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He dropped to his knees beside her, damning himself for lowering his guard. Lifting his head, he searched for her attacker, but the night was still and quiet except for her labored breathing.
William crouched on her other side. “Christ.” His hands trembled as he reached for her.
Because the darkness made sight difficult, Marcus felt along her torso, searching for injury. Elizabeth groaned as his fingers lightly skimmed across her ribs, finding an object protruding from her hip. Moving her arm aside carefully, he exposed a small dagger.
“She’s been stabbed,” Marcus said gruffly, his throat tight.
Elizabeth opened her eyes at the sound of his voice. Her skin was pale beneath her powder, the rouge she wore unnatural in comparison. “Marcus.” Her voice was a gasped whisper as her fingers curled weakly over the hand that touched the hilt. He gripped them tightly, willing some of his vitality into her, willing her to be strong.
This was his fault. And Elizabeth had paid the price. The extent of his failure was crushing, a brutal fall from the heights of satisfaction he’d felt when the evening started.
William stood, his body tense as he searched their surroundings much as Marcus had done a moment earlier. “We need to move her to the house.”
Marcus lifted her, careful to avoid unduly jarring the knife. She cried out, then lost consciousness, her breathing slipping into a rapid but measured rhythm. “Where can I go?” he asked in near desperation. Through the ballroom was obviously not an option.
“Follow me.”
Moving like shadows through the garden, they entered through the bustling kitchen. Then they took the cramped servants’ staircase, which caused a laborious ascent hampered by Elizabeth’s panniers.
Once safely in her room, Marcus shrugged out of his coat and reached into an inner pocket, withdrawing a small dagger not unlike the one lodged in Elizabeth’s side. “Send for a doctor,” Marcus ordered. “And ring for towels and heated water.”
“I will instruct a servant on my departure. It will be faster if I collect the doctor myself.” William left with reassuring haste.
With careful, tentative movements, Marcus used his knife to cut through the endless material that made up her dress, stays, and underskirts. The task was torturous, this sight of his blade next to precious ivory skin a nightmare, and he was drenched with sweat before she was free of the pile.
A steady steam of blood leaked from around the dagger. She was still unconscious, but he whispered soothingly as he worked, trying to calm himself as well as her.
The door opened behind him, and he cast a quick glance over his shoulder to see the entry of Lord Langston and Lady Barclay. A maid entered directly behind, carrying a tray weighted with hot water and cloths.
The earl took one look at his daughter and shuddered violently. “Oh God,” he breathed. He swayed unsteadily, his face a stark mask. “I cannot go through this again.”
Marcus felt his stomach knot. The pain he witnessed on her father’s face was what tormented Elizabeth so. That same pain had pushed Elizabeth away and every other woman who’d had the misfortune to care for the dashing, but endlessly grieving widower.
“Come. Let’s get you settled somewhere quiet to wait, my lord,” Margaret said softly.
Langston did not hesitate to agree, fleeing the room as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. Marcus cursed under his breath, fighting the urge to chase him and thrash some sense into him, to make the man care for his daughter.
Lady Barclay returned a quarter hour later. “I must apologize for Lord Langston.”
“No need, Lady Barclay. It’s long overdue that he answer for his own actions.” He released a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Tell me what to do,” she said softly.
With silent efficiency, Margaret helped him clean the blood from Elizabeth’s skin. As they were finishing, William returned with the doctor who removed the blade, examined the puncture, and announced the fine boning of her stays had deflected the dagger away from any vital organs, and into the fleshy part of her hip. Stitches and bed rest would be all that was required.
Nearly dizzy with relief, Marcus steadied himself against the post of the bed and tugged off his wig. Had Elizabeth been uncorseted, the wound might have been fatal, and his destruction assured.
He glanced at William and his wife. “I will remain with her, you both should return to the guests below. It’s bad enough Elizabeth and I will be absent from our own betrothal celebration. Your absence will only worsen the situation.”
“You should go below, Lord Westfield,” Margaret said gently. “It would be less awkward if at least one of you were in attendance.”
“No. Let them think what they like, I won’t leave her.”
Margaret nodded though her eyes were still troubled. “What tale should I relate to your family?”
Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “Anything aside from the truth.”
William turned to the maid. “Say nothing of this to anyone if you wish to remain employed.”
“And ready the other bedroom in this suite for Lord Westfield,” Margaret added, ignoring the glare from her husband. The maid left swiftly.
Margaret gestured William toward the door. “Come, dear. Lord Westfield has everything well in hand. I’m certain he will call for us if needed.”
Still pale and clearly stricken, William nodded and followed Margaret out.
Elizabeth woke only a moment later, thrashing as the doctor began the first stitch. Marcus lay across the bed and held her down.
“Marcus!” she gasped, her eyes flying open. “It hurts.”
She began to cry.
His throat aching with her pain, he bent low to kiss her forehead. “I know, love. But if you can find the strength to be still, it will be over all the sooner.”
Marcus watched with much pride and admiration as Elizabeth did her best to remain unmoving while her wound was closed. She writhed slightly, but she did not cry out again. Fine beads of sweat dotted her brow and mingled with the steady flow of tears as she clung to his torso with bruising fingers. He was grateful when she lost consciousness again.
When the doctor finished, he cleaned his instruments carefully and returned them to his bag. “Keep an eye on that, my lord. If it festers, send for me again.” He left as quickly as he’d come.
Marcus paced restlessly, his gaze never straying far from Elizabeth. An overwhelming well of protectiveness rose up within him. Someone had tried to take her away from him. And he had made that task too easy.
Far more than affinity was involved here. That relatively simple state could not account for the madness that threatened his sanity. To see her so pale and wounded, to think of what might have happened . .
. He clutched his head in his hands.
For the rest of the night, he watched over her. When she stirred, he went to her, murmuring softly until she settled. He tended the fire in the hearth and checked her bandages regularly. He could not be still, could not sleep, feeling so helpless he wanted to howl and tear something apart.
Dawn lit the sky when the Earl of Langston returned to the room. Looking briefly at Elizabeth, his reddened eyes drifted to Marcus. Reeking of stiff drink and flowery perfume, the earl was disheveled, his wig askew as he stumbled in on his heels.
“Why don’t you retire, Lord Langston?” Marcus asked with a disgusted shake of his head. “You look nigh as bad as she does.”
Langston leaned heavily against a side table. “And you look far too collected for a man who nearly lost a bride.”
“I prefer to be of sound mind,” Marcus said dryly. “Rather than drowning in my cups.”
“Were you aware that Elizabeth is the reflection of her mother? Rare beauties, the both of them.”
Marcus released a weary breath and prayed for patience. “Yes, I am aware, my lord, and there are many things I wish to say to you, but now is not the time. If you don’t mind, I have much to consider and would prefer to do it in silence.”
Turning bleary eyes toward the bed, the earl winced at the sight of Elizabeth, the paleness of her skin making the heart-shaped patch on her cheek stand out in stark relief.
“Lady Langston gave you a family,” Marcus felt compelled to say. “You do no honor to her memory by neglecting them as you have.”
“You don’t care for me, Westfield, I’ve known this. But then you fail to understand my situation. You cannot, since you don’t love my daughter as I did my wife.”
“Do not presume to say that Elizabeth is not important to me.” The steel of Marcus’s voice snapped through the tension like a whip crack.
“Why not? You think the same of me.”
With that, the earl left Marcus to the silence he’d wanted, a silence he found deafening with its unyielding accusations.
Why had he not been there for her?
How could he have been so careless?
