Chapter 7

"Who on earth is that?"

"Is she drunk?"

"Nothing surprises me when it comes to the Roy family. Like father, like son."

Marcus heard the words whispered and, in some cases, spoken aloud by the people around him who had noticed the young woman. They could not help but be aware of her stockinged feet or the servant's dress. Nor could they miss the unsteady steps and look of confusion upon her face.

Why the devil did Gracie not keep you in the room? What are you doing to me?

She reached the foot of the stairs and then her eyes alighted on Marcus. A smile bloomed across her face, and she began to walk towards him. Marcus glared about himself at the comments he could hear. Wherever his dark eyes landed, silence fell. He strode towards the young woman.

"I'm sorry. I'm interrupting your…occasion," she said.

"Not at all," Marcus soothed, "I am just concerned that you might not be well enough. Don't you think you should be resting?"

"Probably, but I think I have had too much to drink. There was wine beside the bed, and I drank all of it," she said, looking about herself with increasing distress.

It was as though she had come this far without realizing what she would be walking into. Now, she could see the looks that were settling on her from the company, feel their disapproval, and, in some cases, open laughter. Marcus put a protective arm about her shoulders instinctively and steered her back towards the staircase.

"Arthur, I am sorry for the… all the trouble I have caused you. But I was desperate," the young woman said, "he struck me, and my father did nothing."

That brought Marcus up short. He felt the ignition of a flame of anger.

Someone struck this woman in front of her own father, and he just watched? That is monstrous!

"Who struck you?" he asked, guiding her towards the stairs again.

"The Duke of Christleton. My father may not be a Duke, but he ought to have defended me, don't you think?"

"Christleton is an old bastard," Marcus snarled. "Where did this happen?"

"In my father's house. In Sawthorne itself," she mumbled.

That name rang a bell. There was a Sawthorne manor somewhere in west Kent, or possibly the north of that county. Its owner was a man of Germanic name and roots.

Voss! That's it. His family name is Voss. If only I were au fait with the gentry of the Home Counties, I would know her name too. It shouldn't be difficult to discover the name of Voss of Sawthorne's daughter.

He felt a small sense of triumph at this breakthrough. They had reached the stairs at the same time as the Dowager Countess of Claydon emerged from a doorway to one side. It led to the Long Walk, a passageway in which the Roy's collection of art and antiques were put on proud display. The Dowager Countess was flanked by younger women, simpering and tittering at her every utterance.

She had a formidable nose and a lifted chin; her hair was steel gray and hung with delicate gold ornaments. When she saw the Voss girl, she stopped short, staring with astonishment. Her look took the entirety of the young woman into the balance, weighed her, and found her wanting.

"Well, Your Grace. You waste no time, do you? You could at least do the rest of us the courtesy of keeping your drabs behind closed doors until the event to which you have persuaded us to attend concludes."

"Oh my!" the young Voss woman exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears.

Marcus gritted his teeth and rounded on the old woman.

"I'll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself in my house. If that proves too difficult, I shall be glad to personally escort you to the door," he snapped.

Instinctively, he tightened his grip on the young woman's shoulders, holding her to him protectively. The urge to shield her from people such as this was overwhelming. She was so delicate and vulnerable; he did not want her exposed to the cruelty and politics of these people. Did not wish to see her harmed. Knowing that she had already been harmed by a reprobate such as the Duke of Christleton only made that instinct more acute.

"Well, really!" the Dowager Countess exclaimed, "to think a peer of the realm should lower himself to…"

"To speak to one such as you," Marcus interrupted.

The Dowager Countess' face turned white. Her mouth compressed into a tight line. Marcus knew that what he was doing was tantamount to social suicide. That he was already blasting apart the good opinion he might have gained by hosting an event like this. But he could not make himself care.

"Well, I for one shall not remain here to be insulted!" the Dowager Countess boomed in a voice that could have carried to France, let alone the rest of the hall, "I shall leave at once and advise anyone who cares for respectability to follow suit."

She stormed past Marcus, followed by her entourage. Everyone now seemed to be looking in their direction. Marcus scowled at the old battle-ax and bit back a choice insult that would have further burned his bridges with the entirety of the gathered company.

"Ignore her. Ignore all of them," he said softly, "you need not be concerned by them. You're safe here."

She looked up at him with bright, pale blue eyes. A lock of brilliant gold fell across her temple, and he felt an urge to stroke it away, the better to look upon her delicate, beautiful face.

"I am causing you so much trouble," she said mournfully.

"It is the duty of a gentleman," Marcus replied kindly.

She reached up and took his hand. For a long moment that could have been seconds, minutes, or hours, Marcus let her hold his hand in hers. Her touch was warm and smooth, her eyes were precious gems that he could not look away from. The room, the ball, the Dowager Countess, everything faded from Marcus' awareness. She stood on tip toes and kissed him. A detached part of Marcus' mind told him that he should break away immediately, step back from this woman, distance himself.

That voice told him that for a woman to publicly kiss a Duke, a woman who was not his wife or even his fiancée, would be grounds for a scandal that would be talked of for months. That she would be labeled a harlot, and he, a rogue. But that voice could not compete with the feeling of rightness that went along with kissing her. Her fingers tightened around his, pressing his hand to her chest. He could feel her heartbeat beneath his fingers, the rapid tattoo thrumming beneath her breast.

That thrum was fast, getting faster as her kiss deepened. His own heartbeat raced along with it as though to catch up. He slipped a hand around her waist, holding her close to him and spreading his fingers against the small of her back. The servant's dress was not thick, he could feel her body beneath the thin material, could trace the gentle curve, could almost feel the softness of her skin.

It was the shocked murmur of the assembled worthies that finally broke through the bliss in which Marcus had been enveloped. His beautiful visitor was the first to become aware. She suddenly pulled away from him, her face scarlet, a hand going to her mouth. She stepped back, looking past him to the faces that he knew must now be looking their way. Every eye weighing and judging them. He wanted to throw them all out. Wanted to tell them all to go to hell.

But he couldn't. As bewitched as he was by the Miss Voss, if that's who she was, he knew that he had a duty to his name, to his family. Miss Voss looked horror-struck. She turned and fled up the stairs, tripping and falling once but scrambling back to her feet with a sob. Marcus made to pursue her but felt a strong hand on his arm.

"Better not, old chap. Let me, as her doctor," Luke said quietly, "I think there are enough rumors flying around about you as it is."

Marcus turned to look back at the crowd. He hated them all at that moment, despised the need to crawl for their approval. He nodded reluctantly, gritting his teeth.

"Very well. Go now. Make sure she is safe."

"You can rely on me. Do you know who she is yet?"

"The daughter of the Earl of Sawthorne, I think," Marcus said.

"Sawthorne? She is a Voss?" Luke said, then seemed to think, "Selina, yes, the Voss daughter is called Selina. I'm sure of it."

"Do me a favor, Luke. Ask her. I cannot, not if I am to maintain this pretense of being…"

Marcus stopped abruptly, casting suspicious eyes about for anyone who might be close enough to overhear.

"Rest easy, Valebridge," Luke said and tapped the side of his nose. He jogged up the stairs and out of sight.

Marcus took a deep breath and then turned to face his guests, forcing a smile that was almost painful.