Tempting the Marquess (6 page)

“Miss Weston, if you have had your fill of chocolate . . .” He rose, beckoning her to follow him. “We’ll start in the Great Hall, as that’s the oldest part of the castle, though it has been improved upon over the past five hundred years or so.”

The dining room had three doors; one led to the New Tower, which, on this level, housed the library. They were most definitely
not
going through that door. The door on the southern wall of the room led to apartments, and he had no intention of giving Miss Weston a tour of the castle’s bedchambers. He was not going there. Not physically. Not mentally. Not nohow.

The door he guided Miss Weston through led into the solar, where, he supposed, some ancient relation dressed in a tunic and hose had sought solitude from the clatter and chaos of the Great Hall. Some other, not quite as ancient relation in a slashed doublet and codpiece had covered the walls with oak paneling and added an oriel window, which flooded the small chamber with light. The quiet nature of the room had not changed with the passage of time, but its purpose was less obvious now all of Arlyss was cloaked in a mantle of silence, rather like the castle in the story of the sleeping princess.

“Oh, what a lovely room!” Miss Weston exclaimed, flitting about to examine the carved paneling. She traced her fingers over the carved wood panels before gazing up at the plaster frieze, which continued all the way around the room. She circled the room twice, pondering the figures, before conceding defeat. “I’m afraid I can’t make out the subject,” she admitted. “It’s not a battle scene, which I would never attempt to identify, but neither does it seem to be biblical or mythological. Is it peculiar to your family?”

Jason gave a curt nod. “Peculiar is a very apt description. One of my more fanciful ancestors, the third marquess, believed he was visited by the ghost of one of the castle’s earliest residents, the ill-fated Rhoslynn Rhys. He commissioned this depiction of her star-crossed romance to commemorate his brush with the spirit world.”

Miss Weston’s eyes were alive with excitement. “I had hoped to see the White Lady during my stay, but with the window broken in the Old Tower—”

“There is no ghost, Miss Weston.” He spoke forcefully, and in the small room his words were almost a shout. “The White Lady is naught but a legend passed down, embellished and elaborated upon by each successive generation. Whatever tale Katherine told you—”

“Aunt Kate only remembered bits and pieces,” Miss Weston broke in. “Won’t you tell me about her?”

He shook his head. “If everyone remembers only bits and pieces, the story will eventually be forgotten, and then maybe the maids will stop leaving.”

She gave him an appraising look. “Do you really believe the maids leave because of an old ghost story?”

Jason shrugged. “Gower did suggest the dogs might scare them.”

“They are somewhat intimidating, I grant you, but I doubt a dog would frighten a maid into giving up a post in a good household with decent wages.”

He sensed she was trying to lead him to some answer, but he wasn’t following. “There is no need to beat about the bush, Miss Weston. Tell me, why are the maids leaving if the fault lies with neither the ghost nor the dogs?”

She hesitated, plucking at the folds of her skirts. “You truly wish to know?”

He frowned. “Of course.”

“Very well.” She swallowed and turned her gaze back to the frieze. “If I tell you why the maids are leaving, will you tell me about the White—about Rhoslynn?”

Jason was torn. He hated talking about his ancestress, not because her legend scared off the maids, but because people—usually women—always sighed and sniffed into their handkerchiefs and murmured how the tale was so romantic when it was nothing of the sort. On the other hand, he hadn’t particularly enjoyed waking up to cold ashes in the grate and the lingering stench of the piss-pot.

“I will tell you the story as I was told it,” he agreed, “since I imagine you’ll pester everyone in the castle until you hear it.”

“Probably.” She grinned, revealing a dimple in her left cheek. “Tenacity is one of my strengths.”

“Then I should hate to learn your weaknesses,” he muttered.

“I heard that, my lord, but I shall let it pass.
My
weaknesses are not the issue at hand.”

His brows rose. “And mine are?”

“Presuming one counts a choleric temperament as a weakness. I have only been under your roof for a day, but if you are always snapping and bellowing in this manner, I would guess
you
are to blame for terrifying the maids.”

He laughed because the notion was so utterly ridiculous. Perhaps he
had
been a bit short with a few of the maids, and he
had
lost his temper with the maid who’d brought his son icy bathwater, claiming it would strengthen his constitution, but he could hardly be faulted for that. Or for dismissing the occasional maid who decided to offer more, ah, personal services. And the silly girls he’d berated for idle gossip clearly had flighty dispositions; they wouldn’t have lasted long in any case. . . .

Christ, was it possible he was the reason the maids had left?

Miss Weston came forward and patted his arm. “I don’t think they
all
left because of you. The castle is somewhat isolated and likely quieter than one might expect in a nobleman’s household. I daresay some of the maids wanted a bit more excitement, and I’ve no doubt a number of them grew weary of pining for their master—” She clapped her free hand over her mouth, then brought it up to cover her eyes. “Oh, dear, I can’t believe I said that aloud.”

Jason chuckled, watching in wonder while her skin changed from creamy white to the color of strawberries.

“Pray, do not be embarrassed. That was the nicest compliment I have received in quite some time. You wouldn’t think it, but Gower is unbelievably stingy with his praise.”

He wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled to relieve her distress. And when she lowered her hand from her face and he saw that dimple again, he felt like he’d been given the moon and the stars.

A fragment of conversation surfaced in his mind, a shard from a vessel once shaped like a heart. Like his heart.

“Marry me, Laura. I’ll give you everything. Jewels, gowns—the moon and stars if you want them.”

“I don’t want any of that, my love. I only want your heart.”

His heart.

She’d wanted his heart, and he had given it to her.

And then she’d had to go and break it.

“What are you thinking of?”

Miss Weston’s gently voiced question drew Jason out of his reverie.

“Broken hearts,” he answered truthfully.

“Rhoslynn’s? Or were you trying to count the number of maids you’ve left brokenhearted over the years?” she teased.

His wife’s shadow had chased away the lightness that had briefly surfaced within him. “Neither,” he responded coldly. “The broken heart in question is my own. Now, may we proceed on our tour?”

“This is just how I pictured the chapel in
The Shades of Hartsbane Hall
,” she told Lord Sheldon.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a wonderful novel. There’s a governess—Emmaline—who discovers a priest hole in a chapel just like this one. The master of the house, Lord Maxwell, is the dark, brooding sort”—Olivia gave the dark, brooding marquess a sideways look—“but he falls in love with Emmaline and rescues her after the evil housekeeper traps her in the priest hole.”

“I’m sorry to say I must have missed that one,” he said, sounding not at all sorry. “An evil housekeeper, you say? Perhaps I should order it for Mrs. Maddoc.”

“Oh, no.” Livvy shook her head. “I am certain she would much prefer
The Bride of Moongate Manor
. That’s the one where Emmiliana, an impoverished Italian
contessa
, disguises herself and becomes the housekeeper of Prince Maximilliano—”

He leaned back against the side of one of the pews and crossed his arms over his chest. “Let me guess, he’s the dark, brooding sort as well?”

She nodded.

“And they fall in love, this prince and his housekeeper?”

“But she’s really a countess—”

“Yes, well, as Mrs. Maddoc’s family has been in service to the Trahernes for some years, I am quite sure she is not an aristocrat in disguise. Nor do I see myself falling in love with anything other than her tea cakes. I think it would be unkind to give her false hope.”

“Go ahead and poke fun, my lord,” Livvy sniffed. “You are obviously unaware of the great pleasure to be had from such novels.”

He made a sound of disgust. “Nonsensical stories written for nonsensical women.”

“I believe many men enjoy reading them as well,” she replied stiffly.

“I take leave to doubt that.”

She raised her brows in silent question.

“Men are logical beings,” he explained. “These novels, though I doubt they deserve so lofty a title, clearly defy rational thought.”

“I see,” she said through clenched teeth. “And if men are logical beings, then women are. . . ?”

He didn’t hesitate for a second. “Women are illogical, irrational, flighty creatures prone to ridiculous notions of love and romance.”

Olivia wasn’t sure whether she was more startled by his words or the utter conviction with which he spoke them. She gave an uneasy laugh. “Anyone would think you hate women, my lord.”

He straightened. “Hate women? No, I am as fond of women as the next man.”

“For a man fond of women, you certainly have a mean opinion of us,” she retorted.

He shrugged. “I am simply aware of the weaknesses of your gender. It doesn’t follow that I hold those flaws against you.”

She gaped at him, unable to think of any suitable rejoinder.

“And speaking of women’s weaknesses,” he continued, “let us go into the Great Hall, where we can sit and I’ll tell you of Rhoslynn.”

He gestured her through a tiny wooden door that connected the chapel to the Great Hall. They made their way to the cluster of chairs set before the enormous stone fireplace where he had carried her only the day before. It seemed a lifetime had passed since she set foot in Castle Arlyss.

Lord Sheldon settled back and began his tale. “Long, long ago—”

“And not at all far away,” Livvy added.

“Are you going to tell the story, or am I?”

She settled back in her chair and folded her hands primly in her lap.

“Very well then, as I was saying, long, long ago, there lived in this castle a beautiful maiden called Rhoslynn. Her mother had died giving birth to her, so she was the great pet of her father and her five older brothers. Such attention did not make her spoiled, though, and Rhoslynn grew up to be as lovely and kind as a woman can be.

“As her mother and her grandmother before her, Rhoslynn had a gift for physicking; there were many who believed the Rhys women had fairy blood in them and with it the ability to heal. People would come from great distances for one of her salves or for the touch of whatever magic she might possess.”

The marquess chuckled, shaking his head. “Great believers are the Welsh. In any case, one day, whilst gathering herbs in the countryside, Rhoslynn came upon a man lying on the ground. She saw a horse some yards off and figured he must have been thrown. Not knowing if he was unconscious or dead, she immediately dropped to her knees beside him and felt at his neck for a pulse.

“His skin was cold beneath her fingers, and she feared she was too late. She bowed her head and tears rolled down her cheeks, falling on the man’s head like a gentle rain. Suddenly, the flutterings of a pulse tingled beneath Rhoslynn’s fingertips, and when she placed her face on the man’s chest to listen for a heartbeat, there it was, sure and steady.”

“The magic,” Livvy whispered, unable to contain herself. Then, before the marquess could roll his eyes or launch into a lengthy diatribe on the impossibility of magic, ghosts, or any other such metaphysical phenomena, she quickly went on. “So Rhoslynn brought the stranger back to life. What happened then?”

“The stranger opened his eyes and beheld the fairest maiden he had ever seen and, in an instant, he knew however far he might roam, whatever distant lands he might visit, his heart would always stay there with her.”

“Typical male,” Olivia muttered. “She’s beautiful, so he loves her.” She glanced at the marquess and saw he was watching her with bemusement. “I beg your pardon. I won’t interrupt again.”

“Doubtful,” Lord Sheldon said, but he continued on. “When Rhoslynn gazed into the stranger’s eyes, she too felt her heart swell and knew however long she lived, there would never be another she would love so well as this mysterious man.”

There was a long moment of silence. Livvy was torn by the desire to stay quiet, as she had said she would, a need to know what happened next, and a growing itch to remark on Rhoslynn’s ability to fall in love with a man without even knowing his name.

“That can’t be it,” she finally blurted out.

“No,” he agreed.

Her brow creased. “Then why did you stop?”

“I felt certain you wished to make a comment.”

She shook her head and motioned him to go on, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

“The man asked the name of his fair savior but, upon learning it, he knew himself to be cursed, for Rhoslynn’s father was none other than the infamous rebel leader he had been sent by the Crown to destroy. The newly appointed Deputy Squire of Haverfordwest, Sir Philip Kentchurch, had been chosen by King Henry IV himself after Sir Philip’s predecessor was killed defending the castle at Haverfordwest against a siege laid by Rhoslynn’s father and his followers. Duty urged Sir Philip to take Rhoslynn captive and hold her as a hostage—”

“He wouldn’t!” she exclaimed.

“But,”
he spoke over her outburst, “he knew in his heart he could not. He asked Rhoslynn if she, too, felt the strength of the connection between them. She said she did and asked for the name of the man who had engaged her heart so quickly. Sir Philip warned her that her family would disapprove, but even after she learned his identity, Rhoslynn remained constant in her affections, though she could not imagine how they could ever be together.

“Sir Philip vowed to find a way and gave Rhoslynn his signet ring as a sign of his fidelity, though he cautioned her to keep it hidden. They arranged to meet in the same spot one week from that day, by which time Sir Philip hoped to have worked out a solution to their seemingly impossible situation. When the time came for them to part, Sir Philip told Rhoslynn, ‘I will think of thee every second of every minute of every hour of every day that shall pass ere we meet again.’ And Rhoslynn replied, ‘And I will see thy beloved face in every seed of every fruit of every flower of every tree I pass ’til you come for me.’ ”

Olivia snorted. She couldn’t help herself. “That’s doing it a bit too brown, my lord.”

“I didn’t make up that tripe,” he protested. “I am telling you the story as it was told to me.” He frowned at her. “It was my understanding women enjoy that sort of overblown romantic sentiment.”

“I am sure a great many do, but I do not count myself among their number. There is more to romance than pretty, meaningless words. I would have been happier to hear he swept her off her feet with a passionate kiss.”

“Would you indeed?” he murmured, staring intently at her lips.

Unused to such blatant perusal, or the hunger it stirred within her, Livvy rose to her feet. “Perhaps you could continue as we walk about the room,” she suggested. “I would like to observe the tapestries in closer detail.”

The marquess stood and offered his arm to her. She didn’t wish to take it—she was too discomfited by the way he made her feel—but she had no choice. She rested her arm as lightly as possible upon his sleeve and tried to ignore the heat from the skin beneath.

“Now, where were we? Oh, yes, your desire for a kiss. You will be pleased to learn Sir Philip did steal a kiss from Rhoslynn, but only one, lest he be tempted beyond bearing. Then he strode to his horse, vaulted into the saddle, and rode off. Rhoslynn watched until he was out of sight, then gathered up her herbs and headed for home, nearly skipping in her happiness. Her father and brothers could tell she had met with some excitement while she was out, but mindful of Sir Philip’s warning, Rhoslynn told them only that she had come upon a wounded hare and had been able to heal it. The Rhys men were also in high spirits, for they had spent the day planning their next assault against the English, but Rhoslynn knew nothing of this.

“Though she longed to tell someone, Rhoslynn dutifully kept the secret close to her heart, along with the ring. She placed it in a little pouch, which she filled with yarrow and rosemary and other lovers’ plants, then hung it round her neck. Her father and brothers went out hunting two days before she was to meet with Sir Philip, and they came back in wild spirits. They took turns telling Rhoslynn how they had successfully taken the castle at Haverfordwest; how the new English lord had ordered his men to stand down; how he had sent a messenger bearing a white flag of truce.”

“How wonderful!” Livvy exclaimed with delight. “Now
that
is a truly romantic gesture.”

Lord Sheldon eyed her askance. “Perhaps you should hear the end of the tale first. Rebel forces, as you may know, rarely hold to the rules of civilized warfare.
Civilized warfare
,” he sneered. “Now there’s a contradiction in terms if ever I heard one. And in this instance, warfare is the wrong word. Slaughter is more appropriate.”

Olivia gasped.

He nodded grimly. “When the messenger went forth, Sir Philip’s men laid down their arms in a show of goodwill. Rhoslynn’s father and his men struck while they had the advantage. The English lord refused to defend himself and was quickly dealt a mortal blow. After that, the soldiers surrendered the castle. When Rhoslynn heard this, she ran and locked herself in what is now the Old Tower, which has always been the tallest in the castle. The chapel used to be there, at the top, so no one would walk above God. The chapel you saw was built after Rhoslynn. . . . For all she was a healer, she couldn’t mend her broken heart.”

The hair on Livvy’s neck stood on end. “She threw herself from the tower?” She knew the answer even as she asked.

“Her body was never found, but no one ever saw her alive again. The pragmatists insist the body must have been dragged off by wild animals. The fanciful claim she was spirited away by the goddess Branwen, who also died of a broken heart. In either case, the moral of the story remains the same.”

“Don’t fall in love with the enemy?” she guessed.

“Always a good rule to follow, but I believe the true lesson imparted by Rhoslynn’s folly is that love is every bit as destructive as war.”

Livvy pulled away from him. “You’re wrong. War is destructive, but love is its antidote. Nothing could be worse than losing a loved one, but even then love triumphs over death, for the memory of those loves lives on in the hearts still beating. Love is the stuff of hopes and dreams, which are in turn the stuff of life.”

“You, Miss Weston, are possessed of a romantic nature. I fear your life will be fraught with disappointments.”

“As opposed to you, who have not suffered disappointment?” she shot back.

The corner of his mouth twitched in a smile, but his eyes were sad. “I too was once possessed of a romantic nature. I have found life is much simpler if one ceases to have expectations. If you will excuse me, I have important matters to attend to.” He bowed and walked away.

She let him go. He had given her quite enough to think about for one morning. The marquess was a puzzle to be sure, but she would figure him out. She wasn’t one to back down from a challenge—No, that wasn’t true. She had backed down from any number of her older siblings’ dares, but really, their admiration was hardly worth her mother’s wrath. She didn’t give up, though. Not on puzzles, not on people, and certainly not on puzzling people.