He Said Yes Read online

  He greeted her formally, then as soon as the door was shut, an impudent, knowing grin brightened his face. "I see you survived. How did you leave Lady Waltham?"

  "Wondering if she likes me or not," Evelyn replied frankly. "I'm not sure what a companion should do, but after meeting Lady Waltham, I know what I must do if I am to help her."

  "And what is that?"

  "Force her to talk about your father."

  Marshall took a moment to think about what she had just said. "You are right; she rarely mentions his name."

  He rose from his desk, holding out his hand to her. Evelyn accepted it, needing his touch as naturally as she needed air. His gaze softened with an intimate, tender look; then he lowered his head and captured her mouth. His kiss, longed for all morning, melted away the anxiety of the last few hours, leaving Evelyn content within his embrace.

  With her cheek resting against his chest and his arms holding her snugly against him, Evelyn let out a deep sigh. "It is not going to be easy to pull her back to the real world" she said. "As long as she is allowed to hide away, to keep her memories locked deep inside herself, she will continue to grieve."

  He pulled back so he could see her face. "You never cease to amaze me," he said. "Of course, you are right. But how do we bring her back to the real world?"

  "I have a few ideas, but she will demand my dismissal should I employ them."

  "What ideas?"

  "Seeing her made me think of Mr. Hexworth. The man was big and gruff, but he attended church on a regular basis. Forced by his wife, or so my father always said. I had a hard time imagining such a thing because Mrs. Hexworth was a tiny woman who always spoke in whispers. After she died Mr. Hexworth turned even more sour, shutting himself away, threatening people if they so much as looked his way." She paused to take a breath. "My father intentionally provoked him one day. They met in the village, and as usual Mr. Hex-worth was shouting and cussing about something. I couldn't believe it when my father walked up to him and started shouting right back. Before anyone could stop them, they were wrestling around on the ground all fists and feet."

  "Who won?" Marshall asked.

  "My father," Evelyn announced with a beaming smile. "Oh, Mr. Hexworth got more punches in, of course, but my father won back his soul. He said he'd started the fight be­cause Mr. Hexworth's anger had been simmering for too long, that he had truly loved his wife. Had loved her with all his heart, so much so, that when she died he blamed God."

  "And since he couldn't hit God your father decided he'd be the next best target," Marshall said thinking Evelyn had inherited her father's insight.

  Evelyn nodded. "It worked. The next Sunday Mr. Hexworth was back in church."

  Marshall laughed. "Short of engaging in fisticuffs, do what you can and let me take care of the repercussions."

  He kissed her again. Evelyn returned the kiss, then diplo­matically untangled herself from his embrace. "You have things to do, my lord and I must make sure that Lady Waltham does not retreat to her bedroom for the balance of the day."

  "I'd rather find a way for us to retreat to the cottage."

  "I shall see you this evening, if time permits," she told him.

  "I'll make sure it does," Marshall replied giving her bot­tom an affectionate pat as she turned to leave.

  She glared at him over her shoulder. "I thought you a gentleman."

  "Which would you rather have, a gentleman or a lover?" he asked wickedly.

  "A gentleman during the day and a lover at night," she replied openly. "Remember that, and mind your manners."

  She had not stepped beyond his reach, so it was easy for Marshall to pull her back into his arms. "If memory serves me right, both times that I've had you the sun has been shin­ing-Evelyn couldn't deny it, but neither could she let him get away with being so smug. "True, my lord. It does makes me wonder how well you will perform in the moonlight."

  "I accept the challenge," Marshall replied, kissing her breathless before he released her a second time.

  She was halfway to the door when his voice stopped her.

  "Make sure you take an afternoon nap, Miss Dennsworth. You'll get very little sleep tonight."

  Evelyn left the library, knowing she'd just baited a deli­cious trap in which she'd be caught later that evening. Their lovemaking the previous day had changed their relationship. Whatever formality existed between them was strictly for appearance's sake.

  Knowing that thoughts of the marquis would only serve to distract her, Evelyn forced them aside and returned to the morning room. As expected, she found it empty. She was on her way upstairs to find the lady's maid when she met Winnifred in the large, tiled foyer of the house.

  "Lady Winnifred" she said respectfully, then deciding she might as well get the worst over with, added, "Perhaps we could have a private word."

  Winnifred received her request with some surprise, then replied civilly. "We can speak in here."

  She turned to enter the withdrawing room, a small salon with rich stucco and plasterwork on the principal walls and ceiling. Blue curtains with festooned pelmets covered the windows. The furniture, predominately of mahogany, with several silk damask chairs to add a touch of color, was taste­fully arranged on a floral carpet of Brussels weave.

  Evelyn followed Marshall's sister inside, then closed the door.

  Winnifred stood silently, waiting for Evelyn to say what­ever was on her mind. It was an awkward moment, one filled with embarrassment for both of them.

  "I realize that you must be suspicious of my presence," Evelyn said, getting right to the point. "Whatever you might think of me, I remind you that I have met and conquered the accusation that Lady Monfrey placed against me. I hope I shall not have to defend myself again."

  Winnifred wasn't accustomed to being spoken to so frankly. Her expression reflected the impertinence of what she assumed was a member of the staff thinking herself an equal. Evelyn regretfully realized that she had taken the wrong approach. Marshall's sister apparently lacked his fondness for forthrightness.

  "My brother's decision to bring you here is one I admit­tedly do not understand Miss Dennsworth, but knowing him as I do, he is not likely to change his mind. Therefore, my thoughts and opinions aren't important."

  "On the contrary," Evelyn said hoping to salvage the conversation. "You are your mother's daughter. As such, I will need your assistance, your understanding of the family, to help her return to its fold. I ask that and nothing more. The opportunity to help her realize that she is needed in the present as much as she was needed in the past."

  Winnifred's expression took on a show of interest, but there was still a tilt to her chin, an underlying arrogance that said she didn't see how a common shop girl, once accused of theft, could possibly aid a lady of her mother's standing. "I'm not sure I understand what you are asking."

  "My father was a vicar," Evelyn said. "Although it was not my place to attend the members of his parish, I fre­quently went with him when he called. I have seen people like your mother, men and women whose grief seemed im­penetrable. Sometimes, it takes a shock, an event equal to the death of the one they loved to make them realize that God left them alive for a purpose."

  Winnifred's expression went from interested to doubtful. "My mother is not that possessed by grief. She has always been frail of health."

  "Nothing I say or do will endanger her health," Evelyn

  assured her. "But it may cause her some distress at first. All I ask is that you give me whatever cooperation you can."

  "By cooperation you mean that I should keep my knowl­edge of your . . . situation to myself. My brother has already given me those instructions."

  Evelyn felt her heart sink. Winnifred had already formed her opinion; nothing she could do at the moment was going to change it. Wishing she could bridge the gap between them, but knowing of no immediate way, Evelyn thanked Lady Winnifred for her time, then went up to the third floor, where Lady Waltham's suite was located.

  The
door was closed but she could hear the slight sound of conversation. Tapping lightly on the door, she waited for the lady's maid to open it. She knew the suite, having pur­posely visited it before Lady Waltham's arrival. There was a sitting room in addition to the spacious bedroom which had a balcony overlooking the wooded parklands. The suite con­nected to the one previously occupied by the former marquis.

  When Evelyn had inspected the rooms last week, she'd been struck by the number of husbandly mementos to be found. It was not going to be easy to get Lady Waltham to relinquish her hold on the things that kept her connected to her late husband.

  The door was opened by the youngest of Marshall's two sisters. Catherine looked up at Evelyn, then smiling, opened the door wide.

  "Mother said she was tired so she came upstairs. I'm going to read to her."

  "That's an excellent idea," Evelyn said liking Catherine because it was impossible not to. She had the wide-eyed ra­diance of a child tempered by the manners of a young lady.

  Evelyn entered the bedroom to find Lady Waltham re­clined on a divan, eyes closed hands folded over her middle as if she were posing for the undertaker. Not a good sign, she thought, then looked toward young Catherine. The girl shrugged her delicate shoulders, then returned to the chair where she had been reading from gaslight because the cur­tains were drawn.

  Not hesitating, Evelyn strolled to the windows and twitched back the heavy draperies, letting sunlight flow into the room. Lady Waltham opened her eyes with a start, then blinked at the bright light.

  "Please close the drapes, then retire downstairs. I have no wish for anyone's company other than Catherine's."

  Evelyn paid her no heed. She moved to the French doors. Drawing back the drapes, she opened the doors wide, letting in the brisk breeze in hopes that it might wash some of the grief from the room. When she finally turned to face Marshall's stepmother, the woman looked as if she'd like nothing better than to push Evelyn over the balcony railing.

  "It's a lovely day," Evelyn remarked glancing toward Catherine, who looked ready to burst into giggles. "After you've rested we can take a stroll in the garden."

  "I am not strolling anywhere," Lady Waltham replied ob­stinately. "Now, if you would be so kind as to honor my wishes, I would rest for a while."

  Again Evelyn ignored the request. Looking about the room, she spied an amber bottle of laudanum sitting on the bedside table next to a framed portrait of the lady's late hus­band. Realizing by Catherine's smile that she had an ally in the house after all, Evelyn picked up the bottle. "Lady Catherine, if you would be so kind as to take this to Carlow and ask that it be locked away. I will sit with your mother."

  "My physician prescribed laudanum to help me sleep," Lady Waltham said clearly irritated. She sat up. "You have no right to dismiss my daughter as if she were a maid."

  Catherine put down her book and took possession of the bottle. "I'll take it straightaway," she said. Then holding the bot­tle behind her back as if it were a treasured secret, she placed a kiss upon her mother's flushed cheek and left the room.

  "Your impertinence is beyond decency, Miss Denns­worth. How dare you—"

  "It does you no good to lie in a dark room, my lady. Fresh air and sunshine will be more beneficial than laudanum, and sleep will come after an active day."

  Evelyn retired to a nearby chair, picking up the book young Catherine had laid aside. "Would you like me to read or shall we talk?"

  "Whatever I have to say will be said to the marquis. Your behavior is inexcusable." The frailty of her expression had taken on a glint of anger.

  "I have already spoken to the marquis, warning his lord­ship in advance that you would be demanding my dismissal by day's end."

  "You think I have no right to grieve. No right to mourn my husband a man I loved with all my heart." Her voice was high and tight, strained to the point of tears.

  "I think you have every right to mourn, every right to grieve, but not in this fashion. If you loved Lord Waltham, then do his memory justice."

  "If I loved him!" She stood up, her eyes blazing. "Get out this minute. Get out and leave me in peace."

  Evelyn smiled to herself as she left the room. Anger was a far more active emotion than self-pity. It was a good start.

  She met Catherine on the staircase.

  "Thank you for helping me," Evelyn said. "I'm going to need a friend. Lady Waltham is going to ask the marquis that I be dismissed immediately."

  Catherine shook her head setting her blond curls to bouncing. "I won't let him," she decreed. "I don't like Mother's room dark, and I don't like reading to her by a gas lamp when we could be outside in the garden or walking along the beach. I shall tell Marshall so, and make him promise not to send you packing."

  "And I shall inform Lord Waltham that I have a cocon­spirator," Evelyn said. She held out her hand. "Shall we seal the bargain with a shake of hands?"

  "Oh, yes!" Catherine chimed accepting Evelyn's hand. "We are going to be the best of friends. I just know it."

  "What in the world did you do to Constance?" Marshall asked as he stepped into the cottage shortly after midnight. "She marched into my library this afternoon, demanding that I dispatch you from Bedford Hall posthaste."

  "I made her angry."

  "That wasn't difficult to surmise," he replied thinking Evelyn looked lovely with her bare toes peeking out from beneath the hem of her nightgown. "She was seething."

  "Good."

  "Good?"

  "Yes. When was the last time you saw her angry? It's a much more productive emotion than sitting around all day staring out the window, don't you agree?"

  "You are a minx, Miss Dennsworth. I thought to retire to the country for a peaceful summer. I see now that I've stepped onto a battlefield."

  "Let us hope it's a victorious one," she replied. "Did Winni­fred seek my dismissal, as well?"

  "She accompanied Constance to the library, but she didn't say anything. I got the impression she was there for moral support."

  He pulled her close, then smiled. "Catherine, however, thinks you're smashing. She came to your defense the sec­ond her mother was out of sight."

  "I can use a friend."

  "You have me," Marshall said, ending the discussion with a kiss that curled her toes. When he lifted his mouth away, his smile was pure wickedness. "As I recall, I was chal­lenged earlier today. Something about moonlight, wasn't it?"

  It was Evelyn's turn to laugh. "Aye, my lord."

  He opened the door and pulled her outside.

  "Whatever are you doing?" She tried to free her hand but it was trapped.

  "Showing you the moonlight," Marshall replied matter-of-factly. He scooped her up, not into his arms, but over his shoulder, hauling her down to the beach as if she were a sack of supplies about to be tossed into a waiting skiff.

  When he deposited her back on her feet, Evelyn found herself standing on a blanket. It was spread out over the sand. A basket sat nearby. The moonlight, beaming down full and bright on the water, glistened like lamplight on black velvet. The wind was a whisper over the dark land­scape.

  A moonlight picnic, she thought, then smiled.

  Marshall smiled back, then looked from her to the water. He liked to watch the ocean at night, to listen to the sound of water and earth coming together. He'd always felt at peace in this place. Like the warm, willing body of a woman, the sea moved and moaned and whispered. It called to his senses, enticing him, beckoning him in a way no woman ever had done—until Evelyn.

  "When I was a boy," he said "I used to watch the Channel from my nursery window. It always seemed magical to me."

  "It is," Evelyn said reaching out to take his hand. "I like watching it, too. The sea has no boundaries. It moves con­stantly, touching England one day, France the next. Currents in the Atlantic have even more freedom. They move up and down the world with the simple brush of God's hand."

  "You have a poetic heart," Marshall said, pulling her into his arms. He held her close, f
eeling the magic of the place the way he'd felt it during his childhood.

  Being held in his embrace, Evelyn savored the quiet in­tensity of the moment. She could feel the physical pull of the man the same way the beach was feeling the tug of the tide. She raised her face and looked up at him. Nothing was said but then, they didn't need words to describe the pleasure they drew from each other's company.

  It made her feel sad and happy at the same time, knowing they shared a deep kinship that went beyond their physical attraction. It wasn't love, not for the marquis, but for Evelyn the emotional satisfaction she received when he spoke to her, shared his thoughts, was just as satisfying as his em­brace. He was a very private man. A man who held his true feelings close to his heart, but who didn't hesitate to show them when it came to his family and friends. There had been no vacillation in his actions that day on Bond Street. He'd marched directly into the situation, holding nothing in re­serve, demanding that the constable treat her respectfully, then giving him money to make sure she was handled just as fairly once they reached Clerkenwell Close. The extent of his generosity was far more than anyone else would have shown her.

  "You're looking extremely serious," he said wrapping his arms more snugly about her. "Why?"

  "No reason in particular," she said not wanting to reveal her thoughts because they came too close to revealing how much she loved him.

  He lowered his head and kissed her, a soft, gentle kiss that was barely more than a touching of lips, an exchange of breath. "I can't get enough of you."

  He kissed her for real then, and Evelyn felt herself being swept out to sea. Her arms curled around his neck as she pressed her body against his, surrendering to his touch, the compelling magic of the moonlight and the night.

  When the kiss ended Evelyn eased herself free of Marshall's strong arms and sat down on the blanket, pulling her knees up and tugging her nightgown down. It was a warm night with just the right amount of briskness to the air. The wind caught at the water, stirring it into foamy white-caps before spilling it onto the beach. The moonlight re­vealed the line of breakers farther out and the dim lights of a packet ship crossing the Channel. Overhead the moon hung full in the sky; stars danced with twinkling sparks of light. It was a magical night, a night meant for lovers.