The Marker (4 page)

“An adventure? You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? You can’t possibly think
this
,”—she made an angry gesture at Nicholas with her hands—”will somehow be
fun
?
You’re
not the one who’s being forced to work as a servant.
You’re
not the one who’s been bought and sold.”

“I don’t expect you to understand, Lexie,” Markland said. “I know what I did was wrong, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I didn’t think I would lose.”

“You said the same thing last time,” she snapped. “And who pulled us out of the fire then? Oh, right,
I
did. If you had just stopped then, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” She caught Nicholas regarding her out of the corner of her eye, his expression interested. She wasn’t proud of what she had done, and she didn’t want to discuss her situation in front of a man like Nicholas Wetherby. What was done was done.

She deflated at the thought. What her father had done...was done. She could fight—and lose—or she could accept her fate with grace and retain some shred of pride.

At this point, her pride was all she had left.

Glaring at Nicholas long enough to ensure he understood her displeasure, she said stiffly, “I will get my things.”

Too tired—and too hungry—to hold on to her anger, she wearily made her way upstairs. After all she had done for him, her father betrayed her once more. She had cleaned up his messes, taken care of him, kept his house in order—such as it was. And finally, when he had come to her with the proposition she marry one of his creditors—a very wealthy, older man—she had agreed.

Her fiancé seemed nice enough. He had agreed to wait until her twenty-first birthday, giving her father time to pay off his debts. Only, like everything else he attempted, her father’s business venture had failed. Not long after, her fiancé had solicitously reappeared, offering an allowance to keep them afloat. Swallowing her pride, she had accepted, only to have her father squander the money on drinking and gambling.

She wouldn’t ask for more.

So, no matter what she did, she was stuck.

Stuck marrying a man she didn’t love, stuck working for another without benefit of payment. Like her friends, she had once dreamed of marrying for love, had wished for the prince who would sweep her off her feet, but that had been nothing more than a child’s whimsy, and her life hardly qualified as some fairy tale. Her fiancé’s proposal had been a business transaction, with agreements and contracts. Each had something the other wanted.

She was young and pretty and pliant. He had money.

The kiss he had given her had been chaste and not entirely unpleasant, but there was no love when he touched her. She didn’t fault him for his lack of feeling—she didn’t love him either. He had bought her from her father, and she had not been an unwilling participant. Like a practical girl, she would marry for security and comfort.

She would never feel the joy of real love, even if it did exist.

And she, being the practical sort, doubted it did.

She tried to push the memory away as her stomach began to turn. Being honest, she didn’t want to marry anyone—she would have been content working as a governess in some rich woman’s household, surrounded by other people’s children and books. That’s what she
should
have done instead of trying to fix her father’s problems and solve the mountain of debt hanging over their heads. The men in her life had been disappointments—her fiancé was not necessarily distasteful to her, but she didn’t think much of a man who had to buy himself a wife, and her father lost everything he touched and failed at everything he attempted. This would be the second time she had to come to his rescue, and, knowing her father the way she did, wouldn’t be the last. Things hadn’t always been this way, and she wished she could have her father back, have the man who had held her on his knee and told her fantastic stories of love and adventure, who made sure his daughter was educated, well-read, and had a mind of her own. The man her father had been died with her mother, more than five years before. Afterwards, the drinking and the gambling had taken over.

Her father’s downward spiral began innocently enough, as these things always do, until it became a beast he could not—or would not—control, and she, ever the fool, had thought if she just loved him enough, if she kept fixing things for him, he would stop. Instead, what she had left were memories, a broken, drunken man who was nothing more than a mere shadow of what he used to be, and a pile of debts. It pained her to think he had no love left in him. And now, finally, he had killed the love in her.

She gathered her few things and packed them in a small valise. She needed little—indeed, she possessed little—so there was not much packing to be done. Tears threatened to choke her, but she pushed them away. She wouldn’t cry over this, she would hold fast. What was one year, anyway? She would have more to eat working for Nicholas Wetherby than she would if she stayed with her father, and she wouldn’t have to face the creditors anymore. She didn’t have freedom here, only the illusion of it; it mattered little if she lost it or not. Her indentured servitude was just work, and she had never been afraid of that. This way, she would have a roof over her head and food to eat. Besides, she wasn’t trying to attract a gentleman to marry her.

Her father’s mountain of debts had seen to that.

She cast one last glance at her bedroom, the room of her childhood, and realized she needed to relinquish childish things and her attachment to a past long since gone. Her dogged determination to hold fast to the memories only hurt her, and would continue to hurt her if she allowed them to. She had loved her mother, but she died. She loved her father, but he betrayed her. She loved this house and fought hard to keep it, but she knew if her father didn’t stop—and he wouldn’t—the house was all but lost to them. To make matters worse, in a little under a year she would marry a man she didn’t love.

But she didn’t hate him, either, so she could count her blessings. Love was for other people—she knew she would have to lead her life without it. She would never let herself be hurt like this again. She had a twinge of regret that the last remnant of her childhood—this sad, painful love she carried for her father—had withered and died, just like everything else he touched. She would give him this one last sacrifice, but once it was done and she was married, she would never owe him another thing again.

Never again would a man break her heart. This was John Markland’s legacy to his daughter.

She wouldn’t be hurt again if she didn’t allow herself to love.

After a long and silent carriage ride, the carriage rumbled to a stop. Lexie wouldn’t engage Nicholas in conversation, which was all well and good, since he seemed disinclined to speak to her anyway. They sat in silence for a time before Nicholas sighed and said, “Here we are.”

Without the slightest glance in his direction, she nodded. Nicholas opened the door to the carriage, but she ignored him. Only once he began noisily clearing his throat did she finally look over at him.

The mere sight of him took her breath away. She wondered vaguely if passion really did exist, because she was pretty certain she felt it when she looked at Nicholas Wetherby. How else to explain the sweating palms, the racing heart, the butterflies that took to wing in her stomach every time their eyes met?

She groaned inwardly. No one had a right to be
that
handsome, especially not the man who had won her in a card game. This was ridiculous.

She shook herself out of her reverie. Handsome or not, no gentleman would take a woman he had won off another. She might be attracted to him, but she would be damned if she would like him. He was not better than her father, just younger and richer and more attractive...

He extended his hand to assist her from the carriage, and, reluctantly, she took it, startled by the jolt she got from the mere presence of her hand in his. As he assisted her from the carriage, she got the impression of impossibly strong arms, of powerful, calloused hands accustomed to rough work, which seemed unlikely for a man who wore such fine clothes and could afford to gamble the sum of money he had wagered the night before. He held her for a moment too long, her body close to his in a way that seemed almost indecent, but she couldn’t put a finger on what precisely she should object to. Her pulse quickened when her gaze met his, and a strange tingling sensation spread through her limbs, a warmth that stretched from him and through her, as intoxicating as liquor.

He guided her into his home, a large mansion in a fashionable neighborhood. The grand white house with a black door and black trim had a wide front porch wrapping around the sides of the house and looked perfect for lounging on sultry summer nights. Black shutters framed the windows, and the roof was steep and comprised of intersecting gables, uniform and angular. Lexie had been in this area of town only once, with her mother, long ago. She had thought it grand then, and it still was.

“Your home is lovely.”

“Thank you,” he replied, guiding her inside, where she was greeted by gleaming parquet floors and a bright oriental rug in bold, primary colors: indigo and navy, crimson and scarlet, emerald, crisp ivory. The entry way was painted crimson. Bright white, intricately patterned crown molding edged the high ceiling. Behind her, a wide spiral staircase led to the second floor. Just like his finely tailored clothing, the very air in this house whispered of money.

Squaring her shoulders, she swallowed her awe and reminded herself she was nothing but a servant.

He looked down at her, and only then did she realize he still had possession of her arm. She tried to step away from his touch, but he followed her. “I hope you will find yourself happy here.”

The gentleness of his voice shocked her. The way he said the words as if he believed she could be content here, with him. As if her happiness mattered to him. A little scared—her happiness hadn’t mattered to anyone in a long time—and intrigued at once, she frowned up at him and stepped away. This time, he let her go.

At that moment, an older woman with graying hair and piercing blue eyes rounded the corner, and Lexie scampered even further away from Nicholas. In a heavy accent, the woman said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wetherby.”

“Mrs. Ferguson,” he acknowledged.

Mrs. Ferguson gave Lexie a long look, sizing her up. “So, what have ye brought me this time?”

Humiliated, Lexie wanted to crawl into a hole. He might by attractive and rich, but this man was no prince.
He has no honor,
she reminded herself to calm her wayward heart. She was not the first woman he had brought into his home, certainly not the first woman he would attempt to seduce, nor would she be the last, should she succumb to his not insubstantial charms. She needed to keep her distance.

“That’s enough, Mrs. Ferguson,” he said, putting a hand on the older woman’s shoulder in a familiar, companionable way. “This is Alexandra Markland.”

Before Nicholas finished the introduction, Lexie extended her hand. “Lexie,” she corrected. “I’m to serve here.”

“I just bet ye are,” Mrs. Ferguson said, the blunt appraisal clear in her eyes, and heat rose to Lexie’s cheeks. Turning to Nicholas, Mrs. Ferguson asked, “Where shall I set up her room?”

“One of the guest rooms upstairs.”

Lexie turned on Nicholas. Her temper flaring, she rounded on him much as she had rounded on her father earlier in the day. “Oh no, I am not one of your doxies!” She turned to Mrs. Ferguson, and, evening her tone, said, “The servants’ quarters would do nicely, if you would kindly show me where they are. I am quite capable of setting up my own room, no need to trouble yourself.”

“There’s the room under the stairs in the kitchen...” Mrs. Ferguson began, her mouth quirking into a smile as her gaze shifted between her employer and Lexie.

Nicholas opened his mouth to insist she take one of the guest rooms, but Lexie cut him off with a wave of her hand. “That will do just fine, thank you,” she replied.

Surprised by her interruption, Nicholas protested, “Really, Miss Markland, you don’t need to do this. My guest rooms are perfectly comfortable.” His intentions were honorable. While she was here, he intended to see to her comfort, if she would allow it. He was beginning to think she wouldn’t.

“I’m sure they are. For your
guests
. However, I’m hardly your guest.
I
am your servant,” she reminded him, taking a step back to regard him, those obsidian eyes glittering. He wanted to know the woman behind them. “I suggest you not forget that, or how you came to be in possession of my services. I can assure you I won’t,” she said, her tone stiff and proud. She turned her back to him and asked Mrs. Ferguson, “Kitchen?”

“Down the hall to the left. Ye can’t miss it,” Mrs. Ferguson said, nodding down the hall.