Page 67 of Wed By Proxy

“Wait!” Guy called hoarsely after her.

She didn’t even pause; gave no acknowledgement she’d even heard him. By the time he’d managed to stagger out of his chair, she was almost across the other side of the room. Instead of detaining her, not one of his idiot household had even lifted a finger to stay her. Instead, they had fallen back from her fleeing form, giving her a clear path of escape through the Great Hall.

“Mathilde!” he roared. He felt unsteady on his feet, short of breath, sick at heart as he started after her.

“Well, well,” he heard Tristan Kerslake drawl into the stunned silence. “No one told me that Lady Martindale had finally come home.”

Guy turned his head over his shoulder to stare at him. Shocked murmuring broke out afresh at this, raising to an almost deafening babble. Lady Martindale? What the hells was Kerslake talking about?

At his incredulous look, Tristan shrugged. “Her disappearance is the talk of all Aphrany.” My gods. He could not take this all in right now, only that she was fleeing from him.

“Stop her!” Guy roared, as he staggered across the hall. His servants and attendants milled about in consternation and panic. “Where is she? Do you have her?”

He burst out into the corridor outside where the air was fresher and filled his lungs with it. Firmin’s face wavered before him a moment, ashen and grave. Then Temur and Lettys were pointing toward the door, and Guy looked up to find Mathilde being hustled back through it by two of his men.

“Be careful with her!” he bellowed, and hurried forward to relieve them of their burden. She struggled a moment, her fists raining fierce blows on his chest, then as he swept her up in his arms, she fell suddenly still and limp. Guy cradled her to him, as Waldon and Prudie burst through the door.

“What are you doing with her, you wicked man?” Prudence shrieked. “Won’t you be content until you’ve killed her stone dead?”

“Hush love, hush!” Waldon caught the distraught servant to him and she burst into noisy tears.

Feeling eyes on him, Guy swung around to find a crowd including the Earl and Countess of Strethneal peering at him from the doorway of the Great Hall.

“It’s a misunderstanding only,” Guy found himself saying angrily. “Return to your seats.”

No one paid him any heed, their eyes all fixed on the small still figure pinned to his chest. Tightening his grip on her, he strode toward the staircase, pale-faced servants scattering before him.

“Guy, what can we do?” Firmin called after him in an anguished voice.

“Send everyone home!” Guy flung back at him over his shoulder. “The spectacle is over for this evening. I can scarcely be expected to provide any more entertainment,” he added bitterly.

XXVIII

An hour later, he reentered the hall, his expression haggard. Mathilde refused to speak to him, or even acknowledge his presence. Her expression stony, she had turned her face from him and looked as though she were fiercely willing him from her presence. She would not listen to reason or assurances and finally, realizing she was utterly exhausted, he had left her—he hoped to sleep—and posted a servant at the door to make sure she did not abscond. He could tear his own hair out at how things had transpired. For the life of him, he was unsure how things had blown up so badly in his face. Firmin hovered anxiously on the edges of his vision, but he ignored him.

“Where’s Kerslake?” Guy flung out aggressively. Only a few servants remained clearing away the last of the abandoned feast.

Firmin cleared his throat. “He, er, retired along with all the other guests,” he said miserably. “I believe he repaired to the south-facing sitting room. I sent along a bottle of wine for him there.”

Guy paused in the act of turning around to head for that room. “And his sister?” he asked coldly. He didn’t want to stray across Julia’s path if he could possibly avoid it.

“She has taken to her bedchamber,” Firmin answered. “The lady was most distraught at the unfolding of this evening’s events.”

Guy stared at his steward. “What the hells has she to be distraught about?” How typical of Julia to try and make everything about her, he thought caustically.

“I believe there were one or two pointed comments directed her way,” Firmin said awkwardly. “The general feel of the room was not kindly toward her. The, er, Countess of Strethneal was quite scathing about Lady Julia’s conduct under your roof.” Firmin scratched his jaw. “It was unfortunate she chose tonight, of all nights, to wear that Martindale ruby.”

Guy snorted. “Unfortunate, is that what you call it?” He left the room abruptly and headed for the sitting room Firmin had mentioned. He soon found his quarry. Tristan had made himself comfortable, lolling on one of the cushioned benches. He had unbuttoned his doublet and cuffs and was tossing back the last of his wine when Guy entered.

“Mine host!” Tristan greeted him jocularly.

Guy threw himself down in the seat opposite. “Explain,” he said tersely. “Your remark at supper.” Tristan set his goblet down carefully on the windowsill behind him. When he was not quick enough to speak, Guy added. “You identified her as my marchioness. How and why. Tell me now.”

“I identified her, because I was eminently in a position so to do,” answered Tristan calmly.

“You have met her before?” Guy barked.

“Allow me,” said Tristan raising his hands placatingly, “to explain.”