Читать книгу The Vanishing Viscountess - Diane Gaston - Страница 9

Tanner’s shopping expedition proved to be a novel experience. He’d never shopped for ladies’ hairpins before, nor any of his own necessities, for that matter. He typically sent his valet to procure things like razors and shaving brushes and polish for shoes and combs and toothbrushes. He dawdled in the shop for as long as he could to give Miss Brown time for her bath. The shopkeepers and two other customers were full of questions about the shipwreck, unknown to this village before Davies brought news of it. He practised being Mr Lear, although he could answer few questions about how much salvage had washed ashore.

When he left the shop and stopped for another tankard of ale in the taproom, the patrons there had more questions. The extra alcohol made him mellow and, while he talked, a part of his mind wandered to how Miss Brown might appear in the bath, how slick her skin would be, how scented with soap.

Because he had little information about the shipwreck, interest in him waned quickly. He drank more ale in solitude, if not peace. There was nothing peaceful about imagining Miss Brown in the bath. When he eventually carried the packages up the flight of stairs to the room he would share with her, his eagerness to see her made it difficult for him to keep from taking the steps two at a time. He walked down the hall to the door and, balancing the packages in one arm, knocked.

“Come in,” she said.

He paused, took a breath, and opened the door.

She was dressed and seated in a chair by the fireplace, pressing a white towel to her long mahogany brown hair. He inhaled the scent of soap and wanted nothing more than to embrace her, soft and warm and clean.

“You are back,” she said in a breathless voice.

He felt equally as robbed of air. “I tried to give you ample time.”

She twisted the towel around her hair. “I fear you have waited too long. The water has gone quite cold.”

He smiled at her. “It cannot be as cold as what we’ve already experienced.”

She shuddered. “No, it cannot.” Her eyes lifted to his and held him there.

He mentally shook himself loose from her. It was either do that or do something foolish. “The packages,” he said, carrying them over to the table in the corner. He unwrapped one and brought it to her. “I suspect you would like these now.” He handed her the brush and comb he had purchased.

They were crafted from simple tortoiseshell. Tanner thought of how many sets of silver brushes and combs he’d had his former secretary, Flynn, purchase for his mistresses. There was nothing so fine in the Cemaes shop, but Miss Brown’s eyes glowed with excitement when she took the items from his hands.

“Oh, how wonderful,” she cried. “I can comb out the tangles and brush my hair dry.”

No gift he ever gave a mistress had been so gratefully received. He grinned, pleased he had pleased her. She was too busy working the comb through her hair to see.

Tanner strolled over to the tub and felt the water, now on the very cold side of tepid. At home, his valet would be hovering with pots of hot water to add, making certain his bath remained warm from start to finish.

She rose from her chair, still holding the comb. “I could ask Mrs Gwynne for more hot water.”

They faced each other over the tub and it took Tanner a moment to remember to speak. “You cannot go out with your hair wet.”

“I shall put it in a quick plait,” she assured him. “I will need to go out anyway so that you can bathe.”

He could not help gazing at her. It took time for him to compose another thought, that thought being he did not wish her to leave. “Will not the Gwynnes think it odd that Mrs Lear walks to the public rooms with wet hair?” He reached over and fingered a lock, marvelling at how it already shaped itself in a curl. “They would not expect you to leave your husband merely because he bathes.”

She held his gaze, and he fancied her mind working again, mulling over this latest puzzle.

“I believe you are correct.” Her eyes were large and round. “I shall position my chair so that my back is to you, and I will comb my hair with the lovely comb you have purchased for me.”

With resolution, she marched back to her chair and set it to face the fireplace. Tanner watched her pull the comb through her hair, wishing it was his fingers doing the task.

He shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat and laid them on the bed. Sitting next to them, he removed his boots and stockings. As he pulled his shirt from his trousers, he watched Miss Brown totally absorbed in combing her hair.

He laughed.

Her comb stilled. “What amuses you?”

He had not realised he’d laughed aloud. “Oh, I was merely thinking that when I’m in the company of a woman, undressing is usually a quite different prospect.”

She paused for a moment and then began combing again. “Have you been in the company of so many women, Tanner?”

He faced her, naked and aroused and wishing she would turn and see the evidence of his desire for her. He wished she would come to him and let him make love to her right at this moment, to the devil with bathing.

Such thoughts were dangerous. He’d promised her he would not touch her. “I have known enough women, I suppose,” he mumbled instead, padding over to the tub, cringing as he tested the water again.

Again she hesitated before speaking. “I suppose you have lots of mistresses.”

He frowned at her assumption of him. “I assure you I am quite a success.” His attempt at a joke fell flat to his ears. Truth was, he tended to be involved with only one woman at a time, and none but the briefest of encounters in this last year. At the moment he was wondering what the appeal had been in any of them.

She cleared her throat. “Are there towels folded nearby? And the soap?”

He walked around the tub to see them. “I’ve found them.”

Bracing himself, he put one leg in the water, which was as cold as he expected. He forced himself to put the other leg in and began lowering the rest of him, making the water splash loudly in the room.

“Ye gods!” He shot up again when the water hit the part of him most sensitive to temperature. “Ah!” he cried again as he lowered himself a second time, but now it was because his ribs hurt from jumping up so fast.

“It is too cold,” Miss Brown said. “I knew I ought to have sought hot water.”

“It is tolerable,” he managed through the pain and the chill.

He picked up the soap and lathered himself as quickly as he could, grateful for having had the foresight to do a fairly decent job of washing his hair that morning. In his rush, the soap slipped out of his hand and fell into the water. He fished around for it, making a lot of noise doing so. When he finally caught it and lifted it out of the water, it slipped from his hand again, this time clattering to the floor and sliding too far away to reach.

“Deuce,” he muttered.

“You’ve dropped the soap?” she asked from her seat facing the fireplace.

“Yes.” This was a damned odd conversation to have when naked with a woman. “It is of no consequence. I believe I am clean enough.”

She stood. “I will fetch it for you.”

“It is not necessary, I assure you.” he told her.

“I do not mind.”

Before he could stop her, she turned to face him. Their gazes caught, but she lowered her lashes and searched for the soap, picking it up and bringing it to him. He quickly glanced down to see how much of himself he was revealing at this moment. The water was too cloudy to see anything.

“There you are.” She placed the bar of soap in his hand as calmly as if she’d been handing him his hat and gloves. After wiping her hand on a nearby towel, she returned to her chair and resumed combing her hair.

Tanner guessed he was as claret-faced as she’d been unflappable. “You are not missish, are you, Miss Brown?”

“Mrs Lear,” she corrected. “And you are correct. I am too old to be missish.”

“Old,” he repeated. “How old are you exactly?”

She chose another lock of hair to work the comb through. “Now that is a question no woman wishes to answer.”

He shot back. “As old as all that, then?”

She turned her head to him and smiled. “I am twenty-five.”

“Good God,” he cried in an exaggerated voice. “You are in your dotage!”

She laughed. “And you, sir, are teasing.”

He liked the sound of her laughter. He also liked that she was not prone to blushes and foolishness like that. He never could abide the young misses who flocked to London during the Season, looking for husbands when they’d barely been let off leading strings. Miss Brown was ever so much more interesting.

He turned back to his bathing, frowning at what it might mean that she was not missish. What was her experience of men, then?

He realised he was merely sitting in the water, which was turning him into gooseflesh.

“I warn you, I am about to rise from this bath and stand up in all my glory.” He started to rise, but stopped. “You may wish to look, seeing as you are not missish.”

He tried to make it sound like a jest, although he wanted her to look at him with a desire matching his own of her.

Because of the cold water, however, a part of him was not showing to its greatest advantage. In fact, it had no glory at all.

“I’ll look away,” She kept her back to him while he dried himself and donned his shirt and trousers.

“It feels glorious to be clean, does it not?” she said.

“Indeed,” he agreed, pressing his hand to his ribs. “But I would be happier if I had a clean shirt.” He picked up one of the packages and walked over to the bureau upon which sat a mirror, a pitcher and a bowl.

She switched to the hairbrush and turned around again. “It must be wretched wearing the same shirt.”

He smiled at her. “It is not that bad. It merely smells like the devil.” He rubbed his chin. “I suppose I shall have to shave myself. Now that is a wretched prospect.”

He unwrapped the package and took out a shaving cup, brush and razor. She picked up the soap and brought it to him, her long dark hair falling about her shoulders in soft waves. He wanted to touch it again. In fact, he wanted to grab a fistful of it.

Their gazes caught for a second when she handed him the soap. She lowered her eyes and walked back to her chair.

He took a deep breath and started to lather his face. “It is a fortunate thing my valet developed a toothache on the day we were to leave for Dublin.”

“I meant to ask you if anyone accompanied you,” she said in a sober voice.

“No one.” Thank God, because he did not wish to have more lives on his conscience. Chin and cheeks lathered, he turned away from the mirror to look at her.

“I am glad of it,” she murmured.

“I am as well,” he responded.

He turned back to the mirror and scraped at his beard. “Pomroy and I once went two weeks without shaving.” He made another stroke with the razor. “We went to one of my hunting lodges, but it rained like the devil. There was nothing to do so we drank great quantities of brandy and grew beards.”

She giggled. “I wonder you had the energy for it.”

“We wagered to see who could grow the longest beard in two weeks.” He smiled. “I won it.”

“Who was charged with measuring?”

“Our poor valets.” He laughed. “We made them switch.” He twirled his finger for emphasis. “Pomroy’s valet measured my beard and my valet measured Pomroy’s. It made the two men very nervous.”

He scraped at his cheek some more until his face was nearly clean of soap, except for tiny lines here and there. He rinsed off with the clean water and dried his face.

He presented himself to her. “How did I do?”

To his surprise, she reached up to stroke his face. “You did well,” she murmured.

The part of him that had retreated during his bath retreated no more. He leaned closer to her, so close he saw the lines of light and dark blue in her eyes. Her hand stilled, but her fingers still touched his cheek.

He wanted to breathe her name into the decreasing space between them, if only he knew it.

There was a loud knock on the door.

“Deuce,” he murmured instead.

He walked to the door. “Who is it?”

“It is Mrs Gwynne, lamb. If you are finished with your bathing, we’ve come to fetch the tub.”

He glanced over to Miss Brown. She nodded.

“You may fetch the tub.” He opened the door.

Removing the bath was almost as laborious as filling it had been. The maids had to make several trips. The towels were gathered up for laundering and, when all this was accomplished, Mr Gwynne appeared to carry the copper tub out of the room. Mrs Gwynne remained the whole time, chatting in her friendly way, pleased, Tanner suspected, that she had made her guests so happy.

“Now,” the innkeeper’s wife went on. “If you would care to come to the taproom, we have a nice supper. We also could give you a private parlour for dining. Or, if you prefer, we’ll bring the food to you here.”

“It shall be as my wife desires.” He turned to Miss Brown.

As his wife desires, Marlena repeated to herself, her heart pounding at the way his voice dipped low when he spoke the word wife. He spoke the word softly, intimately, as if he had indeed kissed her as he had been about to do. Her whole body tingled with excitement.

“I should like to stay here,” Marlena responded.

She did not want to break this spell, this camaraderie between them, this atmosphere that had almost led to a kiss.

“We are commanded, Mrs Gwynne.” Tanner smiled at the woman.

Marlena enjoyed Tanner’s teasing manner. She and Eliza had not known of his good humour all those years ago, something that would undoubtedly have given them more to sigh over. Now his light-heartedness made her forget she was running for her life.

Mrs Gwynne said, “We shall be back directly.”

After she left, Marlena asked, “Did you truly agree, Tanner? With having supper here in the room?”

He walked back to her, and lowered himself in the chair adjacent to the one she had been sitting in. He winced as he stretched out his long legs. “I wanted to do what you wanted.”

She did not miss that his sides still pained him.

“It is just that my hair is not yet dry,” she rattled on. “And I do not wish to put it up yet.” And also that she liked being alone with him in this temporary haven.

“You do not have to convince me. Your desire of it is sufficient.” His eyes rested softly upon her.

Her desires had never been sufficient for her husband to do what she asked. Early in her marriage she’d learned that Corland’s desires took precedence and that she must do what he wanted or he would be in a foul mood. Later in their three-year marriage, she had not cared enough to attempt to please him.

It occurred to her that she had been on the run for as long as she had been married. In a way, Corland still directed her life. It was a mystery to her why Wexin had killed Corland, but because of it, she was on the run.

Marlena fiddled with the brush in her hands, disliking the intrusion of Corland and Wexin in her time with Tanner.

How would it have felt if Tanner had, indeed, kissed her?

It had been so long since a man had kissed her. Corland’s ardour for her, mild at best, had cooled after the first year of their marriage, after her money had dwindled and his debts increased. After she discovered his many peccadilloes. Actresses, ballet dancers, their housemaid.

Her last sight of her husband flashed into her mind, lying face up on the bed, eyes gaping sightlessly, naked body covered in blood.

She shuddered and glanced at Tanner, so gloriously alive, so masculine even as he slouched in his chair.

His expression had sobered. “What is it?”

She blinked. “I do not understand what you mean.”

He gestured towards her. “You were thinking of something. Something disturbing, I’d wager.”

She averted her gaze. “Nothing, I assure you.”

When she glanced back at him, he frowned, and the peaceful, intimate feelings she’d had a moment before fled.

All she need do was think of Corland and clouds thickened.

There had been a time when she blamed all her woes on her husband. He was to blame for many things—his gambling, his debts, his affairs—but he would never have done to her what her own cousin had done. Who could have guessed Wexin was capable of such treachery?

Was Wexin still among Tanner’s friends? she wondered. If she had so difficult a time believing what her cousin had done, surely Tanner would not believe it.

“Do not be angry with me, Tanner,” she murmured.

His brows rose in surprise. “I am not angry.” He gave her a very intent look. “I merely wish you would tell me what cloud came over you. Tell me your secrets. Trust me. I know I will be able to fix whatever is wrong.”

She shook her head.

“Then at least tell me your name,” he persisted, putting that teasing tone back into his voice, but still looking at her with serious eyes. “Tell me your given name. I gave you mine. Adam. When we are private together, let me address you with one name that belongs to you.”

She stared back at him.

Would he know the Vanishing Viscountess by her given name? Would her name be enough to identify her as Wexin’s cousin, Corland’s widow, the young girl who’d had such a tendre for him at age eighteen that she blushed whenever he walked past her?

Marlena had been named for a distant French relative who’d died on the guillotine in the year of her birth. She had been Miss Parronley to everyone, save childhood friends and family and Eliza. And Wexin, of course. Even the newspapers after Corland’s death and her flight had never printed her given name. She could not think of a single instance when Tanner would have heard of the name Marlena and, if he had, would never associate it with the Vanishing Viscountess. She opened her mouth to speak.

Tanner stood, blowing out a frustrated breath. “Never mind.” He ambled over to the window. “Forgive me for pressing you.”

The moment to tell him had passed. Her body relaxed, but she grieved the loss of the easy banter between them.

“I asked Mr Gwynne about coaches,” he said, still looking out of the window. “I told him we were travelling north.” He turned to her.

“Yes, I wish to travel north,” she said.

“To Scotland, correct?”

She nodded.

“Well, Mr Gwynne’s recommendation was to take a packet to Liverpool.” He looked at her intently. “Where in Scotland?”

She bit her lip.

He made a frustrated sound and turned away.

“Edinburgh,” she said quickly. “I wish to go to Edinburgh.”

He turned back, lifting a brow. “Is Edinburgh your home?”

She hesitated again.

He waved a dismissive hand. “I ought to have known not to ask.”

She turned away, her muscles tensing. “A ship.”

“Could you bear it?” His voice turned soft.

She faced him again and saw sympathy in his eyes. “If I must.”

“It sails in the morning.”

“I will be ready.” She would get on the packet, in any event, no matter if her courage accompanied her or not. She stood, but was hesitant to approach him. “What will you do?”

His brows rose. “Why, accompany you, of course. It would look odd otherwise.”

She released her breath. The ship would be a little less terrifying with Tanner at her side.

Liverpool would certainly be big enough a town for her to pass through unnoticed. From there she could catch a coach, perhaps to Glasgow first, then on to Edinburgh.

So close to Parronley. Her estate. Her people. One place for which she yearned, but dared not go.

She was Baroness Parronley, a baroness in her own right. The Parronley barony was one of the few that included daughters in the line of succession, but Marlena would have preferred not to inherit. It meant losing her dear brother Niall and his two little sons. Her brother and nephews perished of typhoid fever. So unexpected. So tragic.

Marlena had been with Eliza in Ireland when they read the account in a London newspaper that Eliza’s husband had had sent to him. Marlena could not even mourn them, her closest family. She could not wear black for them, could not lay flowers on their graves.

With the shipwreck she would eventually be pronounced dead, the end of a baroness who had never had the chance to claim her title, the end of the Parronleys. Wexin would inherit. Her people, the people of Parronley, would be in the hands of a murderer.

Another knock on the door sounded, and Mrs Gwynne herself brought in their supper on a big tray. Two steaming meat pies, a pot of tea, and a tall tankard of ale.

Tanner took the tray from the woman’s hands and set it on the table. “Ah, thank you, Mrs Gwynne. You even remembered ale.”

She beamed and rubbed her hands on her apron. “After all these years, I ought to know what a man wants.”

He smiled at her. “You knew what this man wants.” He lifted the tankard to his lips and took a long swallow.

After the woman left, Marlena picked at her food. The camaraderie she’d shared with Tanner had disappeared. They ate in silence.

As she watched him finish the last of the crumbs of the meat pie’s crust, she blurted out, “You do not have to travel to Liverpool with me, if you do not wish it.”

He looked up at her with a mild expression. “I do not mind the trip.”

She sipped her cup of tea. “If it were not for me, you would probably be headed for London tomorrow.”

“Probably,” he responded.

She regarded him. “I do not even know if there is someone in London awaiting your return.”

His eyes clouded. “The usual people, I suppose.”

She flushed, embarrassed that she had not considered what his life might be like now. He had been the marquess of her memory, dashing and carefree and unmarried. “Forgive me, but I do not know if you are married. If you are—”

“I am not married,” he replied, his voice catching as he pressed his hand to his side. “A delay in my return should not inconvenience anyone overmuch. My affairs are well managed and rarely require my attention.”

She felt a disquieting sense of sadness from him. Still, that once innocent, hopeful débutante brightened.

He was not married.

Their meal struggled on with even fewer words spoken until Mrs Gwynne again knocked. Tanner rose stiffly.

“I’ve come for your dishes, lamb,” she said as he opened the door. “But first I have something for you.” She placed folded white garments into his hands. “Nightclothes for you.”

“Thank you,” Marlena exclaimed, surprised again at the woman’s kindness. She placed their dishes on the tray.

“That is good of you, Mrs Gwynne.” Tanner took the garments and placed them on the bed. “Might we purchase them from you?”

The woman waved a hand at him. “Oh, I hate to ask you for money after all you have been through.”

“I insist,” he said.

Mrs Gwynne gave him a motherly pat on the cheek. “Then we will settle up tomorrow, Mr Lear. Is there anything else you might require?”

“I can think of nothing.” He turned to Marlena.

She shook her head and handed Mrs Gwynne the tray full of dishes. She walked over to open the door for the woman.

Marlena stopped her before she crossed the threshold. “Wait.” She glanced over to Tanner. “Would it be possible for someone to launder my—my husband’s shirt? He would so like it to be clean.”

Mrs. Gwynne brightened. “It would indeed be possible. I’ll see to it myself and dry it in front of the fire.” She stepped over to Tanner again. “Give it over, lamb.”

Tanner glanced at Marlena before pulling the shirt over his head and draping it over Mrs Gwynne’s arm. “Thank you again.”

The innkeeper’s wife smiled and bustled out of the room.

Tanner turned to Marlena. “That was thoughtful of you.”

His skin glowed gold in the light from the oil lamp and the fireplace, but he was no less magnificent than he’d appeared that morning or as he bathed. Just as one is tempted to touch a statue, Marlena was tempted to run her fingers down his chest, to feel his sculpted muscles for herself.

She resisted. “No more thoughtful than you asking for my bath. I would say we are even now, except for the matter of you saving my life.”

His mouth curved into a half-smile. “We are even on that score, as well. Do you not recall hitting Mr Davies-the-Younger over the head?”

“I am appalled at that family, the lot of them.” She shook her head.

He smiled. “You’ll get no argument from me on that score.”

He picked up one of the garments Mrs Gwynne had brought them and put it on, covering his spectacular chest. “I’ll walk down with you to the necessary, before we go to bed.”

Go to bed repeated itself in her mind.

The sky was dark when they stepped outside to the area behind the inn where the necessary was located. Marlena was glad Tanner was with her. The darkness disquieted her, as if it harboured danger in its shadows.

When they returned to the room, he said, “Spare me a blanket and pillow and I will sleep on the floor.”

“No, you will not,” she retorted, her voice firm. There was no way she would allow the man who had rescued her to suffer through such discomfort. “Not with those sore ribs of yours. You must sleep in the bed.”

He seized her arm and made her look at him. “I’ll not allow you to sleep on the floor.”

Her heart pounded as she looked directly into his eyes. “Then we must share the bed.”