Authors: Joan Johnston
Eliza waited for the Beau to reveal that she had come here on her own. That he’d had nothing to do with it.
A tense silence settled around them.
Eliza could not let someone else take the blame for her folly. She raised her head and stared at Julian’s beloved—furiously angry—face. “Captain Wharton did not bring me here, Julian,” she said. “He specifically bade me stay at a nearby inn with his nieces and wait until he could bring you to me. I came here on my own, against his wishes.”
“I know Marcus too well to believe he did not
take advantage of the situation,” Julian said. “What did he—”
Eliza felt the Beau’s body tense beneath her hands, and only then realized she was still in his arms. She pulled herself free and turned to face her cousin. “How dare you accuse such a good friend of acting dishonorably!” she scolded. “Not to mention what such an accusation says about me.”
“Are you telling me the truth, Eliza? Has he warned you not to speak? Has he touched you as only a husband has the right? Has he compromised you?”
She had never seen Julian’s face look so serious. Or dangerous. A glance sideways at the Beau revealed an equally dangerous visage. He was not a man to be forced into parson’s mousetrap. This lone wolf was the kind to bite off his own leg to escape. And she had no intention of marrying the wrong man because of some stupid rules she had never in her life followed.
She turned back to Julian, her own features solemn. She met his gaze steadily. “Nothing happened, Julian.”
“I will excuse you while you speak with your cousin, Julian,” the Beau said. “I will be outside in the hall when you have finished.”
“Marcus …”
The Beau stopped at the open door.
“I am sorry. You must admit the circumstances—”
“No apology necessary, old chap. Your heart was in the right place.”
When Marcus was gone, Julian turned to face her, his hands clasped behind his back. “Well, young lady. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I love you, Julian. I want you to marry me.”
M
arcus resisted the urge to pace the hall outside Julian’s door. He did not think he had ever spent a more uncomfortable fifteen minutes. What was Miss Sheringham saying to Julian? How much of what had happened between them had she revealed? Not much. Otherwise, Julian would have long since come charging through the door to queer his daylights.
Marcus reached up to loosen his neck cloth, but it was already slack from several attempts to ease the constriction there. It only felt like a noose was tightening around his neck; he was still a free man.
But for how long?
He had been surprised when Miss Sheringham lied to protect him in the first moments after Julian caught them alone together. Until it dawned on him that she had seen parson’s mousetrap snapping closed on them and deftly avoided it. No wonder. She was in love with someone else.
He should have felt more guilty for putting her in such a compromising position. He could have buttoned up her dress in a tenth of the time it had taken him. Yet he could not feel sorry for the kisses he had stolen. He could still smell her hair, feel the smoothness
of her skin, taste her flesh. If Julian had not interrupted …
She might have given him that kiss.
The muffled speaking beyond the door grew louder for a moment, but there was nothing distinct enough to give him a hint of what was transpiring between the two. Were they even now becoming engaged?
Marcus should have felt relieved at the thought. Instead, he felt sick to his stomach. He did not stop to figure out why he did not want Miss Sheringham married to his best friend. He only knew he would rather she married someone—anyone—else. Anyone, that is, but him.
He had learned his lesson from Alastair’s mistake. A woman in bed for the night was a delightful frolic; making a lifetime commitment rendered a man vulnerable to an endless succession of insults, affronts, and indignities from which there was no escape.
Sometimes he wondered if Alastair’s wife had been an exception. But if she was, why did so many men he knew spend so much time away from home? Why did they all have mistresses?
Marcus leaned against the papered wall, his booted feet crossed at the ankle, his arms draped across his chest in the most languid pose he could manage. He greeted several hussars from another regiment with insouciance as they strolled by on the way to their rooms.
“Is she worth the wait, Captain?” one quipped, hearing the male and female voices inside the room and drawing the conclusion that Marcus was next in line to be serviced.
“Have a friend warming her up for you, eh, Beau?” a second jibed, leering like a schoolboy ogling his first naked female.
“Never liked seconds myself,” a third sallied.
Marcus should have grinned and laughed. After all, they meant no harm. But a second later the officer who had referred to Miss Sheringham as “seconds” found himself slammed against the opposite wall with Marcus’s hands tight around his throat. Marcus ignored the two uniformed hussars shouting and pounding on his shoulders as though they were annoying gnats.
He saw everything through a red haze, heard nothing but the pounding pulse in his head, until a familiar voice brought him back to himself.
“Marcus! Marcus, stop! You’re killing him.”
Julian’s face came into focus beside him, anxious and frightened. Marcus became aware that four sets of hands grasped at his own. Julian, the two friends of the soldier, and the soldier himself were all trying to tear his clenched fingers from around the poor man’s neck.
The afflicted soldier’s eyes bulged in terror. His face had turned blue enough to clash with his bottle green uniform.
Marcus loosened his hands. The soldier began coughing and gasping for air. Marcus backed away as the soldier reached gingerly for his wounded throat, which already bore the beginnings of bruises where Marcus’s fingertips had dug deep.
Marcus stared at his trembling hands. He would have killed the man for a misplaced jest. He nearly
had. He lifted glacial eyes to the other two soldiers, who flanked their friend protectively.
“He’s crazy!” the choked man gasped.
“He will not trouble you again,” Julian promised, putting himself between Marcus and the three men.
“I saw something like this once on the field of battle,” one of the soldiers said in a quiet voice. “Fellow went completely berserk. Couldn’t tell friend from foe.” He took a shuddering breath. “Finally had to kill him or be killed.”
The hall was silent as they absorbed his painful admission,
“Perhaps he saw one too many friends blown to bits, or got covered in too much blood, or ended up with a faceful of somebody’s brains,” the soldier mused.
Soldiers who had been at the front for too long sometimes reached their limit of endurance and cracked. They attacked others, or themselves. There was nothing to do but keep them quiet until they returned to normal. If they ever did.
The hussars—even the one who had been attacked—stared at Marcus with pity and compassion as they slowly backed their way down the hall.
Marcus said nothing to contradict the explanation given for his behavior.
Julian crossed to his side. “Are you all right?”
Marcus nodded, unable to speak.
“What happened? Did that cod’s-head offer you an insult? Should I call him back and demand satisfaction?”
Marcus closed his eyes and put his thumb and middle finger against the pounding pulses at his temples.
He still could not quite believe what had just happened. A few harmless jests aimed unknowingly at Miss Sheringham had turned him into a savage bent on strangling a man to death.
The soldiers could not have known their comments were directed toward a lady, rather than some camp follower. He had ignored—or joined in—such ribald remarks a thousand times in the past. Why had it been different this time? Thank God Julian had stopped him. Once again, he was in his friend’s debt for coming to his rescue.
He opened his eyes and lowered his hand, meeting Julian’s concerned gaze. “I must have gone a little mad,” he said.
He felt Julian’s hand on his shoulder, offering comfort and support, denying the need for more explanation.
Then it dawned on him that Julian had been ready to fight a duel for him. Julian was offering comfort. Miss Sheringham must have convinced Julian that he had not importuned her. Good girl! Then he realized Julian was alone.
“Where is Miss Sheringham?”
“I left my cousin with orders to dress herself.”
Marcus felt a wave of feral ruthlessness at the thought of Julian stripping Miss Sheringham and taking her to bed while he had been standing out in the hall. His neckhairs bristled as he imagined their voices raised, not in argument as he had first believed, but in passion.
“Miss Sheringham was dressed when I left the room,” he said, his eyes narrowed to slits, his lips flattened.
“She is changing into her male disguise,” Julian explained, apparently unaware of Marcus’s rising agitation. “I could think of no other way to remove her from here without causing a scandal.”
Marcus spat an epithet under his breath and heaved out a breath of air to release his pent-up, and totally unnecessary, anger. Once again, he had misconstrued an innocent remark. Julian would never despoil his own cousin. What was putting these bizarre ideas in his head?
“You are right, of course. She will have to be in men’s clothing to leave here unnoticed.” His expression remained troubled, but only because he was vexed by his own behavior. What the devil was the matter with him? Maybe he
had
gone crazy. “Where are you taking Miss Sheringham from here?”
“Where she should have gone in the first place.”
Marcus lifted an inquiring brow.
“To Braddock’s house party in Sussex. I recently received an invitation myself. Maybe I can find her a husband there.”
Marcus’s heart missed a beat. “You do not plan to marry her yourself?”
“No. But she must have a husband. And soon.”
Marcus paled at the implication of the need for a hasty wedding. “Who is the man?”
Julian knotted his hands behind his back. “It seems my brother Nigel has been imposing himself on his ward.”
“Bloody hell!” The killing beast rose again in Marcus’s breast, eager to wreak vengeance. He fought it back, leashed it tightly, and asked, “Did he hurt her?”
Julian shook his head. “She ran away two days ago after dropping a flower pot on his head.”
Marcus conjured an image of the scene, fought a grin of admiration, and lost. “Miss Sheringham is nothing if not resourceful.”
“I cannot help thinking she must have done something to encourage him. I cannot believe my own brother could be such a blackguard. Yet I cannot believe it of her, either. Eliza was always so uninterested in female pursuits. She was too gangly, too awkward to attract that kind of male attention when I was last home.”
“Have you looked at her—really looked at her—lately?” Marcus asked. “She is not at all as you described her to me.”
Julian pursed his lips thoughtfully. “She has grown taller, and her hair is longer. Though it is just as unkempt,” he added.
“She is no bed slat,” Marcus said flatly.
“Surely I did not call her one!”
Marcus nodded.
“I see. Yes, that has changed, too. I simply cannot see her as she is, I suppose. She always followed me around like a playful puppy, full of fun, always ready to try anything, a veritable hoyden.”
“The image no longer fits,” Marcus said. Then, remembering Miss Sheringham dressed in Julian’s clothes, he corrected, “At least, not entirely.” He looked Julian in the eye, searching for the truth, as he asked for the second time, “Do you want to marry her, Julian?”
“That is beside the point,” Julian said, again dodging the question. “I have no home of my own. If I did
marry her, I would have no choice except to leave her at Ravenwood when I am called back to war. You see why that would not fadge.”
Marcus understood Julian’s problem. Rooms at Stephen’s Hotel were adequate accommodations for a soldier; they were no place for a wife. And Ravenwood could no longer be counted on as a safe haven because of Nigel. “War is not a certainty,” Marcus pointed out.
“Napoleon must be subdued once and for all,” Julian said. “You and I both know he will not give up without a fight. What if I am killed in battle? What kind of life would Eliza lead as a widow living at my brother’s mercy?”
“You believe the solution is to get her married as quickly as possible to someone else?” Marcus asked.
“I do. Although that may not be as simple as it sounds. The scandal surrounding her is bound to make finding an eligible suitor difficult.”
Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “You told me the scandal in her background was of no import.”
Julian pursed his lips. “Perhaps that was an understatement.”
“The scandal is ongoing?”
Julian nodded. “No one knows what caused the Earl of Sheringham to disinherit his son. Sadly, I believe the surrounding mystery has kept the scandal alive long past a time when it should have died a peaceful death. Eliza has lived under that cloud since she was a child.”
“A Child of Scandal,” Marcus murmured. “The sins of the fathers visited upon the sons.”
“Or in this case,” Julian said, “his daughter. As you
have no doubt discovered for yourself, Eliza can be perfectly amiable. Or as contrary as the most stubborn army mule. Although she has never caused a scandal, she carries the taint with her wherever she goes. Her looks are odd, and her height makes her freakish.”
Marcus opened his mouth to interrupt, but Julian held up a hand to stay him.
“She does not suffer gossips gladly, and many in Kent have felt the whip of her tongue. The highest sticklers will never make her welcome. And she has no dowry to speak of. Tell me, Marcus, what does she have to attract a gentleman who wants a comfortable wife?”
“Miss Sheringham is an Original,” Marcus said. “She should be valued for her uniqueness, not rebuked for it.”
Julian snorted. “I will not argue the subject. You win too often.”