He Said Yes Read online

  "God help me," Marshall groaned mockingly. "Prince, farmer, or fisherman, I pity the poor man who falls under your thumb."

  Catherine raised her hands, inspecting them thoroughly before she replied. "But they are both very nice thumbs. Don't you agree, my lord?"

  He laughed then snatched up her hand and kissed one of the aforementioned digits before shooing her off the corner of his desk. "Young ladies do not perch. They sit."

  "You sound like Mama."

  "How is she?" Marshall asked grateful there was nothing on his desk that required his immediate attention. When Catherine settled in for a talk, she rambled on in a guileless fashion, always startling him with her blunt presentation.

  "Brooding, as usual," she announced with blank honesty.

  "Should I have Dr. Bradshaw attend her?"

  "She isn't sick, Marshall, she's brooding. An elixir won't bring back her spirits."

  Catherine's insight never ceased to amaze him. "I'll talk to her again."

  "She needs to laugh," his sister stated. "Papa always made her laugh."

  "She loved him very much."

  "I know that," Catherine replied somewhat stiffly. Since Marshall couldn't disagree, he simply listened. "She's upset with me, you know."

  He eyed her pensively for a moment, then asked "Why?"

  "Because I told her she should marry Uncle Robert."

  Robert Hants, the Earl of Kniveton, had been a close friend of their father's. He had never married. If he thought to take a wife to add to the comfort of his later years, Marshall wouldn't gainsay him. He and Constance would make a good match. As usual, leave it up to Catherine to see the possibility long before anyone else.

  "We have to be patient, sweetheart. Your mother will put her mourning aside one day, and when that day comes, she'll laugh again." Marshall hoped he wasn't being overly opti­mistic.

  "Well, I hope it's soon," Catherine said with a maturity that outweighed her tender years. "Winnifred is taking this coming-out business much too seriously; you're off to Parliament or your club whenever you aren't escorting her about town; mother stays in her room, dressed in black and swooning whenever she doesn't want to talk about some­thing. It's all becoming too much, I tell you."

  Marshall masked a laugh by clearing his throat. "Parliament will be adjourning soon. Then it's off to the country for clean air and sunshine and walks on the beach. Can you manage a few more weeks?"

  "I'll try." She climbed down from the desk, giving him a mischievous smile before pressing her advantage. "Will you let me sail with you in the regatta?"

  "Absolutely not," Marshall said. "The club would have my colors if I smuggled a blond pixie on board."

  "I'll bring you luck."

  "You'll make me old before my time," he vowed. "Now, off with you. I have letters to answer and an opera to attend."

  "But you hate the opera," Catherine reminded him before skipping out of the room.

  Evelyn opened the door to find the marquis, looking ex­ceptionally handsome. "May I come in?"

  "Of course," she said uncertain if she was happy or sad to see the gentleman again. No amount of window staring or bed napping had been able to erase the marquis from her thoughts. In fact, one kiss had permanently planted him in her mind. Fate was having fun with her, teasing her senses with a man who was beyond her reach.

  "I trust you had a pleasant day," Marshall said thinking she looked much better than she had the previous evening. Her eyes were bright, her hair glowing as if she'd just brushed it. He preferred it tied back from her face, flowing down her back and teasing the curve of her hips when she moved. The color was a rich golden brown that would shine like burnished gold in the sunlight.

  "Pleasant enough," Evelyn replied wishing she hadn't spent most of it thinking about the marquis. She'd be much better off if he didn't possess a gentleman's charm. It would be her undoing, if Lady Monfrey's charges didn't ruin her life first.

  "Since you do not have a wrap, I will not ask you to fetch it. Fortunately, it is a pleasant evening."

  "For what purpose is it pleasant, my lord?"

  Marshall frowned. She was back to my lording him. "For a ride in my carriage. It is waiting."

  As much as she wanted to get out of the room, Evelyn was hesitant to let the marquis know it. The man already had far too much power over her.

  "Come," he said, opening the door. "If you have anything to take, gather it now. We will not be returning."

  It would be a waste of breath to remind him that all she had were the clothes on her back. He was being polite, noth­ing more. Good manners were the inbred teaching of the aristocracy.

  Evelyn allowed herself to be escorted downstairs. She'd had her eyes closed when the marquis, she refused to think of him as Marshall, had carried her inside, so she hadn't seen more than the rented room. Looking around her now, she could see that the inn would be considered one of the best in the city. The widow, who had carried her lunch up­stairs and served up a few minutes of idle conversation along with the food was nowhere in sight. Since the dinner hour was not yet upon them, the main parlor was empty of cus­tomers. Evelyn knew the evening coaches would have it filled soon enough.

  When they stepped outside, she blinked her eyes against the vivid light. The day had been breezy, with alternating bouts of cloudiness and sunshine. The approaching sunset was an ethereal display of deep purples, subtle golds, and crimson red. She paused for a moment to enjoy it. After her experience in Clerkenwell, she vowed never to take such beauty for granted again.

  It had been a pleasant day that was turning into an even more impressive evening. The air was sharp, the fading sun­light falling clean and bright upon the paving stones of the courtyard. There was the slightest tingle of a chill in the air, but it wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, she found it refreshing. She looked toward the waiting carriage. It appeared to have been freshly washed and polished its harnesses jingling mu­sically as the matched bays snorted impatient to be on their way. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked and the voice of a street vendor could be heard marketing his wares. A normal day for most, but not for Evelyn. She was walking beside a marquis, her hand resting lightly on his arm, as if she was the grandest of ladies instead of an accused criminal in a wrinkled skirt.

  As the marquis handed her into the carriage, Evelyn was aware of what a contrast they made. Fortunately, there was no one in the courtyard to take note of their departure.

  "Where are we going?" she asked as he seated himself.

  "It's a surprise."

  "I'm not sure I like surprises," she told him. "The last two days have had more than their share."

  "This is a pleasant surprise," Marshall assured her.

  Instead of thinking about the handsome man seated across from her, Evelyn turned her thoughts to the previous morn­ing and Madame La Roschelle's shop. She mentally retraced her steps, the time spent in the fitting room with Lady Monfrey, and each minute thereafter, trying to pinpoint when the brooch might have become insecure and fallen from the lady's lapel. Had it come loose when Lady Monfrey had bumped into her, and if so, then where could it have ended up, under the table skirt of a display table, or perhaps tangled in the fringe of the fitting room curtains? What if the brooch wasn't found? What if it had indeed been stolen? There was little hope the real thief would surrender it to the authorities. Where would that leave her?

  "I specifically asked you not to worry."

  Evelyn stirred from her thoughts and found herself star­ing into a pair of dark eyes. "That would be like asking me not to breathe, my lord. I am charged with a crime I did not commit with no means to prove my innocence. What would you have me do?"

  "Trust me," he replied. "I have promised that you will not be returned to Clerkenwell, nor any place like it. I may not have Lord Monfrey's political influence, but I am not with­out means. A defense will be prepared and presented. The charges will be dropped."

  "You make it all sound so easy. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.
Your class is a world apart from mine, is it not? Tell me, is the upcoming surprise part of my seduction?"

  Marshall bristled, but he didn't deny the accusation. It was, after all, the truth. "Somehow I think it will take more than a modest house in a pleasant neighborhood to bring about your seduction, Miss Dennsworth."

  "A house!"

  "I see the idea excites you."

  Evelyn didn't know what to say. The idea of having a house, no matter how modest, was indeed exciting. She had lived in cramped quarters for so long it would be heaven having more than one room to call her own. Her excitement faded as she realized that the house wouldn't really be hers. It would belong to the marquis, the same way he wanted her to belong to him. A possession to be enjoyed at his leisure.

  She considered saying as much, then decided against it. If Lord Waltham was set upon seduction, he'd learn soon enough that she was not some country lass schooled in the kitchen. Her circumstances were desperate, but her self-worth was fully intact.

  Marshall refused to let her sink back into silence. Instead he began to talk about Parliament and Palmerston's latest speech, one that had raised several shouts of protest from the more liberal members of the legislature.

  When the carriage finally came to a stop, after following a path from New Kent Road to St. George's, then onto Lambeth Road Evelyn had to keep herself from pushing back the curtains. It wouldn't do to show her enthusiasm.

  "I hope you like it," Marshall said opening the door. He stepped down first, then offered his hand.

  Evelyn stared at the house. It was red brick, two stories high, with white columns fronting the doorway. A waist-high, wrought-iron fence separated it from the street. She glanced up and down the avenue, seeing a neat row of simi­lar houses. It was a nice neighborhood where the residents were given to keeping then shrubbery trimmed and the streets swept clean of horse droppings. Trees lined the paved walkway in front of the houses, their shade more shadow now that the sun had set.

  "Inside with you," Marshall said offering his arm.

  They were greeted at the door by a stout man with a wide nose and a spark of candor in his eyes. "Milord" he said ac­cepting the hat and gloves Marshall passed his way. "Miss Dennsworth," he added greeting her in turn.

  "This is Grunne," Marshall told her. Druggs had supplied the names of the servants along with other information re­garding the house. "He and his wife will be seeing to your comfort."

  Servants! The only servant her father had been able to af­ford was a complaining washwoman who had never used enough starch to keep his vicar's collar stiff.

  Since the house was small, Marshall had no problem find­ing the parlor. He thought the room a disaster. The furnishings were too dark, the windows too small, but the expression on Evelyn's face was priceless. She looked very much like she had the first time he had kissed her. Surprised and pleasantly pleased. He found himself wondering what kind of home she had left behind in Sussex.

  Evelyn forgot her prior decision to show indifference to the residence. She turned slowly around taking in each cor­ner of the room. There was an echo of masculinity about it. The air held the slight odor of old cigar smoke, but a thor­ough airing would soon have it smelling fresh. The room had possibilities, a vase of flowers on the corner table, lace pan­els beneath the heavy drapes. If the dark green chair in the corner were to be redone in a bold stripe . . . Her eye for color and texture took over, and she saw the room the way it could be, cozy and pleasant.

  Her gaze moved to a set of glass-paned doors that led out­side. She could see a small garden. It looked to be neglected but a few roses were still stubbornly blooming among the greedy weeds. She hadn't worked in a garden since leaving Sussex. Suddenly her hands itched to be knuckle deep in the dirt, nourishing the flowers back to life.

  "Forgive me for rushing you into the house before Mrs. Grunne could see to a proper cleaning," Marshall said apolo­getically.

  "There's nothing to forgive," Evelyn said, turning to look at her benefactor. How did one thank a man for an entire house? Especially when that man had every intention of se­ducing her into sharing one of the bedrooms?

  Before Marshall could suggest a tour, a matronly female, wearing a maid's apron, appeared in the doorway. Her hair was braided and pinned around the crown of her head mak­ing her face seem overly round. A sagging chin danced as she moved brushing against the collar of her dress, but she was smiling bright enough to make one forget those details.

  "Henry told me yer had arrived milord" she said dipping into an awkward curtsey. "I'm sorry things ain't as they should be. There was no time, what with Mr. Druggs renting the place right away and the kitchen bein' such a fright. Will the lady be wanting tea?"

  "The lady's name is Evelyn," she said introducing herself. "And a cup of tea would be earnestly appreciated. Thank you, Mrs. Grunne."

  The maid excused herself and hurried toward the kitchen.

  "I wonder what she expected" Evelyn said in a chilly tone that bordered on blatant rudeness. "An actress with a painted face, no doubt."

  Marshall was too accustomed to females and their ways to be baited by the remark. "What servants expect or don't expect isn't the issue. They are being paid to work, not pass judgment."

  "How convenient," Evelyn retorted knowing full well what Mrs. Grunne and her husband had to be thinking. "What of the neighbors, my lord? Am I to present myself as a spinster or a grieving widow?"

  "You may tell them anything you like."

  His tone was as sarcastic as hers had been. Evelyn sought a way to rephrase her words, to make them more acceptable, but there was none. The marquis had set her up in a house. There was only one reason that a man of his rank would do such a thing. The moment she had walked through the door, she had become his mistress by name if not by deed.

  "I should apologize, my lord" she replied realizing she had spoken too harshly, even though her remarks fitted the occasion. "I suppose you find it overly rude of me to be bit­ing the only hand in London that cares to see me fed."

  Suddenly she began to laugh. Marshall's astonish-ment was just as great as her own. He waited for her to collect her­self, wondering if she was having a bout of delayed hysteria. When she finally spoke, her eyes were damp with tears.

  "You are a puzzlement to me," she admitted sitting down on the sofa. "I would have to be a simpleton not to recognize your motives. Yet, your kindness over-whelms me."

  "Perhaps our meeting was fortuitous," he said smiling down at her.

  "Perhaps, but I doubt that Godly providence had anything to do with it. My father would call it the devil's own luck."

  "Your father? Does he still live in Sussex?"

  Evelyn shook her head. "Both my parents are gone. My mother when I was very young, my father several years past. He was a scholarly man. A theorist, if you will."

  That explained her educated ways. Marshall longed to stay and talk to her, to learn more about her, but he was pressed for time. Damn the opera, he almost said then stopped himself. He knelt by her side, then reached out and brushed a wayward tear from her face with the pad of his thumb.

  "What kind of man are you?" she asked in a whisper.

  "One that finds you very desirable," he replied candidly.

  "I made use of the mirror before we left the lodge. There is nothing about my appearance that provokes such a com­pliment."

  "The mirror doesn't see the same thing I do."

  At a loss for words, Evelyn simply looked into his eyes. The question she had posed was a valid one. Who was this man who had suddenly stepped into her life and turned it up­side down? She had reminded herself a hundred times dur­ing the long day that they had nothing in common, nothing upon which to base a friendship, but for some strange rea­son, she found herself wanting to be his friend sensing that he needed one as desperately as she did.

  "I am forced to leave you again," he said sounding re­gretful. "Obligations." He shrugged his well-tailored shoul­ders. "The opera."

 
Evelyn tried not to frown. Few of the aristocracy attended the opera for love of music. It was a social event. Would the marquis be escorting his sister or one of the fashionable young ladies of society, a potential bride perhaps? The ques­tion was irrelative. Of course he mingled with the most beautiful women in London. He was a marquis, a man of wealth and power, who would one day select a wife from the elite of the realm. Just as his sister would pick a husband from among his peers. On the other hand her station as an ordinary woman delegated that she seek a husband from among the tradesmen and farmers who shared her common heritage. For the first time in her life, Evelyn felt inadequate.

  "Then, by all means, don't let me be the cause of your tar­diness," she said keeping her voice neutral. "I'm sure I can settle in well enough with Mrs. Grunne's help."

  "I dislike leaving you so quickly."

  Evelyn forced a cordial smile to her face. "You have al­ready done more than I can ever thank you for, my lord. Please do not be distressed over such a minor thing. I'm sure your obligations are far more important than my discovering my way about the house."

  He was being dismissed. It was almost amusing how gra­ciously she was going about it. Marshall wasn't sure if he should laugh or remind her that he was the one renting the house she was tactfully asking him to leave.

  "I will call upon you tomorrow," he informed her, doing his best to push aside the conflicting emotions she evoked. "Until then, do as I ask. Put your worries aside."

  "I will try, my lord." She didn't come to her feet. If she did Evelyn was sure he would pull her into his arms and kiss her again.

  Unfortunately, the marquis was a resourceful man.

  He raised her hand turned it palm up, and placed a kiss against the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist. As his mouth pressed against her skin, Evelyn couldn't help but feel the supple glide of his tongue across her pulse point. She'd never been more aware of him than at that very moment. She could feel his breath. The fading sunlight, coming through the French doors, caught in his thick hair, causing it to gleam. The hand holding hers was strong and warm.