The Six Month Marriage (2 page)

Could she escape from the house once they
returned home? she wondered, turning the faint hope over in her mind. The doors
and windows were always kept heavily locked, but with Jenny’s help she may be
able to get the keys. It would be difficult, but she must try something –

‘Look out! She’s fainted.’

The exclamation cut into Madeline’s
thoughts. She looked up and saw that, at the top of the stairs, a young lady
had collapsed.

‘Give her air! She needs room to breathe!’
came another cry.

The crowd responded to the plea, and a wave
of bodies pressed back down the stairs, leaving a circle of space round the
prone young lady. Madeline, pushed backwards by the crowd, found herself
separated from the rest of her party and carried towards the door.

Her hopes began to rise. Could she . . . ?
Almost without thinking she picked up her skirts and slipped through the crush
of people, making for the outside. At every moment she expected to feel her
uncle’s hand on her arm, or Miss Handley’s grip on her shoulder, but nothing
came, and when she passed through the door and felt the night air on her face
she knew that if she could only elude them for a few minutes, then she had a
real chance of escape.

She looked
both ways. Which way to go? There was no time to stop and think. She must put
as much distance between her and the theatre as she could, and do it as quickly
as possible. She turned and ran to the left, threading her way through the
elegantly-dressed people who were making their way to the theatre. Their faces
were alight with pleasure as they anticipated the joys of the play to come.
They gave her strange looks as she ran past and between them, but then shrugged
and turned their attention back to their own business.

Madeline
turned a corner and breathed more easily. Now that she was out of sight of the
door her uncle, when he followed her, would either have to waste time
questioning the theatre-goers, asking if they had seen her, or else he would
have to send Miss Handley one way whilst he himself took another. But the
further away Madeline managed to go the less her chance of recapture would be,
and after taking a minute to catch her breath she went on.

The streets around the theatre were becoming
darker and less frequented. The brightly-lit thoroughfares gave way to less
reputable streets, where shops and ale-houses seemed to crowd in on her. She
began to feel vulnerable, but there was no going back. She hurried now down one
street and now down another, turning at random, going wherever it seemed
safest. She passed a number of gaudily-dressed women – prostitutes, she
guessed, having seen their like at her uncle’s house – who gave her curious
glances and passed a few ribald remarks, but to her relief she was not
molested. She turned another corner and stopped, panting, to give herself a
rest.

She used the
time to think about what she was going to do next. If she could just get
through the night, then in the morning she could try and find somewhere to
sell, or at least pawn, her bracelet. It had been her mother’s and she did not
want to part with it, but with the money raised she could rent a room and live
safely for a while until she could decide what to do next. She had no relatives
to turn to, and Gareth had made sure she had not had the opportunity to make
any friends, but that did not mean that she was helpless. She was young and in
good health. She could earn her living if she set her mind to it, she was sure.

That settled,
she turned her attention to her present predicament. She looked around her,
trying to get her bearings. She had been out in the carriage with Miss Handley
once or twice since arriving in
London
– her uncle had thought it wise to show her off now and
again, when ugly rumours about his treatment of her had started to circulate -
but she found that she did not recognise any of the streets or houses around
her. As she stood quietly, breathing in deep draughts of the night air, a
hansom drew to a halt in front of her. Madeline eyed it warily, and took a step
back as a group of young bloods poured out.

‘Well, well, well. Look at what we have here,’ said one,
as his eye fell on Madeline. From the way he slurred his speech it was obvious
he was in his cups. ‘As pretty a bit of muslin as I’ve ever seen. And ripe for the
plucking, eh, boys?’ he asked.

The men
laughed and Madeline backed away.

‘Seems to me
you’re in need of a protector, my pretty one,’ said another, swaggering towards
her with an unsteady gait. ‘Someone who can take care of you and
look after
you, if you take my meaning,’ he leered.

Madeline was
still out of breath from her exertions, but she had no choice: she turned and
ran down the street. Only to find that her way was blocked by another
gentleman. He was tall, with a lean, rangy body. His caped greatcoat reached
down to his ankles. Beneath it she caught a glimpse of his firm body encased in
a blue tailcoat and a pair of cream breeches. His hair was dark, his eyes
amber, and across one cheek ran a scar.

A soldier, she
thought briefly.

But still a
man.

Knowing from
experience that men were not to be trusted she hesitated for only a moment
before stepping aside, hoping to pass him. But he reached out his hand and
caught her wrist.

‘Find some
other sport, boys,’ he said, his eyes running assessingly over the three drunks
who had followed her down the street. ‘This ladybird’s mine.’

And then, as if to underline his words, he pulled her
towards him. His eyes looked down into her own; he crushed her tightly against
him; and then he lifted her face up to his.

Dear Lord! thought Madeline. Have I left one danger
behind only to find another? She felt a rising tide of panic and tried to pull
away, but he had a grip of iron and she was helpless to resist. His mouth
covered hers . . . and suddenly everything changed. She felt as though her
bones were turning to water and a cascade of tingles, like a waterfall, ran
down her spine. Her fists, which had been raised to his shoulders to push him
away, uncurled, and her fingers pressed themselves against the capes of his coat.
It was the most strangely delicious feeling. Her whole body became light. She
felt as though she might float away; except that his strong arms were holding
her to him, locking her in his embrace.

And then his arms lessened their grip and his mouth
unwillingly left hers.

She felt a moment of inexplicable loss. Then became
aware of what had happened. She took a step back, fighting the shakiness of her
legs, and feeling the colour rising to her cheeks.

In response he put his arm firmly round her waist and drew
her back to him, saying, ‘Come, minx.’

The drunken young bloods gave a cheer and then tumbled
down a steep flight of steps, disappearing into a disreputable–looking door.

As soon as they had gone she rounded on him. ‘I am no
one’s minx,’ she declared angrily.

‘No?’ He raised his eyebrows and ran his eyes over her:
the rouge and powder, the artfully-arranged flaxen hair, the crimson dress.

She flushed as his eyes caressed her soft
white neck and drifted down across her low-cut gown. She crossed her arms in
front of her, trying to protect herself from his gaze only to see him frown, as
though he found it difficult to reconcile the modest gesture with her painted
face and provocative gown. And then she saw something else in his face. It was
a glimmer of something tugging at his memory; as though he had seen her
somewhere before and was trying to remember where; as well as trying to
remember who she was.

She felt a coldness invading her. If he knew
her . . .

She did not want to follow the thought to
its logical conclusion. She took a step to one side and tried to decide which
direction to take. Confused by fear she hesitated, not sure which way to go.
But his next words galvanised her into action. His perplexed look disappeared
and his face cleared. ‘Miss
Delaware
!’ he said.

He knew her! And if he knew her, he would
surely try and return her to her uncle.

Turning round, she fled down the street. As
she hurried along she looked anxiously to either side, trying to decide which
would be the safest way to go. The main thoroughfares were dangerous, as she
had just discovered, and she decided to take a side alley instead. It was
poorly lit and it was unlikely to encourage drunken revellers. Once she had
turned into the alley, however, her footsteps began to slow. She went more
cautiously, already beginning to think she had made a mistake. She went more
slowly still. She could see something at the bottom of the alley. Something or
some
one
. No, a group of someones. Ragged men, seemingly engaged in some
sort of transaction. She backed away, but not before they had seen her. She
looked at them, mesmerised, for a moment, and then turned and ran back the way
she had come.

Footsteps came after her. They were
following her! Would she reach the main thoroughfare before she was caught?
Yes, she - And then suddenly her heart gave a lurch. Her way out of the alley
was blocked. Standing there in the lamplight was the man with the scar, the man
who had kissed her.

How could she have been so blind! She should
have recognised him at once! It was Philip Rochdale, the Earl of Pemberton!

She stopped in her tracks. She had a
fleeting memory of their introduction at Lady Appleton’s ball some months
before; and then a grunt behind her reminded her of the danger she was in and
she ran on. Caught between two dangers she chose to face the one in front of
her rather than the worse one behind.

As she came to a stop in front of the Earl
she saw that a hackney carriage was drawn up at the side of the road. The horse
was fretting and stamping its feet. ‘Get in!’ he said, taking control of the
situation. He took hold of her arm and thrust her inside, following her in one
lithe movement and closing the door in the face of the three villains who
cursed and hammered on the side of the carriage.

The driver gave
a shout and the hackney carriage pulled away.

Madeline
watched, terrified, as the three men dwindled into the distance and then turned
her attention, scarcely any less terrified, to the man who was sitting across
from her in the carriage.

Her first impression
was of strength. His face was harsh and hawk-like, his sharply-defined
cheekbones giving definite angles to his face. His jaw was craggy and his scar
cut across his cheek like a seam in a rock.

Even so . . . even so, although his
appearance was hard, her heart was starting to slow of its own accord and her
panic was beginning to subside. He may look intimidating, and he may carry with
him an aura of power, but somehow it was not the same aura that surrounded her
uncle. The Earl seemed dangerous, yes, but not wilful or cruel.

She felt some
of the tension leave her.

Warily, she
began to take him in more closely. He was a little over six feet tall, she
guessed, with broad shoulders, appearing broader for the moment because of his
many-caped greatcoat. It did not have the profusion of capes that marked the
dandy, but nevertheless it marked him out as a man of consequence. Beneath it
she glimpsed a coat of blue superfine, a restrained waistcoat and a patch of
snowy linen, with cream breeches stretched tight over firm legs. His black
leather boots, with their tops turned over, were coated with dust, as befitted
a man of action rather than fashion.

As her eyes
returned to his face she saw that his amber eyes were looking at her
appraisingly.

With what she
hoped appeared to be calmness, Madeline returned his gaze. As he made no sudden
moves, and as he showed no further inclination to kiss her, she allowed herself
to relax a little more, but even so she settled herself right back against the
squabs in an effort to stay as far away from him as possible.

She half
expected him to say something, but he remained silent. His penetrating eyes
watched her thoughtfully.

Was he sure of
her identity, Madeline wondered? Or had it just been a guess? She hoped it was
the latter.

‘So, Miss
Delaware
,’ he said at last. ‘Why
don’t you tell me what you are doing on the streets without a chaperon, alone
and unprotected?’

Hearing him
utter her name for a second time, Madeline felt her heart begin to beat more
rapidly. She looked about her, feeling her fear beginning to rise again, but
there was no way out of the carriage. Giving herself a mental shake, she forced
herself to calm down. When she felt in control of herself again she said
coolly, ‘You are mistaken, sir. I am not Miss
Delaware
, nor do I know anyone of that name.’
If he knew who she was he would undoubtedly return her to her uncle, but if she
could just convince him that he was mistaken, that she was what she appeared to
be, a woman of dubious morals who happened to bear a passing resemblance to
Madeline Delaware, then she may yet be safe. ‘I am Miss . . . ’ She had been
going to say Smith, but it was too obviously contrived. The carriage was at
that moment passing a row of shops, and the name of one of them caught her eye.
‘Miller.’