Dilemma in Yellow Silk (18 page)

Marcus could protect her just as easily if they continued with their fake betrothal. But when he’d seen her face tonight when Julius had told her about her father, he’d changed his mind.

He wanted her, and he wanted to be the only person to take care of her. He wanted that right. Even now, the thought of her going to bed alone, sleeping alone, tore him apart. She needed someone to hold her, to comfort her.

It would be him. “I will persuade her to marry me.” He got to his feet and faced his parents, who were sitting together by the cold fireplace. “I’m sorry if it isn’t what you wanted for me, but I want to marry Viola.”

His mother sighed. “I knew it. Until you were nine years old, she followed you around like a puppy. We could see it happening. We knew who she was. I did not want that for my son. Had she been the daughter of our estate manager, we might have allowed the friendship and see where it led, but we could not. Where she went, danger followed.”

His father added, “We would do anything except that. Except give up our son.”

Marcus spun around to walk away but then turned back to them. “Yet it has happened. And it will.”

Certain now, he returned to his seat and tried to appear as he always did, concerned but in control. But he was not. He would put his hands around the next person to hurt her and throttle the life out of him. He was very much afraid he would enjoy doing so. “Do you have a plan?”

Julius nodded. “Of sorts. It is clear we must discover who is responsible for this attack. Once we know, we may behave accordingly. The Dankworths’ interest will end when you marry Viola, since she will be of no further use to them. Either that, or they will try to kill you and free her once more.”

Even that prospect did not daunt Marcus. He would stand between Viola and any number of bullets. He nodded. “Go on.”

“The Young Pretender will want to kill her, and that is all. Just wipe her out of existence. When he met Claudia’s husband, Dominic made sure he had insurance. The Young Pretender couldn’t rid himself of him with impunity. We could do that for Viola. If she is killed, we will ensure certain facts are made public. St. Just did not care; he only wanted them to leave him alone. He would have released the documents to the press. We have longer-term issues. Politically, that could be a disastrous move and push the country into the civil war we are doing our best to avoid.”

Marcus had a thought. “If St. Just is a son, he takes precedence over Viola in any claim to the throne.”

“He does indeed,” Julius answered, “But she can bear children who will be a threat. And if the children gather together, they can show the government they are more responsible, younger, and fitter than the current claimants. It is still possible Prince George will not inherit the throne, if his grandfather does not live a little longer. Bute as Regent would split the country.”

Lord Bute, reputedly the lover of the widowed Princess of Wales, Prince George’s mother, was a political agitator. He had the Princess and her family firmly under his thumb. In the eyes of many people, the man had no scruples and no principles. If the King died while Prince George was still a minor, Bute would become far too powerful. In that case, prominent politicians could well look elsewhere for a less troublesome heir, one with strong Whig principles. Like Viscount St. Just, the only legitimate son of the Old Pretender they had yet discovered.

Dear God, this was complicated! Marcus had never enjoyed playing politics. He was not about to do so now. “I will marry Viola, but not to bend her to my will. She must do as she sees fit and act as her conscience dictates.”

Julius glared at him, but nodded. “As long as you take all the factors into consideration. This country will hurtle back into war before too long. Everyone knows that—everyone in power, at any rate. Weakening the country will only feed into that danger.”

Too much for Marcus to consider. “Then we will pray for guidance.” He meant it. Sometimes in the dead of night, with his mind at rest, an answer would come to him of a problem that had been troubling him for some time. Such as that night with Viola. He watched her sleeping and came to the realization he wanted her, whoever she was and whatever she represented. He had protected her against the teasing of his siblings when he was a boy. Perhaps the strong desire to protect her had started then. Whenever it had begun, it wasn’t going to go away now.

“You deal with the politics, but know my first consideration is Viola and her safety. Nothing else.”

Julius nodded. “Fair enough.”

His father sighed. “You always were a stubborn boy.”

Dru sighed too. “I wish I could find someone like you for my own, Marcus.”

“I’m your brother. I will always care for you and protect you.”

“Out of duty,” Livia said. “Not from love. The kind of love a man has for a woman, not a brother for a sister.”

Marcus opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but thought better of it. He would allow them to believe he married Viola out of love. He would not tell them he did not love her.

At least he thought he did not love her.

* * * *

Viola could not sleep. She’d churned the crisp white sheets into a mass of creases and lumps as she’d tossed and turned. At first she’d cried, unable to stop, and then she’d risen and bathed her face, taking a clean handkerchief back to bed. She considered lighting the candles in the sconces above her head, the ones built into the headboard, and then changed her mind. She might fall asleep with them burning and wake up to singed sheets or worse.

So much had happened. She would be tired, but her change of circumstance had confused and distressed her. If she had been the daughter of the estate manager in truth, she’d have expected to move to Scarborough and make way for the new employee. She’d have a small income. It would be enough to keep her and a small staff and to form a dowry, should she meet a gentleman desirous of her hand.

She doubted Marcus could arrange a marriage between them as fast as he supposed. Perhaps he was thinking of a time before the Hardwicke Act, when marriages were more of an impulsive affair. It took time these days, at least three weeks.

Her father would have liked to see her married. All those evenings sitting with him in their parlor, him reading, her stitching or reading the latest novel to come her way, they would chat about life. In many ways her father had been her best friend. Perhaps it was best to think of him that way.

Someone had killed him to get to her. He had given his life for her.

The tears came again, pouring anew. She didn’t seem to be able to control them.

Without warning, her door opened. She did not look up. Perhaps Dru or Livia had come to comfort her.

But that deep voice didn’t belong to either of them. He spoke her name and she turned her head to look at him, tears blurring her eyes. Then, with a curse, he dragged back the sheets and climbed into bed with her, pulling her into his arms.

Too unhappy to protest, she sobbed against his chest. He murmured to her, soothing words that meant little but sent rumbles of sound through his chest. She tried to stop, but only cried harder, and as he had done downstairs, he pushed a handkerchief into her hand.

She mopped her eyes and blew her nose. “I’m sorry. I must look a mess.”

“I don’t care what you look like. You’re not driving me away. Try to sleep, sweetheart.”

She loved it when he called her that. “You should not be here.”

“I couldn’t stay away. You need someone with you. Me.”

When she felt better, she would send him away. Surrendering to the warmth he always brought to her, she allowed herself to relax into his arms.

Much to her shock, he was still there when she awoke. Light filtered through the gap in the curtains, a bright shaft of it falling across the bed. He was still holding her, and he was snoring, not at all gently.

The masculine sound made her smile when she thought she would not smile again for a long time.

When she moved, he woke up. Blinking the sleep away, he smiled down at her. “Good morning.”

“You should not be here,” she said. “The maid will be in soon.”

He lifted himself on one arm and glanced across the room. “She has already been in. She left a tray.”

She followed his gaze. Steam rose from a silver pot. The maid had brought tea. It all felt so natural that she was deceived, but only for a moment. “Scandal?”

He touched his lips to her forehead. “No. We are marrying as soon as I can contrive it.”

“But that won’t be for three weeks!”

“Today or tomorrow. No later.”

Shocked, she stared up at him. “We cannot marry for three weeks, surely?”

“I will set out for Doctor’s Commons this morning, to obtain a special license. Then we may marry when and where we like. Officially we may not marry for twenty-four hours after the license is issued, but I will do my best to counter that.”

Now he had truly shocked her. “You cannot want this.” She wanted no sacrifice.

He hugged her closer to his hard—aroused—body. “Can you really doubt it? I can wait no longer to have you in my bed. You will make an excellent countess, and you have plenty of time to learn how to be a good marchioness.”

Not her.

“You are marrying down,” he reminded her.

“Not in the eyes of society.”

With an impatience she marked as not at all customary, he said, “Hang society! You are far more important. What gossip there might be we will live down or ignore. You will be an Emperor and under our protection.”

She felt particularly protected at the moment and could not resist snuggling into his strength. Sometimes she would need it, and today she did. “Can we not wait?”

“No.”

She had expected a discussion, but he refused to give her one.

“You said yes, and I want you with me as soon as possible. Now kiss me, and I’ll fetch the tea.”

Not at all shy, she reached up as he dipped his head and their mouths met. After a kiss of greeting, he drew away.

He climbed out of bed, his nightshirt rumpled. Sometime in the night she’d lost her nightcap, but she didn’t waste time hunting for it. Since her nighttime braids were also loose, she suspected the man who had shared her bed had a lot to do with that.

He brought the tea, but climbed back into bed and settled himself, his back against the padded headboard before he passed her a cup. “Now drink up, and then I’ll leave you to dress.”

“I should wear black.” Not being a saint, she thought wistfully of the pretty clothes the sisters had brought yesterday. She would have to put them aside.

“A black armband will suffice,” he said. “We will have blacks made for you for public appearances, but you will not be going into public much.”

“No.” She could not, because of her father. She had no desire to do so.

“And not today or tomorrow,” he reminded her. “We will officially hear the sad news the day after tomorrow. Julius only heard this early because Tranmere rode
ventre à terre
to bring him the news. Even though the stage was slower than private transport, the coachman made good time, so we can expect the news to arrive more slowly. We will marry first, before we go into mourning.”

“We?”

“Gates was a distant relative, brought closer by our union,” he said firmly. He took a sip of his tea. “But I will have you close, so put your mind at rest about that. The decision is out of your hands.”

Her grief had ameliorated to a dull sadness today. Only when she thought of it—she would never see her father again, sit with him in the evenings, or discuss the affairs of the estate—did a sharp pain bring tears. Not being a person who enjoyed torturing herself, she would avoid that until she could think of those happy memories without weeping.

Her father would be pleased for her, and she would do her best to do him justice.

Not that she would not miss him. Sudden recollections of him would not bring the tears for some time, but she had to face what lay ahead with as whole a heart as possible.

Marcus was as good as his word. Once he had drunk his tea—telling that two tea-dishes were on the tray the maid had brought in—he kissed her and left her. When she would have prolonged the embrace, he gently disengaged.

“I meant to bring you comfort, nothing else,” he told her.

But she had felt his erection beneath his nightshirt and knew he still desired her. He had refrained for her sake, and he was right. They should not make love fully in the wake of such sad news. She did not want her first experience of full lovemaking to be comforting rather than passionate.

She spent the morning trying on the new clothes, standing still while her new maid stuck pins into the fabric and occasionally into her. Then Drusilla surprised her by bouncing into the room and asking her how soon she could be ready.

“We have ordered a visit from the mantua-makers,” she said firmly. “You need so many new things. We would go out, but Marcus has ordered you stay indoors.”

A pang of regret struck Viola when she realized she might have no clothes at all, except what lay here. The thieves had destroyed their belongings, which probably included her wardrobe. Her life as she had known it had emphatically ended.

So Marcus had ordered, had he? “Is he always so autocratic?”

“Sometimes.” Dru tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. “But not as firmly as I heard him this morning. He was most emphatic.”

Of course, she could not venture outdoors, not without a veritable phalanx of footmen to protect her. Someone wanted her dead. Or captured. They were still no closer discovering what the consequences of their wedding might be, and she suspected Marcus of planning a busy day for her.

The mantua-maker brought bolts of cloth, lace, and trimmings, and quite turned Viola’s head. She was so busy deciding what she would have and which trim should adorn which fabric she had little time left to think of her current problems. But think she must. Not until the cobbler had come and measured her feet, and then a milliner arrived to fit her for new hats. “We may order underwear and stockings without fittings,” she said, although even that gave her pause. It appeared that a lot of effort went into being a lady. Also, a great deal of money. Not that she was allowed to think about that. Even when she demanded the cost of an item, the mantua-maker was extremely reticent to disclose the answer, discussing discounts and patronage as reasons.