The Vanishing Viscountess. Diane Gaston

tone turned a shade more conciliatory. “Treat us well and you will be rewarded.” He lifted the purse.

      The son smiled. “What else do you require, m’lord?”

      “Some nourishment, if you please.”

      The man bowed and closed the door behind him.

      “They thought they could nick my purse,” Tanner muttered, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He did not have the heart to worry her with his suspicions about the farmer’s son. “How do you fare, miss? Are you all right?”

      She moved beneath the blanket as if testing to see if all parts of her still worked. “A little bruised, but unharmed, I think.”

      Her eyes flicked over him and quickly glanced away. Tanner realised he was quite bare from the waist up. From the waist down, as well, but the covers concealed that part of him. He reached for a blanket and winced, pressing a hand to his ribs.

      “You are bruised,” she cried, reaching towards him, but immediately withdrawing her hand.

      He looked down at himself, purple bruises staining his torso like spilled ink. “Nothing to signify,” he said, although his breath caught on another pang of pain.

      He glanced at her again and the humour of the situation struck him. It was not every day he woke up in a naked embrace with a woman whose name he did not know.

      He gave her a wry smile. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”

      Her eyelids fluttered, reminding him of shy misses one encountered at Almack’s. “No, we have not.”

      He made a formal bow, or a semblance of one there in the bed only half-covered by a blanket. “I am Tannerton. The Marquess of Tannerton. Tanner to my friends, which, I dare say—” he grinned “—I had best include you among.”

      The blue of her eyes sparkled in the morning light. “Marquess—” She quickly cast her eyes downward. “My lord.”

      “Tanner,” he corrected in a friendly voice. “And you are…?”

      He had the feeling her mind was crafting an answer.

      “I am Miss Brown, sir.”

      It was a common name, and not her real one, he’d wager.

      “Miss Brown,” he repeated.

      She fussed with the blanket, as if making sure it still covered her. “Do you know of the others from the ship? Did anyone else survive?”

      He gave her a steady look. “The Bow Street Runner, do you mean?”

      She glanced away and nodded.

      He made a derisive sound. “I hope he went to the devil.”

      She glanced back at him. “Did any survive?”

      “I know nothing of any of them,” he went on, trying not to think of those poor women, those helpless little children, the raging sea. “We were alone on the beach, except for the man who tried to rob me.” The man who had just left this room, he suspected. “We made it to this cottage, and all I could think was to get you warm. I took over the farmer’s bed and must have fallen asleep.”

      She was silent for a moment, but Tanner could see her breath quicken. He suspected she remembered the terror of it all.

      “I believe I owe you my life, sir,” she whispered.

      Her blue eyes met his and seemed to pierce into him, touching off something tender and vulnerable. He glanced away and tugged on the covers, pulling off a faded brown blanket. He wrapped it around his waist and rose from the bed. “Let me see about getting you some clothes. And food.” He turned towards the door.

      “A moment, sir,” she said, her voice breathless. “Do—do you know where we are? Who these people are?”

      “Only that we are in a farmer’s cottage,” he replied, not entirely truthfully. “There was a lamp in the window. I walked towards its light.”

      She nodded, considering this. “What do they know of us?”

      His gaze was steady. “I did not tell them you were a prisoner, if that is your concern.”

      She released a relieved breath. “Did you tell them who you are?”

      He tried to make light of it all. “Last night I only saw the old man. I fear I failed to introduce myself. My manners have gone begging.”

      “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