Helen Dickson - The Property of a Gentleman

‘That is true—and I implore you to consider his wishes seriously.’

Eve sighed deeply, so confused her head was spinning. Since her mother’s death and the onset of her father’s illness, she had stubbornly refused to consider the future and what it would mean to her when the inevitable happened, but now the future was with her and she was unprepared for the life that was being thrust at her. When she spoke a touch of anger had come to add to the bitterness of her disappointment.

‘Oh, I shall. I always knew how much my father’s work meant to him—Atwood Mine and all his other concerns—but it did not occur to me until now that he would allow his loyalty to all that, and to you, to affect his dealings with me, his daughter. Please—you must excuse me,’ she said quickly. ‘All this has come as something of a shock. I need some time to myself.’

‘Of course. I fully understand. I am leaving myself presently. I realise that you are your own mistress—but anger is a bad counsellor. Do not allow it to influence your decision, and do not foolishly refuse what is your due.’ He sighed. ‘We both have much to think about. I shall return to Burntwood Hall when you’ve had time to recover from today and we can talk seriously about what is to be done,’ he said, standing aside to let her pass.

‘Yes—thank you,’ she said stiffly. ‘Goodbye, Mr Fitzalan.’

Marcus watched her go, staring thoughtfully after her. Meeting Eve Somerville for the first time in three years had been like being a contestant in the first round of a boxing match. She was possessed of the most formidable temper he’d ever witnessed in a woman, having a tongue that could flay the meanest man, gladly stamping on his pieces of lacerated flesh before finally pulverising them into dust with the heel of her pretty foot.

He realised that the lady was a termagant, but he sensed she had a magic quality—if she chose to use it. Troubled, he turned to go back to Alex Soames, his expression tightening, his brows drawn together in an ominous black line when he continued to think of her.

He had felt a slight sense of shock the first time she had looked at him fully, when her grandmother had brought her to be introduced to him after the funeral. There was something in her eyes that set his pulse racing and he felt a great sense of excitement—as he had on that other occasion when he had had her at his mercy three years ago. She looked very young—almost a child—yet he already knew that behind the childlike exterior there was a ripe sensuality just bursting to be set free.

Instinctively, he knew that no matter how in control and confident she might conceivably be, she had that bewitching quality that could well captivate a man and enslave him for life—a burgeoning femme fatale. Yet, when he recollected how outspoken she had been at the reading of the will, of the insult she had thrown at him and how quick she was to anger, then he would make damned sure she curbed that temper of hers if she became his wife; if she did not come to heel, she would feel more than the length of his tongue.

When he entered the room once more, his eyes were cold and without expression as he took stock of Gerald Somerville and observed the unconcealed greed glittering in his eyes, knowing it would be exceedingly profitable for him if Marcus did not marry Eve. But there was something else lurking in their depths, something unpleasantly sinister and unconcealed as their eyes locked—a moment in which each of them knew they were mortal enemies.

Marcus had meant what he said when he had told Eve that Gerald Somerville was not unknown to him. He was a notorious rake about town, a man with a sordid reputation, and he was well acquainted with his depraved and corrupt ways, that differed greatly from the accepted standards of behaviour.

He remembered well the night Gerald had faced ruination, and the card game which he himself had been privy to. He’d been at White’s, seen with his own eyes the money Gerald had lost—and Gerald was aware that he knew and hated him for knowing. He recalled seeing his fellow players sitting intently round the the table watching Gerald lose, and not even wearing his loose frieze greatcoat inside out—which was often the case by those hoping to win—had brought Gerald luck.

He’d heard it rumoured the following day that in desperation Gerald had borrowed the money to pay off his debt from moneylenders—men without scruples who would resort to any foul and violent means to reclaim loans—digging himself deeper into the mire.

Gerald’s expression became set and grim, his eyes shining with a deadly glitter as his gaze became fixed, his feelings for Marcus clearly beyond words. He was filled with an impotent, cold black fury on finding himself cheated by Marcus Fitzalan out of something that he coveted.

Gerald was the kind of man Marcus despised and went out of his way to avoid. Because he knew that nothing was beneath Gerald, that he might even attempt persuading—or, even worse, compromising—Eve into marrying him in order to revert Atwood Mine to him, Marcus was even more determined to return to Burntwood Hall very soon to save Eve from herself in securing her hand in marriage.

Later, slipping out of the house unseen by the few remaining mourners who still lingered on, content to partake of the late Sir John’s liquor and to talk and rekindle old memories and dwell on times they had shared, in the falling dusk Eve took the path towards the church, glad there was no one about so that she could be alone, to pay one last visit to her parents’ grave before the day that had heralded such a change to her life ended.

She opened the gate into the churchyard, which was enclosed by a high stone wall covered by a wild tangle of weeds and ivy. A mass of ancient yew trees, black in the gathering gloom, were in stark contrast to the creamy sandstone church. All around her was silence, a sudden stillness, as drifting clouds passed over the moon just beginning to appear.

The churchyard was a sad and sorrowful place and Eve moved along the paths in sympathy to nature’s silence, the huge, cold grey gravestones covered in lichen and casting looming, grotesque shadows in the gathering gloom. Coming to a halt, she stood looking down at the mound of newly dug earth and clay strewn with flowers, noticing how they were already beginning to wilt and to lose all their frail beauty. Tomorrow they too would be dead. She felt a terrible pain wrench her heart when she contemplated the lifeless forms of her parents lying side by side beneath the soil.

Unlike their ancestors before them who had been interred inside the church, her parents had long since chosen to be buried side by side in the churchyard. Unable to contain the grief that had been accumulating in her heart since her father’s accident, tears started in her eyes and streamed down her face.

She fell to her knees and bowed her head as she finally gave way under the long strain that possessed her. All her reserve was gone and she began to cry dementedly, her body shaking with an uncontrollable reservoir of grief, bewilderment and betrayal—unable to understand why her father, who had loved her, had treated her so harshly, unaware as she wept of the tall, silent figure that stood watching her from the gate.

Having taken longer to depart from Burntwood Hall than he had intended, Marcus had come to the churchyard to pay his final respects to the man who had become more than a friend to him over the few years he had known him, a man to whom he owed so much. He paused at the gate on seeing the kneeling, sorrowing figure beside the grave, only just able to make out in the dusk the profile of Eve Somerville, her slender form racked with grief.

His heart contracted with pain and pity, for never had he seen or heard so much desolation in anyone before. He took a step, intending to go to her, but checked himself, thinking it would be best to leave her, that it would do her good to cry, for he suspected there was no one in that great house to offer her comfort. He had to fight the urge to go to her, to take her in his arms and hold her, to caress the soft cloud of hair that had tumbled loose from its pins and fell in wanton disarray about her lovely face.