How to Marry a Marquis (27 page)

"What did you do?" he asked softly.

"I made it look like a hunting accident," she whispered. "I dragged his body out to the woods.

Everybody knew he was a hunter. No one suspected it was anything else, or if they did, they never said anything."

"You dragged him?' he asked in disbelief. "Was your father a small man? I mean, you're quite petite, and-"

"He was about your height, although a bit thinner. I don't know where I got the strength," she said, shaking her head. "Born of pure terror, I suppose. I didn't want the children to know what he'd done." She looked up, the expression in her eyes suddenly unsure. "They still don't know."

He squeezed her hand.

"I've tried not to speak ill of him."

"And you've been shouldering this burden for five years," he said softly. "Secrets are heavy, Elizabeth. They're hard to carry alone."

Her shoulders rose and fell in a weary shrug. "Maybe I did the wrong thing. But I panicked. I didn't know what else to do."

"It sounds as if you did exactly what needed to be done."

"He was buried in consecrated ground," she said in a flat voice. "According to the church-according to everyone but me-it wasn't a suicide. Everyone kept offering condolences, calling it such a tragedy, and it was all 1 could do not to scream out the truth."

She twisted her head to face him. Her eyes were wet and glistening, the exact color of violets. "I hated that he was made to sound a hero. I was the one to hide his suicide, and yet I wanted to tell everyone that he was a coward, that he had left me to pick up his pieces. I wanted to shake them and shake them and shake them and make them stop saying what a good father he was. Because

he wasn't." Her voice grew low and fierce. "He wasn't a good father. We were nuisances. He only wanted Mama. He never wanted us."

"I'm sorry," James whispered, taking her hand.

"It's not your fault."

He smiled, trying to coax one from her in return. "I know, but I'm still sorry."

Her lips quivered-almost a smile, but not quite. "Isn't it ironic? You'd think that love is a good thing, wouldn't you?"

"Love is a good thing, Elizabeth." And he meant it. He meant it more than he ever could have dreamed he would.

She shook her head. "My parents loved too much. There simply wasn't enough left over for the rest of us. And when Mama was gone-well, we just couldn't take her place."

"That is not your fault," James said, his eyes searching hers with mesmerizing intensity. "There's no limit on love. If your father's heart wasn't big enough for his whole family, that means he was flawed, not you. If he'd been any sort of a man, he would have realized that his children were miraculous extensions of his love for your mother. And he would have had the strength to go on without her."

Elizabeth digested his words, letting them sink slowly into her heart. She knew he was right, knew that her father's weaknesses were his weaknesses, not hers.

But it was so damned hard to accept it. She looked up at James, who was staring at her with the kindest, warmest eyes she'd ever seen. "Your parents must have loved each other very much,"

she said softly.

James drew back in surprise. "My parents ..." he said slowly. "Theirs was not a love match."

"Oh," she said softly. "But maybe that's for the best. After all, my parents-"

"What your father did," James interrupted, "was wrong and weak and cowardly.

What my father did ..."

Elizabeth saw the pain in his eyes and squeezed his hands.

"What my father did," he whispered savagely, "should earn him a place in hell."

Elizabeth felt her mouth go dry. "What do you mean?"

There was a long silence, and when James finally spoke, his voice was very strange. "I was six when my mother died."

She held silent.

"They told me she fell down the stairs. Broke her neck. Such a tragedy, they all said."

"Oh, no." The words slipped from Elizabeth's lips.

James turned his head abruptly to face her. "She always tried to tell me she was clumsy, but I'd seen her dance. She used to hum as she waltzed partnerless through the music room. She was the most beautiful, graceful woman I've ever seen. Sometimes she'd pick me up and waltz with me

resting on her hip."

Elizabeth tried to comfort him with a smile. "I used to do that with Lucas."

James shook his head. "She wasn't clumsy. She never walked into a sconce or knocked over a candle. He hurt her, Elizabeth. He hurt her every damned day."

She swallowed, her lower lip catching between her teeth. Suddenly his uncontrollable rage at Fellport made a touch more sense. The anger was more than two decades old. It had been

simmering far too long.

"Did he-did he hurt you?" she whispered.

He gave his head a little shake. "Never. I was the heir. He used to remind her of that all the time.

She was worthless now that she'd given him me. She may have been his wife, but I was his

blood."

A shiver rushed down Elizabeth's spine, and she knew he was quoting words he'd heard far too many times.

"And he used me," James continued. His eyes had grown flat, and his large, strong hands were trembling. "He used me to further his rages against her. He never agreed with her methods of parenting. If he saw her hugging me or comforting me when I cried, he flew into a fury. She was coddling me, he would yell. She would turn me into a weakling."

"Oh, James." Elizabeth reached out and stroked his hair. She couldn't help herself. She'd never known anyone so in need of human comfort.

"And so I learned not to cry." He shook his head despairingly. "And after a while I pulled away from her embraces. If he couldn't catch her hugging me, maybe he would stop hitting her."

"But he didn't stop, did he?"

"No. There was always a reason she needed to be put in her place. And eventually-" His breath whooshed out on a raw and shaky exhale. "Eventually he decided her place was at the bottom of the stairs."

Elizabeth felt something hot on her cheeks, and it was only then that she realized she was

crying. "What happened to you?"

"That," James replied, his voice growing slightly stronger, "is perhaps the only bright spot in the story. My aunt-my mother's sister-came and snatched me away.

I think she'd always suspected that my mother was mistreated, but she'd never dreamed it was as bad as it was. Much later, she told me that she would be damned if she was going to let my father start in on me."

"Do you think he would have?"

"I don't know. I was still valuable. His only heir. But he needed someone to abuse, and with Mama gone ..." He shrugged.

"Your aunt must be a very special woman."

He looked over at her, wanting more than anything to tell her the truth, but he couldn't. Not yet.

"She is," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "She saved me. As sure as if she pulled me from a burning building, she saved me."

Elizabeth touched his cheek. "She must have taught you how to be happy."

"She kept trying to hug me," he said. "That first year, she tried to show me love, and I kept pulling away. I thought my uncle would beat her if she held me." He raked his hand through his hair, a short, angry laugh escaping his lips. "Can you believe that?"

"How could you have thought anything else?" Elizabeth asked quietly. "Your father was the only man you knew."

"She taught me how to love." He let out a short, staccato breath. "I'm still not up to snuff at forgiveness, but I do know love."

"Your father doesn't deserve forgiveness," she said. "I have always tried to follow God's sermons, and I know that we're meant to turn the other cheek, but your father doesn't deserve it."

James was silent for a moment, and then he turned to her and said, "He died when I was twenty.

I didn't attend the funeral."

It was the ultimate insult a child could aim at a parent.

Elizabeth nodded with grim approval. "Did you see him as you were growing up?'

"I had to on occasion. It was unavoidable. I was his son. Legally, my aunt hadn't a leg to stand on. But she was strong, and she cowed him. He'd never met a woman who stood up to him

before. He had no idea how to deal with her."

Elizabeth leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "I shall include your aunt in my prayers tonight." Her hand drifted to his cheek, and she gazed at him with wistful regret,

wishing there was some way she could turn back the clock, some way to hold that long-ago little boy and show him that the world could be a safe and loving place.

He turned his face into her hand. His lips pressed against her palm, seeking the warmth of her skin and honoring the warmth of her heart. "Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For being here. For listening. For just being you."

"Thank you, then," she whispered back. "For all the same things."

As James walked Elizabeth home, he felt his life fall into focus. Since he had been forced out of the War Office, he had been floating more than actually living. He had been caught by malaise, knowing he had to move forward with his life but dissatisfied with the options that had presented themselves. He knew he needed to marry, but his response to the women in London had been

almost uniformly lukewarm. He needed to take a more active interest in his lands and estates, but it was difficult to call Riverdale Castle home when he saw his father's shadow in every corner.

But in the space of a week, his life had assumed a new direction. For the first time in over a year, he wanted something.

He wanted someone.

He wanted Elizabeth.

He had been bewitched before this afternoon, enchanted and obsessed to the point where he'd

decided he'd marry her. But something very strange and magical had occurred in the stable stall when he'd tried to comfort Elizabeth.

He'd found himself telling her things he'd held secret for years. And as the words had poured

forth, he'd felt a hollow within him filling up. And he knew that he wasn't bewitched by Elizabeth. He wasn't enchanted, and he wasn't obsessed.

He needed her.

And he knew that he wouldn't find peace until he made her his, until he knew every inch of her body and every corner of her soul. If this was love, he gave himself up to it willingly.

But he could not abandon his responsibilities, and he would not break his promise to his aunt.

He'd solve the mystery of this damned blackmailer. After all Agatha had done for him as a child, he'd solve this mystery for her.

Elizabeth loved Agatha. She would understand.

But that didn't mean that he would sit on his hands. He'd told Agatha that the best way to find the blackmailer was to wait for another note, and that was true, but he was tired of waiting.

He looked over at Elizabeth's face, took in those endless blue eyes and flawless skin, and made his decision. "I have to go to London tomorrow," he said abruptly.

Her head turned toward his in an instant. "London?" she echoed. "Why?"

"Some unpleasant family business," he replied, hating that he could not tell her the whole truth, but taking some comfort in the fact that his words were not precisely a lie.

"I see," she said slowly.

Of course she didn't see, he thought angrily. How could she? But he could not tell her. It was unlikely that Agatha's blackmailer might turn violent, but James could not completely discount that possibility. The only way to fully safeguard Elizabeth was to leave her in the dark.

"I'll be back soon," he said. "I hope within a week."

"You're not planning to pursue Fellport, are you?" She asked, worry creasing her brow.

"Because if you are-"

He pressed his index finger gently against her soft lips. "I'm not planning to pursue Fellport."

Her expression remained uncertain. "If you attack him again, you will hang," she persisted.

"Surely you know-"

James silenced her with a kiss that was brief and yet full of promise, "Don't worry over me," he murmured against the corner of her mouth. He drew back, taking both of her hands in his.

"There are things I need to do, items I need to take care of before ..."

His words trailed off, and he saw the silent question resting in her eyes. "We will be together,"

he vowed. "I promise you."

In the end, he had to kiss her one last time. "The future looks very bright," he whispered, the words soft and sweet against her lips. "Very bright indeed."

* * *

Elizabeth held those words close to her heart ten days later, when there was still no sign of James. She wasn't certain why she was so optimistic about the future; she was still a lady's companion and James was still an estate manager, and neither of them possessed a cent, but

somehow she trusted in his abilities to make the future, as he had put it, bright.

Maybe he was expecting an inheritance from a distant relative. Maybe he knew one of the

masters at Eton and could arrange for Lucas to attend at a reduced rate.

Maybe...

Maybe maybe maybe. Life was full of maybes, but suddenly "maybe" held a lot more promise.

After so many years of shouldering responsibility, she felt almost giddy at abandoning her

constant sense of worry. If James said he could solve her problems, she believed him. Maybe she was foolish, thinking a man could swoop into her life and make everything perfect. After all, her father hadn't exactly been a model of dependability and rectitude.

But surely she deserved a little bit of magic in her life. Now that she had found James, she couldn't bring herself to look for pitfalls and dangers. Her heart felt lighter than it had in years, and she refused to think that anything might steal that bliss away.

Lady Danbury confirmed that James had been granted a brief leave to visit his family. It was a singular boon for an estate manager, but Elizabeth assumed that James was given greater latitude and consideration due to his family's slight connection to the Danburys.

What was odd, however, was Lady Danbury's near-constant state of irritability.