Chapter Four
Lord Angus Westland wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting in his rooms at Blackmoor Hall, staring through the tall window, looking out across the lush green lawn that gently swept down towards the lake.
A summer haze softened the sharp contrast of colours, blurring the horizon, making the dramatic backdrop of mountains look as if they were floating in the air.
Dusky greens and mauves of the south face shifted subtly under the fingers of shadow as clouds scuttled by high above.
Shifting in his seat, uncomfortable from sitting so long, he suddenly became aware he was not alone and slowly drew his eyes from the calming scene.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he murmured, finally turning his head.
“You looked so peaceful, my friend. I did not wish to disturb.”
“Aye, well, appearances can be deceiving, as well you know.”
Valentine de Luca, the Earl of Southerby, smiled empathetically. “Indeed. I understand the peace you sought in the garden was, umm, shall we say, somewhat interrupted?”
“So, you have heard.”
“I suspect all of London will have heard by the morrow, or the day after, my friend. The belle of the season, discovered in the arms of none other than the Morose Marquess — without her stockings.”
“I was taking a nap.”
“Mm,” murmured Southerby, letting the comment hang.
“She stumbled onto me.”
“Oh.”
“She was dancing around, tripped over my legs and landed in a heap… in my lap. She had her eyes closed. Zeus only knows why, but that is the way of it. And apparently, she likes the feel of the grass between her toes… hence no stockings.”
“Right.”
“It is the truth,” said Westland, his voice calm and unemotional.
“I do not doubt that it is my friend. Though it is not I whom you need to convince.”
Westland closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. He inhaled deeply before he once again looked across at Southerby. “How bad is it?”
“Angus, dear chap, you have made it your life’s work to scowl at any young lady who ventures within ten paces of you.
Any vague attempt to draw you into even the most innocent of conversations is sharply rebuffed.
And those that are bold enough to make it to, ‘Good evening, my lord, lovely weather we are having,’ are rewarded with a scathing look and your departing back.
So, you can imagine their shock, and delight, in discovering their Morose Marquess is not all that he seems. Their tongues are in a frenzy, my friend, and their imaginations running wild. ”
Knowing there was truth in Southerby’s words, Westland sighed.
He had been meticulous in his dealings when in society, determined never to fall prey to the charms of a beautiful woman or an enchanting young lady and become entrapped.
He had become a master of indifference. Society had indeed named him The Morose Marquess for a reason.
Whispering behind their fluttering fans and in the corners of parlours about his surly, offhanded manner and sharp rebuffs.
Never once had he shown even the slightest interest in one of their delicate little flock.
Not a bow. Not a dance. Not a posy. Not even a god damn glance to start their tongues wagging.
Gossiping. Speculating. And now, after all these years, he, the Morose Marquess, had finally been caught fumbling with a pretty little innocent in a secret garden.
He sighed again. “Damage control?”
“You can ride the storm, of course, yet Miss Sylvie Mason… I fear she cannot. Had she fallen into any other’s arms, then we may have averted a scandal with a few carefully placed words amongst the sniggers and whispers.
But you, my friend, are far too tantalising a prize.
You have eluded them for far too long, and now that they have pounced, they will feed on this for many months to come.
The stories will become more elaborate, the retelling more provocative. You know the way of it.”
And he did know. Knew all too well of the bloodthirsty pack of high society that found sport in spreading untruths and ruining reputations. Turning their backs and closing their ranks, forever whispering of the fate that befell such wicked creatures as a warning to other innocents.
He had seen first-hand how vicious tales could tarnish the innocent and ruin lives.
The untimely deaths of his parents had left him alone in the world at the age of five, save for an aunt to whom he was sent, and had sparked endless speculation.
The Westland name, left forever shrouded in a dark cloak of suspicion.
Of course, his Aunt Augusta had relished recanting sordid stories and wicked tales about his poor mother’s demise at his father’s hand. Her constant warnings of ‘curses, bad blood and the deadly fate that would befall any he dared to love’ were as vivid now as they had been then.
Shuddering at such unwanted memories, Angus Westland rose from his chair. Stalking over to the cabinet, he grabbed two glasses and a decanter. Holding it up in question, Southerby nodded.
Pouring a generous measure in each glass, he handed one over. He stood a moment, swirling the amber liquid around the crystal tumbler before throwing it down in one gulp, then immediately replenished it. His second drink untouched, he stared out of the window. “I know what you are asking of me.”
Southerby looked into his drink, not raising his eyes as he replied. “I ask nothing of you.”
“No, but it is something you think I should consider.”
Relaxing back in his chair, Southerby crossed one long leg over the other and took a sip of his whisky, making no attempt to reply.
“Oh, Valentine,” breathed Westland, as if the fate of the world sat on his shoulders, “you know better than any why I cannot marry the girl. To sentence her to a life with me… she… she is too innocent and far too young.”
“You are not your father, Angus.”
“No, but that mad bastard’s blood runs through my veins — his face stares back at me from the mirror—”
“No one knows what truly happened… apart from…”
“I bloody know,” he snapped back with such uncommon savagery that Southerby’s glass, mere inches from his lips, stilled in mid-air.
Westland sighed again. “I’m sorry, you do not deserve my…” He paused as Southerby raised a hand to show he took no offence. Nodding his understanding, Westland asked, “Her reputation? This girl, Sylvie Mason?”
“In tatters, I’m afraid,” answered Southerby with a slight wince and shrug of his shoulders.
“Oh, Christ. Whether I marry her or not, the poor girl’s fate is sealed, and in all conscience, I know not which is the lesser evil.”
Southerby drained his drink, gently setting the empty glass aside as he carefully considered his next words. “I believe,” he said gently, “you put too much weight in your Aunt Augusta’s words. You know they were born from her hatred of your father.”
Westland’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. The man had an uncanny knack of appearing to read his mind, though, as one of only four who knew his history intimately, it was little wonder he had guessed as to where his mind had wandered.
“Aye, that I cannot deny. Yet what if she is right? What if it is just a matter of time until my mind turns to madness and I see things which are not there?”
“Angus, you are one of the sanest, most considered men I have ever known. The only madness within you is your fear of such. You will make a fine husband.”
“Hm,” his mouth twisted. “And that is precisely what they said of my father.”
Southerby knew better than to press further.
Argument would only drive Angus deeper into his own shadowed thoughts.
Instead, he settled back in his chair and quietly watched his friend as he stood staring sightlessly through the window.
Angus needed no further counsel. His mind, as to the fate of Miss Mason, was already made.
Now all he needed was companionable silence while he wrestled with the weight of his decision.