His thoughts were anything but pure now, he admitted, looking down at Eliza’s bosom, which was rising and falling rapidly due to her efforts to keep up with him.
“My apologies again.” His friends would wonder if he’d gone mad, offering two apologies in the space of less than a minute. “I felt you might need protecting from a man like Arthington.”
She laughed out loud. “You think I haven’t encountered men like him? I know perfectly well he’s a player.”
“A ... player?”
“Yeah. I guess you’d say rake or rogue. Or roué? A charmer. Rapscallion.”
Deveric nearly choked on his own laughter. Player. How perfectly that encapsulated his friend.
He looked back at Arth, who was winging toothsome grins at the women surrounding Emerlin in an attempt to woo them away. “Good to know you are not some doe-eyed female likely to fall under his spell, then,” he said.
“Nah, he’s not my type.”
“Your type?”
She looked at him. “Yes, type. You know, the kind of person you tend to be attracted to. Maybe tall redheads, or short brunettes. What do you call that here?”
He stared at her. “This is hardly an appropriate conversation.”
“Oh, come on. Play along. What’s your type, Deveric?”
Hearing his Christian name on her lips was delicious, though in truth they ought not to be so familiar with each other. She wasn’t family. He didn’t know what she was. Beyond ... his type.
His eyes trailed over her figure. How could she look so delicious in that silly morning gown? Amara had surely been only too willing to rid herself of the dress; it was the one his mother insisted his sister wear often after her scandal. Covered from head-to-toe, as if clothing itself could keep one from temptation.
This American tempted him, whoever she was and whatever she was wearing. The fabric of the dress stretched tightly over her breasts, emphasizing them in a way he could hardly complain about. He ran his fingers through his hair.
“A gentleman of good breeding doesn’t think in such ways.”
“Oh, baloney,” Eliza said. “You can’t tell me that out of that gaggle of girls over there, not one of them interests you more than the others? Come on, I see a couple of blondes, a brunette, a redhead ...”
Why was she pushing him on this? Was that a gleam in her eye? Was she deliberately provoking him?
The only woman here who interests me is you, he wanted to shout. You, with your strange ways and odd manner, with your lips that make me long to taste them again. You, with that delicate bit of flesh showing between that ridiculous dress’s neckline and your ear, you with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“This is a pointless, and inappropriate, conversation.”
“Who knew you’d be so stuffy? Are all dukes this stuffy? I should have told Cat, no stuffy guys.”
“Stuffy?”
“Yeah, stuffy. Pompous. Rigid. Uptight. Overly proper.”
“You think I’m stuffy?” His blood burned, his eyes searing hers. He pulled her into the garden and around the hedge, in the place they’d stood the previous morning, out of sight of the other guests.
His hand reached up and hovered in mid-air, over her breasts, without touching them, before he put it back down, clenching it in a fist at his side.
“Do you have any idea how far from stuffy I feel at the moment, Eliza James?” he ground out. “I’ll tell you who’s my ‘type,’ as you put it.” He ran his fingers up into her hair, fixing her head between them. “Bizarrely endearing widows with unusual ways of speaking.” He swooped in to kiss her. “American women who claim,” he nipped at her chin, “to be from the future, who bewitch me with their flashing blue eyes and swishing derrieres and lovely breasts.” His mouth found hers again, and his tongue traced a path across her upper lip. “Who make me doubt my own sanity. But if this is madness, I want—” He pulled her face toward his again. “—it all.” He took her mouth with his in a fierce duel, lips meshing against lips, tongues exploring, tasting, testing.
The chatter of voices approached, but he ignored it, wanting to lose himself in this woman, to give in to whomever, and whatever, she was, without thought, without remorse, without consequences.
There are always consequences. His mother’s voice rang in his ears. He pulled back from Eliza, fighting to catch his breath. She stared at him with those big, wide, impossibly sapphire eyes, and he wanted to immerse himself in her again, pull her down to the ground, bury himself in her depths.
A man of high station had to watch every step he took, however, lest he be trapped, or entrap others, by his own foolish actions. Panting, he retreated further, running his hands along his waistcoat and through his hair, endeavoring to regain his composure, and an appropriate distance, before anyone found them.
Amara’s tinkling laughter hit him first. “I’m sure they’re not far, Mother,” she said as she entered the maze. “See? Here they are.”
His mother whipped around the corner, all ferociousness and fire.
Chapter 15
“Claremont.” The dowager spat the word, Amara beside her. “This is beyond the pale. A gentleman of your breeding does not dilly-dally with a ... lady ... in the gardens.”
Eliza tensed at the derision in his mother’s voice.
“I am not dilly-dallying with anyone,” Deveric snapped. “I am discussing with our cousin her plans for the future.”
Eliza’s gaze flew to his face, her cheeks draining of blood. Oh, God. Had she pushed him too far just now, in her desperate attempt to ignite a spark between them? Would he send her away?
“I have told her she is, of course, welcome in our household for as long as she wishes to stay. Family provides for family.”
Eliza nearly threw her arms around him. Gratitude churned through her veins, warring with surprise over his passionate response to her. She’d been goading him, after all, testing to see if the attraction was one-sided. His response, both physical and verbal, proved it wasn’t. Thank God, it wasn’t. This is working, Cat.
Though desire alone was not enough to build a strong foundation for a relationship, much less a life-long marriage, Eliza well knew.
But he’d defended her again to his mother, and declared she had a place with him, always. Well, okay, with the family. Whatever. Knowing she wouldn’t end up homeless and destitute on the Regency streets released a torrent of emotions in her—gratitude, peace, hope, and ... longing. For more than just a place with the family. For her place. With him.
The dowager turned her disapproving gaze on Eliza, judgment written across every feature on her face. “Of course,” she ground out. “A Claremont should do no less for his people. Perhaps Mrs. James will prove useful in some way.”
Eliza had to stop herself from moving behind Deveric to use him as a literal shield against his mother. Instead, she drew up her shoulders and faced the matriarch head on. Thank you, Mrs. Roosevelt. “Rest assured, Your Grace, as I said yesterday, I do not wish to impose. Had I anywhere else to go, I would have gone.”
That wasn’t exactly true. This was the only place she wanted to be. Heat radiated from Deveric, who stood close behind her. Too close for propriety, surely, but she didn’t care. She wanted to melt into him. She didn’t know how or where things would go forward from here, but she was grateful at least the man was attracted to her. Yes, she was exactly where she wanted to be. Well, okay, not at this precise moment, not with the fearsome figure in front of her.
“Perhaps I could tutor young Freddy,” Eliza said. What the heck? What do I know about kids? She smoothed her hands nervously over her hips. It’s not like you have many other applicable skills in this period, Lizzie. Nobody needs a doctoral student in literature, much of which hasn’t even been written yet! Her eyes slid to Deveric, who was glaring at his mother, his mouth tight. And maybe win over the son, win over the father?
The Dowager Dragon’s lips turned up, a victorious expression settling on her face. “You wish to ser
ve as Lord Harrington’s governess?” She emphasized the young boy’s name. Clearly, Eliza was not supposed to call the poor kid by a nickname. “Do you have the appropriate qualifications? Or references?”
Deveric interrupted her. “Eliza does not need to work for a position in our household, Mother.”
“Mrs. James,” his mother emphasized, “seems more aware of practical matters than you, dear son. Harrington is five. Ready to begin his education. You said you would find instruction for him once he had recovered, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
“It seems Providence has stepped in,” his mother continued, ignoring his attempts to speak.
Ha, you have no idea, lady.
“We shall discuss this at a later date, in private.” He stared his mother down. She returned his gaze for a few seconds and then nodded in assent. “Mr. Sayers is looking for you to discuss today’s hunt,” she said, before walking away.
Deveric sighed. Amara, who’d remained silent through the whole exchange, patted him on the arm. “You’ve survived.” Bitterness echoed in her voice. “Is this where I admit it’s nice to have someone else be the object of her wrath?”
“No. It isn’t.” He turned to Eliza. “My apologies. Again. I—” He broke off. Lifting his chin, he smoothed his waistcoat. “Amara, would you escort Mrs. James back to the house? I have duties to which I need to attend.”
“Of course.”
“For Pete’s sake, I don’t need someone with me every second.” Eliza crossed her arms, letting out a huff. “I promise I’m not going to steal the silver.” Reading that young women could hardly do anything in this era without someone in attendance, even if only a maid, was a far cry from actually experiencing it. And she was a widow; weren’t they supposed to have more freedom?
Amara snickered.
“I’m not worried about what you’re going to do,” Deveric said as all three exited the maze. “I’m worried about them.” He gestured toward the group of men across the yard.
Arthington tipped his hat in their direction.
Deveric’s lips pressed into a thin line. “On the other hand, all of them shall be hunting with me by my order. A duke’s decree does come in handy sometimes.” He nodded to Eliza and his sister as he made his exit, his eyes lingering on Eliza’s.
She watched him walk off to round up the young bucks. She admired the close fit of his breeches, the way they showed off his thighs. The tall boots he wore somehow enhanced the whole masculine effect. And why were cravats so damn sexy? Butterflies erupted in her stomach.
“Come,” Amara said, linking her arm through Eliza’s, a small smile playing at the edges of her mouth. Had Amara noticed the way she couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s brother?
Amara gestured with her free hand toward the men. “Let us go find something to do that is unlikely to get both of us in trouble. Cards, perhaps?”
Crap. She had noticed.
Was that good thing? Or a very, very bad one?
Deveric couldn’t resist one last look as Eliza and his sister strode off together. He’d definitely have to keep an eye on the two of them. Amara on her own was a spitfire enough; Amara with Eliza had the potential for disaster.
Emerlin approached him, having finally extricated himself from his passel of female admirers. A grin cracked his face as he followed Deveric’s gaze.
“It’s good to see you acting as if you are human.” His mild Irish brogue laced his words, despite the fact he’d lived in England most of his life. Emerlin’s father’s estates were in Ireland, but his English mother had wanted him educated “like a true Englishman,” Em once said, his eyes bitter, “though I’m not.” Deveric wondered if Emerlin held on to the accent just to spite her.
Last night, over several rounds of brandy, Emerlin confessed he’d traveled to Clarehaven with Arthington to escape the long arm of his father, who was pressuring him to marry—and come home to Armagh.
“You certainly aren’t lacking in options,” Arthington had griped. “The ladies prefer your combination of dark hair and light eyes.”
“And you are?” Deveric teased. “You spent time on the balcony with at least two different ladies at the ball.”
“Spying on me, were you?” Arth had retorted. “And I’ll have you know that ... yes, well, that was me.”
Arthington sauntered up now, joining Deveric and Em. The three had been friends since their days at Eton, when Deveric and Arth had pummeled a viscount hounding Emerlin about his Irish heritage. Deveric’s mother had been friends with Arth’s since they’d debuted in the same season, and Deveric viewed him almost as a brother. Not that he didn’t love his own scamp of a brother, Chance, but with eight years separating them, their relationship resembled more one of father-son, especially with Samuel Mattersley having been dead more than seven years. Someone had to rein in the wild younger son.
“You know if Stoneleigh were here, he’d have left none of the women for you,” Deveric said. “So, Arth, it could be worse.”
The earl made up the fourth in their group. His sober demeanor matched Deveric’s, which was one reason they got along so well, and a reason they needed Emerlin and Arth to drag them back to the light when darkness called.
Stoneleigh’s mother had taken ill all of a sudden, though, which was why he was absent. He’d sent a note that he hoped to join the house party before its end, but if not, he’d meet up with them again during the Season.
“Say now, I thought we were to hunt foxes today, but if you’d prefer a different kind of sport,” Arthington quipped as he pivoted to see what, and whom, Deveric and Emerlin were watching.
Deveric yanked on his waistcoat and turned the other direction, heading off toward the stables. “Not at all, my friends,” he called over his shoulder, as the two men raced to keep up with him. “Just ensuring my sister is behaving.”
“Lady Amara?” Arthington said. “Not bloody likely.”
All three laughed.
“Did you enjoy dancing with every debutante who could get her hands on you, Em?” Deveric said, wishing to change the subject from Amara and the delectable Mrs. James.
Emerlin shrugged good-naturedly. “I have to at least pretend I’m looking for a wife. No doubt someone here will report back to my da.”
Deveric chuckled as he opened the stall in which his horse, Lightning, was anxiously pawing the straw. The horse was as ready as he was to get away, to race without care or consideration of anything but the feel of the wind and the lure of the vixen in front of him.
Funny how it was Eliza, not the fox, who came to mind.
As the men lined up, anxiously anticipating the late morning’s adventure, Arthington eased his horse closer to Deveric’s. “You’re not going to get off that easily, you know. Emerlin may be too otherwise occupied to notice—Lady Agnes is remarkably persistent—but I’ve seen the way you look at that new woman. Frankly, it’s a way in which I’ve never seen you look at any woman before.”
Deveric avoided his friend’s eyes. “I don’t know what you are talking about. She is a cousin, a relation, from America, newly arrived and grieving for the loss of her parents. I’m merely helping her adjust.”
Arthington grinned, flashing that snaggletooth that drove women wild. “Methinks he doth protest too much,” was all he said before he kicked his heels into the side of his horse, racing off with the rest of the riders at the sound of the huntsman’s horn.
Deveric leaned over Lightning’s saddle, encouraging him to faster and faster speeds. There was nothing better than this—the thrill of the race, the scenery whipping by in a blur, the air on his cheeks and the power between his legs. Suddenly Eliza’s description of—what had she called them?—cars jumped into his head. It was hard to fathom the speeds of which she spoke. What would it feel like to move along at fifty, sixty, seventy miles per hour? The distances one could cover. He’d wondered before if the steam-powered vehicles he’d seen in London could eventually travel at speeds greater than a horse, but
never would he have believed man would be capable of covering the distance from Winchester to London in an hour or so’s time. It was nearly incomprehensible.
And she had insisted that these autocars—no, wait, automobiles—were covered carriages capable of producing cooled air in the summer and warmed air in the winter. It was all too fantastical to believe, but she had described it in such detail, such familiarity.
He needed to see this tele-phone of which she spoke, the one she claimed carried portraits of these items within it. He’d demand she show it to him this evening, after the hunt. He wanted proof.
She appeared no more than a regular woman, if one with odd speech patterns. No trace of madness was evident in her eyes, her bearing. But if it hadn’t been for his own memories of the ballroom—the wrong ballroom—he’d have dismissed her as a lunatic. For what person could possibly travel through time? And for what purpose? He wasn’t convinced her story about wanting to experience this period was true, or at least that it was the full story. Why was she here? With him? And what did she intend to do?
His horse leapt over a fallen trunk, and Deveric’s body moved agilely in the saddle with it. He gripped the reins, pulling Lightning to the left, where he could hear the hounds howling. They must have caught sight of their quarry. The other riders were behind him, their mounts not as fast as Lightning—and likely not as skilled, Deveric thought with satisfaction.
As host of the hunt, it would be rude for him to capture the prize, so he pulled back. A few seconds later, several gentlemen raced by with calls of “Huzzah!” Arthington looked over his shoulder for a second, taunting, “Will you cede your vixen as easily as you’ve ceded this fox?”
With a snarl, Deveric once again leaned in and let Lightning give chase. Cede his vixen, ha! She wasn’t a vixen. But, he realized with a startling surge of protectiveness, he did rather feel she was his.
Chapter 16
Eliza stood on the edge of the circle of women, listening to their chatter. The other Mattersley sisters weren’t there—Becca had gone riding, Emmeline was walking in the gardens with her friend Lady Penelope, and Grace, unsurprisingly, had opted to stay inside and read, according to Amara.
The Magic of Love Series Page 39
