Chapter 9

"This was my mother's favorite spot," Andrew said as they reached the pond at the back of the mansion.

It had completely frozen over, so he and Marian walked carefully around its perimeter, both bundled up against the cold.

"She used to paint here in spring and summer. In winter, she'd bring my sister and me here to skate on the ice. There are some of her finished paintings in the house," he continued.

"I should very much like to see them," Marian replied quietly. "It's a beautiful spot. I'm not surprised that she loved it."

They walked in silence for a few moments, her hand still on his arm.

"You must miss her very much," Marian said at last, looking shyly up at him.

Andrew hesitated. He had not spoken of his mother to anyone since the day she died. The pain was just too much. There was something about Marian, however, which made him want to confide in her. Something that made him instinctively trust her.

"I do," he said at last. "Every day. My sister, too."

But not my father. Never him.

"I understand," Marian said simply. "I miss mine too. She died over two years ago now, but the pain is just as fresh. I sometimes think it always will be."

"I wish I could tell you otherwise," Andrew told her honestly. "But it would be a lie."

Marian nodded.

"I prefer to always hear the truth," she replied, "even if it's hard, and difficult to hear. I can't bear the thought of being deceived."

"Then you must only allow the people you trust to be part of your life," Andrew told her. "As I do now."

"Is that why you have only two servants?" Marian asked, looking up at him with a smile. "And but one friend?"

Andrew grinned back at her.

"I believe you tease me," he said. "But it will not work, I'm afraid. I have no shame in only surrounding myself with the people I know will never let me down. Even if it does mean I have but one friend as you put it."

"I'm not teasing," Marian insisted. "It seems to be a most sensible plan to me."

"Good. Then we agree on something at last."

"So it would appear."

They'd competed a full circle of the lake now, but he was pleased when she did not object to another.

"Perhaps we could go skating if it's still icy tomorrow?" Andrew suggested, the words surprising even him.

Skating? Am I really suggesting skating? What has this woman done to me?

Marian, however, simply bit her lip and didn't answer.

Of course. She'd much prefer not to be here tomorrow. How stupid of me to speak to her as if she's here of her own free will when we both know perfectly well that she would leave without a backwards glance at the first opportunity.

"It's been a long time since I tried skating," she said at last. "I'm not even sure I know how."

Andrew's heart leapt with hope. She might not have greeted his suggestion with enthusiasm, but nor had she entirely dismissed it; that would have to be good enough for now.

As they walked, Marian chattered on, an anecdote about the first time she had gone skating and had almost fallen through a hole in the ice, leading on to other tales of her childhood and life since then. Before Andrew knew quite what had happened, they had circled the pond another two times and were beginning a third.

And still, I am not bored. How curious.

The fact was even more curious given how reluctant he normally was to engage in such chat or to simply listen to it as the case may be. Ordinarily, the gossip and scandals of the Ton held little interest for him — especially considering that he himself had so often been the subject of it — but somehow Marian made everything she said come alive, interesting him in spite of himself.

Or maybe it's just she who interests me? Maybe I just enjoy listening to the sound of her voice?

They walked on, Andrew glancing down at her every so often. The cold air had turned Marian's cheeks rosy, and her hair, which she'd hastily pulled back under the hood of her cloak, curled wildly around her face.

She looks so… alive. And yet here she is, captive in a place which has seen no semblance of life for years.

"A penny for your thoughts?"

Andrew's mind was so deep in the thoughts in question that Marian's question caught him off guard. He had been silent for quite some time, he realized now. He had probably been frowning, too, as he'd been told was his habit when deep in thought. Most people said it made him look fearsome, and unapproachable, but Marian appeared to have no such qualms. Indeed, the look on her face seemed very much like genuine interest.

"My thoughts aren't worth a penny," he said, avoiding the question.

"Which is fortunate for me as I don't have one to give," she returned, smiling. "But you looked sad just now," she went on. "Will you tell me why?"

Andrew walked on in silence for a few steps, too surprised to answer her at first. The idea that someone might want to know what he was thinking — might actually care — was new to him. Not since the death of his family had anyone — other than Gregory, who was around too infrequently to count — expressed more than just polite interest in his wellbeing and often, not even that.

But Marian had asked the question as if she genuinely wished to know the answer, and to his surprise, Andrew realized he wanted to tell her.

"I was thinking how dead this place must seem to you," he said, not looking at her. "How lonely and quiet and small you must find this life of mine."

There was a short silence.

"And do you find it such?" asked Marian quietly. "Do you find it lonely?"

Andrew considered this carefully.

"I like being alone," he answered at last. "I'm not sure if it's just because I'm used to it or because it's in my nature, but either way, I am alone, yes, but I do not often feel lonely. There is a comfort in solitude, I find. A safety."

"Safety?" He could not see her expression, but the manner in which she asked the question encouraged him to go on.

"Yes. Safety from gossip, I suppose. From the vile rumors and slanderous suggestions that have plagued me since my family were killed. When I'm here on my own, those words can't touch me. I am safe. But I am also alone which I'm starting to find somewhat depressing."

He did not tell her that this thought had only occurred to him when she arrived. That until then, he had, as he'd said, reveled in his solitude. But now that she was here, the thought of having to go back to it was suddenly unbearable to him.

"That is why you keep me here, of course," Marian concluded, a little sadly. "Because you fear what I might say about you if you let me go. That I might bring the world of gossip and slander to your door and destroy the peace you've made for yourself here."

Andrew hesitated. It was what he'd told her — and what he'd told Gregory for that matter. But it was not entirely the truth. Still, he couldn't tell Marian that; he was barely even able to admit it to himself. So, instead, he chose to concentrate on the second part of her statement.

"‘The peace I've made for myself,'" he repeated thoughtfully. "You make it sound like something noble or at least intentional. But the truth is, it was something thrust upon me by circumstances. By society."

Marian looked up at him questioningly.

"You know, I stand accused of murdering my family?" Andrew pointed out abruptly. "Or, at least, I assume you do?"

He had not intended to speak quite so bluntly, but it was better that she knew — if she did not, already.

Marian's face paled, and her eyes grew wider, but the hand on his arm did not move which he took as an encouraging sign.

"I have heard rumors to that effect," she replied cautiously. "I think everyone in the country must have by now."

"I'm sure they have," Andrew said grimly. "News travels fast; bad news travels even faster. And, of course, the Ton loves nothing more than a scandal. It doesn't have to be true; it just has to be lurid enough to provide some relief from the monotony of the day-to-day."

"I wouldn't know," said Marian ruefully. "I might not have your reasons for being an outcast, but I'm not exactly at the heart of society myself these days. I haven't been in a long time."

"And yet still you've heard the rumors," Andrew replied. "And so you must understand the horror with which people perceive me and why I try so hard to protect myself from further scandal."

Marian nodded.

"I do. I just wish it were not so."

They walked on, her hand still on his arm.

"You haven't asked if the rumors are true, though?" Andrew asked at last, having finally worked up the courage that had been on his mind almost since the moment he'd told her his name. "Is it because you're too afraid of what I might say?"

"No," replied Marian immediately. "I haven't asked because I don't need to. I already know the truth. I know you didn't do it."

"But… how? How could you know?"

Andrew stopped in his tracks, almost struck dumb by the unexpectedness of her answer.

"I may only have been here a short time," Marian said, turning to face him. "But I can see you're not a monster, much though you've tried to convince me otherwise. You may have imprisoned me here — which is still unforgivable of you, and don't think otherwise — but I think I would know a cruel man if I met one. You are not a cruel man, Your Grace. Not by a long shot."

Andrew gazed down at her, not knowing what to say.

She does not think me a monster. She has somehow seen me as I am rather than as I present myself or as people describe me.

"Besides," Marian went on, taking his arm again, so they could resume their walk. "I flatter myself to know better than to mindlessly believe every rumor I hear. I much prefer to make my own mind up about people."

"And you have made your mind up about me?"

"Not quite." She looked up at him from under dark lashes. "You can seem fearsome at times. And, of course, there's the small matter of my continued imprisonment here."

Andrew cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"My father was a violent man," he said quietly, finding it a relief to finally speak the words aloud. "To all of us. My mother, my sister… and to me, most of all."

"Is that how you got your scar?" Marian asked curiously.

He nodded.

"He slashed at me with a knife. I was trying to defend my mother at the time. He would not have it."

He closed his eyes briefly, the memory as painful now as it had been to live through it.

"One day I went out for a ride," he continued in a rush. "When I returned, they were… they were all dead. All three of them."

Marian's hand tightened on his arm, but she did not interrupt him with platitudes which he was grateful for.

"He had killed my mother and sister," Andrew said, his voice breaking, "and then, he had killed himself. Which was fortunate for him because if he had lived long enough for me to get my hands on him…"

He did not need to continue.

"I'm surprised you wished to stay here," Marian observed after a short pause, "after witnessing such horrors."

"I had no choice," Andrew said bluntly. "I had nowhere to go. There was no proof that I had committed the crime, but Gregory, who you met yesterday, was one of the few people who believed me. I think it was more convenient to the Ton to believe I'd done it. It made for a better story. And it made it impossible for me to return to society, even if I'd wanted to."

"And so, you've been here ever since," Marian concluded, her voice full of sympathy.

"Yes. It's pathetic, really. Locked up here like a recluse, forcing beautiful women to spend time with me because I can't trust them not to spread gossip about me. Well, one beautiful woman, at least. I'm not in the habit of keeping people captive here, I promise."

"I'm glad to hear it." Marian laughed, breaking the tension. Andrew smiled back at her. She was the first person he had told about his father and what he'd done in many years. And yet she had not shunned him or tried to run.

She believed me.

She trusts me.

How I wish things could be different. That she could be with me — through choice, not because I refuse to let her leave.

The day seemed to grow even colder.

He could wish all he liked, but Andrew knew only too well that wishes don't come true. Marian had made herself very clear to him when they'd spoken that morning. She might not think him a monster, but nor did she wish for the kiss they'd shared to be repeated. She did not wish to be with him at all, and even if she did, it would be wrong of him to expect that of her, for what kind of life could she have, stuck out here with a man who had been ostracized by the world?

It would be no life at all. It was no life at all. He could see that now.

There was just nothing he could do about it.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, looking down at her. "I'm sorry to have put you in this position. I'm sorry you must stay here. I know it must be unbearably hard for you."

He paused, hoping she might contradict him but knowing she would not. When she remained silent, he went on.

"I cannot allow you to leave," he said sadly. "But while you are here, you are, of course, free to do whatever you wish — whatever will make your stay easier. As long as you obey my orders, of course."

It was the wrong thing to say. Andrew knew it as soon as the words left his lips. Until then, she had been walking beside him calmly; she had even gone so far as to say she believed him. But now, she whirled around, stopping him in his tracks, her eyes blazing with sudden anger.

"‘Obey your orders,'" she said disdainfully. "As if I'm but a servant, obliged to do as you wish? But of course, not quite, for a servant would at least be rewarded for their obedience while I, on the other hand, am simply a prisoner, kept here at your whim."

She leaned forward, standing on her toes to bring herself closer to his eye level, and once again, Andrew caught a whiff of that distinctive floral scent she wore.

"Fine," she said haughtily, tilting her chin in defiance. "Keep me here if you will. I can do nothing to change that. But as for obeying your orders…" Her eyes flashed dangerously as she emphasized the last word. "Just watch me as I disobey your orders, Your Grace."