by Gayle Callen
He deepened his voice, and was surprised when her gaze dropped to his mouth. She might say the kiss meant nothing, but she was lying to herself.
“Should I kiss you again, Elizabeth?”
He reached for her, and she let him draw her against him. He felt her trembling, watched her delicate eyelids close as her head tipped back. She desired him but would not admit it to herself.
Breathlessly, she whispered, “Surely you’ve . . . taught me all I need to know.”
“Oh no, your suitor will expect much more.”
He laughed against her mouth, taking her breath, her tongue, inside him. Kissing her made every thought leave his head but his need for her, his desire that had simmered these last several years. He would enjoy what he could of her, knowing she would have another. He told himself to be content with awakening her passion.
She moaned, and he felt her hands clutching his back, gripping his coat as if her legs would no longer hold her. He spread kisses across her cheek, down her neck, reveling in the scent that was only Elizabeth. Bending her backward over his arm, he suckled her skin, dipping his tongue into the hollow at the base of her throat. He could hear her quick pants, felt her fingers flexing in the folds of his coat. Unable to stop himself, he moved lower, penetrating the silky valley between her breasts with his tongue.
Somehow he put her away from him and watched her sway, dazed, as her wide eyes gaped at him.
“You’re sensitive between your breasts, Elizabeth.”
She flinched.
“Make sure you tell your suitor that. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”
He turned and walked out of the library, barely seeing the stairs he took or remembering to nod to the butler who opened the door. The night air fanned across his face but did not cool his ardor—or his disappointment.
Elizabeth didn’t remember the long walk to her bedroom. She felt like a ghost of herself, and was grateful that she avoided being seen. When at last she looked into her dressing table mirror, she stared at herself, appalled. Her face was flushed, her lips puffy. There was a faint red mark on her chin from Peter’s whiskers. She . . . tasted like him.
What was happening to her? She covered her face with her trembling hands. Surely she wasn’t supposed to feel this way, all confused and overwhelmed and on the verge of tears. She’d thought kisses would be sweet and sedate, showing a depth of love.
Instead her emotions had been searing, violent, shocking with intensity.
Somehow she’d managed to take some control by telling Peter that she could use his kissing lessons. She’d wanted him to know the truth, that she considered herself another man’s future wife.
But he’d kissed her again anyway, making all her certainty about her future go up like smoke.
Moaning, she tried not to shudder. She’d invited this on herself. Everything had begun to fall apart with that foolish painting, leading Thomas to her. She’d fallen back on Peter as a safe choice—her mother had been right about that, she thought bitterly—and then he’d kissed her.
What was she supposed to think?
Of course he had to kiss her—to prove that they had fallen deeply, quickly, in love.
And to her, all he’d proven was that she was not the woman she’d worked so hard to become, the sensible one, unlike her brother, who’d only left his thoughtless, foolish youth behind after tragedy. But what was inside her? How did one learn to temper it with control and good sense?
But she would try. And she would succeed. She knew what she wanted in life: a good, sensible marriage with a man she loved. She wanted nothing to do with this wildness that made her question everything she’d believed about herself.
Yet . . . she dreaded facing Peter Derby again.
* * *
Peter found himself at his club, standing beneath the nude painting of Elizabeth. This was certainly not the way to cool his passion, but he couldn’t help himself. The woman who’d bared her body for a stranger’s canvas had kissed him with innocence, then growing arousal—but not love.
She loved another man.
But he had marked her with his mouth, as if she could be his.
Why was he letting her revelation affect him so? He had a good life, and women when he wanted them. He’d only joined the wager to try to help her, to make her see him as something other than a friend—had kissed her for the same reasons. And her shocked gaze announced his success. He couldn’t expect anything else.
Yet to have her say to his face she would use his methods of seduction on another man—it made him so furious, he was glad he didn’t know the man’s name, didn’t know what he’d do to him out of jealousy.
A servant brought him a brandy and he downed some of it, grateful for the burn in his throat.
He wasn’t going to stop this dance with Elizabeth—he’d promised to help her, and came here tonight to take the next step in discovering her secrets.
The “lessons” would continue. Let her learn how he could make her feel.
His hungry gaze roamed the painting one last time, as if he hadn’t already memorized the pale curves of her breasts—the breasts he’d almost touched tonight—and the dark valley of her thighs.
When he felt that his emotions were sufficiently under his control, he turned and began to circulate among the members who were enjoying themselves with excellent drink and good conversation.
He gave advice on the railways—it was a theme for the gentlemen of his acquaintance lately—debated the horse destined to win at the Ascot, and talked about the newest crop of debutantes. The painting was also still a frequent topic, the identity of the model discussed, but no one seemed to have a clue—which was a relief.
So perhaps that wasn’t a motive in the stalking of Elizabeth by several men of Society.
He let some time pass, watched as others drank more deeply, and listened for Elizabeth’s name. At last he overheard it, and seated himself with three gentlemen, all closer to her age than his own. They laughed with brash arrogance over their conquests of women, not mentioning Elizabeth again until Peter brought her up. He had already realized that once everyone knew of his engagement, they’d never talk about her in front of him again.
Seton and Dekker elbowed each other and guffawed, while the third man, Bowes, only smiled.
“You know her, Derby,” said Dekker, his teeth too big for his smile. “You know what she’s like.”
Peter looked between them, pretending good-natured confusion. “What she’s like? She’s the highest prize of the ton.”
“Always thought she was,” Seton said, shaking his shaggy head. “Or at least that’s how she makes a man feel.”
They shared snickering laughter.
“Maybe she’s not the innocent she appears.” Dekker downed the last of his drink, then leaned forward as if to speak privately, but his drunken voice was still too loud. “I almost got her alone on a terrace a couple days ago, but another man took her away from me. Never thought I’d stand a chance at touching her. Still don’t know if I do, but if she likes me—you never know.”
“Did you hurt her?” Peter asked coolly. It took everything in him not to haul Dekker up by the throat, as he imagined how Elizabeth might feel at being manhandled.
“Hurt her? We were dancing!” Dekker said in confusion. “Even my mother was there—not about to do anything stupid.”
Bowes looked at Peter, narrowing his eyes as if he couldn’t quite see him. “Why do you care, Derby? Or do you think you can have her?”
They looked at each other and shared a laugh, even as they staggered to their feet and went off to join another group.
If Dekker had frightened Elizabeth, the man himself didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. And although Peter spent another hour moving from group to group, bringing up Elizabeth where he could, he learned nothing else.
When he went home that night he found himself pacing his room, unable to sleep at the thought of Elizabeth being hurt because he couldn’t protect her. But whe
n he was finally exhausted, it wasn’t Elizabeth who haunted his night, but Emily Leland, another woman hurt because of him. His dreams were full of rushing waters and her scream.
Peter awoke before dawn, breathing hard, the sheets clinging to his perspiring skin. After Emily, he’d sworn not to involve himself again in something so personal. He’d turned to the sort of women who didn’t demand anything of him but pleasure. And everything had been going well—until Elizabeth had needed to be rescued again.
At breakfast Peter looked at his mother, brother, and sister, who ate as if it were any other day. He was about to change that.
“Mother, I’m getting married,” he said.
She coughed on a piece of toast, and he patted her back, while across the table Mary Anne rolled her eyes. James gave him a scowl, then hid it before their mother could see.
James was an older, darker-haired version of Peter, and they usually got on well together. As the heir, James had received the education and the property, and always felt badly that there was little for his younger brother. Peter had never resented him for something not in his control. Before venturing into the railways, Peter had spent much of his time helping James oversee the family property. He didn’t have as much time for that these days, and James hadn’t seemed to resent his new luck.
But marriage? When their mother had been pressing James for years to find a wife and beget an heir? Peter knew that his brother wasn’t going to take his supposed defection from bachelorhood well.
After several restorative sips of her morning coffee, their mother faced him in shock and delight. “Peter? How can this be? You’ve said nothing to me! I’ve seen you courting no particular young lady.”
“That’s because she’s been there all along,” Mary Anne muttered.
Mrs. Derby looked at her daughter in confusion, then turned to James, who only shrugged his ignorance.
“Mary Anne, dear, what are you saying?” Mrs. Derby demanded.
“Don’t you want to hear it from Peter?” Mary Anne asked, nodding her head toward him.
“Well of course!” Mrs. Derby cried, turning in her chair to face Peter. “If you’ve known the young lady a long time, then surely I do, too.”
“You do, Mother. Elizabeth Cabot has agreed to marry me.”
James’s jaw dropped and he didn’t bother to mask his surprise. Mary Anne simply sighed and shook her head, as if she’d known Peter would make this terrible mistake.
But his mother cried out her delight. “Lady Elizabeth? Surely not . . . Lady Elizabeth?”
She sounded as if he were betrothed to a princess of the realm. Elizabeth was almost that royal. But he understood his mother’s disbelief.
“Yes, Mother, Lady Elizabeth,” he said dryly.
James leaned forward as if he, too, wanted to hear about this miraculous event.
“But . . . but . . .” Mrs. Derby practically sputtered with shock. “Of course we’ve known her and the Cabots for many years, but . . . but . . .”
“She is the daughter of a duke,” James said, his voice laced with both amazement and dismay. “Peter, however did you accomplish such a thing?”
“I have always remained a friend of the family,” Peter said with a shrug. “I never thought to aspire to more. But the last few weeks we’ve been seeing each other at the same dinners and balls, and there’s been something . . . new growing between us. We went for a carriage ride yesterday, and had a wonderful time together. I knew then that I felt more for her than simple friendship.”
It was James’s turn to roll his eyes. “As if we all didn’t know that. I remember your surprised expression at her coming out.”
Peter stared at him. “Really? I was that obvious?”
“To those who know you well,” James answered. “But I never thought . . .” His words died away as he stared again at Peter.
Peter chuckled. “I never thought either. But yesterday I impulsively asked her to marry me, and she agreed.”
As his mother began to cry, his guilt taunted him.
“Oh Peter, I never thought to see you so well settled, so happy.”
It was a shame his mother could only tie happiness with marriage; he was satisfied with his own life.
“He’s not happy yet,” Mary Anne said.
Peter shot her a look, and she folded her arms over her chest and sank into silence.
“We’ll have to put the announcement in the paper,” Mrs. Derby said.
“Of course. I’ll discuss the wording with Elizabeth.” He hadn’t even thought of details like that. And that was an important detail for Elizabeth. She wanted all of Society to know that she was taken—protected. “Her mother is planning an engagement party,” he added.
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Derby breathed. “I can only imagine how splendid that will be.”
“They aren’t gods on Mount Olympus, Mama,” Mary Anne said.
Peter ignored her. “We won’t set a date until her brother returns from Scotland.”
“Oh, of course. You’ll have to discuss the marriage settlement,” she murmured.
James sighed. “You’ll certainly have more to invest.”
Peter nodded and returned to his eggs and toast. But he couldn’t help glancing at his sister. She had some kind of negative fixation on Elizabeth, and it couldn’t be healthy. He would have to bring the two women together regularly—
And that sparked an idea for a way to help Mary Anne and stay near Elizabeth all at the same time.
Chapter 10
Elizabeth had gone to bed without a visit from her mother. She’d been surprised, then relieved, overwhelmed by the events of the day. Perhaps her mother had been as well, since she was still recovering from a recent fever.
But after breakfast, before Elizabeth could escape the house, her mother asked to meet in the morning room. When Elizabeth arrived, the duchess took her arm and drew her to her side so they could sit together on a brocade sofa.
“So,” the duchess began thoughtfully, “you’re betrothed.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Thank you for giving me at least a day to prepare for Peter’s request.”
Elizabeth winced. “It all happened rather quickly, I know.”
Her mother watched her thoughtfully. “Is there a reason it had to happen so quickly?”
Elizabeth’s first jumbled thoughts were of the painting and Thomas and a zealous suitor—and then she realized what her mother meant. “No! Good gracious, no. Peter has always been a gentleman.” Until last night.
Her mother’s smile widened with relief. “I assumed so, but wanted to be certain.” She took a deep breath. “I am not so certain about your brother’s reaction.”
Elizabeth sobered. “I know my marriage was supposed to bring the dukedom powerful connections. I tried to see my suitors with that in mind, but . . .” She let her voice trail off, praying that her mother wasn’t just placating her when she taught her that love mattered above all.
“I cannot complain about the speed with which one falls in love,” the duchess said, a smile on her lips, her eyes focused far away. “When I met your father, I knew almost instantly that I would fall in love with him. I could not believe he felt the same about me, a common girl from another country. But then I imagine Peter understands how I felt.”
“Your story is so romantic,” Elizabeth said with a sigh. “Swept away by love from the moment you met.”
She’d felt that way about William—but what had she felt when Peter kissed her? How could she compare the two men when she’d never been lucky enough to kiss William?
“Christopher will be happier knowing that Peter has become a man of independent wealth.”
“Is money so important, Mama?” Elizabeth asked, surprised.
“No, of course not. But it will be easier for Peter to hold his head up amidst the coming gossip. Men value their pride, you know.”
She did understand that, especially where Thomas was concerned. His pride had been damaged when she’d r
ejected him the first time, and now she believed he was trying to rebuild it however he could.
“Do you know much about Peter’s investments?” the duchess asked.
“Only that it has to do with the railways.”
“Ah, good, then he has not been secretive.”
“Secretive?” she echoed in surprise.
The duchess shook her head. “Lady Rosa said that last autumn, when Matthew returned home and Peter was invited to stay with them, he was . . . not himself.”
“Did she say how?”
Her mother waved a hand. “Only that he seemed distracted, ill at ease—”
“He had been attempting to court Matthew’s wife. I imagine it was very awkward to be at Madingley Court when the couple was newly reunited.”
“True. And from what I understand it was just after that that he began to take an active part in growing his investments. Ignore my concerns, my child. I am simply an old woman who wants to see you happy. Christopher only wants the same. He will not care that Peter is a commoner, since he himself married a journalist!”
Elizabeth smiled, but her thoughts were of Peter’s explanation that he and Susanna had tried to work out their past disagreements last autumn. Had there been something more going on?
At last Elizabeth was anticipating receiving visitors. She would be able to tell any bold men that she was now engaged, and they’d best leave her alone—especially Lord Thomas Wythorne, the smug . . . bounder. His plan to force her to choose him as her husband had failed, thanks to Peter.
Even though she’d looked forward all day to the event, she barely made it home in time. She’d spent much of the day in the offices of one of the charities she supported. She was particularly drawn to a young woman from the country, a respectable girl who was supposed to marry a vicar—until an obsessed young man had taken her away and ruined her name.
The woman had been rather dazed as she talked to Elizabeth—dazed with her good fortune. Thrown out by her family, she’d been desperate enough to look for work in London, and almost ruined for good until the Society for the Rescue of Young Women and Children secured her a sewing position with a modiste. Elizabeth was there to help with the paperwork, to soothe the young women by listening to their stories and offering comfort.
