The Vanishing Viscountess. Diane Gaston

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      “Good,” she said.

      “Good?” His brows rose.

      “Do not tell them who you are.”

      He cocked his head.

      “A marquess is a valuable commodity. They might wish to ransom you.”

      She was sharp, he must admit. Her mistrust gave even more credence to his suspicions. He had thought to bully these people with his title, but he now saw the wisdom of withholding who he was—as well as who she might be.

      He twisted his signet ring to the inside of his palm and put his hand on the door latch. “I will not say a word.” Her lovely face relaxed. “Let me see about our clothing and some food and a way out of here.”

      She smiled and he walked out of the room, still holding the blanket around his waist.

      It took Marlena a moment to adjust when he left the room. The marquess’s essence seemed to linger, as well as the image of him naked. She and Eliza had been too naïve to speculate on how the Marquess of Tannerton would look without clothing, but she could now attest that he looked spectacular. Wide shoulders, sculpted chest peppered with dark hair that formed a line directing the eye to his manly parts. She’d only glimpsed them upon first awakening, but now she could not forget the sight. He was like a Greek statue come to life, but warm, friendly and flirtatious.

      He might not recognise her as the notorious Vanishing Viscountess, subject of countless Rowlandson prints and sensational newspaper stories, but he did know she’d been a prisoner. He would, of course, have no memory of the very naïve and forgettable Miss Parronley from Almack’s.

      She hugged her knees. As long as he did not recognise her, she was free. And she intended to keep it that way.

      She had no idea what piece of shore they’d washed up on, but it must be closer to Scotland than she’d ever dared hope to be again. She longed to be in Scotland, to lose herself there and never be discovered. A city, perhaps, with so many people, no one would take note of a newcomer. She would go to Edinburgh, a place of poetry and learning. Who would look for the Vanishing Viscountess in Edinburgh? They would think her dead at the bottom of the sea.

      She’d once believed she’d be safe in Ireland, in the ruse she and Eliza devised, governess to Eliza’s children. Not even Eliza’s husband had suspected. Marlena had been safe for three years, until Eliza’s brother came to visit. Debtors nipping at his heels, Geoffrey had come to beg his sister for money.

      Marlena would have hidden from him, or fled entirely, but Eliza and the children had been gravely ill from the fever and she could not bear to leave. Geoffrey discovered her tending to them. He’d recognised her instantly and suddenly realised he could raise his needed funds by selling the whereabouts of the Vanishing Viscountess.

      Geoffrey had long returned to London the day Marlena stood over Eliza’s newly dug grave in the parish churchyard, the day the magistrate’s men and the Bow Street Runner came to arrest her.

      She swiped at her eyes. At least we nursed the children back to health, Eliza.

      She rose from the bed and wrapped the blanket around her like a toga. The room was tiny and sparse, but clean. There was no mirror, so she tried to look at herself in the window glass, but the sun was too bright. She felt her hair, all tangles and smelling of sea water. It was still damp underneath. She sat back on the bed.

      She must look a fright, she thought, working at her tangled locks with her fingers, still vain enough to wish she appeared pretty for the handsome Marquess of Tannerton.

      Except for the bruises on his chest, he had looked wonderful after their ordeal—his unshaven face only enhancing his appearance, making him look rakish. She inhaled, her fingers stilling for a moment with the memory of how his naked skin had felt, warm and hard with muscle.

      Her whole body filled with heat. It had been a long time since she’d seen a naked man and a long time since a man had held her. She tried to remember if she had ever woken naked in her husband’s arms. Perhaps she never had. He usually had fled her bed when he finished with her.

      So long ago.

      The door opened and the old woman entered, the scent of boiling oats wafting in behind her.

      “Your gentleman says to find you some clothes, ma’am. Yours are ripped and would take too long to mend.” She handed Marlena her stockings, which had somehow remained intact. “I told your gentleman I’ve just the thing for you in here.” The woman rummaged through one of the wooden chests. “I’ve put the kettle on as well, and there is some nice porridge boiling.”

      Marlena slipped on her stockings. Porridge sounded as heavenly as ambrosia at the moment. Until she’d smelled it, she’d not known she was ravenous.

      “That is very kind,” she said to the woman. “What is your name?”

      “I’m Mrs Davies, ma’am.” The woman leaned over the chest, still looking through it.

      Marlena made her voice sound friendly. “Thank you, Mrs Davies. Where are we, might I ask?”

      “At our farm, ma’am.” The woman looked at her as if she were daft. Her mouth opened, then, and she finally understood the question. “About a mile or so from Llanfairynghornwy.”

      Marlena blinked. She had no idea where that was, nor did she think she could repeat its name. “Is there a coaching inn there?”

      “There is a coaching inn at Cemaes.”

      “How far is that?” Marlena asked.

      “About five miles, ma’am.”

      Marlena could walk five miles.

      The old woman twisted around, leaning on the edge of the chest. “But if I think of it, you’ll want to reach Holyhead, not Cemaes.”

      Holyhead was the port where the ship had been bound. “How far is Holyhead?”

      “Ten miles or so the opposite way, to reach the ferry, that is. You’ll need a ferry to take you to Holyhead, ma’am.”

      Marlena nodded. Holyhead would likely be where other survivors would be bound, making it the last place she’d wish to be.

      The woman turned back to her rummaging, finally pulling out a shift and tossing it to Marlena, who quickly slipped it on. Next the woman pulled out a faded blue dress.

      “Perhaps this will do.” She handed it to Marlena.

      The dress was made of wool in a fine, soft weave that seemed nothing like a farm wife’s dress. Marlena stood up and held it against herself. The dress was long enough for her, although she was taller than most women and certainly a good foot taller than Mrs Davies. The dress would totally engulf the farm woman and would be big on Marlena as well.

      Some other woman from some other shipwreck had once worn this dress. Marlena whispered a prayer for that woman’s poor soul.

      “It will do very nicely,” she said.

      The woman straightened and thrust something else at Marlena. “Here’s СКАЧАТЬ