Page 22 of The Marquis' Game of Seduction
The trees lashed through the wind, looking violent and animalistic. He shivered. Since he was a boy, he’d always relished the look and feel of storms: sensing that they exhibited the greater power of the earth, a power that he could never truly comprehend, especially if he was to remain indoors, a Marquees and a businessman, rather than an explorer.
Perhaps, then, it was during these storms that he dreamed most of these lost days of exploration, the days he’d read about in the pages of beautiful novels and geographical studies. How he ached to be at the edge of a boat, gazing out across the thrashing waters.
Instead, he was there. Home. And drawing deeper into himself with each passing day—finding new reasons to miss dinner, to avoid his nephew, to conceal himself from the world. What a wretched, miserable life it was.
Allan had written him back dutifully, in the wake of Colin’s letter.
Colin. I urge you to pay attention to your feelings, rather than negate them. They seem truly powerful, the sort of thing to open your arms to. I know this goes against your nature. That you would much prefer to live in a state of misery (ha ha), than ever feel the depth of feeling that is allowed to you.
I know that you had a wretched time previously. There’s nothing to be said about that except that it’s the past, and we must live with it while pressing forward. This is the worst balancing act we must all conduct. And yet it’s necessary to survive.
Of course, the letter had continued. Allan was never a man of few words. In fact, it seemed that he ordinarily found unique pleasure in crafting little poetic ways of telling Colin precisely what was on his mind.
Colin’s eyes traced across the moors, back toward the tower. Yet again, the light blared through the window. Annoyance pulsed through him, and he rolled his eyes indignantly at the sight. Good grief, he thought.
But in the midst of this sight, he witnessed a lithe figure, drawing out through the paths of the garden. He blinked several times, scarcely believing what he saw. Surely, it was Rose, the new governess—and she was directed straight toward the tower, walking through the powerful storm.
Colin’s heart surged with confusion. He drew back and slipped his fingers through his black mane. He knew the girl to be a digger, someone unwilling to sit back and let world pass in front of her. She had to see it and touch it and know it. He’d recognised this in her from the very first.
Yet now, it was surely going to get her in bigger trouble.
Colin hopped toward the study door and flung his arms through his jacket. He dotted his hat on his head and then sped toward the back of the house, where a candle remained burning in the kitchen. He wished he could somehow send a signal to Judith prior to going out in the rain, to tell her what was going on; yet, he sensed in this case, Judith was even less apt to forgive, to forget. She hated the girl’s meddling and had, on more than one occasion, mentioned to Colin that she wished they’d found a governess with less of a “nose for trouble.”
Now, Colin darted out into the rain. It flashed across the shoulders of his jacket and soaked his hat and chilled him directly to the bone. He cursed as he shot out through the garden, drawing closer to the meadow and the long line of ancient trees. But when he reached the iron gate that led out toward the long stretch of grass, he peered out to discover—absolutely nobody.
He’d assumed that once he reached the gate, he would see Rose darting down the path, stretching her little legs toward the tower. But instead, not a single soul echoed back.
Had he imagined seeing her? Had he truly ached to see Rose so much that he’d made up the vision of her and forced himself into the wretched weather — like a wild man chasing a ghost?
But no. Now, his eyes darted toward the right. To his horror, he realised that one of the enormous branches from the ancient trees had torn off from its home and barreled toward the ground. He lurched through the grass, directly toward the branch. With a jolt, he realised he was gazing down at the beautiful, unconscious form of Rose.
She lay on her belly, her arms all a-tumble in front of her and her eyes closed. Her skin was porcelain and glowing beneath the black sky, and the rain had begun to fill the hollows of her cheeks. Her hair was completely drenched, as were her clothes.
Colin dropped to his knees. He lifted the rest of the branch from her shoulder and threw it to the side.
“Rose!” he cried. He splayed his mighty hands across her shoulders. He thought better of shaking her, as he’d heard that this could harm an unconscious person even more. Slowly, he shifted her onto her shoulder and then onto her back. Her chin fell back a bit, but her eyes remained completely closed and her body was limp.
The rain seemed to come down still harder. It seemed almost impossible that there was enough water in the world for such a storm. Slowly, Colin slipped one arm beneath Rose’s knees, with another at her head. Using all the strength he had he stood, adjusting her all the time to ensure she looked comfortable. When he had her tightly against his chest, he leaned a bit closer into her lips—so perfect, bright red and slightly parted. He was hungry for some sign that she was still breathing.
But the wind was far too powerful, and it was difficult to hear anything. Rather than linger there in the chill and the wind and the wet, he stepped tenderly toward the mansion. Careful not to rush, yet mindful that every moment was sacred, he walked back toward the mansion and then slipped into the back door.
If Colin had been able to see himself from afar, he might have laughed. There he stood, in the mansion in which he’d grown up and grown older, completely drenched to the bone and carrying the beautiful orphan-governess in his arms. She weighed nearly nothing; only the weight of the water seemed to press on his muscles.
Where should he take her? He paused for a moment, water dripping down over his hat and down his nose. After a pause, he stomped through the halls and up the first set of stairs, strutting toward his own personal bedroom.
He hadn’t a real comprehension of where the governess’s room actually was (although he had some idea that it was deep in the back organs of the house); besides, he wasn’t of the mind to drop her in whatever crackly bed Judith had given her. Not now, when she seemed so close to death.
Death. That word rattled around in the back of Colin’s mind, now. He wished he could take it back.
Once in his bedroom, he splayed Rose out on his comforter and lurched to the side to light a candle. The light played out a little story on her cheek, one that crafted a shadow that made it seem—almost, almost—that she was smiling. Colin’s heart jumped with this vision, but he soon recognised that it wasn’t true.
Colin’s hand traced over her little arm and then tugged at her fingers. This seemed light enough, delicate enough, that he felt perhaps—perhaps—she would awaken. When this didn’t work, he dropped down a bit, so that his ears hung just over her lips.
He listened carefully. He strained himself to hear. And finally, finally, he heard the faint little whispers of her breathing. His heart dipped into his belly with relief. The girl was alive.
But that didn’t mean that she was going to survive this. No. He had to act quickly if he was going to ensure she was all right. He bolted toward the hallway and then raced down to the other wing, where his fist found the wood of Judith’s door and bolted so hard that it felt as though the entire house was rumbling beneath him.
Judith appeared in the crack of the door moments later. Her lips hung open, and there were enormous bags under her eyes; heavy ones that showed her age more than Colin knew she liked.
