Chapter 4

"No," Rose said firmly, rubbing her hands on her apron, "No, Your Grace, I will not be party to this. Ben told me all about it last night. He told me the young lady had arrived looking for help and had been refused the right to leave. Well! You can imagine what I thought!"

Andrew, who had passed a sleepless night in his study, wondered what on earth was to be done about the predicament he suddenly found himself in, gave up on the idea of rest. That morning, he walked downstairs to the kitchen where he knew Rose the cook would already be awake, preparing breakfast.

Rose had been with his family for longer than Andrew could remember, having come with his mother when she married his father. Now, although she had but one mouth to feed rather than an entire family and all of their associated servants and guests, she refused to leave.

"And where would I go, Your Grace?"she had asked tearfully in the aftermath of his family's murder. "I, who have known nothing but this house and this family? Oh, no," she went on, gathering herself. "I was loyal to my mistress when she was alive, and I will remain loyal to her even in death. Would not she want me to care for her son as she did?"

Andrew had no answer to that. Over the years that followed, he had regularly offered to help the cook find another, more suitable position, and he had even offered her a generous settlement which would have allowed her to live the rest of her days without having to lift a finger for anyone else.

Always, though, the answer had been no.

When he'd asked her to prepare a breakfast a young lady might like that morning, she'd immediately started protesting.

Now, Andrew opened his mouth to reply but was quickly silenced by a stern look from the cook, who was one of the few people he would permit to speak to him thus.

"‘No, Ben,' I told him," Rose went on, enjoying herself. "That can't be right. The Master would never treat a young lady such. Not the master I know. Imprisoning her in his home! Why, the mistress would be turning in her grave to hear of it!"

Andrew gritted his teeth as he replied to her.

"The lady has not been imprisoned, Rose," he said, uncomfortably aware that this was not entirely true. "I've merely asked her to stay for a while — while I decide what to do."

"Oh, you'll be allowing her to leave as soon as she's broken her fast, then?" Rose shot back instantly.

Andrew shifted guiltily from foot to foot.

Why do I allow my cook to speak to me as if she is the master and not I, I wonder?

The answer to this was clear, though. He allowed it because Rose and Ben were the closest thing he had to family. He depended on them both, and he had no choice but to trust them.

"Rose, please at least try to understand," he said quietly, taking a seat at the scrubbed wooden table which occupied the center of the room. "Please try to see this from my point of view."

He put his head wearily in his hands as he explained how desperate Marian's unexpected arrival had made him feel.

"I don't want to keep her here against her will," he concluded at last. "Of course not! I would rather she had never come here at all. But now that she is here, you must see that she places me in an impossible position. If she were to go back to her family and tell them about me, why, who knows what she might say? And who knows what the consequences might be?"

Rose looked at him, considering this. She had known Andrew since the day he was born. She knew he was not a bad man. And she knew, too, how he had suffered: both from the loss of his beloved mother and sister and from the gossip that had spread about him ever since.

Rose was not a woman to concern herself with idle gossip. Nor, however, was she entirely naive as to the ways of the world. Andrew was right, of course. Were Marion to leave here and speak ill of the Duke, the consequences might be far worse than simply ‘idle gossip'. Why, his entire existence here — and by association, hers and Ben's — might be under threat. And so, Rose made up her mind.

"I don't like it, Sir," she said, adjusting her cap. "I don't like to think of the poor thing being kept from those who love her. But if she is to remain here, then we must make her welcome, and we'll start with a hearty breakfast."

She turned away to busy herself with the stove, and Andrew sighed with relief.

"Thank you, Rose," he said sincerely, getting to his feet. "I knew I could depend upon your loyalty. And I will find a way out of this infernal situation — you have my word on that."

"I shall hold you to it," Rose said simply. But as he left the kitchen, Andrew could already smell the delicious scents of some of the cook's finest dishes. He allowed himself to relax a little.

The situation might be dire, but at least we shall eat well. I suppose that has to count for something.

In her room upstairs,Marian woke to a shaft of sunlight filtering through a dirty window. At first, she thought she was in her own bed in the house she'd grown up in. Then the events of the day before came rushing back to her, and she sat up with a jerk, staring around curiously.

The room was as ill-maintained as the rest of the house with thick cobwebs hanging in the corners and a thick layer of dust on the dressing table. The furniture itself, however, was of good quality as was the nightgown she wore which she had taken from the pile of clothes Ben had handed to her. Marian rolled the fabric between her fingers thoughtfully.

I don't recall any mention of a wife in any of the stories of the Duke of Rottdwell. I wonder whom this belonged to?

There was no answer to be found in the room itself, though, so not knowing what else to do, Marian quickly dressed in her own clothes, which had dried overnight, then cautiously opened the door of the chamber, relieved to find that the key turned easily in the lock, and she had not been locked in overnight.

So, he's not planning to keep me prisoner here, then. I'll simply ask where my horse is and how to get home then I'll never have to see the Duke again.

She started down the grand staircase she remembered following the Duke up the night before, feeling somewhat surprised by the disappointment she felt at this. Of course, she did not want to see the Duke again. She couldn't possibly. Yes, he was handsome — so handsome she had found it hard not to stare — but what of it? There must be plenty such men in the county, and most of those wouldn't come with the Duke's terrible reputation, either.

So why don't I feel happier at the prospect of leaving him far behind me?

"Good morning. I trust you slept well?"

The familiar voice of the man she'd just been thinking of came from an open door close to the bottom of the stairs. Stepping through it, Marian found herself in a bright little breakfast room which was a little cleaner than the rooms she'd seen so far as if someone had quickly taken a cloth to the surfaces. She blinked rapidly, noticing a trace of dust on the Duke's sleeve as he rose politely to greet her.

Surely, he didn't try to clean this room himself? Surely, he wouldn't care what I thought of his home?

"Will you join me?" He gestured towards the table which was heavily laden with platters of food. "As you can see, my housekeeper is indisposed, but my cook is second to none."

"It's as well you say that, Your Grace," came a female voice, "or I'd be feeding all of this to the cats."

Marian spun around to see a short, busty woman with red cheeks and an immaculately starched apron come marching into the room, two more steaming platters in her hands.

"Would you like some porridge, Ma'am?" she asked, seemingly unperturbed to find Marian there. "Or shall I make you something else?"

"No, this… this is fine. Wonderful, in fact," Marian replied, looking hungrily at the full table and suddenly realizing she hadn't eaten since she'd sat with her father yesterday morning. She smiled gratefully at the cook, reassured by the presence of another woman.

"Well, are you going to sit down?" the Duke demanded impatiently, taking his own seat.

Marian hesitated. She was sure it couldn't be proper, and she had just told herself she would leave immediately. Then again, she was starving, and she would have a long ride home — wherever it was from here. Against her better judgment, she pulled out a seat at the opposite end of the table from the Duke and fell upon the feast in front of her, knowing she was being most unladylike but entirely unable to stop herself.

"That was delicious," she said at last, putting her cutlery back on the table. "Thank you for your hospitality; I know my father will be grateful when I tell him of it. Now, if you would be so kind as to have my horse brought around and tell me how I might find my way home from here —"

She trailed off, seeing the look on the Duke's face.

He was even more handsome in the light of the morning than he had been last night, his blue eyes vivid in the sun and his full lips pouting beneath a smattering of stubble which he had not shaved. His dark hair, on the other hand, looked like he'd made at least some attempt to comb it, but it had resisted the attempt and was delightfully ruffled in a manner that made Marian long to run her hands through it.

He needs someone to look after him: a woman's touch.

She blushed, ashamed of her own thoughts.

His face might be distracting, but it was the look in the Duke's eye, however, that demanded most of her attention.

"Home?" he said softly. "And what makes you think I'll allow you to go home?"

Marian drew in a quick intake of breath, her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

"I assumed you spoke in jest when you said you'd keep me prisoner last night," she said haughtily, knowing she had thought no such thing. This morning's far more civil behavior, however, had allowed her to believe she was safe, but the fact that he now appeared to be contradicting that thought was a blow that left her feeling suddenly panicked.

"I never jest," said Andrew simply. "I say only what I mean."

Marian's face had turned pale. She could quite believe him. The Duke did not seem like a man to speak lightheartedly about anything.

How foolish I was in allowing myself to believe I was safe here. Why didn't I run when I had the chance?

She may not have run last night, however, but she could surely do it now? Marian shifted in her seat, her eyes flicking to the door of the breakfast room. She sat closer to it than Andrew, and if her memory was correct, it was but a short distance from this room to the front door. If she could somehow distract him, then jump up and run?—

"Don't even think about it." Andrew's voice was still soft, but there was an underlying menace to his tone that made her blood run suddenly cold.

"Think about what?" She sat up a little straighter in her chair, determined not to let him see how much he frightened her.

"Running, my sweet."

He chuckled dryly.

"Did you know that every one of your thoughts is displayed across that exquisite little face of yours?" he asked. "Including the impulse to run?"

Marian's eyes grew wide as she stared back at him, wondering what to say.

How did he know? Surely, he can't really read me that easily?

"In any case," continued Andrew, "it wouldn't do you any good, even if you were brave enough to try it. The doors are locked. All of the doors. And only I have the key."

Marian searched his face for some clue that he was lying or just toying with her. But what he had said was true: the Duke did not jest. Which meant he really had taken her prisoner here — and all of a sudden, instead of being scared, Marian found a new emotion had taken over: anger. Sheer, white hot anger which brought her out of her seat and flying towards him, her hands clenched in fists as she rained blows upon his hard chest. Blows which simply glanced off him, seemingly having no impact at all.

"How dare you refuse to allow me to leave," she screamed in frustration, hot tears pricking the backs of her eyes. "How dare you? I'll… I'll…"

But she had no idea what she would — or could — do to stop him. Instead, she flew at him again, her fists beating a drum on his chest until he reached forward and grabbed her wrists, one in each hands, pulling her roughly towards him.

"Let me go," she sobbed, annoyed at herself for giving in to tears but unable to stop herself. "Let me go at once!"

"Or?"

Andrew looked down at her, a small smile playing across his lips as he held her as easily as if she were a bird.

"You were about to threaten me, I believe?" he prompted. "I'd very much like to know with what. Because you seem to think you're very fearsome indeed, but it occurs to me that I'm not the one with reason to be afraid."

His words stilled her at last, and she stood trembling with fear, her eyes wide in her pale face. He was still holding her by the wrists, her body much too close to his: close enough for her to fully understand the strength of the man before her — a man who had the power to do with her exactly as he chose.

"That's better," the Duke said softly, feeling the fight go out of her. "Best not to wake the beast, my sweet. You don't want to know what he's capable of, believe me."

Marian thought she had been scared before, but what she felt now was pure terror. It coursed through her body, making her legs tremble and her voice shake when she spoke.

"Wh… why are you doing this?" she asked in a whisper. "Why keep me here against my will?"

Andrew reluctantly let go of her wrists, allowing her to step hurriedly back from him. This time, however, she did not try to run; she knew there was no point. Instead, she stood waiting for his answer, dabbing furtively at the tears which had gathered on her cheeks as if hoping he wouldn't see them.

"I'm not keeping you here for my own pleasure, I assure you," he replied stiffly. "But I can't allow you to leave. There's been enough gossip about me, about my family. I can't risk you adding to it."

"But I won't," Marian said eagerly. "I promise you, Your Grace, I won't breathe a word. I'll … I'll just say I got lost in the woods and spent the night there. I won't even mention your name, I swear to you. If you could just let me go, I?—"

"No."

He spoke firmly and decisively as if this was his very last word on the matter. Marian's heart, which had risen in hope when she thought she might succeed in convincing him, sank abruptly to her boots again.

"My father will have realized I'm missing by now," she said defiantly, tossing her hair. "He'll have sent his men to look for me. They could be on their way now. If you don't let me go, you risk them coming to your door and finding me themselves."

It was a lie, and he knew it. She could see it in the way his dark eyebrows raised in disbelief.

No one was coming for her. Marian knew that. Even if her father had sobered up enough to notice she was gone, there were no men for him to send, other than himself.

And what will become of him without me? Who will look after him, stop him from drinking himself to death? Oh, why did I leave him yesterday? What possessed me to do something so stupid?

"That's a risk I'm going to have to take, I'm afraid," the Duke said, sounding entirely unconcerned. "I have ways of dealing with uninvited visitors in any case as you now know."

Marian let out a sob of frustration.

Trapped. I'm utterly trapped. And with a man capable of Lord knows what.

Her hands clenched into fists of rage, but this time she knew better than to try to attack. The Duke's blue eyes glinted with warning at her, and with a huge effort of will, Marian kept her hands by her sides, and her temper in check — just.

"I could always just throw you into the dungeon, of course," he said casually. "Have you ever been inside a dungeon? It's not very pleasant, I'm afraid. If I were you, I'd do exactly as I was told, lest I find myself in even more trouble."

"You are a cruel and despotic man," Marian said stiffly, glaring at him through the film of tears which still wet her eyes. "And I shall never forgive you for this."

The Duke's eyes darkened with something Marian at first thought looked like sadness. But no. I must be mistaken. A man such as this can't be capable of such an emotion.

"As you wish," he said at last. "We'll leave the dungeon for now, I think. As I said, the doors are all locked in any case."

With a small bow, which Marian was convinced he made purely to mock her, he turned and walked away to where she did not know.

She was alone.