Chapter Four

July 12, 1815

It had been two days since she'd taken refuge at Ormandy Manor to rest her injured ankle. While it remained swollen, the pain had gone down somewhat. That wasn't what left her frustrated, it was the fact that the marquess hadn't checked in on her or acknowledged her presence in any way since the shocking events in the parlor after he'd wrapped her ankle.

That didn't dim her curiosity about him.

"You look like you are deep in contemplation, or else the book you're reading isn't interesting, for you are frowning at those pages."

The sound of a male voice wrenched her out of her thoughts. As her heartbeat accelerated thinking it might be Benedict, when she caught sight of the Earl of Traverston, cold disappointment twisted down her spine. "Ah. Hello, Your Lordship." She set aside the book. "The story is interesting enough, but I suppose I have too much on my mind to concentrate."

"Understandable. No doubt convalescence in a strange household is a rather dull prospect." When he dropped into a chair near the sofa she reclined on, he grinned. Afternoon sunlight came in through the windows to render his blond hair molten gold. "There is no need for titles here. I would adore it if you called me by my Christian name of William."

This man was much more congenial than the marquess. "Thank you, and you must refer to me as Marjorie."

"A lovely name for an equally lovely woman." Honesty shone in his hazel eyes.

She uttered a soft snort. "I'm not certain that is a true statement since I'm still wearing the same dress I have been in for two days. Not that I've seen anyone except the servants." Perhaps it was indelicate to mention such a thing in front of a man, but she couldn't help it. There was nothing much to occupy her attention here.

"I will speak to Syn about that. He should have sent for your things before now when he wrote to your cousin."

"Thank you, I agree, he should have, but also my cousin should have had the foresight to pack a bag and send it on." Which was a blatant hint at how she was valued—or not—by an in-law. Her lips turn downward in a frown. "My cousin-in-law, who I suspect only invited me to the Lake District so I could become a companion." She gave into a shiver. "I'd rather not do that if at all possible since I'm only now trying out my own wings."

"I knew you would have stubborn determination." He nodded and rested an ankle on a knee, the perfect image of an English gentleman at leisure. "Surely Syn has been keeping you company. That first day, I thought he'd land me a facer for having the audacity of merely talking to you."

That was odd. "There is nothing between him and me. Ask him if you don't believe me, for I haven't seen hide nor hair of him since that afternoon. As you know, he didn't show for dinner." In fact, if it wasn't for William's presence, she would dine alone. By willpower, she fought off a blush, for what kind of a woman allowed a strange man to do the deliciously wicked things to her that she had? Good heavens, even now she could still feel his touch and his tongue on her most intimate of places, and she resisted the urge to squirm on her cushion, but his abrupt departure puzzled her.

Had she offended him in some way?

"As much as I would like to say I'm surprised, the truth of the matter is, I am not." William slowly shook his head. "The longer Syn stays in the Lake District, the more he hides from society and responsibilities, withdraws into himself with only his thoughts for company."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "He was devastated by events in his past. To be fair, that was more deaths than anyone should need to bear, but he is still standing, yet I must wonder for how long."

Slight panic filled her chest, and she shifted on the sofa. "Is he far gone, then, in maudlin feelings?" Surely, he didn't plan to do something drastic.

"Who can say? It was one of the reasons I dropped in for a visit on my way to the Highlands, and I won't lie. I'm worried about him." That sentiment was etched through his expression. "We have been friends since Eton."

"Impressive." A sigh escaped her throat. "I would like to talk with him, but he doesn't seem inclined. Beyond that, I would like to understand him. After all, he did rescue me when he didn't need to, and I thought we…" She cleared her throat. "Well, I thought there might have been a connection there. Obviously, it was an erroneous belief."

"I am not so sure." For a few seconds, William regarded her with the same speculation in his gaze that everyone in the manor had given her over the past two days. "If you truly wish to take an interest in Syn's life beyond a fleeting visit, please don't give up on him. Perhaps meeting you is the catalyst that will bring my friend back to the world of the living."

"That makes sense." When she wriggled her ankle, a slight twinge of pain was her reward. "Where is he right now?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, but the last time I spoke to him, he'd indicated a wish to go fishing. Usually when he tells me that, it means he'll nap in the sun and then take a swim in one of the lakes." The earl snickered. "Truthfully, he sometimes does fish. The lakes are quite abundant at all times of the year."

"Ah." Sunbathing was no doubt how he kept his skin that glorious golden hue. Trembles of need tumbled down her spine to lodge between her thighs. What would he look like sans clothing? Curiosity regarding the marquess burned strong. "Has he always been this closed off and withdrawn and intense?"

"Not since his son perished, and then once his wife died, something within seemed to break. He hasn't been himself." Concern shadowed the earl's eyes. "I feel that if he talked to someone about what he is feeling, if he could unburden himself, he might realize he still has much to live for and he might learn all is not lost, that people care for him." He blew out a breath. "But he is obstinate and believes this is his cross to bear, that he deserves to walk through that valley of shadows."

"Regardless, I'm glad you continue to prod him and support him. Though I don't know him well, his absence would certainly be noted." That fluttering panic returned to her chest. "Perhaps I can persuade him to talk about that time in his life."

"I hope you can." In one fluid movement, William planted both boots on the floor and stood. "Well, I should go track Syn to earth. I did promise to join him for fishing, so I'd best do that. He has rather a temper when he's marinated in annoyance." He winked. "It was lovely chatting with you."

Marjorie smiled. "As it was with you, Lord Traverston…. Er, William."

He nodded. "Until dinner, then."

"Enjoy your afternoon." She glanced toward the open windows while he left the room. An errant breeze blew into the room, carrying with it the scents of flowers, grasses, and the clean smell of the ever-present lakes. Perhaps she would hobble outside and sit on the terrace, merely for a change of scenery.

When Benedict still hadn't returned by teatime, she took the repast by herself with a book, and then, bored afterward, decided it was time to explore the manor in order to discover a bit more about the marquess and what drove him.

If he refused to tell her about himself, she'd piece together what she needed, and that meant sneaking into his suite of rooms.

For a manor house full of servants and staff, there were very little interactions throughout the day. Perhaps they kept to themselves or had too many tasks to occupy their time, but Marjorie didn't enjoy the loneliness she'd been handed upon coming here. And if Benedict continued to treat her cooly, she would ask the butler to have a carriage brought around so she could return to her cousin.

Aside from that first highly surprising tryst with the marquess, this hadn't been the exciting adventure she'd wished for.

At his door, she glanced about, and seeing no one in the corridor, she let herself into his rooms, closing the panel softly behind her. Immediately, she was immersed in a strictly masculine abode. Colors of dark green and navy went throughout the apartment. Plush Aubusson rugs cushioned her uneven footfalls while large, solid furniture made out of mahogany filled the space—shelves, an armoire, a handsome bureau, occasional tables. Shafts of later afternoon sun streaked into the room making dust motes dance.

The faintest hints of his scent lingered in the air as she inspected a silver, ivory-handled shaving set on a tray atop the bureau. Thankfully, his valet wasn't in residence, for no doubt that man had either gone out fishing or whiled the time in the servants' hall. A grouping of leather furniture—low sofa, a couple of winged-back chairs, and a settee—occupied one side of the dressing room, and it took all her willpower not to drop into one of the chairs to feel the suppleness of the leather.

Then she pushed open the door to the adjoining bedchamber and tiptoed inside his inner sanctum. A massive four-poster bed in matching wood dominated the space. The green and blue theme carried over in this space, and immediately she was put in mind of the marquess. Oil paintings depicting seascapes as well as landscapes hung on the walls throughout the suite, but nowhere in either room did she see paintings or portraits of his family.

Perhaps they were in a portrait gallery or some such. Wasn't the English aristocracy adamant about having things like that in their country homes?

As she trailed through the room, she reveled in being in his private haven from the world. However, nothing about the space spoke to his confliction of mind or his allegedly tortured thoughts. Why would he keep any of that to himself? Marjorie pushed open the window panels to encourage fresh air into the room. Bird song and the comforting hum from summer insects met her ears.

On one of the shelves, an ornate wooden box rested, and it was so pretty the scrollwork drew her closer.

"How lovely." She brushed her fingertips over the carvings and then, curious, she took the box from the shelf. Not bigger than a fat book, there was no lock on the box. As soon as she settled on the trunk at the foot of the bed, Marjorie put the box in her lap and then opened the hinged lid. Inside, resting amidst dark blue satin was a beautiful pistol with a carved ivory handle and a shiny silver barrel. "An exquisite work of art." Gliding a fingertip along the barrel, she poked about the satin. There was a small leather pouch of lead balls, packing material for the barrel, and a ramrod to push everything down. She assumed, for she didn't understand the inner workings of pistols, especially English-made weapons.

Obviously, he'd already told her he'd been to war? Did he take this pistol with him? Carry it home as a gruesome souvenir? Or had it been a dueling pistol? That was an interesting theory. Definitely he had the look of a man who could be pushed to jealousy.

But why would he keep this?

Before she could further ponder, , the adjoining door crashed open with such force that it bounced against the wall, causing her to jump and scrabble to keep hold of the box.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" So much banked anger radiated from him and roiled in his voice that she could physically feel it.

"I… Well, I thought to explore and come to know you by looking about your rooms…" Her words faded as she looked at him. Fawn-colored breeches, scuffed boots, a brown tweed jacket and a plain brown waistcoat over a fine lawn shirt spoke of a man in his leisure and prone to outdoor activities, and in such a ragged outfit, she was hard-pressed not to ogle him.

"Such gammon! You wished to spy on me!" Then his gaze fell to the box in her hand, and his face reddened. "And why the deuce do you have that ?" He darted forward and yanked the box from her hands. "This is personal and private. No one has the right to handle this."

"The box is beautiful. I wanted to see it—"

"No, damn it!" There was an intensity about his eyes that frightened her as she slowly stood. "No one is to ever touch this box. Do you understand?"

Truly, she didn't. Everyone had secrets, and some of them painful, but this was becoming detrimental to his health. "I suppose, but if you told me why it is off limits?"

"This is my room, and everything inside it is private. Shouldn't that be enough warning for you to stay away?" Every word he spoke echoed in the room. The timbre of his voice reverberated deep in her chest.

What is wrong with me that I want this man, even in the face of his ire?

She glanced toward the door that connected the rooms, but it had nearly shut itself after bouncing off the wall. "While that would ordinarily be true, since you refused to talk with me or even see me these past two days, I decided to find out more about you in other ways." Though his anger frightened her, she refused to back down. "Quite frankly, you have been a terrible host, and it was you who decided to bring me here to begin with."

"Ah." Annoyance flashed in his eyes, making them even more stormy. "Due to your irritation about my hosting duties, you thought barging into my private suite and poking through my things was your right." It wasn't a question.

A hint of warmth infused her cheeks. "I…" Then she flicked her gaze to the box in his hand. "Tell me why you have a pistol, and why you have apparently lost your mind over my finding it."

"No."

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. "Why not? According to Lord Traverston, you rarely talk to anyone, so perhaps you can use that anger and tell me about yourself. Why do you hold yourself apart from everyone?"

"I… You…!" The marquess sputtered. His chest heaved as he struggled to calm himself. "You and my best friend were gossiping about me?"

"Of course not. He is genuinely concerned about you." What couldn't he understand about that? "And if we're honest, so is your staff." She blew out a breath. "This is a failing about the British. There is no shame in sharing your pain with others."

"It is a private matter." He shoved his free hand through his hair, leaving the dark mass in disarrayed furrows. "You had no right to discuss my life nor come in here."

"Perhaps I agree, but I was desperate to learn about you. Where is the harm?" With a glance at the box, she lifted an eyebrow. "What does the pistol mean to you and why do you have it if it reminds you of a horrid time in your life?"

"That is none of your concern." With determined, stalking steps, he came toward her. "Never come in here again and never go through my things." With a cry, he threw the box against the wall so hard it left a dent. The lid went askew and the contents skittering over the floor; the sunlight glinted over the silver barrel. His eyes remained haunted. "Nothing good comes from handling weapons. Nothing."

"Then tell me why." Annoyed herself, Marjorie lifted her chin as he came closer. This wasn't the first time she'd stood in the middle of a man's storm of ire, and it wouldn't be the last, but these were horrible manners, and she wouldn't flee from him. She'd made the mistake of doing that with her husband when he was drunk, and that had given him the upper hand and all the power. "What about that pistol has set you off? Why do you keep it around if it tortures you, causes you to remember a terrible time in your life?" That curiosity about him hadn't faded.

"If I told you the whole story, you would hate me." The shadows in his eyes deepened as he closed the distance between them, didn't stop until she had no choice but to retreat. He trapped her between the wall in the middle of the windows and the hard expanse of his torso. "Because I hate myself," he said in a low, thrilling voice as he leaned a forearm and fist on the wall near her head. "And no one should ever know what that feels like."

Oh, dear heavens. Marjorie's heartbeat slammed through her veins. The man's proximity sent awareness careening through the whole of her form. There was no other choice but to rest a hand on his chest. "Which is all the more urgent for you to trust someone enough to share that with them instead of thinking it a burden. We all need people around us, Benedict, if we are to survive in this world. We were never meant to go it alone."

For long moments he stared at her, held her gaze as she was caught in the vortex deep in those depths. They shared breath in those charged seconds, and then he spoke.

"If you are so damned curious about me, Mrs. Stowe, why don't we just get to it, hmm? And let's start with what I want right now."

"Which is?" Those she knew, with the surety that she knew her own name; it was there, a blatant need in his expression, and she completely agreed.

"This." The marquess crushed his lips to hers in a kiss that demanded everything from her but gave nothing of himself away.

Immediately, Marjorie was swept up in the tide of his emotions, and when they butted with her own, the resulting storm was spectacular. With a soft moan at the back of her throat, she looped her arms about the breadth of his shoulders, for there was no shame in wishing to enjoy a man's kiss when she could.

That must have either been the permission he sought or it unlocked something deep within him, but Benedict took her more comfortably into his arms, slid a hand up her side to cup her cheek no doubt to hold her steady, and set out to apparently kiss her into submission.

Or insanity.

Perhaps it didn't matter which, for she was drowning, alternately confused and apprehensive with the embrace that had followed emotional words, but she returned his kisses with matching strength, energy, and abandon, for she fed from him.

If her husband had never appreciated her enthusiasm in all things carnal, maybe this man would.

"Tell me you want me, Marjorie." Strain and emotions graveled his voice, and it was beyond delicious. "I need to hear you say it. No more hints and innuendos."

"As if we have had much time for that, but yes. I don't know why or how, but I want you more than anything just now." Her pulse rushed so hard through her it echoed in her ears. Unable to deny herself, she stroked the fingers of one hand along his jaw. The faint prickle of stubble rasped against her skin and enhanced the awareness she already had for him. A muscle twitched beneath her fingertips, and he kissed her fiercely again. This was what she'd wanted from him two days ago, and it was worth every minute of the wait. For this one moment, she wished only to feel his lips against hers and to have his body slide over her, to have him move inside her. Worrying about the sure scandal that would follow could wait; trying to puzzle out her future would benefit from a delay. In this one fleeting second, there was only her and him, and she didn't care to ponder why.

Perhaps it just… was.

"What the hell have you done to me? I've known you barely an hour or two." Again, he crushed his mouth to hers, claiming her lips with a strength she couldn't deny but highly encouraged. All her senses were consumed by him, and she couldn't wait to stoke that fire. For far too long, she'd lived for other people; now it was her turn.

"The same thing you've done to me. If I thought you believed in whimsy, I'd say you were a sorcerer who bewitched me." The muscled length of him pressed into her softer body while the hard wall at her back reminded her of his domination. His arms around her were like iron bands, his fingers summoned fire as he played them up and down her spine. The heat of his tongue as he tangled it with hers sent liquid between her thighs. Every bit of it was glorious, and she wanted to make up for the time and experiences she'd lost while married. "Dear God, you are potent." She burrowed closer into his embrace, chasing that connection. His clean, crisp scent wafted into her nose and left his indelible stamp upon her brain. Clearly, she was mad.

"I am merely a man who knows what—or who—he wants." One by one, he plucked the pins from her hair, and when the tresses tumbled down, he fisted a hand in them and urged her head backward. The stormy depths of his eyes nearly swallowed her. "Are all Americans as stubborn and willful as you?"

She couldn't help but chuckle even as tiny fires burned through her blood. "Honestly? I would have to answer yes, but then, I also know what I want. So in that we are well matched." When the corners of his lips tilted with the beginnings of a grin, she threaded her fingers through the silky hair at his nape. "And in surviving my marriage, I have learned one thing."

"Oh? What is that?" Then he nipped a line of kisses beneath her jaw as he sneaked his free hand to cup her breast.

"That no one will give me anything in this life. If I want it, I'll need to find a way to take it."

"Good advice, but you are wrong in one way." He tightened his fingers in her hair, and tiny pinpricks of pain worked to further enhance her desire. "Your husband was a proper bounder. I will give you everything you could ever want or even need, as many times as you can bear."

A shiver went down Marjorie's spine. "I'll be the judge of that." She stood on tiptoe in order to feel the full extent of his kiss as he claimed her lips again and he didn't relent.

"Damn, but you are a challenge, a distraction I never asked for, and I have a strong feeling you will be trouble." Benedict grasped her hips and ground his pelvis into hers.

"Life can't always go on the same as it has been. We require change to move forward." Daring everything and pushing all doubts away for the time being, she drew a hand between their bodies. "Do something different, Your Lordship, and see where that new path takes you." Would he take exception to her words or actions like her husband always had? No way to tell. When she caressed the impressive bulge at the front of his breeches, he hissed in a breath.

"We shall see." And once more his mouth was on hers, and he showed no mercy.