“Then marry me.”
“Marcus!”
It was he who closed the distance, sinking his mouth into hers with deliberate, sensual tenderness.
God, it was sweet, so sweet that tears started to her eyes.
“Marry me,” he said again against her trembling lips.
His hips pinned her to the wall, and desire flamed through her. She was already won, she already loved him. But she had to look after them both because he kept risking his happiness to help female friends. Last week it had been Dorothea Robinov; today, it was her. And she would not let him do it.
Forcing herself, she detached her lips from his and pushed him physically away. The sharp wind chilled her at once.
“I won’t marry you, Marcus. Thank you for everything, but I’m going to my aunt for Christmas, and then I will find a new post.” She hurried away from him before she changed her mind.
“Without a reference from Lady Overton?” he asked furiously.
“I have other references,” she said quietly and rounded the corner. There she paused to glance back at him. “I found the candlesticks, you know. In that woman’s trunk. But it was too late, would have made no difference.”
He strode toward her with renewed purpose, but further discussion would not help matters. She was barely held together as it was. She almost ran the rest of the way to the coach and pushed her way on to it, in fear that he would simply carry her off if she didn’t.
And as it turned out, she was only just in time. The door slammed shut behind her. She sat down between an ample lady and a vicar, and the horses sprang forward.
She knew he stood at the corner of the building, watching her depart. But she would not look.
*
Both angry and hurt, Marcus could do nothing but let her go. Her stubbornness infuriated him, for he had glimpsed temptation in her eyes as well as her kiss. Oh, no, she was far from indifferent. But he could not make her believe…what? That he loved her? Did he?
Although no stranger to women, whose charms he appreciated on many levels, and many of whom he counted among his close friends, he had successfully avoided falling in love with any of them. What the devil made Helen Milsom so different?
He didn’t know or care. But he did want her, and that she could so easily reject him…
But no, it hadn’t been easy for her at all. She had only just managed to push him away, because she imagined he offered only for reasons of chivalry. He didn’t. Of course, he didn’t. He wanted Helen by his side, sharing his life, he wanted her safe and happy in his home and in his bed. Waking each morning to that half-teasing, enigmatic smile, those soft hands and lips just crying out for a taste of passion.
He threw himself on his horse and set off at a gallop through the town, scattering wary pedestrians in all directions as he went.
Why in God’s name was he hiding from this? Even Dorothea had seen it. Of course he loved Helen. Life without her had become unthinkable. Outside the town, he slowed in uncharacteristic indecision.
He could ride after the mail coach. He could probably still catch it up and declare his love as he should have done before he let her leave. Imbecile. Though, of course, there was no guarantee that he could make her change her mind, make her believe that he loved her. No, he would have to show her, clear the path of everything that stood in the way of her believing it. So that there was no reason except love for him to ask her to marry him.
He urged his horse on again toward the Hart, thinking intensely. She would be safe at her aunt’s for the next couple of weeks, but he would have to act quickly to set things in motion before she vanished into some other unappreciative household where they would not treat her half so well as the Overtons had—before their moment of idiocy.
Riding into the inn yard, he left his horse with Jem and went in search of Dorothea, whom he found in Carla’s chamber. He smiled to see the girl sitting up in a chair by the fire while her mother read to her.
“This is much more the thing,” he said approvingly. “We’ll have you downstairs and playing spillikins in no time.”
“And I will beat you,” Carla declared.
“That’s the spirit! Dorothea, if all is well here tomorrow, I thought I would ride over to Steynings. I’ll only be gone a night.”
*
Silford and Cromarty were out on the estate when he arrived at Steynings, but Lady Sydney greeted him with great friendliness.
“What a pleasant surprise, Sir Marcus! I’m afraid Sydney will not be back much before dark but—”
“Actually, it’s you I have come to see,” he said, dropping Helen’s letter into her hand. “To give you this and to recruit your help.”
Henrietta sat, waving him to the seat opposite while she frowned in some bewilderment over Helen’s note. “Miss Milsom has left?” she exclaimed. “But why did they let her go? She was so good for Eliza, and, oh the devil, I liked her!” She raised her gaze to Marcus. “What on earth has been going on?”
Marcus told her the tale of the Marshalls, including the Steynings candlesticks which Helen had discovered in Phoebe’s trunk. “At least, she thought they were yours.”
By the end of the tale, Henrietta seemed stunned into silence. After several moments, she said, “There are several on-dits about the Marshalls circulating in town. I heard them when we had guests. One, of course, was that they had you in their sights for Anne, and connected to that, that they had finally frittered away Phoebe’s fortune on extravagant living and art exhibitions. They had to sell their London house and took some much smaller place in Brighton. But even that they won’t be able to afford if Anne does not marry well.”
“I gathered that. I presume that’s why Phoebe helps herself to trinkets wherever she goes, just to pay a few bills.” He frowned. “I wonder if I could track down their fence?”
“Their what?” she asked.
“The miscreant who sells on their stolen goods.”
“Ah. Well, he would be foolish to testify against them, if it would land him in prison, too.”
“True, but it would give us a trail to trace back.”
“What are you up to, sir?” Henrietta asked when he trailed off into thought. “And why do you need me?”
Marcus pulled himself back to order. “For two things really. Firstly, I’m hoping you know of, or can find out about, a new place for Miss Milsom, somewhere she will be treated with respect and not as a drudge.”
“That is the least I can do. I have to say, I am surprised at Mama for believing that woman over Miss Milsom.”
“Well, she is very plausible. If only because no one can imagine a person making up such a tale.”
“But who could imagine Miss Milsom setting her cap at you in such a way?” Henrietta demanded. “Let alone you agreeing to take her to Brighton and set her up as your mistress—while you have just become engaged to a different lady entirely!”
Marcus gave a rueful shrug. “Perhaps my deceit in pretending to that engagement helped them believe in my degeneracy. My brief talk with your father might have convinced him of the truth.”
“Yes, but even if they ask Miss Milsom to go back, now, would she? She might, for Eliza, I suppose.”
“I don’t think she could.”
Henrietta sighed. “So, a good position for Miss Milsom. What is your second request?”