The Weary Heart Read online

  On request, Henrietta left the room with her, looking intrigued.

  “I’m taking the children back to Audley Park,” she said bluntly. “Just as soon as I can get them in the carriage. But I want to ask you…could you give out that Miss Marshall is accompanying us?”

  Henrietta blinked. “Is she?”

  “No, she has already left—run away, I believe, but I think I know where she has gone. If I’m wrong, I’ll send out a hue and cry from the Hart.”

  Henrietta frowned. “Miss Milsom, the girl’s parents are here. It is not your responsibility…”

  “But it is,” Helen interrupted. “We were talking last night, and I think I might have made it sound…acceptable for her to do this. To be frank, her parents have pushed her too far. If you could somehow make them believe, without saying so, that I have found her and taken her with us…”

  “How the devil do you expect me to do that? And what if you are wrong?”

  Those words still rang in Helen’s ears as she threw her meager possessions—plus Lady Verne’s ballgown—into her bag. She had just raised her head, intending to speed on the children’s efforts, when movement outside caught her attention.

  A smart curricle drawn by a pair of perfectly matched chestnuts pulled up by the front door. She had seen that particular equipage before. A gentleman—Sir Marcus Dain—leaped down the front steps and took the ribbons from the groom. As he drove off, she saw his valet in the seat beside him. He was leaving.

  Her heart seemed to crumble. He had wanted to talk to her today, and her foolish hopes had led her to imagine… Imagine what? That this growing friendship between them was some kind of courtship? The friendship itself was something she valued beyond words. And yet, he left Steynings without a word to her.

  Well, she had been intending to leave, too, although part of her plan had been to somehow let him know, to say farewell. It seemed there was no need.

  Had he forgotten their conversation last night? Had he imbibed rather more than she had guessed?

  Or was he on the same mission as herself?

  Had Henrietta already spoken to Philip? Had Philip then sent Sir Marcus after his errant stepdaughter? Such a request would surely be unthinkable…unless he was actually betrothed to her.

  “No,” she said aloud, appalling herself by the wealth of pain in her voice. Especially as she had no proof of any of this. He could be going anywhere, and he owed Helen precisely nothing. If she had been reading more into his words than he had intended, then more fool she.

  She strode across to the door, calling rather desperately to Eliza to be quick.

  Chapter Seven

  Driving at full tilt into the Hart Inn yard just before dark, Marcus’s heart was heavy for any number of reasons. He knew at least he should be grateful he had learned of this before he spoke to Helen.

  He thrust her from his mind, and concentrated instead on reining in the horses before they crashed into something. Pausing only to issue instructions to the ostler, he strode up to the inn and banged the door shut behind him.

  He opened his mouth to shout for Villin and, to his astonishment, beheld the apparently paralyzed figure of Miss Anne Marshall at the foot of the stairs. She stared at him with more than her usual horror at his presence.

  “You!” she uttered in accents of loathing and fled into the private parlor, slamming the door.

  It would have been funny if he hadn’t already had too many other things on his mind. As it was, he couldn’t help the hiss of laughter between his teeth as he turned to face Villin at the taproom door.

  “Welcome back, sir!” beamed the innkeeper. “What is your pleasure today?”

  “First of all, take me to Mrs. Robinov, if you please.”

  “Oh, certainly sir. She is just here in the private parlor.”

  Marcus had time to pity poor Dorothea Robinov sharing a parlor with the Marshall family before Villin threw open the door and announced happily, “Sir Marcus Dain, ma’am.” Marcus walked into the room to find chaos.

  Dorothea Robinov sat by the fire, instantly recognizable. Still beautiful at forty, with that same slightly untidy, distracted air. Physically, she had not changed, save for a few extra lines and rather dark circles under her eyes.

  Anne Marshall knelt at Dorothea’s feet, clutching her hands in some plea he had not heard. Dorothea, looking bewildered, glanced up at Marcus and jumped to her feet, almost knocking over Anne, who was caught and helped to her feet by a fair youth in a dark coat and an equally fair young girl little older than Anne herself. Both glared at him, stepping protectively in front of Anne.

  At least Dorothea was smiling, rushing toward him with both hands held out. “Marcus! My dear friend! How kind of you to come so quickly!”

  Sir Marcus kissed both hands and her cheek, then stood back, frowning to examine her face. “I’m so sorry, Dorothea.”

  Tears, which he guessed were never far away, filled her eyes but did not spill. She nodded. “I know,” she whispered, squeezing his hands before releasing them. “But let me present my children whom you have not seen since they were tiny! This is Kenneth and Carla. My dears, your father’s great friend, and mine, too, Sir Marcus Dain.”

  “This is Sir Marcus?” the youth blurted.

  “Yes, it is,” his mother said indignantly. “If you don’t remember him, you might at least remember your manners!”

  The young man flushed, bowing with slightly jerky grace. “Forgive me, sir, I do remember you, now I look more closely. I think we muddled you with someone else.”

  The girl, a pretty young woman with Dorothea’s eyes, curtsied to him also, with a similar mixture of bewilderment and relief.

  Until Anne declared. “No, it is he. He has come after me!”

  There was a stunned silence, which Marcus broke. “Why the devil would I do that? Where are your parents?”

  “I think we still have some misunderstanding here,” Dorothea observed. “Miss Marshall, I believe you will find Sir Marcus is here in answer to my request. I can see that you know each other, but he clearly had no idea of your presence at the inn. Marcus, Miss Marshall has run away from her family, and to be honest, I am at a loss what to do for the best, for the girl is clearly terrified.”

  “I’ll speak to her father,” Marcus said grimly just as the door opened again and the three Overton children spilled into the room.

  “She’s here!” George shouted cheerfully over his shoulder, and Helen hurried in behind them.

  Her gaze fixed on Marcus for only an instant, though long enough for him to read the hurt and disappointment lurking behind her stern expression. Shocked, he watched her glance around the rest of the room and take in the presence of Anne, which seemed to relieve rather than surprise her.

  “Miss Milsom,” he managed. “What brings you here?”

  She ignored him, going straight to Anne. “I am so sorry, I never meant you to actually escape and come here! But everything should be well now. You must come with us to Audley Park.”

  *

  Arriving at the Hart, Helen prayed she would find Anne Marshall within and Sir Marcus Dain nowhere near.

  “I am looking for Miss Marshall,” she told the innkeeper, although if Anne was in hiding, she would probably have given a false name.

  However, Mr. Villin seemed to know exactly who she meant. “In the parlor, ma’am, with…”

  Helen heard no more, for the children flew past him to the parlor, Helen in their wake. In his haste, George barely knocked at all, and he barged through the door almost at the same time, the twins at his heels. She would have told him off in no uncertain terms for such hideous manners, only Sir Marcus’s voice was tearing her apart. Not only present but announcing, “I’ll speak to her father.”

  Lies. Everything he had told her was lies. While she seemed to be crumbling inside, she dragged her gaze free of his and found Anne, and here at least she could be wholeheartedly grateful to find the girl apparently unharmed.

  He said s
omething. She barely heard, concentrating on Anne. “I am so sorry, I never meant you to actually escape and come here! But everything should be well now. You must come with us to Audley Park.”

  But as she approached the girl, she was surprised to find another woman in her way. A tall, somehow dignified lady whose eyes were anything but friendly. In fact, they held considerable contempt.

  “Madam, I have no idea who you are. Only the fact that you appear to be known to Sir Marcus prevents me from having the innkeeper show you immediately out of my private parlor. I have been away from England a long time, but I cannot believe it is now customary to barge unannounced into other people’s rooms as you and your children just did. For the rest, Miss Marshall has thrown herself upon my care, and I will not allow any rude stranger to take her away.”

  Helen blushed to the roots of her hair. Her only defense was her distraction, her worry for Anne and her pain at Sir Marcus’s…disingenuousness. None of which were reasonable excuses for her rudeness.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said, utterly humiliated. She glanced at Anne, who was looking confused. “We will be at Audley Park, where you may communicate if you need me.” With an effort, she turned back to the rigid, angry lady and curtsied. “I apologize for my unforgivable intrusion. Children.”

  The children, uncharacteristically chastened by the atmosphere in the room, began to troop out in front of her.

  “Can’t we have tea?” Horatio asked.

  “Not here,” Helen replied at once. “We will drive on to Audley Park.”

  “Miss Milsom,” said Sir Marcus’s voice behind her.

  She almost pretended not to hear. But pride forced her to pause and turn.

  He stood just outside the open doorway in the same position she had first seen him. “Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Robinov and explain—”

  “I believe Mrs. Robinov has seen quite enough of me,” Helen interrupted. “You may explain whatever you wish in my absence. Goodbye, sir.”

  She hoped he caught the finality of her words. She certainly caught the flare of anger in his eyes as she turned away. He was not a man so easily cowed.

  The parlor door snapped shut.

  “Go and wait in the carriage for Miss Milsom,” he ordered the children in a voice that brooked no disobedience.

  She swung back to him, outraged that he would dare command the children under her care, but they were already trooping to the door behind her, and before she could say a word, Sir Marcus took hold of her arm and all but dragged her to the side of the stairs, where they could not be seen from the front door.

  “How dare—” she began in fury, shaking herself free.

  But he interrupted, rage at least equal to her own, spitting from his eyes. “How dare I what? Try to be reasonable? Try to explain a misunderstanding to a ridiculously stubborn woman only too happy to believe the worst of me?”

  “On the contrary, I have no interest whatsoever in your character,” she retorted. “Or your person!”

  At that, something changed in his eyes. The anger did not die, but was layered with something else, equally heated. And although he had let her break away from him, he stepped nearer again, crowding her into the staircase wall.

  And her body recognized the nearness, the overwhelming attraction of his. Her quickened breath no longer had anything to do with fury but with the flame of inconvenient desire.

  “Really?” he said softly, mockingly, “Really, Miss Milsom?” His gaze dropped to her lips, and butterflies dived into the sudden heat of her stomach.

  Dear God, what would his lips feel like on hers? All his passion concentrated on kissing her? Everything in her leaped in treacherous welcome.

  And then his eyes changed once more, overlaying everything with a strange desperation. He moved suddenly, grasping the back of her head. His body touched hers, and her knees threatened to buckle.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said deliberately, and kissed her.

  Nothing in her life had prepared her for this kind of kiss, wild, deep, invasive. It shocked her, overwhelmed her. But before she could even work out what it meant, it was over.

  He tore his mouth free and stepped back, and she had to grab at the wall to support herself.

  “Go,” he snarled. “And think of me what you will. Some of it will be right.”

  She all but stumbled past him, ignoring her sudden, perverse urge to stay, to comfort whatever pain inspired that look and those words. It was too dangerous. He was too dangerous to her, and she had her duty to the children.

  She fled to them, feeling like a coward. She barely heard anything or saw anything until she sat in the carriage with them once more.

  But as it drove out of the yard, she glimpsed Sir Marcus standing at the inn door, frowning after them.

  *

  By the time Marcus returned to the inn parlor, he had calmed his anger and his ardor. Ruefully, he even understood something of Helen’s anger at him. Of course, she knew nothing of his promise to Ilya Robinov. She only thought he’d been pursuing Anne on her impulsive escape from parental pressure. But her judgment still left him both fuming and hurt. How could she imagine he would simply lie to her? Did she imagine all men were like the paltry Philip Marshall? Well, if she thought so little of him, he was sorry to have wasted all the time and emotion he had.

  “What a strange creature,” Dorothea said as he came in. “Who on earth is she? Miss Marshall says she is a friend.”

  “She is the governess to Lady Overton’s children,” Marcus said shortly. “And clearly thought she was preventing some kind of elopement, or at least a forced marriage, by charging to Miss Marshall’s rescue.”

  Dorothea blinked. “The marriage of Miss Marshall to…?”

  “To me,” Marcus said grimly and swung around to the hunted Anne. “Miss Marshall, be assured that while I’m certain you are a most estimable young lady, I have absolutely no desire to marry you, and even less intention. Be easy.”

  Anne’s eyes widened impossibly. Her mouth fell open. “You mean you haven’t offered for me?”

  “No, nor ever will.”

  “But…but Mama said you had spoken to her…”

  “I can count the number of times I’ve spoken to your mother on one hand,” Marcus said irritably. “I may once have agreed with her on the subject of your beauty, but marriage never entered our discussion, or even my head. I think we both agree such an alliance would be ludicrous.”

  “Marcus!” Dorothea protested, although she seemed to have difficulty in preventing laughter.

  But Anne broke into a positively radiant smile. “Oh, how wonderful!”

  “Isn’t it?” Marcus agreed wryly. “I only wish I had found the time to tell you so before you bolted.”

  “Miss Milsom told me,” Anne confided. “But I did not believe her. She is very clever, isn’t she? I don’t know how she knew I would be here.”

  Or contrived to extricate herself so quickly from Steynings with the children in order to play chaperone and foil, presumably, his evil plans. She must have heard he had left, and decided it was on Anne’s account. How dared she even suspect such a thing of him? How could they be so wrong about each other?

  “Tea,” Dorothea said decisively.

  A little later, with most of the tea consumed and the young people playing a noisy game of cards in front of the fire, Marcus finally banished Helen Milsom from his mind and asked the all-important question of Dorothea.

  “What will you do?”

  “I have a little money, enough to buy a cottage in some peaceful village. But, of course, there are processes to go through since the solicitor does not know me personally, and to be frank, Marcus, I find myself temporarily embarrassed. So much so that I must beg you for a loan to pay my account here.”

  “There is no need to even to ask”

  “I knew I could count on you! It may be we can go back to Russia later on, but I’ve no idea if there will be anything left of Ilya’s estate. Wel
l, Kenneth’s now.”

  “What happened?” Marcus asked quietly.

  Dorothea gazed into her almost empty teacup. “Somehow, we survived the initial invasion, and the troops passed us by. We burned our own crops to prevent the French having them. Ilya came home—you know he had been leading a militia—to protect us during the retreat. We had to flee while the French marauded through the estate, the house, but there was a skirmish that killed most of them, sent the rest flying in disorder. But Ilya was injured.” She swallowed. “We took him back home to die among the rubble.”

  “Dear God, I didn’t know.” He covered her hand with his, squeezing her fingers convulsively. “I was on my way to join him, to help you escape if you needed to.”

  “I thought it best to leave immediately after he died,” she said shakily. “There are a lot of French soldiers still retreating. Our own people were restive through hunger and not above threatening us. I thought it best to bring the children out…”

  “I should have been there,” he said hoarsely. “I promised Ilya I would be. I didn’t realize there would be so little time.”

  “There was nothing you could have done. You know I am not incapable. And in truth, Kenneth was wonderful. Ilya would have been so proud.”

  “He would,” Marcus agreed. “I look forward to getting to know his son.”

  Dorothea withdrew her hand and made an obvious effort at lightheartedness. “And you, Marcus? How has your life been these last six years?”

  “Mostly dull. I’ve been setting my father’s affairs and estates in order, which has left me little time for travel.”

  “And still no desire to marry?”

  He kept his face amiable. “I must do so one day, of course.”

  “Ilya always said he would move heaven and earth to bolt across the world to wherever you decided to marry. He seemed to think it was a rare joke.”

  “Ilya always had a strange sense of humor.”

  “It was all fun,” Dorothea said with a hint of anxiety. “There was no one whose friendship he valued more than yours.”

  *

  Now that they no longer considered him a threat to their new friend, Miss Marshall, Ilya’s children relaxed into open and amiable conversation with him, recalling funny incidents that had occurred when he had visited them in Russia six years ago, when Kenneth had been only eleven and Carla twelve. Echoes of Ilya shone in their eyes and spilled out of their mouths in boisterous humor, moving Marcus almost unbearably. And yet, they were very much their own people, already independent in thought.