Mark picked up the folder and slowly moved to the window, where the light was better. His hands were shaking so much he feared he would drop everything on the floor. Below, he saw Elaine don a heavy pair of gloves and set resolutely to work pruning a rose bush.
“My God!” he breathed, staring at the first drawing. He was looking out of a cave at the power and majesty of the sea. His chest swelled in awe, as if he were gazing upon the world for the first time.
Two hours later, he closed the folder. Goose bumps tickled his arms and raced down his spine. Her work was better than he had ever dreamed possible, and far better than the poems themselves.
Returning to the desk, he turned over the top sheet. ‘The Siege.’ Greedy waves crashed against a rocky shore, desperately clawing at a tree to draw it into a killing embrace.
Elaine was right. It would fit perfectly into the book, and it was so obvious a rendering of the poem that he could not believe there was any other interpretation. Certainly he had not considered anything else when he was writing it.
But he knew she was right the moment he picked up the second page. The witch! How could she have deduced something even he was not aware of? And how could she possibly have put so much meaning into it when she was still an innocent?
In a glittering ballroom an Exquisite held out his arm to lead a lady into the dance. But this man was no gentleman. His expression revealed lust and a diabolical determination to seduce her. He would draw her into an embrace that would ultimately destroy her … without a qualm. But despite the lady’s obvious innocence, her eyes held knowledge, amusement, and pity. Any observer could see that she would win. No matter how much energy the gentleman expended, she was out of his reach.
Mark shivered. He had penned that particular verse a year earlier and only now realized that he had been infatuated with Lady Collins at the time. But she had proven to be one of his few failures, a woman who was in love with, and faithful to, her husband.
Your mind seems to work on multiple levels. She had to be a witch.
* * * *
Elaine held her breath when she heard Bridgeport approaching. Despite all evidence, she was afraid that he would not like the work.
“You are remarkable,” he breathed.
“The drawings are acceptable then?”
“Acceptable? They are more than that. I have lived in awe of your talent ever since Murray forwarded your earlier sketches, but these surpass anything you’ve ever done. They will sell far more copies of this edition than my poor verse. I swear you must have lived inside my head for weeks – and uncovered more there than I ever have.”
“Which ‘Siege’ do you wish to include?”
“The first. It fits the mood of the book, though you were right – not that the thought consciously crossed my mind.”
“Of course not. You are so accustomed to concealment that even your mind works in allegories.”
“How could you capture so knowing an expression?” he had to ask.
“I’ve seen it before – on Devereaux and Wroxleigh, though ironically that particular one I first noticed on you.”
“My God!” His tongue froze. Mrs. Hazelwood. Another of his failures. Eight years ago. “Multiple levels. How do you do it?”
She shrugged. “I have always had a strange affinity for Thornton’s work, but I told you that once before.”
“We make a marvelous team, Elaine,” he murmured, laying a hand on her arm. “Please marry me, my dear.”
She flinched away from his touch. “I’m glad you like the illustrations, but don’t let euphoria go to your head.”
“I mean it. I had never considered allowing a wife to participate in my life, lest she decide to run it. But we work together so well, I cannot imagine that happening.”
“No, my lord.” She shook her head sadly. “I cannot exist in your world. That was true eight years ago, and this house party has proven beyond all doubt that it is still true.”
“But you were born to that world, Elaine.”
“What has that to do with anything?” Annoyance filled her voice. “I despise the shallow posturing that characterizes society. Living in London is nothing but penance, even without the insipid conversation and judgmental harridans. You, on the other hand, thrive there. It would never work.”
“At least consider it,” he begged, hating himself for doing so. “There are as many intelligent people in the
ton
as in any other class, if you look for them.”
“It would be a waste of time. If you wish to publish another illustrated volume, I would be honored to participate. Beyond that, we have nothing in common. Now, enough of this. I would appreciate it if you would send the sketches on to Murray. It would save me a trip into Bodmin. For now, I have some work to finish and do not wish to be late for luncheon.”
Bowing to the inevitable, Mark took his leave. But his heart was heavier than it had ever felt before.
* * * *
“There is a stark beauty to the moor that I never expected to find,” observed Carrington as he and Mark walked back to the house after a brisk ride.
“It touches a chord of loneliness,” agreed Mark. “But not everyone enjoys a bout of melancholy.”
“How profound. This sojourn is doing something to you,” noted the marquess, an odd expression playing about his face.
“Perhaps it has forced me to look at myself. I had been drifting since my parents died, unwilling to establish myself as my own man.”
Richard raised his brows in surprise. “I have always known you had depths you never show the world, but this sounds serious.”
“Then I must not be expressing myself well,” said Mark with a laugh, retreating to his usual demeanor. Even his closest friend did not know all his secrets. And never would. Revealing his real self would leave him vulnerable, something he could not tolerate.
Except with Elaine. Why did sharing his secrets with her bring him peace instead of terror?
“Name yer shecondsh,” demanded Hardwicke, interrupting Mark’s meditation by lurching out from behind a hedge to grab the earl by the arm.
“You are drunk,” noted Carrington coldly.
“I demand satisfaction,” continued Hardwicke with the single-minded purpose of the castaway. He tried to slap a glove in Bridgeport’s face, but he missed, stumbling so badly he needed several steps to regain his balance.
“For what?” Mark frowned, wondering if this absurdity stemmed from the attack on Elaine. Had the idiot decided the punches were unwarranted?
“You cheated me out of my inheritance,” slurred the other.
“Fustian!” exploded Carrington. “You were the one who insisted on continuing the game long after Bridgeport wanted to leave. There are a hundred witnesses.”
“Cheated,” insisted Hardwicke. “Just like you cheated Wainright and Hodgkiss and–”
“Who fed you such delusions?” interrupted Mark, his voice deadly.
“Not delusions. All over town.”
“Lies. Every one.”
“Who you callin’ a liar?” demanded Hardwicke, swinging a fist.
Mark neatly sidestepped and Carrington grabbed Peter from behind. “Go to your room,” ordered the earl. “Sleep it off. Meet me in the library tomorrow morning. My cousin is spreading all manner of filth in a deliberate attempt to blacken my name. It is time to figure out why.”
Hardwicke tried to protest, but Carrington hauled him away. Sighing, Mark went to dress for dinner.
* * * *
Elaine paced restlessly around her room, unable to think clearly. It was well after two, but she could not sleep. Bridgeport’s proposal still rang in her ears. Despite her words, she could not put it out of her mind.
She had been through all the arguments against such a match. They were strong ones. But they were based on a public image that she knew was partially false. How much of the rest was real, and how much was an act he used to hide his literary career? It was that hidden self that plagued her now.
And more.
She could still feel his arms around her, comforting her tears. Strong arms that could soothe fear or incite passion. They had cradled her against broad, muscular shoulders that promised protection against the world. His lips were warm and gentle … and utterly exciting.
Stop it!
she admonished herself. Such thoughts were dangerous. The last thing she needed was to become his latest conquest. Gulping down a glass of water, she stared out the window.
Moonlight on the moor. Guaranteed to bring thoughts of romance to the fore.
A series of crashes jerked her attention back to the house, and she dashed into the hall. Her room was next to the main staircase. A low moan drew her eyes to the hall below.
Bridgeport lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.
She had taken two steps forward when she spotted a cord on the top step. Stooping to look closer, she found another. Each was tied to a newel post, the loose ends feathery where the cord had snapped. Rage burst through her veins. And fear. She raced downstairs.
“Are you all right?” she gasped.
Mark was sitting up, fingering his head. “I think so.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If you can stand, go to the library. I will join you there in a minute.”
“What–”
“Shh!”
He looked closely at her face and nodded. Stifling a groan, he staggered to his feet and limped away.
“What was that all about?” he demanded when she appeared in the doorway a few minutes later. She looked marvelous in a deep green dressing gown, her dark hair hanging loose about her shoulders. Despite a host of pains screaming for attention, his fingers itched to rake that glossy mane.
“First, tell me what happened.”
He shrugged. “I tripped. Stupid thing to do, but it happens to the best of us.”
“Especially when you have help.” She held out the cords. “Someone obligingly stretched this across the top of the staircase. You might have noticed had you been carrying a candle, but you were not.”
Lascivious thoughts forgotten, Mark poured a second glass of brandy and gulped half of it down.
“Why were you coming down so late?” she asked.
“I thought to do some writing. This is when I accomplish most of my work. I rarely need much sleep.”
“Convenient.” No wonder he was able to juggle a writing career with a full life as London’s premier rake and Corinthian. “So you are in the habit of wandering about the house at night. Is anyone else?”
“Not normally, though I have encountered all of the gentlemen on occasion. The brandy is in here.”
“That does not do much to limit the suspects.”
“What are you implying?”
“I am not stupid, and neither are you,” she snapped. “Cords do not tie themselves across stairs. You are known to come down here often, so anyone wishing to harm you could expect to do so.”
“I suppose someone may have wanted to play such a prank on me,” he conceded.
“Prank?” She stared in shock. “People often die from such falls. Whoever stretched that cord must have expected to kill you.”
“There is no need for melodrama, my dear,” he scoffed. “I have a fair idea who was behind this trick, and there is no doubt he meant it as a prank.”
“Stubborn, aren’t you?” she demanded. “At least do yourself the favor of being cautious.”
“I thought you didn’t care.” His voice was a caress.
“This is no time for a philosophical discussion on the many ways one person can care about another.” She frowned. “Since you are obviously not disposed to be sensible, I shall retire for the night. You may keep your secrets to yourself.” So saying, she departed.
Mark’s face slipped into a frown once she was gone. He was more upset about the incident than he had let on. Was Hardwicke so far into his cups that he might try to harm his host? He picked up the cord and examined it. But there was nothing to be seen. Opening a drawer, he dropped the pieces atop the barb from under his saddle.
Of course this might have something to do with Harold, though his cousin was not the sort to move beyond spiteful innuendo. In fact, he would not have believed either of them could be responsible, but the possibility could not be ignored.
Elaine awoke early, though the night had been anything but restful. Images had swirled through her head, insistent and disturbing.
As expected, one of these was the picture of Bridgeport crashing down the stairs to possible death. Not for a moment did she believe that the cord was a prank. Nor did she accept the notion that anyone but the earl was the intended victim.
On the other hand, Bridgeport was not stupid. A lifetime of secrecy might prevent him from discussing the incident, but he knew as well as she what had really happened.
More disturbing was her interrupted contemplation of the earl’s character. On the surface, her image of Thornton seemed incompatible with the one she had long held of Bridgeport. Yet they were indisputably the same man, and she must reconcile her impressions – not that she could explain why. Nor did she know how to do so.
Thornton was a sensitive man whose poetry revealed pain, rage, and a vast loneliness. Bridgeport was a libertine and sportsman dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure. He had claimed that his mother was the moving force behind his writing, and she saw no reason to doubt it. In the face of the woman’s determination, she herself had fled, sacrificing everything she knew. But the earl had not had that option. Tied to his mother both by blood and by his position as Bridgeport’s heir, he could flee only in spirit. And so he had lived his life as two disparate people.
Why had he broken a lifelong habit of secrecy to reveal himself?
It might have been a magnanimous gesture to relieve her fears, but she doubted it. Bridgeport was a selfish hedonist. Nothing she knew of Thornton countered that image. Of course, Thornton was only one facet of the earl’s secret life. Without knowing his other pen names, she could not fully understand him.
Perhaps revealing himself was in expiation for his sins. He had done her considerable damage. Honor might compel him to pay that debt, and was probably what lay behind his proposal.
But a corner of her mind urged her to consider another possibility.