The Vanishing Viscountess. Diane Gaston

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      She turned back to him, her voice low and desperate. “I need some of your money.”

      He stared at her.

      Nothing would be easier for him than to hand over the entire contents of his purse. He could get more money for himself later, on the mere strength of his name. Even in this remote place someone would extend the Marquess of Tannerton credit, enough to arrange for a post-chaise to carry him back to London. He could return to his townhouse in a matter of days.

      He usually solved his difficulties by handing over money and letting someone else take care of it. Ironically, one of the rare times he’d taken it upon himself to solve a problem, three people died.

      Perhaps he ought to leave her here in Cemaes.

      Suddenly some of the colour drained from her face and her breathing accelerated. “Forgive my foolish request,” she whispered. “You have done more than enough for me. I do not need your money.”

      She spun away from him and started to walk away.

      He seized her arm. “Wait.”

      His conscience could not let her go, even with his purse in her hand. He knew he could help her. His name and influence—and his money as well—could save her from the hangman’s noose or transportation or whatever fate might befall her if she was caught again.

      “I have another proposal.” He spoke in a low voice. “Come to London with me. Let me use my influence to help you. Whoever has caused you this trouble is not likely to have friends as highly connected as my friends, nor as much money as I possess. I am certain I can settle this matter for you. My power and influence are considerable.”

      She stepped away from him. “No!” She took a deep breath. “No,” she said more quietly. “I thank you, but—but—you are mistaken. My trouble is—” She clamped her mouth shut on whatever it was she had been about to say.

      He kept his gaze steady. “No matter what your trouble is, I assure you, I can help.”

      She shook her head. “You cannot know—” Again she stopped herself from speaking. “It is safer for me to run. No one will look for me, because they will think me dead. They will forget me, and I may start my life anew.”

      She gazed at him with such intensity Tanner felt the impact resonate deep inside him. He moved towards her. What made her think he could forget her? What made her think he could let her be dead to him now when he’d refused to let her die in the sea?

      “Surely you cannot travel alone,” he tried.

      “Of course I can.” She glanced away, and he could sense her mind at work again. “I might be a governess travelling to a new place of employment. Who would question that?”

      He did not like this idea. Some men would consider an unescorted governess fair game. “Someone would ask who employed you, for one thing. They would ask where you were bound.”

      “Then I would fashion answers.”

      She was slipping away. He remembered that horrible moment when he’d woken up on shore and thought she had slipped from his grasp. He did not want to let go of her now any more than he had wanted to then. True, he might easily return to his comforts, the diversions of London, the hunting parties he and Pomroy planned to attend, but how could he be content now if he thought her adrift, alone?

      He glanced away, his mind whirling, as he’d fancied hers had done. All he could think to do was delay.

      He gripped her arm, holding on to her like he had done in the sea. “I’ll give you the money.” He made her look into his face. “There is no obligation to pay it back. It is a trifling amount to me, I assure you, but listen to me. I am afraid our taciturn Mr Davies is at the inn this very moment loosening his tongue with a large tankard of ale.” He glanced in the direction of the inn. “He will tell everyone we are husband and wife—that is what he and his wife concluded about us and I did not correct their impression. Did you?”

      She shook her head. “I did not.”

      He went on, “Davies will tell them we are from the shipwreck, a husband and wife from the shipwreck. If we act as strangers now, we will increase suspicion about you, not reduce it.”

      She considered this. “Yes, that would be true.”

      His spirits rose. He held on to her still. He took a breath. “In this town we must also be husband and wife.”

      “Husband and wife?” She stared at him, a worry line forming between her brows.

      Acting as husband and wife meant sharing a room. Tanner longed to hold her again, longed to again wake with her in his arms, to know he had kept her safe.

      He looked into her face, suffused with reluctance, and realised she might not be as thrilled at the prospect of sharing a bed with him as he was with her.

      “I will not take advantage of you,” he said in as earnest a tone as he could muster, although his body pulsed with desire for her.

      She glanced away, and again turned her eyes back to him, eyes as blue as the sky behind her. “Very well. Tonight we are husband and wife.”

      He heard the unspoken end to her sentence. Tomorrow they would part. Still, his spirits soared. He would have this brief time with her and maybe wherever they were bound on the morrow would reassure him she’d be safe.

      He offered her his arm. “Shall we prepare? We must concoct a story for ourselves, must we not? Names. We need to have names, and, to own the truth, I do not think Brown is a good choice.”

      “Why?” she asked.

      “It is the sort of name a gentleman gives to an innkeeper when he does not wish his identity known.” He winked.

      She gave a light laugh. “Is that so?

      “It is.” He smiled. “Select another name.”

      “Smith?” A corner of her mouth lifted.

      He rolled his eyes, playing along with her jest. “You are not good at this, are you?” He put his mind to the task, but the only names he could think of were ones too connected to him. Adam. Vick. Tanner. “I am hopeless as well.”

      “I have an idea,” she said. “How about the name Lir? Lir is the god of the sea in Irish mythology.”

      He peered at her. “You know Irish mythology?”

      “I lived in Ireland.” She cast her eyes down. “I read about it in a book there.”

      “How do you spell it? Like Shakespeare’s King Lear?” he asked. “Because I know how to spell that Lear. The Irish always use—well—Irish spellings.”

      She gave him a look that mocked the one he’d given her. “You know Shakespeare?”

      He laughed.

      Her eyes twinkled. “We can spell it like King Lear.”

      He smiled back at her, his heart gladdened at her mirth. Their first night together СКАЧАТЬ