by Lisa Kleypas
So that was why Marcus had remained a steadfast friend to St. Vincent, Lillian thought. “Did your mother never interfere on her children’s behalf?” she asked.
“No, she was too preoccupied with her own affairs.”
They were both silent for a time. Lady Olivia waited patiently for Lillian to speak, seeming to understand that she was trying to absorb what she had been told. “What a relief it must have been when the old earl passed away,” she murmured.
“Yes. A sad statement of a man’s life, that the world should have been so improved by his absence.”
“He did not succeed in his attempts to make your brother cold and heartless.”
“No, indeed,” Lady Olivia murmured. “I’m glad you can see that, my dear. Marcus has come so far, and yet he is still very much in need of …lightness.”
Rather than ease her curiosity about Marcus, the conversation had only awakened more questions, a deluge of them. However, her acquaintance with Lady Olivia was still too new and untested for her to be certain how far her questions could go before they were gently dismissed. “To your knowledge, my lady,” Lillian finally ventured, “has Lord Westcliff ever seriously considered marrying someone before? I am aware that there once was a woman for whom he had feelings…”
“Oh, that… it was nothing, really. Marcus would have tired of her quickly had Lord St. Vincent not stolen her away. Believe me, had Marcus wished to fight for her, she would have been his for the taking. What he never seemed to understand—what the rest of us saw— was that it was all a ploy on her part to arouse his jealousy, and induce him to marry her. But her plan failed because Marcus wasn’t really interested in her. She was one of a string of women who…well, as you can guess, Marcus has never lacked for female attention. He’s a bit spoiled in that way, having had women practically fall into his arms ever since he came of age.” She threw Lillian a laughing glance. “I’m sure he has found it refreshing to encounter a woman who actually dares to disagree with him.”
“I’m not certain that ‘refreshing’ would be his first choice of words,” Lillian replied wryly. “However, when I don’t like something that he’s done, I do not hesitate to tell him so.”
“Good,” Lady Olivia returned. “That is precisely what my brother needs. There are few women—or men, for that matter—who ever contradict him. He is a strong man who requires an equally strong wife to balance his nature.”
Lillian found herself needlessly smoothing the skirts of her pale green gown as she remarked carefully, “If Lord Westcliff and I did marry …he would face many objections from relatives and friends, wouldn’t he? Especially from the countess.”
“His friends would never dare,” Lady Olivia replied at once. “As for my mother…” She hesitated and then said frankly, “She has already made it clear that she does not approve of you. I doubt she ever will. However, that leaves you in very large company, as she disapproves of nearly everyone. Does it worry you that she opposes the match?”
“It tempts me beyond reason,” Lillian said, causing Lady Olivia to erupt with laughter.
“Oh, I do like you,” she gasped. “You must marry Marcus, as I would love above all else to have you as a sister-in-law.” Sobering, she stared at Lillian with a warm smile. “And I have a selfish reason for hoping that you will accept him. Although Mr. Shaw and I have no immediate plans to move to New York, I know that day will not be long in coming. When that happens, I should be relieved to know that Marcus is married and has someone to care for him, with both his sisters living so far away.” She stood from the bench, straightening her skirts. “The reason I’ve told you all of this is because I wanted you to understand why it is so difficult for Marcus to abandon himself to love. Difficult, but not impossible. My sister and I have finally managed to break free of the past, with the help of our husbands. But Marcus’s chains are the heaviest of all. I know that he is not the easiest man to love. However, if you could bring yourself to meet him halfway …perhaps even a bit more than halfway …I believe you would never have cause to regret it.”
The estate was swarming with industrious servants, who reminded one of bees in a hive as they undertook the complicated chore of packing their masters’ and mistresses’ belongings. The general company would depart the day after tomorrow, though some were already taking their leave. Few were inclined to make an early departure, however, as no one wanted to miss the large farewell ball that would be held on the last evening of the house party.
Lillian was thrown into frequent proximity with her mother, who was supervising (or harassing, as it might more accurately be said) a pair of housemaids in their laborious efforts to fold and pack hundreds of articles into the great leather-bound steamer trunks that had been brought up by the footman. After the stunning turn of events in the past day or two, Lillian fully expected her mother to plot out her every word and gesture in the effort to secure a betrothal with Lord Westcliff. However, Mercedes was surprisingly quiet and indulgent, seeming to choose her words with extreme care whenever she and Lillian spoke. On top of that, she did not mention West-cliff at all.
“What is the matter with her?” Lillian asked Daisy, bewildered by her mother’s docile manner. It was nice not to have to scrap and spar with Mercedes, but at the same time, now was when Lillian would have expected Mercedes to mow her over like a charging horse brigade.
Daisy shrugged and replied puckishly, “One can only assume that since you’ve done the opposite of everything she has advised, and you seem to have brought Lord Westcliff up to scratch, Mother has decided to leave the matter in your hands. I predict that she will turn a deaf ear and a blind eye to anything you do, so long as you manage to keep the earl’s interest.”
“Then…if I steal away to Lord Westcliff’s room later this evening, she won’t object?”
Daisy gave a low laugh. “She would probably help you to sneak up there, if you asked.” She gave Lillian an arch glance. “Just what are you going to do with Lord Westcliff, alone in his room?”
Lillian felt herself flush. “Negotiate.”
“Oh. Is that what you call it?”
Biting back a smile, Lillian narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be saucy, or I won’t tell you the lurid details later.”
“I don’t need to hear them from you,” Daisy said airily. “I’ve been reading the novels that Lady Olivia recommended…and now I daresay I know more than you and Annabelle put together.”
Lillian couldn’t help laughing. “Dear, I’m not certain that those novels are entirely accurate in their depiction of men, or of…of that.”
Daisy frowned. “In what way are they not accurate?”
“Well, there’s not really any sort of …you know, lavender mist and the swooning, and all the flowery speeches.”
Daisy regarded her with sincere disgruntlement. “Not even a little swooning?”
“For heaven’s sake, you wouldn’t want to swoon, or you might miss something.”
“Yes, I would. I should like to be fully conscious for the beginning, and then I should like to swoon through the rest of it.”
Lillian regarded her with startled amusement. “Why?”
“Because it sounds dreadfully uncomfortable. Not to mention revolting.”
“It’s not.”
“Not what? Uncomfortable, or revolting?”
“Neither,” Lillian said in a matter-of-fact tone, though she was struggling not to laugh. “Truly, Daisy. I would tell you if it were otherwise. It’s lovely. It really is.”
Her younger sister contemplated that, and glanced at her skeptically. “If you say so.”
Smiling to herself, Lillian thought about the evening ahead of her, and felt a thrill of eagerness at the prospect of being alone with Marcus. Her conversation in the orangery with Lady Olivia had given her a greater understanding of how remarkable it was that Marcus had let his guard down with her to the extent that he already had.
Perhaps it wasn’t a certainty that their relationship would be filled wit
h turmoil. It took two to argue, after all. It was possible that she could find ways to decide when something was worth fighting over, or when she should simply dismiss it as unimportant. And Marcus had already shown signs of being willing to accommodate her. There had been that apology in the library, for example, when Marcus could have crushed her pride, and had chosen not to. Those were not the actions of an uncompromising man.
If only she were a bit more artful, like Annabelle, Lillian thought that she might have a better chance at managing Marcus. But she had always been too blunt and straightforward to possess any feminine wiles. Ah, well, she thought wryly, I’ve gotten this far without any wiles…I suppose I’ll do fine if I just blunder on ahead the way I’ve been doing.
Idly sorting through some articles on the dresser in the corner, Lillian set aside the necessities that would have to remain unpacked until their departure the day after next. Her silver-backed brush, a rack of pins, a fresh pair of gloves…she paused as her fingers closed around the vial of perfume that Mr. Nettle had given her. “Oh dear,” she murmured, sitting on the spindly velvet-upholstered chair. She stared at the glittering vial that was cradled in her palm. “Daisy …am I obligated to tell the earl that I used a love potion on him?”
Her younger sister seemed appalled by the very idea. “I should say not. What reason would you have to tell him?”
“Honesty?” Lillian suggested.
“Honesty is overrated. As someone once said, ‘Secrecy is the first essential in affairs of the heart.’ ”
“It was the Duc de Richelieu,” said Lillian, who had read the same book of philosophy during their schoolroom lessons. “And the accurate quote is, ‘Secrecy is the first essential in affairs of the State.’ ”
“He was French, though,” Daisy argued. “I’m sure he meant the heart as well.”
Lillian laughed and glanced at her sister affectionately. “Perhaps he did. But I don’t want to keep secrets from Lord Westcliff.”
“Oh, very well. But heed my words—it wouldn’t be a true love affair if you didn’t have a few little secrets.”
Chapter 22
A t a suitably late hour, when some of the guests had retired and others were lingering downstairs in the card room and the billiards room, Lillian crept from her chamber with the intention of meeting Marcus. She tiptoed along the hallway, and stopped short as she saw a man standing against a wall at the juncture of two wide corridors. The man stepped forward, and she immediately recognized him as Marcus’s valet.
“Miss,” he said calmly, “milord bid me to show you the way.”
“I know the way. And he knows that I know the way. What the devil are you doing here?”
“Milord did not wish for you to wander through the house unaccompanied.”
“Naturally,” she said. “I could be accosted by someone. Seduced, even.”
Seemingly inured to sarcasm, when it was perfectly obvious that she was not going to the earl’s room for a chaste visit, the valet turned to lead the way.
Fascinated by his reserve, Lillian couldn’t help asking, “So…is it often that you are required to escort unmarried ladies to Lord Westcliff’s private rooms?”
“No, miss,” came his unflappable reply.
“Would you tell me if it were otherwise?”
“No, miss,” he said in exactly the same tone, and she grinned.
“Is the earl a good master?”
“He is an excellent master, miss.”
“I suppose you would say that even if he was an ogre.”
“No, miss. In that case I would merely say that he was an acceptable master. When I say that he is an excellent master, however, I mean precisely that.”
“Hmm.” Lillian was encouraged by the valet’s words. “Does he talk to his servants? Thank them for doing a good job, that sort of thing?”
“No more than is appropriate, miss.”
“Which is to say never?”
“More accurate would be to say not usually, miss.”
Since the valet seemed disinclined to talk after that, Lillian followed him in silence to Marcus’s room. He accompanied her to the threshold, scratched at the door with the tips of his fingers, and waited for a response from within.
“Why do you do that?” Lillian whispered. “That scratching business. Why don’t you knock?”
“The countess prefers a scratch to a knock, as it is more soothing to her nerves.”
“Does the earl prefer you to scratch at his door?”
“I doubt very much he cares one way or the other, miss.”
Lillian frowned thoughtfully. In the past she had heard other servants scratching their employers’ doors, and it had always struck her American ears as being a bit odd…rather like a dog scuffling to be let in from outside.
The door opened, and Lillian felt a rush of pure gladness at the sight of Marcus’s dark face. His expression was impassive, but his eyes were glowing with warmth. “That will be all,” he said to the valet, staring at Lillian’s face as he reached out to draw her past the threshold.
“Yes, milord.” The valet disappeared with tactful speed.
Closing the door, Marcus stared at Lillian, the spark in his eyes burning brighter, a smile now lurking at the corners of his lips. He looked so handsome, with his austere features lit by the mingled glow of the lamp and the hearth, that a sweet shiver went through her. Rather than his usual tied-and-buttoned attire, he had gone without a coat, and his white shirt was open at the throat, revealing a glimpse of smooth brown skin. She had kissed that triangular hollow at the base of it …she had let her tongue play across it…
Ripping her thoughts from the scalding memory, Lillian glanced away from him. Immediately she felt his lean fingers come up to her hot cheek, guiding her face back to his. The tip of his thumb slid over her chin. “I wanted you today,” he said softly.
Her heart escalated into a rapid thump, and the cheek beneath his caressing fingertips tautened with a smile. “You didn’t so much as glance in my direction even once during supper.”
“I was afraid to.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew that if I did, I wouldn’t be able to keep from making you into my next course.”
Lillian’s lashes lowered as she let him ease her closer, his hand sliding over the length of her spine. Her breasts and waist felt swollen within the insulating grip of her corset, and she suddenly longed to be rid of it. Taking as deep a breath as the stays would allow, she became aware of a sweetly spicy scent in the air.
“What is that?” she murmured, drawing in the fragrance. “Cinnamon and wine…” Turning in the circle of his arms, she looked around the spacious bedroom, past the poster bed to the small table that had been set near the window. There was a covered silver dish on the table, from which a few traces of sweet-scented steam were still visible. Perplexed, she twisted back to look at Marcus.
“Go and find out,” he said.
Curiously Lillian went to investigate. Taking hold of the cover’s handle, which had been wrapped with a linen napkin, she lifted the lid, letting a soft burst of intoxicating fragrance into the air. Momentarily puzzled, Lillian stared at the dish, and then burst out laughing. The white porcelain dish was filled with five perfect pears, all standing on end, their skin gleaming and ruby-red from having been poached in wine. They sat in a pool of clear amber sauce that was redolent of cinnamon and honey.
“Since I couldn’t obtain a pear from a bottle for you,” came Marcus’s voice from behind her, “this was the next best alternative.”
Lillian picked up a spoon and dug into one of the melting-soft pears, lifting it to her lips with relish. The bite of warm, wine-soaked fruit seemed to dissolve in her mouth, the spiced honey sauce causing a tingle in the back of her throat. “Mmmm…” She closed her eyes in ecstasy.
Looking amused, Marcus turned her to face him. His gaze fell to the corner of her lips, where a stray drop of honey sauce glittered. Ducking his head, he kissed and licked away th
e sticky drop, the caress of his mouth causing a new pleasurable ache deep inside her. “Delicious,” he whispered, his lips settling more firmly, until she felt as if her blood were flowing in streams of white-hot sparks. She dared to share the taste of wine and cinnamon with him, tentatively exploring his mouth with her tongue, and his response was so encouraging that she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself closer. He was delicious, the taste of his mouth clean and sweet, the feel of his lean, solid body immeasurably exciting. Her lungs expanded with shaky-hot breaths, restrained by the clench of her corset stays, and she broke the kiss with a gasp.
“I can’t breathe.”
Wordlessly Marcus turned her around and unfastened the gown. Reaching her corset, he untied the laces and loosened them with a series of expert tugs, until the stays expanded and Lillian gulped in relief. “Why did you lace so tightly?” she heard him ask.
“Because the dress wouldn’t fasten otherwise. And because, according to my mother, Englishmen prefer their women to be narrow-waisted.”
Marcus snorted as he eased her back to face him. “Englishmen prefer women to have larger waists in lieu of fainting from lack of oxygen. We’re rather practical that way.” Noticing that the sleeve of her unfastened gown had slipped over her white shoulder, he lowered his mouth to the smooth curve. The silken brush of his lips against her skin caused her to tremble, and she nestled close to him, while sensations wavered inside her like images in sun-warmed water. Blindly she reached up to his hair, her fingers thrilling at the feel of the coarse silken locks. The rhythm of her heart drove free and hard inside her chest, and she moved restlessly in his arms as he kissed his way up to her throat.
“Lillian.” His voice was husky and rueful. “This is too soon. I promised you…” Pausing, he stole a kiss from the tender hollow beneath her ear. “Promised…” he continued doggedly, “that we would negotiate your terms.”
