Chapter Four
Finally!
Florence wriggled her way out from under the bedclothes, placed her feet on the floor, took a few moments to steady herself—having finally learned from her two previous tumbles—and then crept quietly across her candlelit bedchamber towards the door.
It had taken hours for the nurse to fall asleep.
Literal hours. So many that she’d begun to wish the doctor had provided somebody a little less diligent in their role.
Through half-closed eyelids, she’d observed at least half a dozen false starts, when the nurse’s chin had dipped forward onto her chest, only for her to give a startled jerk and then yank it back up again.
The sky outside, narrowly visible through a gap in the curtains, had long ago faded to darkness before the nurse’s head had finally tipped sideways and her breathing had turned to gentle snores.
Although frankly, it was no wonder it had taken so long, Florence thought as she wrapped a woollen shawl around her shoulders and slid her feet into a pair of silk slippers.
The nurse’s straight-backed wooden chair looked almost painfully uncomfortable, especially compared to the much softer armchair by the window, whilst her position on the far side of the bed was about as far away from the fire as she could possibly get, as if she was reluctant to steal any warmth from her patient.
As if she genuinely had Florence’s best interests at heart.
Drat!
The realisation made her stop with one hand on the doorknob and sneak silently back to the bed to remove a blanket and lay it gently across the nurse’s lap.
There. That was better. Now all she had to do was tiptoe back across the room, pick up a candle, slip outside, and then close the door behind her as quickly and quietly as possible.
One step, two steps, three, four, five, six, seven… Freedom!
She released a long breath, savouring a rush of triumph at her long-anticipated escape.
Of course she wasn’t technically a prisoner, or so the marquess had told her, but she had a strong suspicion the nurse would feel duty-bound to accompany her wherever she went, and right now she wanted to be alone.
Admittedly, she had no idea where she was going, but she refused to lie in bed any longer, going slowly mad thinking about what might or might not have happened in London.
The least she could do was get her bearings and look around.
The wood-panelled corridor in which she found herself contained five other doors, all closed.
She hadn’t heard any footsteps or voices during her time spent waiting for the nurse to doze off, which suggested the rooms weren’t currently occupied, but she wasn’t about to take any chances by peeking inside them either.
If she was going to explore, she was at least going to make it to the ground floor…
Turning a corner, she found herself on a gallery overlooking a cantilever staircase that led down to a grand entrance hall.
The walls on each side were painted with pastoral scenes, although it was hard to distinguish details in the candlelight, while the floor below was made up of hundreds of squares of white, black and orange decorative marble, all arranged to form the image of a majestic-looking swan.
She leaned over the gallery railing, her eye caught by a dark shape suspended in the air in front of her, hanging from the centre of a ceiling rose, not a chandelier, but what appeared to be a large, gilt birdcage.
From what she could tell, it was empty, but immediately below it, curled up over the eye of the swan like some kind of gatekeeper, was a large grey wolfhound.
A very large grey wolfhound, practically the size of a pony. Oh, dear…
As if it sensed her alarm, the dog lifted its head, fixing her with a baleful yet expectant stare.
Florence gulped, contemplating retreat, before stiffening her spine.
She hadn’t waited so long for the nurse to fall asleep just to be thwarted at the first hurdle, even if that hurdle had paws the same size as her hands.
Besides, it wasn’t barking or showing its teeth.
Surely that meant it recognised her smell and was friendly?
She hoped so, because she really didn’t want to consider the alternative…
Warily, she placed a foot on the top step of the staircase, wincing as it creaked beneath her weight, then made her way slowly downstairs, keeping her eyes fixed on the dog the whole time.
The dog, in turn, watched her, its head tilted to one side, as if it was wondering what she was doing, creeping about the house in the middle of the night.
‘I’m exploring,’ she whispered, because he or she looked as if they required an answer. ‘Not running away,’ she clarified, although now that she thought about it, she could see the huge front door up ahead.
Maybe she ought to try running away?
The moment the thought hit her, she had the strangest sensation of having thought it before.
A plan was already unspooling in her mind.
She could go to the stables, ‘borrow’ a horse and ride off into the night.
Obviously she’d need to put on a greatcoat, or at least something less conspicuous than a nightdress, and she’d have to raid the kitchens for supplies, but she could do it.
Then she could ride north, forget all this nonsense about being married to a marquess and go home, back to Cumberland and her family.
Except… Her plan hit a wall. If she really was married to a marquess then this house was her home now. And she had no idea how to get from Dorset to Cumberland. Also, no money. Never mind the prospect of highwaymen and…
‘Sleepwalking?’ A deep voice made her heart jump so high, she thought it might be trying to escape through her throat.
She whirled around, almost extinguishing her candle in the process, to find the marquess standing in an open doorway, arms folded and legs planted wide apart, watching her without the faintest hint of emotion on those chiselled features.
Despite the lateness of the hour, he was dressed in the same form-fitting charcoal-grey coat and tight buckskin breeches he’d been wearing when he’d visited her earlier, his shirt still unwrinkled and his cravat still immaculately tied.
Good grief, did the man never relax? And did he have to look so irritatingly… masculine?
She placed her empty hand to her throat, trying her best not to look like somebody who’d recently been plotting escape. ‘You startled me.’
‘I noticed.’ He moved a couple of steps closer, causing the wolfhound to unfurl itself from the floor, give a stretch, and then shuffle forward to greet him, tail wagging. ‘Were you looking for something?’
‘No-o.’ She coughed, very aware of his proximity suddenly. ‘I just couldn’t sleep, so I was…following my feet.’
‘Ah.’ He glanced down at the appendages in question, his gaze lingering briefly on her bare ankles.
‘I wanted to see where I was.’ She pulled her shoulders back, hearing herself getting defensive. Up close, he was taller than she’d remembered, so that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. ‘You said that I wasn’t a prisoner.’
‘And I meant it.’ He unfolded his arms to smooth a hand over the wolfhound’s curly head. ‘However, if you’re curious, perhaps you’d allow me to give you a tour?’
‘No!’ She gasped, recoiling in horror at the very idea of being alone with him.
No respectable woman would ever agree to an assignation with a strange man at night.
No respectable man would ever suggest such a thing either!
Only he wasn’t a strange man, she remembered, a few seconds too late.
He was her husband. Which meant that it wasn’t scandalous at all, even if she still didn’t much care for the prospect of his company.
‘I mean, I’m happy to look around by myself. It’s not necessary to accompany me.’
‘Considering what happened earlier, I’m afraid it might be.’ His expression didn’t alter, although the tone of his voice suggested he wasn’t particularly thrilled about the idea of spending time with her either. ‘I wouldn’t want you collapsing again, especially carrying a candle.’
‘Oh.’ She pursed her lips. It was a reasonable point, even if she suspected he was more concerned for the safety of his furniture than her well-being. Her legs were feeling somewhat more stable now, but she probably still ought to be careful.
‘Very well.’ She looked around, belatedly noticing two rows of alabaster busts, all of stern-faced men, confronting each other from red marble plinths on either side of the hall, like opposing teams on a chess board. ‘This is very grand. I like the swan. Is there a reason for it?’
‘My father liked birds.’
‘Ah.’ She glanced upwards. ‘Well, that explains the cage.’
He nodded, following the direction of her gaze. ‘That used to contain a pair of nightingales. The idea was that everyone who entered the house would be greeted by the sound of birdsong.’
‘What a lovely idea.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Although not so nice for the birds.’
‘I agree. That’s why it’s empty now.’
‘Then maybe you should take it down?’
He gave her a sharp look, as if the idea had never occurred to him before. ‘Maybe I should.’
‘So…’ She gestured past his shoulder as tension seemed to crackle in the air between them. ‘What room is that?’
‘Take a look.’ He held a hand out for her candle. ‘May I?’
She handed it over as she walked past him into a drawing room at least four times the size of her new, already sizeable bedchamber.
Between the candlelight and the floor-to-ceiling paintings, it was hard to judge the colour scheme, but it looked like a shade of deep forest green with a pattern of…
she peered closer…birds again. Golden eagles, by the look of it, engraved into the paper.
The bird motif was evident all over the room, in porcelain figurines and ornate carved furniture with… Were those talons for feet?