He Said Yes Page 13

  It took the better part of two days before Marshall was feeling anywhere near "right." He could barely remember what had happened after Briggs had poured half a pot of Cook's elixir down his throat. What he did remember was giving him fits. Evelyn. The beguiling way she had of look­ing at him, the way she'd responded to his every touch. The range of her reactions had been like nothing he'd ever expe­rienced—innocently hesitant at first, then wantonly eager. But each heartfelt, each a commitment to their lovemaking.

  The only consolation he had was knowing that if anyone had been seduced it was he. Evelyn had decided for what­ever reason to become his lover, if only for one bright sun­drenched morning. Why? Was her fear of prison so strong that she had wanted to experience all a woman could experi­ence before being locked away? Didn't she know that he'd do everything within his power to make sure that didn't hap­pen?

  Or had he awakened more than desire in her?

  The question evoked both pleasure and concern. Marshall rose from behind his desk to stare out the window. He was making assumptions, he decided. He wasn't dealing with a merry widow content to play at a lover's game. Nor was Evelyn a naive innocent who expected commitment. She was mature enough to understand that he wasn't seeking marriage, and equally mature in knowing what she wanted for herself—a husband and children.

  The thought of her eventually finding those things with another man didn't sit well.

  "The Earl of Granby is here, milord."

  Marshall swung around to find the butler standing in the doorway.

  "Show him in," he told Carlow, wondering if Granby had stopped by to turn the screws. He'd be a long time living down the drunken fiasco he'd engaged in two days ago.

  "Ah. It's a sober and serious friend who greets me this morning," the earl said strolling into the library. "Pity. I had thought to find you brooding over a bottle of whiskey again." He glanced toward the desk. "Instead I find you brooding over your ledgers. I warned you not to bet too zealously the other evening. Did you loose the family knickers?"

  "The family knickers are intact," Marshall replied stiffly.

  "Excellent," Granby said sinking into one of the two leather chairs that fronted the desk. "It wouldn't do to add another worry to your already overburdened shoulders."

  Marshall resumed his seat, frowning. "There is nothing wrong with my shoulders."

  The earl took a moment to study his friend. "Granted they appear strong enough." He steepled his fingers under his chin, grinning all the while. "Should I concern myself with your heart?"

  Marshall stiffened. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  The earl's only answer was a knowing smile. After a few moments, he inquired "Very well, if all your parts are intact, then how are you going to handle the situation? I assume the lovely Miss Dennsworth is still in residence."

  "She is," Marshall replied having had Druggs confirm the fact earlier that morning. Grunne had been told to notify the secretary if Evelyn attempted to vacate the house.

  Marshall had considered calling upon her himself, but his pride wouldn't let him tuck his tail between his legs and go begging. If the lady didn't want his company, then so be it. "And . . . ." the earl urged.

  "And nothing," Marshall snapped. "Do you want some tea? I've still got a headache, haven't even been able to han­dle so much as a glass of brandy."

  "That doesn't surprise me. I haven't seen you that drunk since we were fresh milk at Cambridge."

  Neither man said anything for a long while. Once Carlow had provided the requested tea, Marshall poured two cups, passing one across the desk to the earl. "I'll keep my promise to see her through the charges," he said knowing full well Granby knew to whom he was referring.

  "Wouldn't expect you to do anything less," his friend replied. "From what I can remember of our intoxicated con­versation, you expect things to go in her favor. Then what?"

  "I'm not sure," Marshall admitted. A smile curved his lips. "She wants to open a dress shop."

  "An admirable goal," the earl agreed. "Here in London?"

  Marshall shook his head. "She doesn't care for the city or its aristocratic patrons. Can't say that I blame her. We've cer­tainly given her no reason to trust us."

  "So that's what has you brooding?"

  Marshall didn't comment.

  "Need I point out that you rescued the lady."

  "And then I . . . What difference does it make. As I said I'll see her through the charges. After that, I'll bid her a good future and find a real mistress."

  As he said the words, Marshall knew they were a lie. The last two days had been hell, struggling with a horde of emo­tions: anger, remorse, desire, admiration. He'd suffered from a caged restlessness, an indefinable unease that hadn't left him since he'd stormed out of the house on Lambeth Road. He also realized just how much the quiet times he'd spent with Evelyn meant to him. The way she had given herself to him that last morning was a memory no amount of whiskey could wash away.

  He still wanted her. She wasn't the mistress he had planned on acquiring, and he knew he was insane to get en­tangled with a woman who had candidly told him she wanted far more than he was willing to offer. She was hon­est, sincere, and maddeningly stubborn. Still, something uniquely wonderful had happened between them. For the first time in his life the physical act of making love had taken on an emotional dimension. No. He wasn't ready to let Evelyn waltz out of his life as easily as she'd stumbled into it. At least not yet.

  Evelyn strolled through the garden. The house was quiet, too quiet, so she'd come outside to listen to the sounds of the neighborhood. The chatter of squirrels, birds calling to their mates, the distant sound of a door opening and closing, car­riages rolling along Lambeth Road on their way into the heart of the city. Each noise reaffirming that beyond the gar­den walls and the sanctuary of the small house, life went on. Just as she would have to go on. On to survive either incar­ceration or a future that had been mapped out until a few short weeks ago.

  Her work at Madame La Roschelle's had filled up her day and many of her nights, if a lady needed her gown finished quickly. The work had kept her hands busy while she'd filled her head with thoughts of her own shop, always looking at the future, rarely allowing herself to evaluate the present.

  Now, with nothing to keep her busy but the new covers she was sewing for a chair in the library, she had little re­course but to think of the present, of how everything in her life had changed, was still changing. The biggest change was the marquis. His appearance, his voice, his smile, everything about him had suddenly become the focal point upon which her mind revolved. Then, of course, there was the trial, her day of justice.

  Mr. Portsman's clerk, a young, strapping man with an overabundance of wavy blond hair, had delivered a note, in­forming her that the lawyer planned to call at three that af­ternoon. Evelyn wasn't looking forward to what she assumed would be a partial enactment of the drama sched­uled to unfold in the Old Bailey. But it wasn't the trial that had her seeking the solace of the private garden where the roses were quickly coming to life since she'd pruned away the smothering weeds.

  The marquis was sure to make an appearance either just before or just after James Portsman's arrival. It had been four long days since she had watched him depart the house, stiff-shouldered and highly insulted by her request.

  Still believing that she'd done the right thing, Evelyn struggled with the memory of that morning. She had al­lowed him to make love to her, had enjoyed it, wanted to enjoy it again. Thus the crux of the problem. If she allowed her feelings, and they ran deeper with each passing moment, to get in the way of her conscience, she'd be right where she didn't want to be. A mistress to a high-and-mighty lord with nothing to look forward to but his next clandestine visit.

  She didn't give a whit about being a marchioness. She had no ambition to climb the ladder of peerage society. Everyone within its rank would condemn her insolence in marrying a man who was her social superior. The assump­tion of their reactio
n was apparent in every condescending word Evelyn had heard spoken by Madame La Roschelle's patrons. She was being foolish, of course. There would be no marriage between herself and Lord Waltham. He had made his intentions clear from the very beginning. He wanted a mistress, not a wife.

  Constrained by his intentions, Evelyn had given herself with only one purpose in mind. Men always had a high-sounding excuse for taking their pleasure as they found it, perhaps some women had the same, but for her making love with Marshall—she could now use his first name without hesitation, having shared such an intimate exchange—had been more than an impulsive reaction to the morning's events. It had been a selfish fulfillment of the dream that had woven itself into her thoughts and heart ever since meeting him.

  When they parted either by the decision of the court or by her freedom to finally bid London ado, she wanted some­thing to take with her. A memory that would burn bright throughout the years.

  Of course, she wasn't oblivious to the far-reaching conse­quences of her actions. She had given her virginity, risked the possibility of a child and far more dangerous, had chanced that she might never be able to love again. For Evelyn strongly suspected that her feelings, which she did her best to sup­press, but which nevertheless came bubbling to the surface regardless of her common sense, warned her that she was very close to giving her heart completely to the marquis. A heart he didn't want.

  The gift was doomed to be a disastrous one if she couldn't find a way to lessen their relationship, weaning herself away from him, until she could resume her life.

  The ramifications of giving her virginity weren't nearly as involved as she had assumed. Granted a future husband might question her lack of innocence, but when she left Lon­don, it could be under the guise of a widow, a necessity that would be demanded if she found herself with child. The very idea of giving birth to Marshall's baby was enough to send Evelyn back into the house to find some mundane task to oc­cupy her idle hands. Another trip to the attic, this one with­out interruption, had gleaned several items that added a touch of charm to the parlor. Her favorite was a large floral vase decorating a half-moon table near the window. She stopped to reposition the white and yellow chrysanthemums she had placed in the vase earlier that morning. When she finished the task and turned around it was to find the mar­quis standing in the doorway.

  Evelyn froze. She had thought herself well prepared to see him again, but she was wrong. As her eyes fixed on him, the image of a well-dressed titled gentleman vanished re­placed by the steamier vision of the man who had made love to her, his hair hanging over his brow, his face tight with pas­sionate tension, his body buried deeply inside hers.

  Marshall was having an equally difficult time. Seeing her again had taken the wind out of his sails. She looked pic­turesque, standing in the sunlight, dressed in a dark blue frock that accented the color of her eyes. A rush of desire went through him, and he wanted nothing more than for her to run into his arms. He stopped short of opening them wide, fearful she would reject the invitation. "Hello," he said rather formally. "Druggs told me that Mr. Portsman is ex­pected by three."

  "Yes," Evelyn said. She did not move, standing near the garden doors, facing him, her body unable to move, numbed by the feelings he evoked.

  Marshall stepped into the room. He couldn't keep his gaze from traveling to the sofa. "I trust you've been well," he said then added the words, "You look fully recovered from our last encounter. Tell me, do you think to offer me tea and cake while we converse about the weather?"

  Evelyn flinched inwardly. She had sorely dented his pride. Knowing that, she allowed him his due. "I hadn't thought to do anything of the sort," she said in a normal voice. "If you like, we can argue."

  He laughed not surprised by her forthright attitude. It was one of the things he liked best about her. For a moment he drank in the sight of her looking lovely and as stubborn as ever. "If arguing will clear the air between us, then by all means, start flinging insults."

  Evelyn bowed her head for a moment. When she looked up, she smiled. "I have no insults, my lord. Only a pleasant hello, if you will let us begin anew."

  "By all means," he said with fierce honesty. "I wasn't sure what type of reception I would receive, consider-ing the way we last parted. Am I bold in assuming that you have missed me?"

  "Not overly bold," she confessed. "I have missed our con­versations."

  "Is that all?" he asked, closing the distance between them. He grasped her hands in his own, refusing to let her escape when she resisted with a gentle tug. "Have you missed my kisses, Miss Dennsworth? If I were to kiss you now, would you slap my face or bolt upstairs, locking the door against me?"

  "I mink it best if we base our friendship on words," she replied meeting his gaze. "Your kisses are wonderful, but—"

  He sealed her mouth with one of those wonderful kisses, forcing Evelyn to admit that she'd made a mistake by de­scribing them so accurately.

  Marshall freed her hands only to capture her more snugly within his arms. He used one hand to hold her head in place, while he gently ravished her mouth, not stopping until she was clinging to him. When he finally released her, she stepped away, lowering her head as if she could hide the ef­fect he had on her.

  "There is no going back," he said. "Neither of us can undo what has been done."

  "I have no wish to undo it," Evelyn replied promising herself there would be no lies between them. "You didn't co­erce me into your arms."

  "I'm glad you aren't expecting an apology from me," he replied. "Although a true gentleman should regret what I did I cannot find any repentance. I enjoyed making love to you."

  Evelyn forced herself to look into his eyes. "As you pointed out, the past cannot be undone. Nor is the present ours to determine. I am under the control of the courts. Once that is finished then we both must face the future. One way or the other." She looked out the window at the garden, see­ing the roses but feeling the loss of the man. "It is the future that concerns me the most," she said speaking over the lump in her throat. "We want different things. It serves no purpose to pretend otherwise."

  "I may have given you a child" he said speaking his mind as frankly as she seemed determined to speak hers. "What of that, Miss Dennsworth?"

  "If I am with child then you need not worry that I will become a burden. I have the means to support myself, un­less . . ." She took a fortifying breath. "If I must go to—"

  "Don't even speak of it," Marshall demanded. "As for a child it would not be a burden." He reached out and touched her cheek. "I will not turn my back on you or a child."

  "I believe you," she said. "You're too compassionate, too honorable, to cast me aside. You would do your duty, I'm sure. A comfortable cottage in the country, an allowance, perhaps you'd even find time to visit the child once you grow bored with me and retain a younger, more attentive woman to satisfy your needs. Forgive me if I sound vicious or un­grateful, but the truth is often unpleasant. Nevertheless, it serves us best, don't you agree?"

  Marshall stifled a curse, holding on to his temper by a thread. "I hold a certain affection for you, Miss Dennsworth, but at this moment nothing would please me more than to shake you until your teeth rattle."

  Before the argument could escalate to colossal propor­tions, Grunne announced that Mr. Portsman had arrived. Knowing it could be several hours before he'd have the mad­dening Evelyn to himself again, Marshall reined in his anger, his expression letting her know that the subject was far from closed.

  Over the course of the next hour, Marshall found himself gritting his teeth. If James Portsman became any more solic­itous of Evelyn's feelings and worries, he was going to show the handsome lawyer to the door without Grunne's assis­tance. Still, the lawyer's questions were worthwhile, prepar­ing Evelyn for what she would face on the morrow. But damn it, he should be the one assuring her that all would be well; instead, he was delegated to the role of listener. Worse, he had agreed not to be present in the Bailey during the trial.


  Marshall sipped a brandy as Portsman explained that he would allow Lady Monfrey to make her statement, then pre­sent his case, questioning Evelyn only when it was ab­solutely necessary. Portsman reviewed his questions and Evelyn's answers, then brought his visit to an end.

  None too soon for Marshall. He could see that the lawyer was attracted to Evelyn, knew that if Portsman didn't assume she was his mistress, he'd willingly pursue her. If the cir­cumstances were different, if Evelyn wasn't under his pro­tection, she would be free to accept Portsman's attention. He was of her class, a man without social barriers or titled obligations, the kind of man who could give her the home and children she wanted. Marshall bristled at the idea of anyone taking his place.

  "Mr. Druggs will call for you in the morning. He will es­cort you to my office. It is within walking distance of the Bailey. I fear it must be early," the lawyer said. "We will be the second case to stand before Rivenhall."

  "Druggs?" Marshall asked arching a brow. "Nothing was said to me of Mr. Druggs escorting Miss Dennsworth."

  "My apologies, my lord. I had thought the matter agreed upon when we last spoke," Portsman replied. "Have you changed your mind about being in the courtroom?"

  "No. I will not attend the actual trial, agreeing that my presence could cause repercussions. I will, however, call for Miss Dennsworth in the morning and see that she is properly delivered to your office." He gave the lawyer a hard look. "My carriage will be waiting when she leaves the court­room, as well."

  There was no doubt from his tone that Marshall expected a verdict of not guilty.

  Portsman came to his feet. "Then, I shall see both of you in the morning. Good day, Miss Dennsworth."

  Evelyn waited until the rattle of a hansom's harness sig­naled Portsman's complete departure before meeting Marshall's gaze. She could tell that he hadn't forgotten their previous conversation and was more than willing to pick up where they had left off. Her mood wasn't an argumentative one, despite what had passed between them before Mr. Portsman's arrival.