleed,” she said. “What’s happened, Falcondale? Are her legs broken? Can you not put her down?”
Piety finally reared her head, and there was a collective gasp at the sight of her battered face. Trevor could barely look at the gathering bruises and cut lip without charging back up to the chapel to finish what he had begun. He would not insult her by looking away, but he closed his eyes and pressed a soft kiss to a rising welt on her forehead.
The marchioness was the first to speak. “Miss Breedlowe, I ask you, what manner of chaperoning is this? I’m beginning to think you are as unfit as the Americans claim. I thought you said the girl went alone to the chapel to pray.”
“But that was her intention.” Miss Breedlowe was nearly in tears. She gently smoothed the fabric of Piety’s torn gown.
“I suppose you cannot be blamed,” continued the marchioness, “but it must be said: The girl cannot be safely left alone, even for a moment. Bleeding and wounded and carried around like a battlefield casualty? What are the servants to think? Their gawking is epidemic as is. This house will be the talk of the county.”
Behind them, the door to the terrace swung outward, admitting Mrs. Grey-Limpett to the sun. Piety ducked her head, hiding in Trevor’s chest. There was silence. Miss Breedlowe and Tiny shuffled back.
“Am I to be made to guess?” Mrs. Limpett asked.
Trevor gritted his teeth, jostling Piety in his arms. “Try again, madam,” he said.
“My, God, Piety, what have you done now? Will your theatrics never cease? Whatever is afoot, I can assure you that no one is amused.”
Trevor made a growling sound low in his chest and then said, “Because you seem unable or unwilling to explore the circumstances for yourself, allow me to enlighten you. Your daughter has been beaten.”
Idelle sighed. “Yes, yes, but you do not know her as I do. Mark my words, the sooner you cease fussing over her, the sooner we will hear some very far-fetched and unlikely reason. Will you not put her down, Falcondale? It is ridiculous to carry her.”
“Ridiculous?” he asked, hoisting Piety higher. “Pray, let me show you ridiculous.”
While the assembled women watched, he carried her damaged body to her mother. Piety whimpered and clung more tightly, but he whispered, “I’m so sorry, darling, but she forces my hand.”
“No, please don’t make me face her.” She cried softly. “She will twist it. She will mock me.”
“Please, Piety,” he said quietly, kneeling beside a chair and settling her in it. “Their abuse persists because no one has ever brought them to heel. But that stops today. Now. You must show her. Let her see what you have endured.” He brought her hands from around his neck. “This will be the sort of unflinching courage that demonstrates your strength, not weakness. I am here, but you can do this.”
She resisted a moment more, but then he felt her release. She nodded against his shoulder. “Only for a moment,” she said.
“Of course.” He stood and stepped back. Piety, God love her, raised her chin and stared at her mother through her swollen eye.
Her friends tsked and cried out when they saw her face again; even her mother could not suppress her shock.
“Look, madam,” Trevor said, “at the damage wrought by your stepson. The man you would have your daughter marry. Eli Limpett has done this.”
“But that is impossible. You lie, sir. Eli prizes Piety above all! He loves her.”
“It’s no lie,” Trevor said simply. “Either the liar is you, or you have been shamefully deceived. I came upon Miss Grey and Limpett in the Garnettgate chapel. I heard a commotion and ran inside. Limpett had her pinned against the side of the church with brute force. He struck her three times before I could reach them. The violence says nothing of the railing, the profanity, and the ungodly names he called her, issuing every manner of insult, not to mention what damage he may have done before I was within earshot.”
Piety had ducked her head and turned away, and Trevor stepped forward and kneeled beside her chair once more, taking up her hands. Her mother had seen enough.
“What say you now, Mrs. Limpett?” he asked. “Do you see theatrics in this? Entertainment?”
“I say, fairness dictates that we hear Eli’s side of the tale.”
Trevor shook his head. “He may spout defenses until the Christ returns, but he may never approach Miss Grey again.” The words were out before he fully considered them.
“The devil you say!” Mrs. Limpett shouted. “You have no authority to rule over my daughter’s encounters!”
No,
he thought,
but I will.
And in that moment, he made up his mind. There was no other way.
He jerked his head at Tiny, who, along with Miss Breedlowe, rushed to Piety’s side.
“Perhaps not,” he said, rising to advance on her mother, “but you might as well know,
everyone
might as well know. Beginning this moment, it is with
absolute authority
that I rule over Miss Grey and everything to do with her.”
Idelle laughed. “You may carry her—bloody and doe-eyed—around the castle grounds, sir, putting on quite a show, but you are by no means her keeper.”
He glanced at Piety. She had pushed her friends aside. Her face was filled with questions.
“No, madam,” he said, taking a step backward, “not her keeper. But as soon as I can get a license, I will be her husband.”
It was, quite possibly, the most inarticulate proposal ever uttered, and it was met by stunned silence.
He risked a glance at Piety. She’d sat up in the chair, her bloodied mouth open, one of her hands frozen, halfway to her face. He was just about to order Miss Breedlowe to settle her, when her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fainted.
“I
refuse to speak of her future until she comes to,” Trevor told Idelle Limpett fifteen minutes later in the marchioness’s salon. “Do not ask again.”
The woman gasped, but he ignored her, standing over Piety, watching her breathe in and out, telling himself again that marrying her was the only conceivable course of action. Telling himself that, if handled correctly, marrying her would mean the least amount of bother for both of them and the most effective means of getting rid of the Limpetts forever.
Obviously, the idea had come as quite a shock to Piety. But when she came to, she would see the practicality of it. She had to see. The alternative was no longer an option.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Idelle Limpett asked the marchioness, “would you be so kind as to educate my colonial ignorance? Can marriage to the earl make my daughter a . . . a countess?”
Insatiable pit of nerve
, he thought, glancing over his shoulder. “Do not begin polishing your coronet yet, madam, I am an earl, but my wealth is negligible. The previous earl drove the estate into debt, and I am only now digging it out. You may view me as a gentleman scholar and nothing more. Your daughter brings far more wealth to the union than me.”
Mrs. Limpett gasped, her eyes grew large, and she clutched the arm of a chair. “So you admit it. You pursue my daughter merely to gain her fortune?”
“I admit to pursuing your daughter to protect her from you,” he countered. “And because I enjoy her company. Other than that, I’ve said I do not wish to discuss it.”
“You’ll forgive me for pointing out that I find your entire, impromptu courtship to be wholly suspect. And now to hear about your financial situation?” She looked around, concerned. “I cannot believe no one has yet mentioned this.”
“How ironic,” he said. “Piety speaks of your financial circumstance all the time.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Bear in mind, my lord, that you claimed to hardly know her in London, while now you are her devoted suitor. Now you carry her around, bloody and battered. You suffer some altercation with my stepson, who is your chief competitor for her interests.”
“Speculate all you like,” Trevor said, “but know this: the man hit your daughter in the face—repeatedly—and then nearly disgraced her against the wall of a church. He received exactly what he deserved. I don’t care what you believe about my regard for Piety or our courtship, but please understand that I am deadly serious about what I saw and the action I chose to take—and will take again—if ever I detect the slightest provocation.”
“My concern at the moment is for your seriousness to this engagement, my lord,” Mrs. Limpett said. “Rage and bluster all you must about your own heroics, but I hope you understand that the
announcement
of an engagement will do very little, indeed, to put my mind at ease about Piety’s future. Whatever you two have cooked up, a lot of ghoulish theatrics if you ask me—”
“You, madam, are heartless,” Trevor said.
“Call me names if you wish,” she continued, “but keep in mind that we will be
disinclined
to leave Piety unattended until we see a wedding in deed.
Not
the
promise
of a wedding.”
“Why, pray, is it so hard to believe I would want your daughter?”
“Falcondale, please.” The marchioness gestured toward Piety.
There was a rustling from the chaise lounge, and Trevor heard a weak voice ask, “Oh, God, please tell me I didn’t swoon.”
All heads turned to Piety. She tried to sit up, but Miss Breedlowe and her maid rushed to urge her back. Trevor held himself in check but only barely.
Seeing her, hearing her,
hurting
on behalf of the damage to her beautiful face, made his promise of marriage easier to accept. There was no other way. A wedding was imminent—but heartbreak need not be. Not if he stopped allowing himself to indulge in her affection. Not if he stopped
pretending
to pretend to be her lover. Now they could not be lovers at all.
He could not touch her. Ever again. Not in affection. Not to care for her wounds. Not to give or, God forbid, receive any sort of comfort. And certainly not in desire. It was the only way to navigate a marriage that they later planned to dissolve.