In the Brief Eternal Silence (8 page)

He viewed the plate of food, which he had not
asked for, for a moment, and then without comment, picked up his
fork and began eating. Lizzie sipped her coffee. She watched the
slight trembling in his hands wane, and his foray into his meal
became more sure. His eating was sporadic. He would take several
bites and then pause for long moments at a time to sit and drink
his coffee and look at her, eyes unblinking, mouth unspeaking.

His lips, she noticed, were tight, compressed
and rarely moving in either smile or frown. His face was pale,
certainly much paler than her own, and in contrast made his dark
hair seem nearly black. His brows were arched, even in rest, and
when by chance he arched one higher in a quizzical look at her and
her glances, it gave him a satirical look. There was a harshness
about him, an unforgiving, unyielding aura that was at a disparity
with his casual, indifferent demeanor, his disheveled appearance,
and the lazy languidness of his movements.

Only his eyes sealed the two seemingly
divergent parts of his character, shifting constantly not from
motion, for they were always quite steady, but from emotion and
mood, looking at one moment morose and in another flickering with
excitement, and then he would hood them with his lids, making the
little sparks of gold that were still discernible all the more
tantalizing to her. For some reason, she felt she would give quite
a bit to step into his head and view his thoughts for a single
moment.

At long last, he pushed his plate away, much
of the food left uneaten, and Miss Murdock got up from her chair
and refilled his cup with coffee. She rinsed her own cup and placed
it on the sideboard, then turned to him. “I can make that room up
for you now, if you wish, milord.”

As she was standing but a foot or so from
him, he reached out and caught her hand, making her start in
surprise. She did not try for release, only stood steady, her heart
giving an uneven beat in her chest and looked at him, wary of his
next move.

“What is this, Miss Murdock?” he asked, his
voice teasing. “Are you nervous that the disreputable Duke of St.
James is about to take advantage of you in your kitchen?”

As she did not answer, only tugged at her
hand and stared at him with her solemn eyes, his own eyes narrowed
as he continued. “Well, at one time, and if you were a woman of a
different caliber, I may have.”

Lizzie flushed, could not decide if she
should feel relieved or insulted, or disappointed. “I have no
doubt, milord, that you are capable if you so wished,” she
answered. “But I am sure that I would be poor sport for a man of
your tastes and so you would do better to merely release my hand
and allow me to make up your room.”

He did not release her hand, instead
tightened his grip and leaned back in his chair, forcing her to
take an awkward step forward. St. James looked up into her face,
her just shy of panicking eyes. “How am I to go about this?” he
asked. “I have been pondering just this question for over an hour
now, and I still have no clue.”

“I am sure I do not understand you,” Miss
Murdock replied. “I am also sure that what you need now after being
fed is sleep, and that whatever answer you are looking for will be
there for you in the morning.”

“No, Miss Murdock,” he shook his head. “I
will not be here in the morning and you need not make up a bed for
me. So you can quit worrying your head about that task. I feel I
have put you out quite enough for one night at any rate. Although I
am afraid I am going to have to put you out quite a bit more.”

“I—It was no hardship,” she said. Her voice
was breathless and she blamed it on the fact that he had begun to
rub her hand with his thumb, the soft, hypnotic reassurance of a
mother rubbing a baby's back. And as a baby is lulled into sleep,
she felt as though she were being lulled into a spell that
consisted of nothing but that single moving thumb and those two
golden eyes. She gave a sharp pull on her hand, gaining abrupt
release and losing her balance. She reached behind to steady
herself and her palm came down on the still hot stove. “Ouch!” she
squeaked, and her injured hand flew to her mouth.

St. James rose, banging his knee in his
haste. “Damn it, Miss Murdock. What did you think I was going to do
to make you burn yourself getting away?” He grabbed her wrist,
pulling her hand from her mouth.

Miss Murdock, finding his question
unanswerable, her hand smarting, and herself feeling a good deal
foolish, lashed out in return. “What any young female would think
when a drunken scoundrel takes their hand and there is no proper
chaperone! I should slap you if it were not hurting so badly!”

“You may slap me with the other hand, if it
should make you feel better,” he informed her. He studied her
injury. “I imagine it is quite painful.”

“As if I needed you to determine that. Simply
allow me my hand back, and I will draw some water and soak it.”

“No, Miss Murdock. You must use butter. My
grandmother has always said so.”

“Then you may go fetch your grandmother's
butter, for I shan't waste any of mine.”

He raised his head, and his gold eyes met her
angry brown ones. “Ah, the first challenge. Your way or mine? I
think you should learn now that it shall be mine.” He stepped to
the table, her wrist tight in his grasp, forcing her to step with
him. He moved the plate with the great pat of butter upon it to the
edge of the table and forced her hand into it. He pushed it down so
that she was unable to keep even her fingers from it, and when he
pulled her hand up, her hand print was imbedded in the butter.

“You simply could not resist ruining the all
of it, could you?” she asked, furious.

“Oh, but, Miss Murdock, when a lovely hand
such as your own is at stake, what is a mere pat of butter?”

He released her wrist and she wrapped her
injury in a dishcloth. She wished to wash the butter from it, just
to spite him, but she could not see the sense in it, as it was on
there now and was soothing to some degree. Still turned from him,
she told him in a muted little voice. “You need more coffee, sir,
for if you see my hand as lovely, you are obviously still
drunk.”

Which caused him to laugh, a full, rich laugh
that surprised her out of her crossness and had her looking at him
with stark curiosity, for she would have never dreamed from her
short acquaintance with him that he could be capable of such
laughter, free of sarcasm or rancor or jadedness.

“I see,” he said at length, “that I shall
have my way, but that you shall always endeavor to have the last
word.”

“Yes, milord. I can see how that is so, since
you are leaving, and I must ask to be excused now, and there will
be no further conversation between us, then I have managed to have
the last word,” she told him and turned to leave the kitchen.

Her uninjured hand was at the door frame and
with one more step she would have been into the hallway when he
spoke. “You are mistaken if you think there will be no further
conversation between us.”

She hesitated for just an instant, but it was
an instant too long, for his next words had her turning to stare at
him. “For we became betrothed at approximately one hour after
midnight.” He raised the lids of his eyes, giving her the full
impact of their golden stare at her look of shocked disbelief. “So
you see, Miss Murdock, when I leave here shortly, you shall be
accompanying me.”

Chapter Five

“You expect me to take you seriously?” Miss
Murdock asked.

“I can not, at this point, expect any thing
from you, Miss Murdock.”

“Indeed, I am glad we are in agreement on
that,” she returned. She paused another thoughtful second in the
door and then with a little sigh, went back to stand before him.
“Milord, you are drunk. It is nearing dawn. I will make up a room
for you and you shall sleep and tomorrow you will have forgotten
your foolish statement, as I will have. Surely, you see the sense
in that?”

“I am no longer drunk, Miss Murdock, but
nearly sober, to my regret, after two cups of coffee and the meal
you placed before me.

Sober enough to know I am not displeased with
the alliance I have made.” He pulled a chair out. “Come, Miss
Murdock, and be seated. I am sure you have questions.”

“No, milord,” she shook her head. “I am too
tired to humor your

odd fancies.”

“Ah. But your father was in a more agreeable
mood.”

“My father tends to agree to a great many
things when he is drinking,” she returned with a rueful grin. With
her eyes twinkling, she added, “as I daresay, do you.”

“You refuse to take me seriously for even a
moment, Miss Murdock.”

She made a sudden weary gesture. “Indeed,
sir, please do go on, for I see that you are quite set upon it. It
will only needs cleaning up in the morning if I do not attend to it
now any rate.”

He raised a brow. “I applaud your indulgence,
Miss Murdock.” He sat himself, his fingers drumming on the table
before him in light contemplation. “I asked your father for your
hand. He has agreed.”

“I am sure I am quite flattered.” She gave a
little laugh. “It is not often that I receive proposals at dawn,
even from drunken suitors. Indeed, I do thank you, even as I must
decline. Regretfully, of course. Is it possible for me to return to
my bed now?”

“You are being difficult, Miss Murdock,” he
observed.

“Indeed, I think I am showing remarkable
restraint.” Her amusement waned. “Please do not pursue this
ridiculous conversation any further.”

“Miss Murdock, I realize this must be
difficult for you,” he took pains to explain, “but it is important
that you accept that I am serious. Can you at least entertain that
assumption for the purposes of this conversation so that we may
discuss your concerns at this circumstance?”

“I am to assume,” she said with a wry twist
to her mouth, “allow me, please, to state this correctly, that a
duke, moneyed and privileged and despite a certain sordid
reputation, still a desirable match in marriage, by those far more
suitable than myself, has settled upon my being his wife after, of
course, only one meeting, where I was covered with mud and running
a horse into a fence.” Half smiling, she awaited his answer, but he
gave none, only waited for her to continue. She made an impatient
gesture with her hand. “The whole idea is ludicrous. What could
possibly motivate you?”

“My motives are no concern of yours, Miss
Murdock. I would rather you consider your own concerns, as I had
asked.”

“You believe that after I give your suit the
consideration I am sure you believe it deserves that I will leap
upon the obvious advantages to me and agree?” she asked, her tone
somewhere between disbelieving and offended.

He gave an impatient little sigh and rose
from his seat. He turned from her and strode the room. He paced
back to stand before her. “Must I list them, Miss Murdock? For I
find it distasteful to have to enumerate my 'desirable' qualities.”
His lip curled in an unsuspected ugly wrath that had Miss Murdock
sobering from her prior glibness. “List them, Miss Murdock. Let me
hear you say the words so that I know you understand completely
what you are to gain. If one, indeed, looks upon it as gain.”

“I can assure you, that I am one that does
not, milord,” she said in sudden icy anger. “But I will list them
as you ask as the sooner this interview is complete, the sooner I
may return to my own business, and you may return to yours.”

He made no answer, only stood, waiting, for
her to continue.

She drew in a breath, calming herself. “Your
title, I suppose.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

“And it is purported that you are quite. . .
well off.”

“On the mark again, Miss Murdock.”

“Your family's standing in society,” she
added. She glanced at him, hoping he would be satisfied, but he
closed his eyes for one brief instance and when he opened them
again, he raised a brow to her at her hesitation to continue.

“Anything else, Miss Murdock?” he asked, his
voice mocking. “Any other reason why most any female in society
would view me as a desirable match in marriage?”

“Maybe I should begin listing your
un-desirable qualities, milord,” she retorted. “Your ego, your
reputation—”

“But we are still on the desirable list, Miss
Murdock. I am sure if you merely search about your mind but another
moment you should be well able to come up with one more
reason.”

“Oh, very well,” she said, exasperated, but
pushing on precariously. “You are not displeasing to look at. Is
that what you wished to hear, milord? Does that flatter you and
satisfy you? Tell me, do you often go through this charade so that
you may gain glory for your vainness from some naive country
bumpkin when I am sure you have had enough simpering females
throwing themselves at you for years now?”

But he leaned forward, placing his hands upon
the arms of her chair and spoke down to her, his face near hers. “I
merely wished to hear you say it so that I am sure you are aware of
it,” he told her, his gold eyes glinting. “I do not know you, Miss
Murdock. I do not know what is important to you, what you find
desirable. I merely wish you to realize, that if your young heart
fancies romance, it shall be available to you, no questions asked
and with nothing withheld.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she exhaled. “Are
you mad? You speak of a marriage of convenience where you have no
feeling for me or I for you and you speak of this matter as though
it were another bargaining chip upon the table—”

He released the chair arms, paced away from
her. “The 'catch of the decade' I was called ten years ago, Miss
Murdock.” He turned back to face her. “Now—well, that decade has
passed, has it not? My reputation has grown, and although not many
would care to dismiss my suit out of hand, the doors of those
families that have no need of further wealth have been closed to
me. The peers I have with daughters of marrying age are content to
settle for a marquis or an earl, the fellow of course being a
little more, how shall we say it, commendable in his morals.”