by Gayle Callen
She told herself it was only natural. At last he knew part of the truth, where William was concerned anyway. Maybe now Peter would understand why she was so disturbed by her unladylike passion for him.
Yet . . . she didn’t want Peter to be upset with her. Why did knowing William’s identity change things?
At their informal family dinner, her relatives teased her about Peter’s absence, and she took it with a smile. She spent an evening in their company, reading the same page of a book over and over again as she deflected their questions about shopping for a wedding gown and where she and Peter would eventually live.
At last, claiming a headache—but really simply tired of the stress—she retreated to her bedroom after sending word to the servants that she’d like a bath sent up.
If only she were the duchess, she grumbled good-naturedly to herself. Abigail and Christopher shared a newly installed bathtub.
Her bedroom was a refuge of peace for her. Several candles gave the darkness a cheerful glow. Decorated in pale blue and muted white, its simple elegance usually soothed her. She’d picked out the paintings herself, scenes of the countryside to relax her when the city’s bustle was overwhelming.
She walked to her dressing table and stared into the mirror, wondering if she recognized herself anymore. Reaching behind her neck, she unfastened her necklace and placed it on the table.
To her surprise, she heard movement within her bathroom. “Teresa?” she called to her maid. “That was quick.”
The door opened, and a man peered out at her.
“Peter!” She gasped, even as she caught her bedpost for support.
Chapter 17
What are you doing in my bathroom?” Elizabeth demanded.
“Hiding in case you were one of the servants,” Peter said.
She rolled her eyes, even as he casually walked toward her. “I mean, what are you doing in my rooms at all?”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been here,” he mused, passing by her so closely that their shoulders brushed. He came to a stop by the four-poster, then leveled her with another intimate look. “New bed?”
She felt her face grow hot. Once again Peter had manipulated them to be alone, and now there was a great big bed between them.
“You were last here when I was ten years old,” she said between gritted teeth.
“I believe I saw you from the garden then, as you climbed down the balcony on knotted sheets. Attempting to visit a friend, I think.”
With a wince, she said, “That was a long time ago. I have an adult bed now.”
He laughed softly. “I like the sound of that.”
He seemed so . . . comfortable, so at ease in her bedroom, as if he’d had much practice. He’d admitted his dalliance with women, and for just a moment she wondered if he considered this just another dalliance. It seemed like life and death to her, but perhaps she only amused him.
No, she told herself, that couldn’t be. True, Peter had changed for a reason she had yet to discover, but he hadn’t become a shallow man.
She felt like stamping her feet in frustration, but restrained herself. “I’ll ask one more time—what are you doing here? And how did you get in without anyone seeing you? Please tell me no one saw you,” she added with worry.
“I came in through the window just like you once did.”
“Peter!”
“No one saw me, of course. I’m wearing dark clothing. Although it is difficult to climb while wearing a fashionable coat. Pulls at the shoulders.”
She felt like stalking around the bed and strangling him. “You forgot the most important question—why!”
He took his time, looking at the items on her bed table, from the book she’d been reading to the glass globe Christopher had brought her from Spain, where he and Abigail had spent their honeymoon. And then Peter lifted something from the back of the table. She winced when she saw it.
“I gave you this,” he said in surprise.
“It’s a birdhouse, Peter. I made it when I was eleven.”
“No, now I remember. I helped you make it,” he countered. Then he slowly smiled. “You kept it.”
She looked guiltily at the little wooden birdhouse, hammered crudely together. She’d put a fake little bird at the front, and attached silk flowers to one side, as if it nestled in a flowering tree. The colors had faded and one of the bird wings had been damaged, but . . . “I thought it was sweet. And I liked that I’d done something little girls didn’t normally do.”
“I’m touched,” he said, hand to his chest, eyes so sincere.
She burst out laughing, then hushed herself. “Stop that! Puppy dog eyes.”
He grinned.
“Don’t become full of yourself. I was remembering my own accomplishment. I’d totally forgotten it had anything to do with you.”
His smile faded until only a twinkle shimmered in his blue eyes as he began to walk toward her.
She backed up. “Stop it! Oh, very well, I remember your part in it now!” She told herself she was furious and exasperated with him, but in truth there was a rising excitement at what he’d risked to be here tonight.
She looked at him differently now, too. Her mouth went dry as he stopped just before her. She had to look up to see his face, and it made her feel strangely small and delicate.
“Your memory is conveniently flawed at times,” he said softly.
He reached to tuck a curl behind her ear, and a shiver started there and worked its way down her body.
“What do you mean?” she demanded, trying to sound strict instead of breathless.
“You seem to have forgotten another reason we’re connected. Remember the painting?”
The dark night in his carriage flashed back into her mind, where she’d been stretched out almost completely naked across cool leather, while he’d posed her like that painting. Though she’d been overwrought at the time, now she remembered the hunger and admiration in his eyes—and he wore the same look now.
She backed up another step, and found herself against the shelves she used for her books. “What about the painting?” She forced exasperation into her voice.
“Tonight is more about the wager,” he said, reaching out again.
She tensed, but he reached behind her and picked up a small decorated box from a shelf, shook it, then held it away from her when she tried to take it.
“You don’t want me to see this?” he asked.
“Look if you must. The ribbons will surely fascinate you.”
He opened the box and poked through it, lifting the ribbons to look beneath.
“What do my ribbons have to do with anything?” she demanded. “And you’d best be quick, for the servants are bringing my bathwater any moment.”
He closed the box. “It’s what may be hidden beneath your ribbons that concerns me.”
“Hidden? I have nothing to hide—” She broke off, realizing that was patently untrue.
“You have so much to hide now. You’ve made it all so complicated. So I’m going back to the beginning, to what led you to feel you could ask me to lie for you. Because, of course, you had something you knew I wanted.”
She bit her lip, and without volition her gaze dropped to his mouth.
“Something else I wanted,” he amended, his voice growing husky.
They looked into each other’s eyes a long moment, and she held her breath when he set the box on the shelf behind her. His fingers brushed her shoulder and slid to the base of her neck.
“The diamond pendant, Elizabeth,” he murmured.
She blinked at him. “What . . . ?”
“The one you wore in the painting. If I find it, it will help me prove you’re the model. And then I’ll win.”
His fingers lingered at her throat, dipping into the hollow, brushing gently over her skin. It made her think too much of his mouth pressed there—his mouth pressed ever farther below.
She pushed against his chest, and although he briefly resisted, letting
her know she couldn’t overpower him, he stepped aside and allowed her to escape.
Taking a deep breath, she turned back to face him. “My cousins and I share our jewelry, including that piece. You won’t find it here. One of them took it on her journey.”
“So you say. But if you don’t let me search now, I’ll simply come back.”
He turned back to the shelves and began to look behind each book. She felt invaded, just as he’d invaded every part of her life since that night she’d stolen into his club.
She grabbed his arm, and he caught her against him, holding her immobile while he continued to lift her books. His body was warm and strong, but she had to ignore that. She was about to give him a swift kick when they both froze at a scratching on the door.
“That’s Teresa!” she whispered in triumph.
“Should I find a way to explain myself?”
“Get out on that balcony and go away!”
To her surprise, he crossed the room, slipped between the draperies covering the French doors, and seemed to vanish.
That was too easy.
With no other choice, she let Teresa and the parade of menservants in with their pails of hot water. When the men had gone, she could not refuse Teresa’s offer to unhook her gown, for the maid would wonder how else she would be able to bathe.
She took her dressing gown into the bathroom and had Teresa unhook her gown there. The girl kept giving her strange looks, for there wasn’t as much room, but she asked no questions. When she was wearing only her chemise and undergarments, she pretended she had to make a note of something before bathing and dismissed Teresa for the night. She couldn’t very well undress until she was certain Peter had gone.
She wrapped her dressing gown around her and belted it securely. Then she went back into her now deserted bedroom. Though she heard no sound from the balcony, she pulled aside the draperies and found him standing out in the darkness, watching her.
Though she fumbled to close the door, he slipped by her. She tried to put herself between him and her dressing table, knowing he would next search her jewelry box, but instead he went to the bathroom.
“What are you doing now?” she cried softly.
He’d already taken off his coat and was standing over the tub.
Her mouth fell open but she couldn’t even get words of protest out. He could not possibly think . . . would not dare . . .
He rolled up his sleeves. “I’m testing your bathwater.”
Sinking onto a nearby stool, she started to laugh. Peter was standing in her bathroom, sleeves rolled up above his elbows so he wouldn’t get wet as he leaned over her tub. It was something she’d never imagined in all of her life.
But then everything lately fell into that category.
“And how does my lady like the temperature of her bath?” he asked, trailing his hand in the water. “Too hot, I think. I’ll add more cold.”
He reached for the bucket, which was near the candelabrum that lit the room. The light shone down on his arm—and she saw a scar just above his elbow.
“Peter, what’s that?” she asked, coming to her feet.
He straightened. “A bucket.”
She touched the warm skin of his arm, felt the way he stiffened. Memories of their kisses surfaced to distract her, but she resisted. Instead she lifted his arm and pushed up his folded shirt. There was a scar like a ragged hole in his upper arm.
“It’s nothing, Elizabeth,” he said, pulling away.
But she’d already felt the far side of the arm, and the identical mark on the opposite side. “It’s a bullet hole,” she breathed. “You were shot!”
A jealous husband, perhaps?
“Every man has a foolish hunting accident,” he said dismissively. He picked up the bucket again. “You were about to tell me how you liked your bath?”
“Peter, why didn’t I hear about this? It makes no sense!”
“You don’t know everything about me,” he said dryly, setting the bucket down again. “And if you don’t want my help, I’ll simply have to go back to uncovering the diamond. Perhaps Susanna or Rebecca left it behind. I’ll go search their rooms.”
He tried to go around her, but she blocked him with her body. When he didn’t stop, they came flush against each other. He caught her so she wouldn’t fall. She knew right away by the way his eyes narrowed that he realized how little clothing she really wore.
“Do you think to distract me?” he asked softly, his face just above hers, the candle behind him shadowing his face in darkness.
“I think I can distract you whenever I want. You’ve already proven that.” The words came out of her without plan or thought—a grown-up challenge, unlike the rash escapades of her youth.
She was so close she saw his eyes darken.
“I don’t believe you,” he said hoarsely.
She slid her hand to the back of his head and pulled him down to kiss her. It was hot and fierce, open-mouthed with hunger on both their parts. She was breathing heavily when she broke away to stare up at him.
“So who’s distracting who?” she asked. He didn’t want to talk about his scars, and she didn’t want him to search for the diamond.
His smile was slow and taunting. She’d never thought to see such a smile on Peter before. A wicked part of her liked it. She wasn’t the only one hiding things about herself.
“Why is it so easy to kiss you?” she asked wistfully.
“Because you like it. And I have a talent.”
He kissed her again, sweeping into her mouth with his tongue, pulling her harder against him. Wearing so little clothing, she too easily felt the long ridge of his arousal pressing into her stomach. He wanted her. She should feel worried, but this was far too exhilarating.
She broke the kiss but kept her face lifted to his. Their foreheads brushed as they looked into each other’s eyes.
“I don’t want to like this,” she whispered. It was dangerous and reckless, all things she was trying to disprove about herself.
His hands gently swept up from her shoulders to cup her cheeks. He kissed her again, slowly, gently, too sweetly. It made something ache inside her. And then he set her away from him.
She couldn’t give him a reason to come back. It was too dangerous to her peace of mind. “Let me prove to you I don’t have the diamond.” She brought him her jewelry box and opened it, pushing aside various necklaces and bracelets so he could see everything. “I didn’t know you were coming, so I wouldn’t have hidden it somewhere else. You made a risky climb for nothing.”
“Hardly nothing,” he said, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek.
She went still at the touch.
He picked up his coat, went through the draperies and out into the night. She had a sudden urge to run to the balcony and peer over the balustrade, watching to make certain he climbed down safely.
Instead, she stood in the center of the room and hugged herself. Once again he’d been evasive about his past. She’d once foolishly assumed she knew everything about him.
What was he keeping from her?
Peter prowled the club late into the night, drinking too much, playing too many card games—and winning, something he’d proven good at.
William Gibson wouldn’t leave him alone, and that made Peter drink even more. Gibson was like a young pup who’d found his new best friend, happily offering drinks and trying to discuss the best way to find a mistress.
Not a wife—not Elizabeth.
Gibson might as well have been wagging a tail.
Peter used the opportunity to study the reaction of other men in the saloon. Gibson was fondly tolerated; he amused most, made some of the older gentlemen shake their heads and mumble that he needed to grow up.
Elizabeth wanted Gibson to grow up, too, but Gibson wasn’t ready for it. He was enamored with the excitement of the railroads, asking if Peter had watched them use an electric telegraph, and how many shares he should buy to have a say in the running of the company.
But he went home that night even more determined to find a way to prove to Elizabeth that Gibson couldn’t be what she really wanted.
Falling asleep proved difficult, and it felt like the sky was already beginning to lighten when a restless slumber took him away.
And the dreams started again with the gunshot, the one that made him realize the terrible error he’d really made, that his chance to make things right might be slipping away. He kept running, unable to get to her, the bridge where she was in danger never coming any closer.
He woke even more exhausted than when he’d gone to bed.
If it was just a misjudgment on his part, why couldn’t he tell Elizabeth about it? And why did his worry about the danger stalking Elizabeth manifest itself in memories he refused to confide in her?
Chapter 18
I think you picked out a lovely ring for Peter’s engagement gift,” the dowager duchess said to Elizabeth two nights later as they waited in the drawing room for the first guest to arrive for the engagement party.
She smiled up at her mother. If the duchess had ever suffered from a language barrier, it was not in reading her children’s expressions.
“Elizabeth?” She spoke the name with a tinge of worry.
Elizabeth forced her smile to be light and chiding. “Now, Mama, don’t say my name like that. I’m simply nervous. I’m about to be a bride—isn’t that natural? My whole life will soon change in a way I’ve only imagined.”
“You know you can talk to me about anything,” the duchess said, caressing her cheek.
No, Mama, I can’t. You can’t know the truth about me, the lengths I’ll go to—
She stopped her thoughts before they could go further, before tears stung her eyes.
And then the butler announced Peter, and she gave her “fiancé” a relieved smile. He came across the room, dressed in handsome evening clothes that set off his sandy brown hair and light eyes. She’d thought him boyishly handsome when she was younger, but maturity and confidence had only added to his good looks. His smile didn’t falter, but she saw him glance at her mother, then back at her. With just a quirk of his eyebrow, Elizabeth understood his question: What was wrong? He could read her so well.
