Mastering the Marquess (3 page)

“Thank you, sir. I should be most grateful for a cup of tea.” Her soft mouth trembled into a tentative smile.

He blinked as the force of that shy smile lanced through him. The unexpected jolt of emotion was both surprising and irritating.

General Stanton forcefully cleared his throat, jerking Silverton out of his momentary reverie. After briefly examining Miss Burnley's pallid complexion, he crossed to a mahogany sideboard holding a collection of decanters and crystal glassware. Silverton poured a small glass of sherry and returned to her side.

“Yes, tea will be just the thing, but I fancy you could use something a bit more fortifying while we wait.”

“No, I'm fine,” she protested. “I don't need that.” She took another deep breath, folding her hands carefully in her lap.

“Yes, you do,” he replied in a firm voice, willing her with his eyes to take the drink. “Come, Miss Burnley, I insist.”

She looked at him doubtfully. He nodded his encouragement, and she again offered him that painfully sweet and tentative smile. Miss Burnley took the glass and sipped, casting her gaze up as if seeking his approval. Silverton found himself riveted by the luscious tremor of her full pink lips and the burnished silver of her amazing eyes.

Under the circumstances, his reaction was obviously most inappropriate.

He mentally shook his head at the day's unexpected turn of events. He had reluctantly dragged himself to Stanton House this morning to meet his uncle. Completely unawares, he had been pitched right into the middle of what his mother called the Great Family Scandal. No one spoke of the estrangement between the general and his daughter. It had always seemed like ancient history to Silverton, especially since Elizabeth Burnley had died so many years ago. But part of that ancient history had come back to life today, and with a vengeance.

He looked thoughtfully at the striking young woman perched on the edge of her seat, cautiously drinking her small glass of sherry. In spite of the obvious distress of all the parties in the library, Silverton had to admit this was much more fun than talking about his impending immolation on the matrimonial altar.

Especially when one of the parties involved was Miss Meredith Burnley.

Several minutes passed in silence as the anxious Miss Burnley sipped her sherry. His uncle continued to fume behind his desk, and Robert fidgeted in the corner. Silverton, however, decided to disregard his relatives until she recovered herself. He was pleased to see the color finally returning to her cheeks.

“Miss Burnley, if you are quite recovered,” he said, moving to stand over her, “perhaps you might explain to us why you need the general's help.”

Her brows drew together in a worried frown. “I would be happy to, sir, but it is a private family matter and I don't know . . .” Her cheeks turned bright pink as her voice trailed off.

Silverton nodded his head in sudden understanding. “Of course. You don't know who we are. I am the Marquess of Silverton. General Stanton is my uncle. The unnaturally silent young man in the corner is Robert Stanton, the general's grandson and your sister's cousin.”

Unfortunately, this information did not appear to assuage her doubts. Her eyes earnestly searched his, and from the expression on her face, he could tell she was trying to decide what to do.

“Come, Miss Burnley.” He arched his eyebrows at her hesitation. “I assure you, my cousin and I are quite able to keep our own counsel. We cannot possibly assist you until we know the nature of the problem.”

Silverton ignored the murderous look cast his way from behind the massive desk. He also decided to ignore the desperate-sounding squeak that came from Robert's corner.

Miss Burnley paused a moment longer before bowing her head in agreement. She placed her sherry on the red lacquered side table next to her chair and began to speak, hesitantly at first but more strongly as she went along.

“As you may or may not know, my lord, my sister and I have been almost alone in the world since the death of our father three years ago. I achieved independence a few years before that, but Annabel was only fourteen when our father died. Because of the estrangement between our families”—she paused and cast a wary glance at the general—“my father's will stipulated that Annabel fall under the guardianship of his brother, Isaac Burnley. That guardianship also includes control of her fortune, which she inherited on the death of her mother, Elizabeth Stanton Burnley.”

“Aye, and that money was the cause of all this misfortune and trouble in the first place!” General Stanton burst out. “Without it she would never have been able to run off and leave her own family.”

Miss Burnley's cheeks turned an even brighter shade of pink than before. She and the old man glared at each other, and it seemed that open warfare would break out any moment between the combatants.

“Uncle!” Silverton uttered only the one word, but the warning in his voice was clear.

The old man grumbled something under his breath before settling into his chair.

Silverton turned back to the young woman. “Please continue, Miss Burnley.”

She nodded. “As I was saying, this guardianship includes control of the fortune bequeathed to Annabel by her mother.” She paused to glance cautiously at the general before continuing. “Which also includes the management of our estate at Swallow Hill. Until quite recently, my uncle was content to leave Annabel's welfare to me, as he and my aunt live in Bristol and were much occupied with their own affairs.”

Her features were suddenly infused with a look of anguish as her eyes glittered with unshed tears. Silverton wondered what the devil could plague her to bring such despair so easily to the surface. She looked so beautiful and so lonely that his heart, not easily touched by the emotion of others, began to feel a reluctant tug of empathy.

“Annabel has always been frail,” she said, looking at him earnestly, as if willing him to understand. “When my father died, she suffered greatly, and I have been forced to safeguard her carefully ever since. Last year her health was improving. But lately, well, her spirits are much depressed again.”

She stopped, and Silverton watched with dread as tears began to well from her eyes. He wasn't really afraid of weeping females, but this situation was so bizarre he was uncertain how to respond to her.

Fortunately, she blinked away the offending moisture and resolutely carried on.

“A few months ago, my aunt and uncle decided to join us at Swallow Hill. Uncle Isaac has finally asserted his guardianship over Annabel, which has included decisions about her illness. These decisions, I believe, have been very detrimental to her well-being. I'm convinced that her recent decline is the result of this interference, but I'm powerless to stop it.”

Miss Burnley paused again, as if collecting herself for what came next.

“Just a few days ago,” she explained, staring at Silverton as if her life depended on it, “my uncle made what could surely be called a threat to Annabel, a threat I fear will destroy her completely. We had no choice but to flee our home and throw ourselves on the mercy of Annabel's family.”

She twisted in her chair to face the general.

“Please, General Stanton,” she implored, “if you have any charity in your heart toward Annabel or toward the memory of her mother, you must help her. I believe you are the only person who can defy my uncle and prevent him from doing what he clearly intends, and which I am certain will be the death of her!”

Miss Burnley's eyes blazed with a desperate determination as she pleaded with the general. The old man looked stunned, shifting uncomfortably in his leather chair.

Silverton had always prided himself on his understanding, but he couldn't imagine what could lead an obviously well-bred young lady to make such an impassioned statement. He was used to his mother's domestic dramas and occasional histrionics, but Miss Burnley did not strike him as a woman given to hysterics. Quite the contrary, he was willing to bet she would be as levelheaded a woman as one could meet.

The situation was rapidly spinning out of control. His uncle was struck dumb, and Miss Burnley seemed unwilling to provide any more clarity to a story positively gothic in nature. Obviously, he had to try and get to the bottom of this before it got any murkier.

“Miss Burnley.” Silverton forced his voice to remain gentle. “If you could reveal the exact nature of this threat, it would help us to better understand your sister's predicament.”

Her shoulders slumped in weary resignation against the back of the club chair. “My uncle wishes to confine her in a private lunatic asylum.”

Silverton felt his temples begin to throb as he realized what would happen next. He bit back a curse as he looked at his uncle, who was doing a passable imitation of one of Congreve's rockets about to explode. Any amusement he had felt toward the day's proceedings had just gone up in a puff of smoke.

“A madhouse?” The general practically levitated out of his chair. “Do you mean to tell me the girl is insane?” His face mottled with fury as he pointed a shaking finger at Miss Burnley. “This is what comes from marrying inferior blood! I won't have it, I tell you. I won't have a madwoman in my family.
Your
family obviously carries the taint, and
your
uncle must deal with it as he sees fit. You will leave the Stantons out of it.”

Silverton, dimly aware of Robert gulping like a stranded fish in the corner, felt paralyzed both by Miss Burnley's words and by his uncle's furious outburst. If she didn't swoon now, it would be a miracle.

She did appear stunned, but her shock was rapidly displaced by a growing wrath. Her hands clenched into fists, and her face turned ghostly pale but for two patches of red flying high on her cheekbones. Silverton watched, reluctantly fascinated as she flexed her hands and wrestled her anger under control. She stood, drawing herself up to her full and imposing height. In spite of the awfulness of the situation, he couldn't help but think that Miss Burnley looked absolutely magnificent, with her generous bosom heaving and her silver eyes luminescent with fury.

“General Stanton,” she said in an icy but surprisingly well-modulated voice, “you will note the only person in this room lacking control is you. Your behavior is, I think, quite mad! I must conclude that if there is a taint of insanity, it resides in your branch of the family, not mine. As you can see, I am perfectly rational and in control.”

As if to prove her point, she folded her hands in a ladylike clasp and sat primly back down in her seat.

“Perfectly rational, perfectly rational!” roared the general. “By God, I'll have you thrown out into the street before you insult this family again.”

Silverton managed to recover the movement of his limbs, stepping hastily forward to stand between Miss Burnley and his uncle's desk.

“You'll excuse me, sir, but I hardly think this discussion will benefit either you or Miss Burnley. I urge you to sit down. You do not look well.”

The general opened his mouth as if to argue the point, but he looked truly overcome by the events. He bobbed his head once and sank back into his chair.

“Miss Burnley,” Silverton said, swiveling his head to capture her attention, “I would take it as a great favor if you would refrain from insulting my uncle any further.”

“But . . . ,” she began to protest.

“No, Miss Burnley,” he said in a quietly lethal voice.

She glared at him, but he simply returned her torrid gaze with a cool and steady regard. Somewhat to his surprise, she gave a stiff nod and dropped her eyes. She sat with her back ramrod straight, staring at the floor as she struggled to rein in her temper.

Silverton turned to his uncle and lifted an eyebrow. The general was muttering to himself again but did not seem inclined to launch back into the fray.

“Thank you,” Silverton responded to no one in particular.

Now that he had established a fragile peace, he took a moment to study the two angry faces before him. The thought crossed his mind that Miss Burnley and his uncle were remarkably alike. How odd that they weren't even related, Silverton reflected. They might have been taken for father and daughter.

He shook his head, crossing to the mahogany sideboard to pour himself a glass of port. Robert sidled up to him and hissed in his ear, “Damn it, Stephen, what do we do now?”

As Silverton pondered the answer to that question, the door to the library opened behind him.

“My goodness!” exclaimed a gentle, feminine voice. “What is happening in here? Arthur, what are you yelling about now?”

Silverton repressed the inclination to roll his eyes up to the ceiling. God only knew how his Aunt Georgina would react to the unexpected resurrection of the Great Family Scandal.