Author's Note: OK, I'll try to create less jumping between characters' points of view. Hopefully this chapter is better. Thanks for the feedback. I'm still thinking it adds a lot to the story to be able to see where they're each coming from during a scene, though ? I know this breaks conventional rules terribly. Some of the best writers in history broke conventional rules, so ya don't know til ya try! :)


The marquess returned two hours later with food and a medical bag. He set the tray on the nightstand and turned. "I practiced medicine for several years. I think you're ready to come off of bedrest tomorrow, but I want to do a complete exam of the babe."

"You mean...?" Her face burned.

He gave a single nod and appeared calm and patient. "I have done dozens of these exams. I understand that our situation is unique, but right now we're simply physician and patient." The man spoke so matter of fact.

"You need to for the babe?"

He held up a hand. "It's important to make sure you don't have signs of going into labor. If so, being upright could put enough pressure to trigger childbirth. I'll be quick."

Swallowing down the anxiety and embarrassment, she sighed in defeat. "Seeing as you have legal say over my care, I don't really have a choice."

"I'm a physician right now. There is no one here who has legal say but you. I strongly advise the exam to make sure the babe and you are sound."

"If the babe needs it..." She released a shaky breath and glanced at him as nerves twisted her stomach.

While he washed and got ready, she wrung the sheet to release some of the stress. "Why are you being so nice right now?" The words blurted out.

He looked startled by the question and then kept working. "You have reason to fear men, and Dr. Englewood was able to ease that fear. You and I have an unfortunate situation, for which I regret right now for your sake. But that doesn't mean I want a wife."

She almost smiled. "I know, my lord."

But he looked at her seriously. "Ready?"

The smile died and trembles took over. She nodded and pushed aside all the blankets but the sheet. Then she laid down, crushing handfuls of the sheets in white-knuckled grips.

He held out a hand. When she looked at him in confusion, he held her eyes and spoke in a soft tone. "I only need one hand, Tanya."

Slipping her hand into his, her fingers wrapped around and clung to that tiny thread of safety with every fiber of her being. And he didn't let go.


Retching again, he gasped for air. His sides heaved and he finally rinsed his mouth. Leaning up on his elbows, he looked in the mirror.

The extent of her scarring was alarming. It too had been left to heal on its own and had healed poorly. It was a miracle that she had carried a child this long. Worry gnawed if she could even carry to full term. She may not even be able to fit a babe, and caesarian section carried so many risks. Walking out of the washroom, he paced in his bedchamber.

"My lord?"

He spun around at the sound of a soft voice.

She stood in the doorway in a robe and held her belly. "Is spotting alright?" Tears shimmered in her eyes.

Crossing the room quickly, he scooped her up. "Just a few spots?" He headed back to her room.

She nodded and her arms wrapped around his neck. "Three spots."

"It can be expected after an exam. It shouldn't be much and not after today."

A deep sigh of relief blew past her lips.

Goddammit, she smelled sweet. "Don't leave bed until tomorrow, like I told you," he scolded.

"I know. You were gone for fifteen minutes and I was scared..."

"You have a set of lungs, do you not?"

She blinked. "Um, yes."

"Then yell if you need me." He set her in the bed and stepped back. The wench needed to stop looking at him. "Do you need anything or may I go now?" he barked.

Her head bowed in shame and she shook it. "Forgive me. I won't bother you."

"Miss Hartwig?" He heaved a sigh.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Look at me when we're speaking," he commanded.

She looked up, her cheeks pink with humiliation.

"I am not civil company. If you can withstand my temper and tongue, this will be your home. If you or the babe need medical care, you are to notify me. Becky and Brigands will see to you otherwise."

Her brow furrowed. "You're not leaving tomorrow after I'm out of bed?"

"No." Then he walked out.


He waited in the dining room the next evening. "Did you tell her six o'clock, Brigands?"

The butler stood near the open door. "Yes, my lord."

Checking his pocket watch again, he sighed. Five minutes past six. He stood in irritation to fetch her when she walked in.

"Forgive me, my lord. Bedrest left me a bit lightheaded."

"You are better, or do you need to stay in bed?" He found himself pulling out the chair for her.

"I am better. Thank you." She sat.

The woman wore a sapphire blue gown made of satin. It draped slightly loose on her frame, except for her swollen breasts and belly. Her hair piled at the back of her head, pinned in a comb that she probably didn't know held real sapphires, and cascaded down her long neck in shiny, thick curls.

She looked up at him.

Great, he'd been staring. Clearing his throat, he sat in his chair at the head of the table on her left. "I will call the seamstress to make you new dresses," he ground the words out as Brigands filled their plates.

"Oh, you don't need to bother. I'm sure I can adjust them." Her cheeks glowed in embarrassment. The marquess had given a luxurious wardrobe, but her belly didn't fit much of anything.

"I didn't anticipate a woman with child," he said gruffly. "We are not poor - you'll have new dresses." Then he took a long drink of wine.

Again, the marquess was irritated with his obligation, and now he had to spend more funds on her. Her eyes fell to the table in guilt. When Brigands finished her plate, she said very softly, "Thank you."

The old man smiled. "You're welcome, my lady." Then he moved on to the marquess's plate.

Once Brigands left, he snapped, "Don't do that."

She looked at him in surprise. "Do what?"

"You are a marchioness. You do not hang your head."

Her cheeks burned in humiliation at the etiquette lesson. "My lord, I don't intend to ever be out anywhere. You don't need to worry that I'll embarrass you."

"Did I say you'll embarrass me?" The man barked the words and then started to eat. "In about three weeks, or when you're well, we must have a ball here to introduce you as my wife." He practically growled the words in disgust - maybe over having a wife or a dance. Or both.

"I don't know a thing about dancing." She bit her lip in distress.

He ate without looking at her. "In a week or so, I'll teach you." The man didn't look the least enthusiastic about it.

"My lord?"

Sitting back, he had an exasperated expression. "Do you eat or just flap your mouth?"

Closing her mouth, she bowed her head for a moment in prayer and then began to eat.

Another sigh of exasperation broke the silence. "Well? Ask your question."

She looked at him in confusion. "Oh. Um, I was going to ask if we are going to...well, pretend to be man and wife at the dance. I just want to make sure I understand what you want everyone to think."

He set her wedding ring on the table beside her. "Put it on. We are man and wife," he is a tightly.

That wasn't exactly the man and wife intimacy that she meant, but she didn't dare explain. Plenty of the wealthy lived separate lives, much less in separate beds.

After another bite of food, he gave a stern look. "You will call me 'Mark.' I will not go through years of marriage being called 'my lord' or 'marquess.' I have a name."

She stared. "You mean I'm staying here forever?"

"Is that not agreeable?" His eyes pierced as harsh as his words.

"No, I just thought you'd be gone soon."

"I already said I'm not leaving," he barked with a scowl. "You should not be alone in the house when who knows what kind of lunatic is on the loose," he grumbled. The man looked at his food when he mumbled, "Do not stuff handkerchiefs in your necklines either."

Her face flamed. THe necklines of the dresses scooped low, as was the fashion. She had tucked a handkerchief across the gap but apparently not well enough being he could tell. Odd that he had noticed, actually. "My lo - , er, um..."

"Mark, if you've forgotten," he replied dryly.

"No, I just need to get used to the informality." She flushed.

"Let me make one thing clear, Tanya. We will not consummate the marriage. I have no desire for little brats, and you have a babe to satisfy any womanly desire for a child. That is your child to raise - I have no interest in being a father. Our marriage is based on my word to your father. I will not give the illusion of having feelings for you, even in public. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Mark," she agreed quietly.

"What were you saying? And take that handkerchief out, girl. You look ridiculous." He ate the last forkful of food on his plate.

She pushed the food around her plate. "I'm not comfortable having a low neckline, and the scars are not appealing during dinner."

"Scars are skin; don't be silly. You can have your new dresses made with high necklines. Now, take it out. If anyone says anything, they will answer to me."

So she swallowed hard and pulled it out.

Sneaking a glance at the scars, he kept a neutral face. They were glaringly obvious but didn't bother him in the least. But he didn't want to dwell on why he desired her to feel comfortable with her body. The woman looked up when he stood. "We shall eat together, but I won't just sit while you pick at your food. Eat up. Goodnight." He bowed and left.

On the way to the study to finish up work, he frowned. He was entirely too soft with the chit. He'd even preferred her company during dinner than to eat alone. This wouldn't do. He didn't like it one bit.


She got ready for bed, unsure what to think of her husband. He could likely be very tender, and his company was pleasant when not ripping heads off. She hung up her dress and walked over to the dresser in a chemise to get a nightgown. Pulling out the drawer, she gasped when it tilted forward too far. The solid wood drawer crashed down.

A loud crash sounded upstairs, followed by a female cry of pain. Tanya. She must've fallen and probably hurt herself or the baby. Shooting out of his chair, it toppled over as he darted for the door. He ran upstairs and burst into her room. "Tanya?" The dresser drawer lay broken on the floor with clothes spewed but no sign of her. "Tanya!" He rushed to her washroom.

He barged into the washroom. The woman knelt on the floor. "What happened?" He dropped to his knees beside her where she dabbed at a cut on her foot and tears ran down her cheeks. "The babe?" Without even waiting for an answer, he cupped her belly and felt for any damage.

"He's fine. The drawer fell on my foot." She brushed at her eyes as he lifted her onto the counter.

Then he bent down and inspected her foot. "Wiggle your toes."

"It hurts," she sniffled, feeling like a baby, and pointed to which toe.

He gently flexed it.

"Ow, don't," she whimpered.

"It's broken, but it appears to be a clean break. Let me fetch my bag." He carried her to bed and left.

When he returned and washed, he brought out a basin of water and soap. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and took her foot in his lap, cleaning the small gash on top. The man worked without a word and was so gentle that it didn't hurt any worse.

After he bandaged the cut, he examined her toes again. "You have one broken toe and likely a cracked bone or two in the top of your foot. We'll wrap and ice it and see how it is in the morning. If those bones are broken, you'll need a cast." He glanced at her while he wrapped it tight. "You're certain the babe didn't get hurt?"

She nodded.

"Did the drawer break off?"

"I think I pulled it out too far."

"I'll fix it tomorrow." He fetched ice and then started to clean up the mess.

"I'm sorry, I can do that." She started to get up, but his look stopped her. "I promise I'll fix it."

He kept picking up the clothes and the pieces of splintered wood. "I don't care about the goddamn drawer," he snarled. His heart still thundered from the fear that she'd been seriously hurt when he'd heard the crash. He didn't like it that there'd been such relief at finding only her foot injured.

A soft voice broke into his thoughts. "Mark?"

He froze. His heart twisted in a way that left him feeling warm and... He dropped the clothes in a heap and stormed out.

She watched in confusion as he stormed out. Perhaps it'd been his wife's dresser. He seemed terribly upset about it. Looking down at the forgotten pile, she limped over, got as comfortable as possible on the floor with her foot stretched out with ice and picked up the pieces of wood.

Becky came in minutes later with a cup. "My lady? His lordship wise to take this laudanum to help sleep through the pain. He said it's not enough to harm the babe."

She nodded. "Put it on the nightstand, please. I'll take it in a bit."


Before going to bed at midnight, his conscience won out in making sure the woman slept peacefully. Creaking the door open to peek, he frowned. Lantern light flickered, but the bed was empty. Stepping into the room, he spotted her to the right.

The woman had stretched her leg out on the floor and propped a pillow under her foot. A hammer, nails and other items lay scattered around her. She looked up and smiled at him for the first time. It was beautiful and warm and joyful. And so damn wonderful. His heart twisted painfully hard. For the first time in years, it beat again.

"I fixed it for you. See, Mark? You can't even really see that it broke." She positively beamed.

Her smile died when he stomped over and jammed the drawer back in place. Then he jerked her up under the arms and carried her to bed. Yanking up the covers, he jammed her in bed, careful of her foot. He leaned down with his face in hers. "Don't you ever disobey me again," he hissed. "I said to leave it." Flicking off the lamp, he left with slam of a door.

She'd meant to please the marquess. He gave her so much, and she wanted to repay him. The tears fell. They'd never be friends or even tolerated companions. She'd never be more than the obligation that he hated more each day, the wife who was the wrong one alive.

He leaned against her door and held his chest, blinking back tears. It hurt. The pain had been kept away for so long, but she kept picking at the scab. And it finally bled. Every heart beat could be felt now. And every beat was more painful than the last. Her soft weeping leaked through the door. Pushing himself upright, he walked away.


She sat at the table for breakfast and waited. Brigands had said Mark would come to her chamber to check her foot, but he never arrived. Maybe he'd forgotten. Or maybe he'd left her for the country estate.

Brigands walked past and stopped. "My lady, I meant for you to wait in bed. May I get something for you?"

"No, I thought perhaps the marquess was down here." She stood, leaning a hand on the table.

"No, my lady. He has a headache and will be along to see to you shortly. He doesn't want you on your feet."

"It feels much better this morning. I will go check on him."

The butler shook his head. "I think it would be wise to leave him alone for now."

"Or perhaps the problem is everyone has left him alone for far too long, Mr. Brigands." She limped to the door.

"My lady, please take the master's cane, at least. I'll fetch it."

He brought the cane and assisted up the stairs, leaving her at Mark's bedchamber door.

She knocked and slipped into the room. It took a moment to adjust to the dimness before spotting him on top of the bed. He laid on his back with a rag over his brow and rubbed his temples with his eyes closed. "Excuse me, Mark," she whispered.

He startled hard and grabbed his head with a curse.

"I'm sorry. Brigands said you're not well. Would you like me to do anything?"

He sat up gingerly, looking like an angry lion. "Did he not tell you to stay in bed? Did we not have this conversation last night about obeying what I tell you?"

Goodness, headaches made him surlier. "Mark, my foot feels better - only my toe hurts. You don't look well. My father suffered from migraines. I can - "

"Get out."

She blinked.

"You are not to come in here," he growled.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I only meant to help - "

"I said go."

Maybe it was time someone didn't go. She planted her feet. "No."

He rose to his feet - and substantial height. "I will not repeat myself."

"Neither will I. You hide from the world with a wall that is far too thick to penetrate. But your guard came down when I told you about my baby." She raised her chin to meet his enraged glare. "You want everyone to think you're a brute to hide your grief." Then her voice softened when he looked taken back by her words. "I'm not asking for love, but you are helping my babe and I. Let me help you too." She reached up and touched his cheek that was far softer than she expected a man's to be. "You don't have to be so fierce," she said softly.

He felt himself crumbling. The damn woman knew exactly where to strike while locking on with those hypnotic brown eyes. She didn't fear the brash side of him, unlike everyone else. Her hand slipped around his neck and kneaded the spot that made his head throb. It felt so good to let a woman nurture. To feel the softness of a woman's hands. When her other hand applied gentle pressure between his thumb and forefinger, the rhythmic pounding in his temples slowed.

"You need a hot compress over your eyes, not a cold one on your forehead, and it will go away," she whispered and stroked his aching temple.

His eyes drifted shut. The soothing strokes were so relaxing. He sighed and bowed his head to give her better access. His lips brushed against the top of her hair, wafting up the light scent of lavender. Heat pooled in desire.

His eyes shot open and he stumbled back a step, slamming his calves against the bed. "Get out!"

The chit startled and searched his face. "I'm not look to take your wife's place - "

Scooping her up, he deposited her in the hall and slammed and locked the door.


She waited in her room. Brigands brought breakfast. Then lunch and laudanum. Then dinner. The marquess still hadn't emerged from his room.

At nine o'clock, a knock came at her door. Mark entered without a word and set his bag on the bed. She remained silent while he checked her foot and the babe.

"Your toe seeks to be the only broken bone but is set fine. You don't need a cast. The babe is sound." Then he picked up his bag to go without once meeting her eyes.

"Mark?" She sat up.

He stopped but didn't turn.

"I haven't thanked you for taking us in. You've been generous when others have been cruel. If there's anything I can do - "

"Leave me in peace. I will no longer join you for meals. You may go anywhere in the house, except my study, bedchamber and the room at the end of the hall that is locked." His voice came out so flat and...sad.

"Fair enough."

He took another step.

But it couldn't leave off with this tension. He seemed to hurt so deep. "Are you feeling better?"

He stopped. "Goodnight," he growled and left.

It didn't seem like him to be so subdued. He wouldn't stay long enough to hear her out, so she'd give him a letter.


He returned to his chambers after midnight, so exhausted from the day that he only wanted to sleep. One step into the room ended that thought. Something crunched underfoot. An envelope. Picking it up, he frowned at the feminine scrawl of his name on the front. Who...? Then it dawned. "What the hell?!" Yanking off his shirt and tossing it aside, he ripped open the envelope with excessive force and sat on the bed.

Dear Mark,

I wish to say this in person, but alas, you seem to always vanish. You want nothing to do with the babe or I, but you have everything to do with us - you saved us from starvation. It is with gratitude that I say this, not because I harbor any fantasy of love: I care for you as a friend, as the man who has nursed us back to health.

Your home is the first I've felt safe in. You make me feel protected, which is a feeling I can never tell you how much is worth to me. I don't wake up screaming anymore. I don't feel dirty and unworthy of human compassion as much as I used to.

I understand that this is a marriage of nothing but a promise to an old man. Perhaps one day we could be companionable, if you do choose to remain under the same roof.

Please know that I have no intention of taking your wife's place. I assume by how upset you were that it was your wife's dresser that I broke. I didn't realize that and didn't mean to damage it. Becky informed me of the carpenter in town. If it is agreeable, I will take the drawer to him to repair the crack down the front and the dent in the corner. I've cost you enough money; you needn't concern yourself with the expense...

He crumpled the letter and dropped it on the floor without finishing it, storming straight for her room.

Standing before the dresser mirror with her braid in hand and scissors in the other, she drew a deep breath. "It's only hair," she promised her reflection. The braid was long, silky and the locks curled just enough to look like she spent hours each day on her hair. Closing her eyes, she lifted the scissors.

"What the hell are you doing?!" a deep voice boomed.

With a squeak of surprise, her eyes flew open and the scissors clattered to the floor. She spun around.

He stomped over and snatched the scissors. "What are you doing?" The man could've breathed fire.

"Cutting my hair," she squeaked.

"I see that. Why?" he snapped.

She raised her chin. "Because it's my hair."

"Answer." He set his hands on his hips.

"Because..." She squared her shoulders.

"Where are you getting funds for the dresser?" The man growled.

"I'm not getting it illegally."

His jaw flexed in anger and he stepped forward, taking the braid in his hand. "Hair like this pays a pretty penny to a carpenter, doesn't?" He asked the question lightly.

She bit her lip.

"Do not cut your hair off, woman," he sneered.

"It's my hair."

He released it. "Legally you're mine, so technically that's mine too." The man pointed at the braid. "I forbid you to cut it. And leave the drawer alone." He spun on his heel to leave.

"You forbid it?" She gaped.

"Yes," he threw over his shoulder.

"Give me back the scissors!"

"No." He disappeared around the corner.

She charged after him and rounded smack into a hard, warm, bare chest. Her mouth fell open in a soft gasp as he caught her elbow to steady her. Who knew a man could be so beautiful? His muscles sculpted like hills and valleys as hard as rock and warm as the summer breeze. A pleasant dusting of hair on his chest trickled down and then reappeared under his naval to sweep under... Her eyes ripped up to his face in embarrassment. "You're shirtless."

"And you're astute," he replied dryly.

Oh heaven, she gawked. Closing her mouth, she swallowed hard. Her cheeks burned.

"If I find your hair gone, I will...I will lock you in your room." He gave a firm nod.

Her heart beat fast and a strange sensation of heat pooling between her legs made her knees weak. He was raw, pure male, unlike anything she'd ever seen. So magnificent and beautiful. Reaching out, she gave a light stroke over the hard plane of his chest. Solid, thick muscle. "Oh my," she breathed.

He lept back from the woman upon the contact. Her touch felt feather soft and delicate, leaving odd feelings in her wake - rugged, strong, masculine and...protective. She awoke something inside that had been long dead. And it scared him. A bolt of lightening shot through, heightening every sense. A throbbing need to make love to her pulsed, leaving him aroused and empty all at once.

A dark look swept over the marquess's face. She had overstepped the bounds. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean - "

"Do not for a second think that we will have anything more than a marriage of honor," he hissed.

She blinked and he spun around. She stared after him as he marched down the hall. How perfectly cruel God could be to give a celibate husband who looked like that.