Anne lifted herself up on one elbow and studied the young woman in the grand canopied bed nearby. “You must try to rest, Miss Watson. You know how important it is to be fresh at breakfast. I am sure the duke will want you to meet his elder son.”
“Perish the thought! I abhor introductions and polite, meaningless chatter.” Prudence looked at Anne with luminous eyes. “What will you do, dearest friend? Oh, you will not attempt anything foolish, will you?”
Anne let out a deep breath. “Of course not,” she replied. “Do try to get some sleep now.”
As Prudence’s breathing began to slow, Anne studied the curls of mist on the windowpane. Again she thought of the marquess, a man of shadows and darkness. She remembered perfectly the way his fingers had raked through the thick rumple of black curls on his head, the way his cold gray eyes had assessed her, the way his mouth had curved upward in a cynical smile.
She remembered, too, how his hand had felt as it held hers—warm, firm, strong. She recalled the timbre of his voice as he had pronounced her a beauty, had admired her eyes, had called her hair a sheet of bronze, had asked to be her protector.
Protector? There was only one way a man like Blackthorne could protect a woman like Anne Webster.
“You will forget about that lace, will you not, Anne?”
Prudence murmured, half asleep. “You will heed my advice?”
Anne watched the sky lighten outside the small window of her bedroom. The tiny square patch transformed from black to cobalt and finally to a familiar shade of silver gray, the gray of a man’s eyes shining in firelight.
When the Marquess of Blackthorne arrived at church in his chaise-and-four the following morning, not a female in the room failed to take note. The kitchenmaids whispered at how villainously shiny and black his hair appeared in contrast to the blond locks of his younger brother. The housemaids murmured their observations on the massive firmness of his chin, the wondrous breadth of his shoulders, the disdainful expression of his mouth, and the immense height to which he rose as he strode down the aisle toward the family pew.
The merchants’ wives and daughters commented among themselves on the fine cut of the marquess’s blue coat, its M-notched lapels, shiny brass buttons, flapped pockets, and French cuffs. The mayor’s daughter and her friends regarded with admiration his double-breasted waistcoat of striped valencia, his cream-colored trousers, and his fine leather boots.
The landowners’ daughters and their mothers took note that the future Duke of Marston had returned to England with his skin scandalously tanned and his attention no more fixed upon them than it ever had been. They observed, however, that in spite of his rakish manners and dangerous air, he had returned all the same and was as eligible as ever.
Anne Webster, seated beside Miss Watson in the second row from the back, saw only one thing. The Marquess of Blackthorne had tied beneath his high, stiff collar a cravat of the finest and most elegant silk Honiton lace.
Almost deaf with fury, she heard little of the vicar’s rambling sermon. Instead she watched Blackthorne as he whispered some comment to his brother, chuckled at a tidbit of humor the vicar put forth, and ran his finger around the inside of his collar. Unable to quell it, she had the unchristian wish that her lace would come to life and strangle the man.
After the service, the Chouteau family exited the church first, followed by the inhabitants of their duchy. The duke and duchess departed for Slocombe House in their carriage, while Sir Alexander joined some town friends for a ride on horseback. When Anne emerged into the springtime sunshine, the marquess stood at the bottom of the steps deep in conversation with the vicar.
Miss Watson grabbed Anne’s arm. “Do not say a word! I met Lord Blackthorne at breakfast. Despite his wild appearance yesterday and his abominable reputation, he is very noble and will inherit both title and land from his father. No one can speak boldly to him without dire consequences.”
“But he is wearing
my
lace. Do you see?”
“You cannot be sure it is yours.”
“It is mine, Miss Watson.”
“Then let him have it. It bears his crest, and you will never prove you made it.”
By the time Anne reached the marquess, it was all she could do to hold her tongue. She crossed her arms, lowered her head to hide her face with her bonnet, and took a deep breath. She was almost past him when he touched her elbow.
“Your Majesty, Queen Anne,” he said in a low voice tinged with mock servitude. “How well you look this morning.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Anne managed through gritted teeth.
“I am happy to see you again today, as well, Miss Watson,” he continued. “You cannot mind if I join you.”
“No, of course not, Lord Blackthorne,” Prudence chirped as the man nodded to the vicar and joined the two women in their walk across the drive toward the road. He slowed his long stride to match theirs and tipped his hat at acquaintances they passed, as though strolling with a tradesman’s daughter and a maid were a perfectly acceptable pastime for a marquess. Anne knew Prudence would bolt given half the chance, so she caught her elbow and hung on.
“Your gown is fetching, Your Highness,” he remarked, obviously speaking to Anne and ignoring her mistress altogether. “Such a subtle shade of fawn reminds me of the multitude of deer I observed during my time in Missouri. I must tell you it is a color that brings a glow to your lovely eyes.”
Anne stared at the road, hardly daring to let herself speak. He was teasing her again, of course, and she had no idea why he found such revolting behavior so amusing. Poor Miss Watson was wilting with shock, her pale skin ashen and her fingers visibly trembling.
“I regret to see,” he went on, “that you choose to cover your stunning hair with a straw bonnet. The lavender and crocuses with which you adorned your hat, however, are an exquisite touch. Your Majesty, you could not look more beautiful.”
She lifted her chin and fixed him with a glare. “And you could not look more like yourself.”
The marquess threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Ah, I am pleased to find your tongue has lost none of its acidity. Did you note my choice of cravat this morning? I selected a fine length of Queen Anne’s lace.”
“How witty,” she returned. “Yet the lace does not belong to you.”
“Do you brand me a thief, Miss Webster?”
Prudence let out a low moan. It was all Anne could do to keep her friend upright. They had left the enclosure of the church and were walking in the lane that led to the main road. Had they turned west, they soon would have entered Tiverton, but they set their direction toward Slocombe House to be in time for the noon meal. In a moment, they would walk onto the road and begin the two-mile journey to the house. As the marquess had left his chaise-and-four at the church, Anne knew his interview could not go on much longer. If only she could keep her wits and forestall Miss Watson’s panic.
“I merely speak the truth,” she told him. “The lace is mine, and a true gentleman would return it to its owner.”
“Unfortunately, I have never been considered a true gentleman,” the marquess replied. “I believe you yourself referred to me as a blackguard.”
“A reputation you only etch more clearly in mind with your unseemly behavior.”
“My reputation is among the least of my concerns, Miss Webster.”
“Mine, on the other hand, concerns me greatly, and if you do not return to your chaise at once, Lord Blackthorne, you may damage it irreparably. I hope you do not believe that your brother’s pursuit of me yesterday in his chamber was in any way encouraged. I have no interest in becoming a momentary fancy for either of the two sons of the Duke of Marston.”
Prudence’s groan could have been heard by anyone passing. To Anne’s dismay, she realized the road was deserted, all the household staff having hurried ahead. The marquess was showing no sign of returning to the churchyard for his transportation.
“Momentary?” he said. “My dear Miss Webster, my proposition to you yesterday was in no way meant to expire at day’s end. If truth be told, you intrigue me more than a little. Where did you come by such pleasant manners?”
“If my manners are seen as pleasant, my lord, you mistake me. I have no pleasant feelings toward you whatsoever.”
Again he chuckled and shook his head. “By George, I have not met anyone I could converse with so easily in years. Certainly never a woman. I wonder who you are, Miss Anne Webster, and how you came to be working as a housemaid at Slocombe.”
“I was engaged by your father, sir, as you very well know.”
“Yet you speak with the words of an educated woman. Your manners are acceptable if not noble, and your wit is delightfully sharp. You do not care for me in the least, and you have not the slightest awe of my rank. In short, you are so refreshing a creature, I have made up my mind to know you better.”
“Upon my word, sir!” Anne bristled. “Such a bold address appalls me.”
“I concede your evident displeasure, Miss Webster,” he told her. “I am deeply wounded, of course.”
She shot him a disparaging glance. “My apologies.”
“Your father is a schoolmaster,” he guessed. “You hail from Tiverton, and your house is filled with books which you delight to read.”
“My father’s occupations are none of your concern, Lord Blackthorne. We are not under your jurisdiction. Our family dwells in Nottingham.”
“You are a long way from home. What brings you to Devon, then? Surely you could find employment in Nottingham.”
Anne swallowed. She could never tell this man about her father’s imprisonment with the Luddites. As a parson, Mr. Webster had been expected to preach, tend the ill, take tea with his parishioners, but little more.
That he had joined a secret group of men who met in Sherwood Forest and followed the orders of their leader, who called himself General Ludd, had brought utter disgrace to the Webster family. That he had broken into factories and smashed machinery had besmirched his own name forever. He had lost his position with the parish, of course, though the church had allowed his family to go on living in the parsonage until someone could be found to replace him.
Captured and thrown into prison, Mr. Webster had expected the usual sentence for destruction of private property— transportation to Australia. Exile from England for fourteen years would have been bad enough, but during the time he was awaiting trial, the House of Lords passed a bill making such violence a capital offense. Without a skilled attorney to plead his case, he would be hanged.
No, Anne could not have found employment in Notting- ham. If Miss Webster’s sister had not recommended her to the Duke of Marston, she would have joined her mother and sisters in destitution. As it was, her wages barely kept them alive.
“My presence in Devon can be of no concern to a man such as yourself,” she told the marquess. “I am employed to serve your family and guests in the House along with dozens of other young women no different from myself.”
“I beg to point out, Miss Webster, that yesterday you stated in no uncertain terms your very great difference from the dozens of other young women in Slocombe House. You claimed to be a better lace designer and pattern pricker than anyone in Tiverton.”
“Oh, Anne,” Prudence muttered. “Surely you did not say such a thing.”
By now there was no hope that he would abandon the two women and return to his chaise. The hilly, wooded property belonging to the Duke of Marston had closed them in on either side, a glorious display of budding trees dressed in pale green. Along the hedgerows at either side of the road sprung bright white snowdrops and purple crocuses. The scent of newly turned earth mingled with the perfume of spring buds. Birds, busy with nest building, chirped and sang and fought over fat worms they pulled from the soft dirt at the side of the road. Anne would have given anything to be able to drink in the morning and dream out a lace pattern to reflect its glory.
Instead she was shackled by
him
. Vile man. She glanced at the marquess from beneath the brim of her straw bonnet. Oh, he was handsome, of course. No woman could deny that. His high-crowned black felt hat added imposing height to his already tall physique. The cut of his clothing, the width of his shoulders, the length of his legs—everything about him was the picture of the manly aristocrat. Only the brownness of his skin gave his face the cast of a pirate. But the twinkle in his gray eyes and the amused angle of his lip showed him for the scoundrel he was.
“As you surely have discovered,” Anne said, “by observing my lace panel, which you wear around your neck, I truly am a skilled designer.”
“Indeed, Miss Webster, you are talented. In fact, it is this quality about you that intrigues me more than any other. Not only are you lovely, articulate, and mannered, but you possess a skill most remarkable.” His fingers touched the crest on the lace. “May I inquire where you learned such technique? Surely no common lace school could teach a young woman how to create a lozenge such as this.”
“My training came from the lace school of Nottingham,” she said. “What talent I possess is God-given.”
“God? Ah, yes, I do recall that you are religious. Nightly Bible readings and—”
The unmistakable, familiar crack of flint striking steel silenced him. An instantaneous report echoed from the hillside.