Chapter 13

Marian woke a few hours later, and finding herself no worse the wear from her recent adventure, she got out of bed and began to prepare for dinner.

As she brushed her hair — using a silver-backed brush engraved with what she assumed to be the initials of the Duke's sister — and splashed some water on her face, Marian found her thoughts drifting towards home, and her father.

What is he doing in my absence? Has he continued to drink? Or has he perhaps roused himself to search for his only daughter?

She gazed at her reflection in the looking glass, frowning. Her biggest fear was that without her influence to temper him, her father might simply drink himself to death. As for what else might be happening in her absence, meanwhile, Marian shuddered to think. She missed her home, her best friend, Charlotte, and even Mrs. Grant, the housekeeper, who had been forced to become something of a confidante since Marian's mother died.

But she did not, she found, miss the Ton. She did not miss the stuffy drawing rooms, the suitably dull conversations, or the malevolent undercurrent of gossip that underlined them. Oh, the gossip. Marian shuddered again as she realized there would be no shortage of gossip in the drawing rooms of the Ton now. Her disappearance would be the talk of the county, and while Marian would have liked to believe that much of it would center around plans to try to find her, she knew perfectly well that some of the ladies of her acquaintance would be gaining just as much satisfaction — if not more — from speculation on what might have become of her.

And what of my father, meanwhile? Should someone come calling, to offer their assistance, they will surely find him in his cups. And then, not only will I be the subject of malicious gossip, but he will be too.

Marian replaced the brush on the dressing table, suddenly understanding all too well how the Duke must have felt when she turned up on his doorstep.

It is not nice to be talked about. But to talk to someone — why, that might help.

She would broach the subject with the Duke that evening, she decided as she made her way downstairs, a few minutes before eight. She would confide in him her fears about his father. Who knew, he might be able to offer some solution? She knew for certain that he would at least understand.

"On time, I see."

Andrew was standing, waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, resplendent in evening dress with his hair neatly combed. The change in him was quite remarkable. For the first time since she'd met him, Marian saw the man he must once have been before tragedy overtook him: tall, handsome, and with a devilish glint in his eye that made her body feel suddenly warm. The scar across his eye, which had once frightened her, did nothing to make him less attractive, and Marian's heart fluttered traitorously as she took the arm he offered her and allowed him to lead her towards the dining room.

Instead of opening the door of the room they'd breakfasted in, however, Marian was surprised when Andrew continued past it and opened the door of a smaller chamber a little further down the corridor.

Marian had peeked into this room the day before when she'd explored the mansion, but she hadn't bothered to go inside. Like all of the other rooms she'd seen so far, with the exception of Andrew's study and the kitchen, it had been dusty and cold with nothing to make her want to venture further inside.

Now, however, it was quite transformed.

A small, round table sat in the center of the room, set for two. Around it, tall candles flickered, lending a soft light to the chamber and — wait. Were those rose petals on the floor? Had the fearsome Duke of Rottdwell actually scattered rose petals around as if he were the hero of one of the romantic novels she loved so much?

Surely not?

But the effect was romantic — there was no getting away from it. Even Marian, who knew little of such things other than what she'd overheard during whispered conversations in the drawing rooms of the Ton, could tell that someone had gone to quite some effort to create a romantic and intimate setting.

Has he really done this for me?

"Is… is this your doing, Your Grace?" she asked incredulously, turning to the Duke, who was watching carefully for her reaction.

"I'm afraid the full credit must go to Ben and Rose," he admitted, stepping forward and pulling out a chair for her. "But I must admit, they've done rather a fine job of interpreting my instructions."

Marian gazed around the room, but there was no sign of either servant.

"Oh, I've given them the night off, to thank them for all their hard work," the Duke explained, noticing her confusion. "I hope you don't mind if we attempt to serve ourselves?"

Marian shook her head wordlessly. It was rather unorthodox, she supposed, but she did not mind at all. She slid into the seat Andrew held out for her, noticing how close it was to his own at the small table. She supposed the formal dining room they'd eaten in before was rather large for just the two of them, but something told her the Duke's choice of location for tonight's meal had little to do with practicalities.

So, does that mean it has everything to do with me?

The thought that he might have chosen this romantic setting deliberately, in an attempt to woo her, made her suddenly nervous, and she fiddled with her wine glass as Andrew poured her drink.

What does this mean? Why, it was just this morning we agreed our kiss must never be repeated. And yet, here we are, having a romantic dinner for two, completely unchaperoned!

She stared down at her plate, confused. Andrew, however, appeared totally unconcerned, either by her unaccustomed silence or by the unorthodox situation.

Perhaps he was used to dining alone with ladies in the life he led before… well, before.

"Tell me what your life was like when your family were here?" she said impulsively as they began eating. "Rose told me the house was often full? Or perhaps you were too often in London to tell? I suppose you must have a house in London? Or Bath, perhaps?"

She was blabbering on in a way that must sound foolish to him, she knew. But his presence, so close across the table, had given her body that same excited feeling from the previous night, and she suspected this was most improper of her, so she chattered on nervously, attempting to hide her discomfort.

"I do have a house in London," the Duke replied, sounding completely at his ease. "But I was not there as often as you might suppose. I feared the consequences of leaving my mother and sister alone with my father for too long."

His expression turned thoughtful.

"Of course, as it turned out, I did not have to be in London in order for tragedy to take hold," he said ruefully. "I only had to be out of the house. But come — this is no subject for a young lady. Enough of me and my troubles. I would much rather hear of you, and your joys."

Marian looked across the table at him. This was her chance, she knew. She took a deep breath before speaking.

"I fear I have few joys to speak of, Your Grace," she said softly. "Or not anymore, at least."

The Duke's handsome face creased with concern.

"I find that hard to believe," he said, taking a sip of his wine. "A woman as beautiful as you must surely be loved and admired by all. I'm sure you must have many suitors to put a smile on that pretty face? Perhaps one in particular."

Marian hesitated.

Is he flirting with me? Or just trying to be kind? Oh, how I wish my friend Charlotte were here, so she might tell me what to do!

"I have no suitors, Your Grace," she said at last, looking him in the eye. "And I do not expect any, either. I have not known such horrors as you have — my Mama died of the fever, not from anyone's hand. But since we lost her, I have had few joys either. My Papa…" she paused, uncertain of whether she should proceed. To speak ill of her father would be disloyal, she knew. And yet, something in the Duke's expression made her feel she could trust him. Who knew better than he what it was to live with a parent like hers, after all?

As if to prove it, Andrew surprised her by laying down his cutlery and reaching across the table to take her hand in his.

"Please," he said with a gentleness she had not supposed he possessed, "tell me what it is that makes you look so sad? Tell me, so I can help you."

His hand felt rough and warm in hers, the pressure comforting. Marian found she did not want to pull away just yet, and so she allowed her small hand to remain in his large one as she went on.

"My Papa is afflicted by a liking for brandy," she said, looking down at their entwined hands and then back up into his startling blue eyes. "It makes him… unkind. Oh, he is not violent," she added hastily, seeing the look that crossed the Duke's face at this. He was angry; for the first time since she arrived, Marian almost felt afraid at the dangerous gleam his eyes held. But it was gone when she continued speaking. "He has never beaten me, but he does not do much else, either. Our finances, I fear, are in ruins. Our former friends — or most of them — stay away, not knowing how to behave around him anymore. Most of the servants are gone. And I hate him for what he's become, but I worry about him, too," she admitted. "I fear what will become of him without me there to look after him. He might have fallen short of his duties as my protector these past years, but he is still my Papa after all that."

She trailed off, tears springing suddenly to her eyes.

"So when you ask me to speak of my joys, Your Grace," she went on, squaring her shoulders in an effort to keep the tears at bay, "I'm afraid I know not what to say."

"Then we are not so very different after all, you and I," said the Duke, who had been listening intently to this short speech. "Both the children of feeble-minded men, both motherless, and both left to fend for ourselves as best we can. How fortunate that we should have stumbled upon each other thus."

Marian looked up at him, shyly.

"You find my arrival here fortunate?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "Why, you did not appear to find yourself ‘fortunate' upon the night of my arrival! Or at any time since then, if the truth be told."

"Come, you know that's not true," replied Andrew, smiling at her. "There have been moments when I've considered myself very fortunate indeed since your arrival. One in particular immediately springs to mind."

Marian blushed all the way from her cheeks to her toes. She did not need to ask what he referred to. Or, at least, what she hoped he referred to.

"How could I possibly fail to be enchanted by the presence of such beauty?" he continued, making her blush even more. "My eyes may be scarred and ugly, but I can assure you, they work just as well as they ever did."

"I do not find you ugly, Your Grace," Marian rushed to assure him, instantly wanting to clamp her hand over her own mouth.

Why did I speak so boldly? What must he think of me?

"I'm glad to hear it," the Duke chuckled. "It's not so long since you described me as a beast. I wonder what can have happened to change your mind?"

"My mind has not been changed," Marian replied firmly. "I spoke in haste when I called you a beast. But, then again, I was being sorely provoked at the time."

Andrew nodded solemnly.

"I hope I've gone at least some way towards improving myself in your estimation," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "For of all of the opinions people hold of me, yours is the one I value the most."

"Then you must try your best not to provoke me further," Marian replied archly. "Which I suspect you might find difficult as I suspect you live to torment me."

"I assure you, Madam, that is the very last thing I wish," he murmured.

Marian stiffened in her chair. He had continued to hold her hand as they spoke, and somehow, they seemed to have drawn closer to each other, their heads close together over the table — so close that if either of them were to lean forward just a fraction, they might touch.

But no. I must remember what we said on the stairs. That cannot happen.

Andrew, however, seemed to have other ideas.

"Of course, there is more than one way in which a man can torment a woman," Andrew said, his lips hovering tantalizingly close to hers. "Some of which can bring pleasure rather than pain."

Marian gasped in shock.

"You forget yourself, Your Grace," she said primly. "And you forget the conversation we had this morning. We agreed… we agreed that we would not…"

But she could not finish the sentence because his eyes were looking directly into hers, and all of sudden, Marian felt that if she did not act swiftly, she might find herself wanting to go back on her promise of that morning.

Or perhaps I already do?

Pulling her hand from his, she moved her seat sharply back, widening the distance between them to one which she considered more proper. Then again, absolutely nothing about these past two days had been even remotely proper — should word of her little escapade ever get out, it would keep the Ton in gossip for weeks — and so part of her wasn't surprised when Andrew immediately thwarted her plans by moving his own chair closer.

"Surely you do not try to move away from me?" he asked. "Not when we've just established that I am not a beast. Am I to suppose, then, that you were merely toying with me? Is my appearance really so frightening to you that you must remove yourself from my presence?"

He was trying to sound wounded, but his tone was one of amusement — so much so that Marian could not help but feel she was the one being toyed with.

"You do not frighten me, Your Grace," she said, honestly. Fear was not the emotion Marian was feeling at that moment. As for what she was feeling, she would not have liked to try to give it a name, knowing it instinctively to be far more improper than anything else that had occurred so far between them. But Andrew was still smiling in a way that made her heart start to flutter, and she could already feel her resolve start to weaken.

"If that's the case, then come closer," he said softly. "I can assure you, your instincts are correct. You have nothing to fear from me."

Oh, but I do. I fear for my heart. And quite possibly my reputation. And what else does a lady have but her good name?

Marian shook her head firmly.

"I'm quite comfortable where I am," she stated. "I thank you for your concern."

Andrew looked at her for a long moment.

"Then, without waiting for her answer, he reached out and pulled Marian's chair — with Marian still sitting on it — smoothly towards him, making her gasp with surprise.

"Do I imagine things, or are your cheeks a little flushed, Marian?" he asked, smiling.

"Well, it is warm in the room," replied Marian primly, glancing towards the fire which crackled merrily in the corner.

"Oh, is that all it is?" asked Andrew, looking crestfallen. "I must say, I'm disappointed. I had hoped it might be something else making you look so adorably flustered, all of a sudden."

"Why, I don't know what you could possibly mean, Your Grace," Marian replied archly. "And I am not flustered. Not in the least."

Marian tilted her chin up defiantly to prove her point, but she could still feel her cheeks burning, and her body felt warm for reasons she knew had absolutely nothing to do with the roaring fire.

"Maybe I am just a little flustered," she acknowledged, smiling. "As well you know, Andrew."

It was the first time she had used his name, rather than his title: an act which felt daring and strangely intimate. And also, one which prompted him to reach down once more and pull her chair closer still.

Their heads were almost touching now, and Marian's cheeks were still red, but she was no longer conscious of it. All she could think of was him: the strong, musky scent of him and the way his lips hovered tantalizingly close to hers. If she were to lean forward right now, even a fraction...

"I fear this is not altogether appropriate," she murmured, pulling away reluctantly.

She did not know what "this" was. But she knew she must object to it — whatever it was — if she were to keep both her heart and her reputation intact. And so, without another word, she stood up on trembling legs and walked towards the door.