He Said Yes Page 15

  It was all the encouragement she needed. The tears were silent, flowing down her face as she rested it against his chest. She cried because her body demanded it, letting go of the anxiety she had held in check for hours, letting the emo­tions out. The anger, the pain, the fear that came from feel­ing her heart begin to break, all flowed from her, leaving her so exhausted it was all she could do not to fall asleep in the marquis's arms.

  Marshall held her close the entire time, saying nothing, letting the warmth of his body and the comfort of his arms speak for themselves. Anticipation pooled inside him.

  Evelyn was finally free of the worries that had stood be­tween them since the day of her arrest. Despite the good news delivered by the jury, Marshall knew the path ahead would not be without its stumbling blocks. He had made love to her once, given her a glimpse of the pleasures they could share together, but she was still hesitant to embrace them. The second part of his plan would have to be executed with the utmost skill or she would run from him.

  When they reached Lambeth Road Marshall again ig­nored her protests and carried her inside. "Tell Mrs. Grunne that something warm and nourishing is required," he said, stepping past the startled footman. "She is to bring it up­stairs as quickly as possible."

  "Please, I can manage on my own," Evelyn said, despite the enjoyment of being cradled in the arms of her favorite marquis.

  "For once, you will do as you are told," Marshall told her. He marched directly up the steps, stopping once he'd reached the second floor. "Where to from here?"

  "The first door on the right," Evelyn replied knowing she had no choice in the matter.

  Marshall couldn't help but note the irony of the situation. He had installed this woman in this house, thinking to make her his mistress, and yet he had to ask directions to find the room in which she slept. He carried her to the bed deposit­ing her in the center of it, then reached for the buttons on her jacket.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Getting you into bed" he said matter-of-factly. "You can't rest all trussed up like a Christmas goose."

  "No," Evelyn said slapping at his hands.

  "Yes," he responded just as fiercely. The remark was fol­lowed by a vigorous attack upon her clothing. Buttons, hooks and eyes, and laces were dispensed with in a hurried fashion. "You are exhausted. You gave the court a grand show." He sent her shoes flying to the far corner of the room, then began expertly stripping her down to nothing but her chemise and stockings. "And a grand show, it was," he added tossing the last of her petticoats onto the chair, "but I can see the exhaustion in your eyes. Having already con­fessed to not sleeping well, there is no point in denying the charge. You will rest, or I'll tie you to this bed and make sure of it."

  Smiling as if to say she wasn't at all surprised that his lordship had finally found his way upstairs, Mrs. Grunne came into the room, carrying a tray laden with hot tea, soup, and fresh-baked bread.

  "You may put the tray on the table, Mrs. Grunne," Marshall said. "I will see that Miss Dennsworth is fed."

  "Is the lady all right, milord?"

  "She's fine," Evelyn replied, frowning at them both. She pulled the sheet up to her chin. "Just a bit tired is all."

  "More than a bit," Marshall contradicted her. "She will not be downstairs for some time. Please see that her evening meal is brought up on a tray."

  "Yes, milord," Mrs. Grunne said. "Will you be needing anything more?"

  "Brandy," he replied, daring Evelyn with a heated glance to countermand his order.

  Once the door was closed, she sat up. "I can feed myself."

  Marshall didn't waste his time replying. He took off his jacket, shedding his vest and cravat with the same haste he had used to strip her almost bare. He immediately came to the bed and sat down beside her. He tucked the blankets in around her, and smiled. "The soup is for you; the brandy is for me," he said gruffly. "I will have some solace for being forced into the public gallery. God I wanted to strangle that strutting peacock of a barrister. How dare he treat you with such contempt."

  "You weren't supposed to be there. Your reaction is ex­actly why Mr. Portsman specifically requested that you stay away."

  "As if I could" Marshall grunted. "But it is all behind us now."

  Evelyn closed her eyes for a moment, wishing it were true. Unfortunately, the worst was yet to come. She had to find a way to leave the kindhearted man who was even now testing her soup to make sure it didn't burn her tongue.

  Knowing he would spoon-feed her like a child if she didn't eat, Evelyn took the bowl from his hands. Once she had fin­ished the bowl was replaced with a cup of tea. In the in­terim, Grunne had brought up a bottle of brandy. Marshall poured himself a drink, sipping it while she did the same with the tea. When both cup and glass were empty, he set them aside and stood up.

  To Evelyn's amazement, he stripped out of his clothes, flipped back the blanket, and joined her in the bed. Before she could make her way out from beneath the covers, Marshall's arms hooked around her waist, pulling her back against his bare chest. He pulled her down beside him. "I'll hold you until you fall asleep."

  A small dream come true, Evelyn thought as she found the chill of a rainy day smothered by the incredible warmth of Marshall's body. Her hands couldn't refuse the sensual temptation his naked chest presented. He felt so alive, so strong and vital. She let her fingertips settle into the crisp, curly hair on his chest and began to relax, then wiggled closer, letting her body fit against his as naturally as it had that morning on the sofa.

  If only the peace she felt at this moment could last for­ever. If only . . . Evelyn quenched her thoughts. She'd be crying again if she didn't, and she refused to shed any more tears over fate and its unpredictable turns. The morning had come and gone. She'd survived the courtroom. She would survive the following morning, as well. But for now, she would cherish the present, the lullaby of the rain, the restful quiet that permeated the house, the warmth of Marshall's embrace. He seemed content to hold her, not pushing com­fort into passion, which they both knew he could easily do. All it would take was one kiss, and she'd be lost again, pulled into a feverish dream.

  "This is nice," Marshall murmured. He smiled as he watch­ed Evelyn's eyes drifting closed. A few moments later, he joined her to sleep the afternoon away.

  It was nearing dark when Marshall woke. He stretched, smiling as he felt Evelyn move against him. How long had it been since he'd actually slept with a woman? So long he couldn't recall the last time he'd enjoyed waking up beside one. He rolled to his side, bringing her even closer. She turned her head slightly, mumbling something against his skin. Her breath felt warm. It was just the aphrodisiac his body needed to come fully awake.

  Her hair had come undone, tumbling over the pillow in a cloud of golden brown curls. He reached for a wayward strand curling it around his finger. What was he going to do with her? What his body wanted was easy enough to deter­mine. He was hard and ready to pull her beneath him, to sat­isfy himself in her silky depths. It was tempting. Oh, so tempting.

  Knowing he'd have a sleepy, scratching she-cat on his hands if he tried to seduce her a second time, Marshall forced himself from the bed. Once he was wearing his trousers and a loosely buttoned shirt, he walked to the win­dow.

  Even with his back to the room, he couldn't distance him­self from Evelyn. He could hear her breathing, see in his mind the delicate rise and fall of her breasts beneath her chemise. His body ached to be reunited with hers, to feel the hot, satiny warmth of her channel accepting him, to hear the soft sounds she made when he loved her.

  Evelyn opened her eyes to the dim light of a shadow-filled room. She blinked lazily, adjusting to the encroaching darkness, then smiled. The bed felt so cozy and warm, mak­ing her snuggle deeper into the feather mattress. Sighing, she turned on her side to find Marshall standing by the win­dow, watching her. The memories came rushing back: the or­deal of the trial, crying in the carriage, being carried upstairs and fed her lunch like a sick child th
en his body coming to rest beside hers, his warmth surrounding her.

  "Good you're awake," he said coming to sit on the side of the bed.

  "My lord" she said knowing she should be ashamed of having shared a bed with him, even if all he had done was hold her.

  "My lord" he mimicked frowning. "Will I ever convince you to call me Marshall on a regular basis?"

  "I fear not," she said sitting up as she came fully awake. Keeping the coverlet high about her shoulders, she frowned at him in return. "It seems I am forever saying thank you."

  "And I am forever telling you it isn't necessary."

  Nothing more was said for a long moment, each wanting to speak, but both unable to think of the appropriate words. For Evelyn it was the new experience of sleeping beside a man. Making love with the marquis on the sofa in the parlor had been erotic and wonderful. Lying beside him for several hours, lost in sleep, seemed vastly more intimate.

  For Marshall it was knowing that he couldn't allow her to slip from his grasp, and he knew that was exactly what she planned to do. Deciding to nip the idea in the bud before it rooted itself any deeper in her mind he said "I want to ask you something. A favor, if you are willing to give it."

  "A favor?"

  "Parliament is soon to adjourn for the summer. As its members move to the country, so shall the dreaded Season that has my sister in its grip. There will be lawn parties, more balls, country weekends entertaining people I'd rather not see," he said clearly dreading the idea of society follow­ing him to his beloved Ipswich.

  "What has that to do with me?" Evelyn asked wishing he would button his shirt. It was gapping open over his chest, and the sight of him was making her thoughts begin to wander.

  "I have spoken of my stepmother," he said. "She refuses to leave her room of late, and I am becoming increasingly concerned about her health. The physician insists that she is simply grieving in her own way, but I will not accept that ex­planation. She is far too young to spend the rest of her life behind closed doors, shutting out the real world. The girls need her guidance, her social expertise. Catherine is only ten. Her governess sees to her studies, but she needs her mother."

  "Then, the country air should do Lady Waltham good."

  "I think it will take more than fresh air and a change of scenery," Marshall replied. He stood up and began to pace the room, his movements demonstrating his frustration at not being able to understand the female mind.

  "What favor are you asking of me?" Evelyn finally asked.

  "Constance needs someone, a companion who can ease her despair. The girls love her, of course, and they join in her grief over our father's death, but they are too young to under­stand. They are getting on with their lives: Winnifred stepping into society, Catherine bubbling about each new sunrise. It's the contradiction of personalities I face each and every day."

  "You want me to be your stepmother's companion!"

  "Yes." Marshall smiled at her. "I know Constance would warm to you, especially after seeing you in the courtroom this morning. You have a way about you, Miss Dennsworth, a way of reaching out to people, to total strangers, making them want to reach back in return."

  "But—"

  He stopped her protest with a touch of his fingertips to her mouth. "No, don't recite all the reasons you cannot ac­cept the position. I told you I wanted no repayment for what had passed between us, and I meant it. I am not demanding that you come to Ipswich with me. I am asking nothing ex­cept that you take the position as companion to Lady Waltham. You will be paid a fair salary for the job, funds you will need if you still plan on opening your own shop."

  Evelyn was taken back by the offer, both the outrageous-ness of the marquis thinking he could install her in the fam­ily's lap and the knowledge that the money he would pay her would go a long way in making the dream of her own dress shop come true. "Would you have me live in the house?"

  He shrugged his shoulders, making his shirt gap open even more. "I hadn't thought about it, but then, most com­panions do, don't they?"

  "I would not be most companions, and well you know it," Evelyn replied. Her curious gaze turned into an accusing glare. "If you think to install me in the country for your plea­sure, the answer is definitely no."

  Marshall laughed. "I see your principles are back in full force, not that you've ever strayed too far from them."

  "I. . . It would make for an impossible situation," she told him. On the inside, Evelyn was shocked by the proposal of employment. She did need a job, but she'd prepared her­self to return to her needle and thread to make her way with­out any assistance from anyone. Living in the country, at the marquis's estate, would be suicidal to her heart.

  "There is a cottage on the grounds," Marshall said. "Between the house and the beach. It hasn't been used for quite some time and would require a thorough cleaning. Would that suit you better?"

  Her own cottage, and near the beach.

  "I'm told it's drafty when a storm moves in," he said.

  "Living in a drafty cottage is no bar to my comfort."

  "You'll come!"

  He smiled that rakishly handsome smile that she found impossible to resist. How could she refuse him or the smile? He had done so much for her, and she could tell that his con­cern for Lady Waltham was sincere. If she lived apart from the family, there would be less chance of them meeting in what she was sure was a massive manor house. As far as her principles were concerned they were hers to uphold not Marshall's. If she surrendered to the temptation he presented it was her weakness, not his.

  "Yes, but only for the summer," she answered. A thought flashed through her mind. "What about your sister? Lady Winnifred is sure to recognize me. How are going to explain that a shop girl accused of theft is now companion to her mother?"

  "I am master in my own house," Marshall said confi­dently. "Leave Winnifred to me."

  Evelyn started to shake her head but his mouth came swooping down before she could elaborate on her doubts. He stole any words of protest with the hungry kiss, teasing her lips until they parted allowing him inside.

  Streamers of sensation began to flutter inside Evelyn. Her head fell back against the pillows, and he followed deepen­ing the kiss until she had no other choice but to abandon her­self into his tender care. And he was tender—tenderly passionate.

  Marshall raked his hands through her hair, holding her head in place while he gently ravished her mouth. His fin­gers stroked the sides of her throat, then lower, stopping at the lace of her chemise.

  Evelyn accepted his touch with a sigh that signaled she was as passionate as she was wary. She kissed him with an honesty that was just as passionate, just as arousing as it had been that day in the parlor. Her body swelled to meet his gentle demands. She arched under his hands, unable to stop the instinctive movement that stated she wanted more of his touch not less.

  "My lovely lady," he whispered against her lips. Her took her mouth again, more demandingly this time, his hands moving restlessly over her breasts.

  Then his mouth joined his hands. It closed over the tip of one breast, his tongue hot and rough as it licked and teased circled and tormented. Evelyn felt the heat all the way to the soles of her feet. He gave her other breast the same unerring attention, not stopping until her chemise was wet and cling­ing to her aching nipples.

  Marshall raised his head and admired his handiwork. When he lightly pinched one damp, muslin-covered tip, she gasped.

  "You are the most distracting woman I have ever known," he said huskily. "I want to strip off my clothes again and come back to bed with you."

  Evelyn's conscience surfaced at his words. How could she give herself a second time, especially now that she had agreed to travel to Ipswich with him, and not become his mistress? She looked up at him, torn between helping him out of his clothes and the consequences if she did. She bit down on her lower lip, holding the words back, holding her feelings in check.

  Marshall saw the battle Evelyn was waging with herself. It was i
n her eyes and the sudden tautness of her body. She was nearly as aroused as he was, but still aware enough to know that if he returned to bed it would be the last sensual battle between them. Deciding that it might serve him well to let the beguiling, irritating woman stew in her own juices, he kissed her again, quick and hard then stood up. "The next time we make love, my dear Miss Dennsworth, you will do the seducing. Until then, know that I shall look forward to it."

  Eleven

  Bedford Hall was a red brick Tudor mansion rising up from the center of a vast, well-manicured lawn. A graveled drive formed a perfect semicircle in front of the country es­tate. Evelyn stared out the coach window, duly impressed by the grandeur of Marshall's family home. The house was con­structed in an open courtyard fashion with both an east and west wing that flanked the main section of the house. Two symmetrical bell towers rose above the flat roof and bricked chimneys.

  "I hope you will be happy here," Mr. Druggs said smiling as he, too, glanced out the window. "It's a grand old house."

  The secretary had traveled with her from London, at the express orders of the marquis, to see that she was settled into the cottage before the family arrived at week's end. The jour­ney had been a pleasant one, the weather being fan, the lanes shaded by thick-leaved trees.

  Mr. Druggs, who had turned out to be an amicable travel­ing companion, had told her that Harwich lay to the south of them, along the coast. The marquis was a member of the Royal Harwich Yacht Club, founded in 1843 when a group of yacht owners, the previous marquis among them, had de­cided to form an east coast club that could contend with the Royal Thames Yacht Club. The result was a lively competi­tion of sailing craft that raced from Harwich south to the Thames estuary in an annual event. Shortly after its forma­tion, the club had been accorded royal patronage by the dowager Queen Adelaide, the widow of William IV, known as "Sailor Bill." The current marquis proudly flew the blue ensign, emblazoned with a lion rampart, each time he took his thirty-foot sloop into the Channel.