Lord of Intrigue (Inconvenient Brides #10)

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

“The flames, like tongues, split apart and licked the lips of the rocks, consuming all as they burned.”

Dante’s Divine Comedy

T he drive home was mostly silent. The baron had fallen asleep. Marco watched the view with a pensive expression, and Miss Dubois appeared mollified as a result of having her breakfast, so she was leafing through one of her fashion periodicals.

Molly stared out the window, but she was thinking about the conversation in the maze. She was pushing Marco too hard. But knowing that, and knowing how to ease the pressure while still spending time in his company—this required a level of finesse she had not developed. She had never esteemed a gentleman so intensely.

It was a conundrum, she decided, the twisting of her fingers the only sign of distress she permitted. If she did not spend time with him, there was no possibility of attracting him into a courtship. However, for the second time, he had declared he could not pursue a match with her. The entire situation was mortifying, but the thought of living with regrets was just as uncomfortable.

If she did not at least try … even if he would never court her … was she willing to give up the opportunity for at least one more fiery kiss before she bid him farewell?

Molly’s chances of marriage receded with each passing year. Because of her mother’s long illness, she had never properly come out, then came the period of mourning. Just as that was ending, the baroness had died. Which, in effect, had mostly ended Molly’s chances of being introduced in society. She now lived in a household devoid of a female sponsor, and with a convalescing baron who was regaining his health. He could not attend any events with Molly any sooner than the Season next year.

Marco’s arrival and the events of the past few days had brought to light that her marriageable years had passed by without notice. Would she remain the step-cousin to a baron forever? Was there no larger role for her to fulfill? Was this her fate? To disappear into irrelevance, her entire life lived in the perimeters of society while her friends and cousins carved out their part in this world until, eventually, John passed on to the next life and Marco became the head of the family? Would she be forced to watch as the man she wanted, the man she would be beholden to, married some other woman while she slipped further into the shadows?

Perhaps she should have raised such an essential subject with Madeline when she had had the opportunity.

Perhaps she should ask Madeline about securing a position at the stone manufactory. At least then, if she worked, she could create a life of her own. A life which could gain some meaning.

Molly’s turmoil spread until she was afraid she might be experiencing a full crisis of the soul as she struggled to fix upon the purpose of her existence. She had always considered herself a pragmatic person who could be relied on, but what if she never had anyone who relied on her? Was she to spend the rest of her days as a companion to an aging baron?

Simon or John could probably help her to make some sort of practical match, she supposed, but what if she did not want that? Would that not mean she had changed her position from keeping an aging baron company to that of keeping a nameless husband company?

I have no choice. I must try.

Somehow this made her feel better, and her spiraling thoughts gathered back together into a resolution. The connection between her and Marco was powerful. He would not be dissuading her interest in him unless he agreed that a match was a distinct possibility. She had been attempting to practice patience during their outing, but somehow, their visit to the fountain had caused him to reject her for the second time. It had been so wholly unexpected. She had thought that the outing was going rather well. That they had been enjoying each other’s company without coercion. There was no indication of what she had done to provoke him so, but she could not give up, so she would change her strategy.

Such a course might lead to regret, but not as great as the regret she would experience if she simply gave up. The attraction between them was unprecedented. How could she ignore it?

Arriving back in London, Molly headed upstairs with Miss Dubois to prepare for dinner. Her thoughts remained occupied as she washed and changed into evening wear, turning over different ideas in her mind. None felt right, so she wound up conversing with Nicholas and John throughout the dinner in order to avoid Marco, who laughed with his brother and companions at the other end of the table, until she could devise a plan to proceed.

Eventually, as she laid her head on her pillow, Molly realized perhaps Marco was right. They needed to find the culprit behind the attempts on his life as the priority.

From the next room, she could hear the nocturnal sounds of the sleeping Miss Dubois. Recalling the jewelry she had found, Molly wondered if Claudette had sufficient malice to attempt to kill a man. Twice.

And who else in the household might have been corrupted by the baroness? Perhaps she should speak with John and Nicholas about servants who might have spent time in Isla Scott’s company. It was time to set her wits to catching a would-be killer because her tortured musings about bringing Marco up to scratch would all be for naught if someone succeeded in ending his life.

Marco abhorred that he was the worst of scoundrels as he slipped into his bed. Leaning over to put out his oil lamp, he thought about his admonishments regarding any potential courtship. What was it about Molly Carter which set him off balance? Or was it the knowledge that someone wished him ill for something that could not be helped? For circumstances beyond his control. He had not asked to be the baron’s heir. His first reaction had been to refuse even a visit until his mother had persuaded him that it would do him good.

Was it the delectable Molly that was causing this tension, or being targeted for death by some unknown foe? Was he the victim of a cosmic jest, wherein forces beyond his awareness placed him in a Divine Comedy of his very own for their amusement? If he were to describe his current circumstances to a stranger, they would find the story fraught with melodrama.

Marco slowly drifted into sleep, only to find himself chased in his dreams by a nameless dread. Rousing from a particularly stressful encounter, his eyes flying open in the dark, he realized it was but a nightmare. Rolling over, he willed himself to fall asleep again until the veil of slumber carried him back into his ominous phantasies.

As he descended into the eighth circle of hell, Marco came upon a valley, deep and filled with fire. Shadows shifted on the outcroppings of blackened rock, and there was desolation in every direction. The flames moved like fireflies in the dark, and peering closely, he discovered that each flame held a tormented soul within its flickering form. The flames were not just fire, but an embodiment of suffering and punishment, and Marco could not help but wonder what he had done to deserve this terrible visit to such a desolate abyss.

His injured ribs throbbed, as if to protest his presence here, when one of the flames approached from the dark to reveal Molly dressed in the short tunic of Diana, her shapely legs exposed to his lustful gaze. But her expression was tortured as her hair streamed down like the flow of lava from the depths of the earth. He could smell cinnamon burning as he frantically sought water to cool her down, but there was none. The smell of singed hair filled his nostrils with its acrid stench, and helplessly he watched her lean close to him, her mouth a fraction of an inch from his, to whisper.

“You are burning.”

He looked down, but there was no evidence of smoldering upon his person. Frowning, he brought his gaze back to hers. “I am not. I merely visit. I am not a resident of this shadow realm.”

Her opalescent eyes glimmered in the red light, bright and glowing against the sooty smudges smeared across her lovely face. “Wake up, Marco. You are burning.”

Marco sat up in his bed, his pulse racing and the echoes of the dream yet so vivid that the stench of burning hair still plagued his senses. He tried to calm his breath, but the smoke of hell continued to plague him. The heat had followed him to the waking world, and the sound of crackling aggravated his ears. Had he woken from one dream into the next?

Flinging back the bedcovers, he sprang to his feet, only to be met by the sight of a blaze upon the rug. The logs of the banked fire he had fallen asleep to had somehow fallen from the hearth to set the room on fire!

Marco yelled out loud, hoping someone would hear him raise the alarm as he ran over to grab the water jug from the washstand. He threw it on the burning rug, then ran to grab his counterpane which he folded over to pound at the fire in an effort to smother it, but it was hopeless as the fire licked outward. Dashing out into his private drawing room, he threw open the door to yell again at the top of his lungs.

“Fire!”

Running back inside, he snatched up the tartan pillows from the chaise lounge to run back into the bedchamber and beat at the flames frantically as heat and black smoke bellowed up in clouds.

From the depths of the house, he heard an answering shout, echoing his alarm. “Fire! Wake up! Fire!”

He nearly wept in relief that someone had heard him, and within moments, Sebastian ran in and joined to stamp at the flames with his boots, while smoke swirled around them. Marco dropped a pillow, burying his face into an elbow to ease his coughing as he continued to thump at the flames.

A chorus of shouts sounded in the distance, signaling that more help was coming, but Marco continued to beat at the flames as if he were the only one to save this house. The thought of this beautiful home burning to the ground was too horrible to conceive. Allowing beautiful Molly, or his ill uncle, or even the irritable Nicholas to come to any harm, was too awful to think about.

Soon more arrived with buckets of water, and Sebastian dragged him from the chamber, insistent despite Marco’s resistance. “You need to catch your breath, my friend.”

Out in the hall it was chaos, bodies rushing back and forth while shouts rang out in distress. Until, finally, Angelo called out from the interior of the room that the fire had been put out. Marco’s legs went weak with relief, and he sank to his knees to hack violently as he tried to pull oxygen into his lungs.

Sebastian tugged at his arm. “Come with me. You need a drink.”

Marco struggled to his feet, his eyes and throat burning from the smoke, but obeyed to follow the Norseman down the stairs.

“I am fortunate you were up so late,” croaked Marco, gesturing to Sebastian’s charred boots.

His friend glanced down, still fully attired in the early hours except for shedding his coat and cravat, his shirt hanging open at the neck and his waistcoat unbuttoned. “I am struggling to sleep. Being home is bringing back memories.”

Marco nodded, understanding the sentiment as Sebastian led him into the library where he threw the terrace doors open and the clean, cool rush of air eased his discomfort. He slumped into an armchair.

It was his fourth day in England and his third brush with death.

Sebastian hunted about for a drink until Marco finally reminded him that they had been told that the house had been emptied of spirits after Nicholas had begun his dry spell. Cursing, the tall Englishman spun on his heel to depart the library without an explanation. A few minutes later he returned with Angelo who hurried to look Marco over, his own face covered in soot to make the whites of his eyes glow in contrast.

“How are you?”

“My throat aches, as do my lungs,” Marco replied hoarsely.

Angelo nodded. “You will have the worst of the smoke inhalation. I shall prepare a herbal tea with honey from my supplies. That will calm the fisiologico effects for you and the rest who fought the fire.”

His brother handed him a thick dressing robe, which was when Marco realized he was dressed in a thin linen nightshirt, which barely covered his knees. In fact, he was shivering in the breeze blowing through the open doors, his undercarriage tightening in retreat against the cold to signal that the robe was sorely needed.

The thoughtful gesture made him reach out to grasp Angelo’s arm in gratitude, who nodded before hurrying off. Soon after, Molly appeared with her lapdog at her heels, and Marco was grateful he was properly robed for the encounter. He assured her that he was well, maintaining a proper reserve for the French companion, but wishing he could reach out and embrace her. The vision of her trapped in hell had been most disturbing to his peace of mind. More than that, he could not shake the whimsy that it had been the divine hand of fate, embodied by Molly’s haunting presence, that had awoken him from his nightmares. He wanted to pack his trunks and leave England to end this train of death-defying incidents, but the urge to protect her and their family fought back with vehemence to leave him drained and reeling. Not to mention the searing pain of his throat, lungs, and eyes, added to the throb of his bruised ribs. Every aspect of this journey to England was turning into a veritable visit to Dante’s Inferno .