by Gayle Callen
It took everything in him not to punch the fool’s face. How could Gibson care about money over wonderful, sweet Elizabeth herself?
“You don’t have to openly court her, not yet,” Peter said. “But call on her, offer your congratulations. You decide if she’s happy or not. Spend some time with her at the next Society event.”
“And you won’t mind?”
“She can make her own decisions. I’d rather live with that than know she’s unhappy.”
Gibson studied him. “You’re a rare man, Mr. Derby. There aren’t many who would pass up a place in a duke’s household and the wealth therein.”
Elizabeth mattered more than anything she brought with her.
Elizabeth awoke alone, and found it seemed strange to be that way after an evening of making love with Peter. Her dreams had been filled with languorous caresses, soft kisses, and endearments of love.
And then memories of Peter’s confession, and her realization of the darkness that still ate at his soul.
She wanted to see him, but knew he was determined to go through with her plans as she’d formed them from the beginning—to end their engagement and free her.
She felt unsettled and lost and wished she could speak with someone. But how could she tell Lucy—or God forbid, her mother—what she’d done with Peter? So she’d gone about her day as if it were any other, as if she weren’t slightly sore from the vigorous exercise in bed.
During her at-home hours that afternoon, she was surprised to hear William Gibson announced. There was a time she would have been tongue-tied and giddy at the thought of his attention, but now she realized she was only curious. He’d never visited her alone before—he’d always been dragged by his sister or mother.
Her own mother, who’d been spending time with her in obvious worry, now gave her a look of surprise. “Does this have something to do with Lucy, Elizabeth?”
“I don’t know, Mama. Lucy can usually speak for herself.”
As William walked across the spacious drawing room, a friend of her mother’s followed behind him, and the duchess nodded to William’s bow before going to greet her friend.
“Lady Elizabeth,” William said, bowing over her hand.
“Lord Gibson,” she said, smiling, trying to hide her curiosity even as she curtsied.
She invited him to sit across from her. To her surprise, he studied her as if he’d never seen her before.
“Fine summer weather,” he said.
She blinked at him. “Has the mist stopped, then?”
“Oh. Must not have bothered me.”
“I guess not.”
He drummed his fingers on his knee.
“Did you enjoy the opera last week?” she asked, beginning to realize she might have to come up with topics of conversation.
He shrugged. “The Italian words make it difficult.”
“Did you study Italian at university?”
He shook his head. Then he took a deep breath. “Besides opera, what do you enjoy?”
This was better. “Riding. I have done quite a bit with Mr. Derby’s sister of late.”
“I like horses,” he said, perking up, “especially betting on them. What else do we have in common?”
“Reading?”
He shook his head. “Can’t concentrate. Would rather be outside or doing something.”
Reading was doing something, she thought mildly, but she understood his sentiment. She had always appreciated the fact that he was an outdoorsman. “I have several charities I assist.”
“Good of you. Women should always help.”
She was surprised how difficult it was to find a topic they both enjoyed. He seemed . . . young. Or course, he’d probably always been this way, but she’d never wanted to see it.
Too often, she had to stop herself from comparing him to Peter.
At the prescribed fifteen minutes, he took his leave, bowing over hand, looking quite pleased with himself. He smiled down at her, his eyes focused on her, showing all the interest she’d ever wanted.
And it didn’t matter to her one bit. Her infatuation was long over.
Elizabeth didn’t see Peter until the next afternoon, at a picnic in the gardens at the town house of the Marquess of Cheltenham. Spotting him across the lawn, she caught her breath. This was the first time she’d seen him since they made love. She thought she would feel embarrassed, unsure, but all she felt was a deep, physical longing for him to touch her again.
He stood talking to another man in an animated discussion, using his hands as he argued his point. She thought he looked wonderful, so dear.
Even though she could cheerfully kill him for not coming to visit her the previous night.
People gave her pitying stares or shook their heads, as if the disintegration of her engagement had been so fully expected. Elizabeth only cared about Peter and his feelings for her.
Her sister-in-law, Abigail, had come to be by her side, as if she needed sympathetic company.
“I knew something was wrong,” Abigail whispered, trying to be inconspicuous as she glanced at Peter. “Oh, Elizabeth, this is just dreadful!”
“Please, don’t worry,” Elizabeth said. “I promise everything will work out.”
But it was William who paid the most attention to her. Peter was polite but reserved. She kept telling herself this was all part of the plan, but it suddenly felt so real to her.
After their picnic lunch, William asked her to be his partner in a game of croquet. Abigail rolled her eyes at Elizabeth when he wasn’t looking.
“Go ask Peter to be your partner,” Elizabeth urged. “You can play against us.”
The four of them soon had mallets and wooden balls, and they followed the path of iron hoops that were set up all around the lawn. William was not very competitive. He was more interested in talking about his new railway investments, and she found it distracting. She and Peter had always been single-minded when playing games, and Peter was no different now. He and Abigail took far less shots to hit their balls through the hoops, and more than once he knocked her ball out of the way. She wanted to take William’s mallet and “accidentally” hit him in the ankle with it.
Every time Peter was about to hit, she watched his body, and remembered the way it had moved over her, inside her. Why wasn’t he dragging her behind a tree when he had the chance? Abigail could distract William—and there were so many trees!
Had sex changed everything somehow? Or was Peter still just playing his part in the ending of their engagement?
Peter and Abigail defeated them soundly at croquet, and went on to play the next game against challengers. William excused himself when several young men swore they needed his advice. They all laughed together, walking away. Alone, Elizabeth stood and watched Peter play, her bonnet shielding her eyes, her insides twisted into knots.
“Lady Elizabeth?”
With a start, she turned to see Thomas standing beside her, watching the game. “I didn’t know you were here,” she said.
“I arrived late.”
When he said nothing right away, she glanced at him in curiosity. No subtle threats about her engagement?
Meeting her eyes, he said, “I’d like to apologize for my behavior.”
She gaped at him. That was the last thing she thought she’d ever hear.
He looked down, his mouth grim. “My fury at being rejected was more than I thought I could manage.”
“So you had to punish me,” she said in a low voice.
He glanced at her, his expression lacking even a trace of the amusement she was used to.
“I told myself you were wrong, that our marriage was the perfect match.”
“And what you want, you get.”
He sighed. “I didn’t think about how I was hurting you, and that was deplorable. Perhaps the painting clouded my judgment, which might be understandable to other men,” he added.
She thought he was trying to be a bit lighthearted at the end, but failing miserably.
“You don’t know anything about that painting, or what it means to me,” she said quietly.
“True. But no one will ever hear about it from me. You have my word.”
“What about the man who told you about it?”
With a wince, he said, “There was no other man. I’m the only one who deduced it.”
Stunned, she asked, “But—But why did you say otherwise?”
“Because I wanted you to think you needed my protection. It was base and cruel of me, I know.”
She had worried so much about who knew of the painting that she’d begun to see motives where there were none. Lord Dekker had simply overstepped his bounds trying to be alone with her—not because he thought she was without virtue.
“It had always been easy to have what I wanted,” Thomas continued in a low voice, “and you taught me a lesson I should have understood from the beginning.”
“Very well, Lord Thomas, I can forgive you. God knows, I have my own flaws.”
“And you will be happy with Mr. Derby?” he asked.
To her surprise, he sounded concerned. “I will do my best to see it so,” she said, her low voice full of determination. Her gaze sharpened. “But have you learned your lesson? What if a particular woman rejects you?”
“I assume you mean Miss Derby,” he said dryly. “I understand you have become her confidante.”
That brought a flush of happiness. Had Mary Anne told him so? “I only hope that I have that privilege. But you haven’t answered my question.”
He considered her words a moment. “Miss Derby likes to make sure men know how tough she is on the outside.”
Elizabeth stared at him in surprise at his perceptiveness.
“But she’s fragile underneath,” he continued. “I find that contrast attractive and compelling. But I don’t know if that’s the basis of a relationship. I promise not to deliberately hurt her, but how can I guarantee she won’t be hurt if this does not work out as she wishes?”
“None of us can make such guarantees,” Elizabeth said sadly. She hadn’t intended to hurt Peter either—but her intentions could not excuse her.
“Then you will not forbid our association?” he asked in surprise.
“It is not up to me to forbid it.”
“But your words of caution will be listened to.”
“Not so far,” she said dryly. “But I cannot speak for Peter and his family.”
“Of course not. Mr. Derby has made his views on me quite clear.”
She glanced at him swiftly. “I don’t understand.”
“He did not tell you? We had a rousing fencing match several days ago. I was quite defeated. He made it clear he fought for your honor, and to warn me away from you. Enough chivalry for a textbook on the Middle Ages.”
Soft tenderness swelled within her. “How sweet.”
“I thought you might think so.” His lips twisted with faint sarcasm. “If I continue to court his sister, it will take much to win him over. It is an honorable challenge. Good day, Lady Elizabeth.”
And then he bowed and walked away from her. She gaped after him, strangely pleased that she wasn’t the only one to learn a lesson from this debacle.
She took a deep, easy breath, as if her lungs were free for the first time in weeks. The cloud of Thomas’s threats no longer hung above her, and she trusted that his guilt would keep him silent. The painting could still be a secret shared between Susanna, Rebecca, and herself—and the three men who wagered over it.
She was free of Thomas, free of the need for lies and manipulations. Now she had to make Peter see that she was ready to take the next step—with him. Somehow she had to convince Peter that she trusted him. She wanted to put their foolish decisions behind them, give their relationship a fresh start. She needed to prove her love.
“Elizabeth?” Lucy came hurrying toward her. “Was that Lord Thomas you were just talking to? I’ve seen you with him much lately.”
“We were just passing the time,” she said, smiling.
Lucy took her arm and they walked away from the guests, heading for a gravel path and the shelter of rhododendrons lining it. “I cannot believe I’m saying this, but obviously your plan has been a success.”
“Which plan?” Elizabeth asked wryly.
“The one to make my brother notice you, of course! He even told me he called on you yesterday.”
“He did,” Elizabeth admitted cautiously. She felt a pang of worry—how to tell Lucy that her brother was not the man she was at last in love with? “But, Lucy . . .” She trailed off in dismay.
Lucy studied her face, her expression one of calm understanding. “I was concerned about this.”
“About what?”
“That you and William would have nothing in common. I’m right, aren’t I? I know you both too well.”
“But . . . why did you never tell me?” Elizabeth asked with exasperation.
“Would you have believed me?”
She began to laugh, hugging her friend’s arm close. “Not a bit. I guess I had to learn for myself.”
“So who’s the one person you’ve been able to share everything with, Elizabeth? Tell me the truth.”
“Peter. Oh, Lucy, it’s Peter. But I’ve treated him terribly! And there are things about each other we never knew, and—”
“Is that going to stop you from trying to make things work?”
“No, not at all. Do you think William will be hurt?”
“It’s not as if he’s actively courted you and you rejected him. Once he sees how happy you are with Peter, he’ll understand.”
Elizabeth tried to give a confident smile. When next she was alone with Peter, she would make him understand.
But that night, he still didn’t come to her, leaving her restless and aching, as if her body were no longer her own, but his.
Chapter 23
The next afternoon Mary Anne was surprised to hear that Elizabeth was in their entrance hall, hoping to find Peter. She hurried down the stairs.
“Peter’s not here.” She took Elizabeth’s hand in hers. “I need to talk to you. Come up to my room.”
She saw Elizabeth’s stunned expression, but ignored it as she pulled her along. In her bedroom, she offered Elizabeth a seat before the empty hearth and sat across from her. She saw Elizabeth glance about the room, knew it was rather bare of knickknacks and mementoes for a feminine room, but Mary Anne had never been sentimental.
Slowly, Elizabeth removed her bonnet, her gaze watchful. But Mary Anne found herself hesitating, uncertain of the most tactful way to begin.
“You had something you wished to tell me?” Elizabeth asked.
In a rush, Mary Anne suddenly said, “Lord Thomas invited me to attend Vauxhall Gardens with him tonight.”
And then she winced, anticipating Elizabeth’s shock.
“I’ve never been there before,” she hurried on. “I’ve heard about the Rotunda, where ballets are held, and the long walks lit with globes hung in the trees, and arches spanning them. Is there really a pond with Neptune and eight white sea horses rising from it?”
“There is, but I must caution you that—”
“I would attend masked, of course, and I’d even take a maid. Lord Thomas suggested that, by the way,” she added, needing to prove he had his good points.
“But you would only be attending with him?”
“Oh no! He said several other couples would be attending as a group, to eat in the supper boxes and watch the acrobats. I’ve never seen professional acrobats, only street entertainers.”
“It all sounds very exciting, but you do realize that Lord Thomas is older and far more experienced in such matters than you?”
“I know.” Mary Anne’s fears had plagued her ever since the invitation, but she was so tired of being afraid. For once she needed to feel like a real woman.
“It is very easy to be led astray,” Elizabeth continued. “And Mary Anne, one reckless mistake can haunt your days.”
Mary Anne stared at her, noticing Elizabeth’s direct gaze—and very flushed cheeks. “A reckless mistake?” she asked curiously.
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “I recklessly agreed to something that I now have great cause to regret. I want to discuss it with you, but you must promise to tell no one else—although Peter knows, of course.”
Mary Anne leaned forward in her chair, intrigued, even as she was relieved. She didn’t want to keep secrets from her brother—especially about Elizabeth.
But proper, perfect Lady Elizabeth, doing something reckless? She couldn’t imagine it!
“You know that my cousin, Susanna, is an artist, don’t you?”
Mary Anne nodded.
“A friend of hers was looking for a model, someone he’d never used before. I allowed myself to be talked into participating as a favor.”
Mary Anne blinked in confusion. “It is reckless to pose for a portrait?”
“It is reckless—and scandalous—when one poses . . . in the nude.” Elizabeth groaned and leaned back, eyes closed.
Mary Anne gaped at her, lips opening and closing silently until she could gather her thoughts. “You can’t possibly mean—”
“Oh, I mean it. Nude. But for a scarf, and the scarf covered nothing.”
Mary Anne covered her mouth—but her laughter broke through anyway.
Elizabeth opened one eye and glared at her. “No one was ever supposed to know! It was for a private collection in France.”
“So—So who knows?” Mary Anne sputtered, wiping tears from her eyes.
“The painting is hung here in London.”
Mary Anne gasped. “What happened to the private French collection?”
“The deal came apart. The artist was desperate and had to sell it here—to your brother’s club.”
“So my brother’s seen—”
Elizabeth nodded wearily.
“He knows . . . ?”
Another nod.
“No wonder he’s marrying you.” She held up both hands when Elizabeth stiffened. “It is not fair of me to tease you. You must feel . . . embarrassed?”
“I thought the risk worth it. I wanted to do something I’d never imagined doing. Didn’t you ever just want to take a risk?”
