Page 78 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
“There is no need.” She tried to edge away, but his palm slammed against the wall beside her head, trapping her there.
“There iseveryneed,” he said. “But I can’t do it now. Christ, I’m hardly holding my feet. I need a bath and a change of clothing and perhaps a few hours of sleep.” His chest shuddered with a swift breath. “I had toseeyou first,” he repeated, as if this should have been a revelation of monumental importance.
It wasn’t. It was only baffling. There was no reason that he ought to have bothered.
A crack sheared through that expression of determination he wore, and he ducked his head, scrubbing at his face with one hand. “Hell,” he said on a sigh. “All right. I’ll go. You may expect me later this evening.”
He shoved away from the wall, and Lizzie took a deep breath at last, watching as he walked back toward the door.
“We’ll talk as well,” he said to Jo, quietly, his hand upon her shoulder.
“My Latin primer?” Jo inquired, squinting up at him.
“I’ll bring it.” Luke chucked her beneath the chin, eliciting an aggrieved sound. “And some sweets. Toffee candies, yes?”
“Oh,please.” Delighted, Jo flung her arms around his waist, and this time that awkwardness that had afflicted him at even the vaguest sign of affection from the children did not come. He draped his arm around her shoulders, and his other hand laid upon the top of her head, curling there almost protectively.
Despite his haggard appearance, the tatters of a smile nestled there in the corner of his mouth, and for just an instant he closed his eyes, releasing a long sigh as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “This evening,” he said, drawing away at last. “I’ll return this evening.”
Lizzie recovered herself enough at last to speak. “I won’t open the door.”
Those blue eyes found hers, and she staggered beneath the weight of determination within them. “Then I will break it down,” he said, and he managed to make it sound as if it were both threatandpromise.
Chapter Twenty Nine
With Jo’s Latin primer tucked beneath his arm and a sack of toffee candies in his pocket, Luke rapped his aching knuckles upon Ambrosia’s servants’ entrance door and wondered idly if hewouldhave to break it down. He’d arrived somewhat later than he had meant to, and the thick darkness of nightfall had settled over the mews.
But at least he had arrived rested, freshly shaven, and dressed appropriately. Even if he had gotten somewhat less sleep than he might’ve liked, it had been enough to relieve his mind of the overwhelming fog of exhaustion that had clouded it.
As he lifted his hand to knock again, there was a rustle of movement within, and he caught a glimpse of the shadow of skirts whisking past the window to the left of the door. To his surprise, the lock turned and the dooropened.
His heart sank as the woman in the dim glow of the lamp held in her hand revealed herself notto be Lizzie at all.
“Lord Ashworth, I assume,” she said in a clipped voice, her blue eyes narrowed to slits. “I understand you’ve made some most uncalled-for threats against my door.”
He recognized her, vaguely—Mrs. Knight; the manager. She’d been a woman of some notoriety just a year or so before, and perhaps she was at least slightly notorious still. Her social circle overlapped with Susan’s, if not exactly with his own. “In my defense,” he said, “it is keeping me from my wife. I would’ve paid for it.”
“With a great deal more than money,” she said. “Lady Ashworth does not wish to see you, my lord. Should you attempt to press the issue, I’m afraid I shall be forced to summon the authorities.”
“And you think I’ll be clapped in irons for it? I’m amarquess. They’re unlikely to arrest a peer.”
“I think you’ll find my husband carries a great deal of influence with Bow Street,” she said, and from the grim look of satisfaction upon her face, he was tempted to believe her. “They dance to his tune these days.” With a tiny nod, she indicated behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see a gentleman perhaps twenty paces away, standing on the steps of a tidy little house across the mews, a chubby-cheeked baby held in his arms. Her husband, he assumed.
“Evening, Lord Ashworth,” the man called, in a bland tone. “You haven’t upset my wife, have you?”
“It wasn’t my intention,” Luke returned.
“Good. I wouldn’t advise it.” A nod—awarning, Luke realized—and then he had gone back through the door, though the threat of his presence lingered still.
“Only a shout away,” Mrs. Knight said, and he had the sense that she had cultivated that perfect, cutting tone over years and years, and was accustomed to being obeyed. “You will not come tomydoor, Lord Ashworth, and make demands of me or ofanyoneto whom I have offered my protection. Your wife does not wish to see you. Youwillrespect that.”
Whatever indignation to which he had laid claim fled at the reminder that Lizziehadfound refuge here. When she had been alone and grief-stricken, when he had lashed out at her with the full force of his anger, whenhehad sent her fleeing from their home—it wasthiswoman who had taken her in. Who had rescued her whenhehad not.
“However,” she said, “there is someone whodoeswish to see you.” She twitched a hand down the hallway, and a moment later Joanna scampered into view, her plaits bobbing over her shoulders.
“Luke!” she cried, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Have you got my Latin primer?”
“And your toffees.” Luke patted at his pockets as he passed over the book, retrieving the small sack. “Jo,” he said, Mrs. Knight quite forgotten. “How is Lizzie?”
