by Cara Elliott
Lord Haddan. Harry’s hero.
Oh, of all damnable, despicable coincidences, thought Eliza wryly. He was handsome, he was humorous—and for a moment, she had actually been enjoying his company.
“The Haddan?” she inquired, shaking off her unreasonable disappointment. After all, what did it matter who he was? “One of the infamous Hellhounds, who takes such gleeful delight in breaking every rule of Polite Society?”
“I see that my reputation has preceded me,” he said quietly.
Eliza answered by crossing over to the sideboard.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he followed. “Speaking of rules, you ought to counsel your brother to moderate his gambling. He’s a callow country lamb compared to the wolves who play here at the Lair. He’ll soon find himself fleeced to the bone.”
With her nerves already rubbed raw from worry, his words were like a needle pricking against a tender spot.
“Why on earth would you imagine that I have any influence over my brother, sir?” she challenged. “He holds the purse strings and the power to make every decision concerning money and the managing of the family estate. Do you really think he cares a whit for how his sister would like for him to behave?”
She had snapped out in anger and frustration, but the marquess seemed to be giving her question serious consideration. His brow pinched in thought and his gaze dropped to the Turkey carpet, as if seeking an answer in the dusky swirls of color.
Not that she expected one. In her experience, gentlemen simply ignored any problem that was too difficult to deal with.
But again he surprised her.
“It seems that I owe you yet another apology, Lady Brentford. You are right—in retrospect, my question was asinine and absurd.”
“A gentleman admitting to a fault? On second thought, I just might fall into a dead faint after all,” murmured Eliza.
“I have far too many of them to deny,” replied Gryff.
Damn the man for having such a sinfully attractive smile. And those eyes. Eliza had never seen such an intriguing hue of green—it was as if sunlight had melted forest leaves to a molten swirl of emerald and gold.
She quickly looked away. “Actually, it’s ironic. Whatever your faults—and I’m sure they are legion—you are the only one whose words might penetrate Harry’s thick skull.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. The Hero Hellhound. The manly paragon of Devil-May-Care Debauchery.”
Gryff frowned. “I don’t even know the pup.”
“Well, he most certainly knows you.”
“Which in your books is apparently not a mark in my favor.”
“I am sure that the opinion of a country widow is not of paramount importance to you either,” she replied evasively. A plain, impoverished widow, she added to herself.
“I can see that I have sunk beneath reproach,” he said lightly. “Is there nothing I can do to lift myself up into your good graces?”
The question was, she knew, merely rhetorical—a bit of banter meant to evoke a smile, not a real response. Yet, his words seemed to stir to life a strange flutter deep, deep within, and then suddenly a wild, wanton thought seemed to swirl up from nowhere.
Kiss me.
In all her life, Eliza had never experienced a real kiss—that sizzle of wild, wondrous heat described in novels. She had been married off by her father to an older, irascible baron—not for her looks but for her bloodlines—in return for money to fill the family coffers. It had been a cold, loveless match. And now Harry was wheedling to make it happen again.
Sensible, solid, serious—oh, how she was tired of living for everyone else’s expectations. For once—just once—she wanted to do something different.
Something dangerous.
“Kiss me.” Oh, dear God, had she really whispered the words aloud?
“I beg your pardon?” Gryff cocked his head. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
“K-kick my buffle-headed brother in the bum,” she replied, this time putting some force to her feelings. “For a man who reportedly thrashed the stuffing out of Lord Fetters and Lord Bertram in the card room of White’s last month, that shouldn’t be a difficult task.” She brushed a wisp of hair off her cheek. “Perhaps that would knock some sense into him.”
“The newspapers tend to exaggerate these things,” he replied. “In any case, it sounds to me as if Lord Leete needs more than a boot to the bum to steer him off the path of folly.”
“I fear you are right.” Eliza hoped her face wasn’t flaming. Feeling horribly embarrassed at her moment of utter madness, she looked around desperately for some distraction—other than male and female privy parts.
“Oh.” Her eyes fell on a handsome gold frame lying face up on the sideboard. “Oh, my goodness, that looks to be a watercolor by Redouté.”
Gryff backed up a step, allowing her to brush past him.
She smiled as she touched the gilded wood, and he felt the breath catch in his throat.
It was as if the sun had scudded out from behind a scrim of clouds.
Her eyes warmed with a luminous light, and as her lashes lowered, he saw they were not mouse brown, but tipped with gold highlights. A glow seemed to suffuse her skin as well, brightening its lightly bronzed hue and accentuating the sculpted cheekbones that slanted slightly upward. On seeing a faint dappling of freckles on her nose, Gryff decided that she must spend a good deal of time outdoors.
It was a memorable face—not precisely pretty, but striking. Unique. Unlike so many of the London beauties, who all looked as though they had been cut from the same piece of pasteboard.
“D-do you think Miss Hawkins would mind if I shifted the glass just a touch? I should dearly like to see the texture of the paper he uses, and the detail of his brushwork.”
“Go right ahead.” A lady who recognized Redouté’s work? “I am quite sure Sara won’t have any objections.”
Eliza began fumbling with the fastenings of her gloves.
“Here, allow me.” Gryff took one of her hands and carefully worked the tiny buttons free. Turning back the hem, he peeled the soft kidskin from her fingers. They were slim and graceful, yet he sensed a certain strength to them.
“Now the other one,” he demanded, taking hold of it before she could demur. “These feminine items of dress can be cursedly complicated to remove. But as you see, I have some expertise in the matter.”
A deep blush colored her cheeks, turning her skin nearly as red as the painted rose.
This time, after folding back the leather, he stopped. Trouble—trouble in the form of a small peek of smooth bare flesh—was staring him in the face. He inhaled, savoring the sweet, subtle scent of lavender and honeysuckle. The perfume tickled his nostrils, drawing him down, down, down…
“S-sir!” She pulled her wrist away from his lips, but not before he had tasted the beguiling softness of her skin.
“My apologies. That was very ungentlemanly of me,” murmured Gryff, watching her yank off the half-peeled glove and begin fiddling with the frame. Had her whisper been naught but a figment of his fevered imagination? Strangely enough, he didn’t think so.
“Feel free to slap me silly if you—”
Sara’s return cut off the rest of his apology.
“Sorry it took me so long, Lady Brentford.” She hesitated for an instant, fixing them with a quizzical look before adding, “I’ve told yer brother to wait in one of the private chambers at the end of the corridor. My porter will take ye to him.”
“Forgive me, but I’ve shifted your painting’s glass just a little,” stammered Eliza. “I’ve never had the opportunity to see an original Redouté painting, so I wanted to examine his brushwork close up.”
“A what?” asked Sara, craning her neck to see what she was missing.
“The painter,” explained Eliza. “Pierre-Joseph Redouté. He served as court artist to Marie Antoinette.”
“And later worked under the patronage of Empress Josephine,” added Gryff.
Eliza looked at him in surprise. “You are familiar with his work?”
In fact, he was an ardent admirer of the Frenchman’s talents, but he took care to cover his enthusiasm with a casual shrug. Only his fellow Hellhounds Connor Linsley and Cameron Daggett knew of his private passion, and he intended to keep it that way.
“I may be a rake but I’m not a complete savage, Lady Brentford. I do know a little about art.” Returning his attention to Sara, Gryff added, “Redouté is renowned for his botanical drawings, especially roses and lilies.”
“And this is an exquisite example.” Eliza paused and exhaled a small, soulful sigh. “No offense, Miss Hawkins, but I cannot help wishing that it might grace the walls of a different sort of place.”
Sara nodded sagely. “Ye mean because of the secret language of flowers?”
“Yes. The red rose is symbolic of passionate love,” she murmured, tracing a finger along the ruffled lines of the petals. A cynical quirk tugged at her mouth. “I don’t imagine that sentiment would find much favor here.”
“I suppose I should sell it,” said Sara, sounding a little regretful. “And use the money to buy more pictures of naked ladies and gents.”
“I would buy it if I had the blunt,” said Eliza. She gave it one last, longing look, then turned away. “But I don’t.”
Gryff watched wordlessly as she drew on her gloves and flexed her hands, like a pugilist preparing to march into the boxing ring.
“I appreciate your kindness, Miss Hawkins,” went on Eliza. Her chin rose, her spine stiffened. “I hope that I shall never have to trespass on your hospitality again.” Without a glance his way, Eliza hurried through the pool of candlelight and into the shadowed corridor.
“She’s got spirit,” murmured Sara, as the door fell closed. “I wish her good luck with the men in her life—she’s going te need it.”
Gryff found his glass of whisky and swallowed a small sip. But to his dismay, the spirits burned unpleasantly against the memory of the fleeting kiss. Damnation, the night was not going as he had planned. Perhaps his books would be the best company after all.
“Thank you for the whisky, Sara,” he said abruptly, putting down the unfinished drink. “I think I shall be on my way.”
“Leaving already?”
“Yes.” His gaze fell on the painting, and for a heartbeat it seemed as if the delicate petals and arched stamens fluttered a secret signal. “And I’m taking this with me. Add it to my bill, along with the bottle.”
“Yer going te run off with the Redoodie?” Sara gave a little laugh. “Have a care, milord. Aren’t ye afraid that its whispers about true love might plant some strange thoughts in yer head?”
“Moi?” Gryff tucked the frame under his arm. “Sorry to disappoint you, my dear, but there’s a purely practical reason I want this. And it has absolutely nothing to do with love.”
Chapter One
Two months later
The devil take it, stop nattering at me, ’Liza.” His florid face screwing into a scowl, Harry, Lord Leete, slammed the bottle down on the polished table. “Leete Abbey is my estate and I shall run it as I please.”
“That is painfully clear,” said Eliza, trying to keep her temper in check. It was not easy. Four years her junior, Harry had been a thoughtful, sweet-tempered boy, but that had all changed when he had gone up to university. He had left an eager, engaging young man—and had come home an arrogant, selfish ass.
That he had no head for strong spirits only exacerbated the problem. As was amply evident now.
“Glad to see we understand each other.” His supercilious smile showed that the subtle sarcasm had sailed right over his head. “As I said, I’m having a few of my friends come to stay for a few weeks. I expect you to see that everything runs smoothly.” He gave a vague, fluttery wave of his hand. “You know, a fine array of courses at every meal, and all that. Plenty of beefsteaks. Legs of lamb. York ham. Oh, and Bushnell favors pheasant, so be sure the game room is well hung.”
She couldn’t quite believe her ears. Had he not heard a word she had said about the state of their finances? “Shall I have a wheel of green cheese flown down from the Moon as well? Or perhaps a fricassee of unicorn, spiced with silvery stardust.”
That barb finally penetrated the haze of brandy.
“Dash it all, ’Liza, a fellow can’t be a pinchpenny when it comes to entertaining,” Harry turned his head to glower at her, and nearly poked out an eye on the starched tip of his shirtpoint.
Unsure whether to laugh or weep, Eliza set her elbows on the table and took her head in her hands. Otherwise she might have been tempted to hurl the earthenware jug of flowers at his head. Was there a bloom that symbolized “bumbleheaded idiot”?
“Harry,” she said slowly. “Let me try to phrase this simply, so that even your fuzzed wits might understand. Our coffers are nigh on empty. The farmlands are in a state of shambles from neglect. The butcher is threatening to cut off credit, and…” She paused to pick up a stack of bills. “And your tailor and bootmaker are asking for a sum that would likely launch a four-deck ship of the line for His Majesty’s Navy.”
Her brother’s lower lip jutted out in a petulant pout. “A fellow has to cut a fine dash in Town.”
“Yes, well, your ‘dash’ is going to run us straight to the sponging house.”
“Can’t you do something?” he whined. “What about your paintings? I thought you made some blunt illustrating those silly little flower books.”
Eliza looked away. The silly little flower books were, in fact, an impressive set of beautiful quarto-sized books on English wildflowers, written by a noted authority from Merton College.
And yes, she had been paid—quite nicely in fact. But she would be damned if a penny more of her hard-earned savings went to fund Harry’s debaucheries. She was getting close—oh-so close—to saving enough to buy a snug little cottage of her own in the Lake District. A place where she could live independently at last, free from the grasping demands of the men in her life.
Another commission was pending, and if her work was chosen, the dream might actually be within her grasp.
“That money is long gone, Harry.” It wasn’t precisely a lie. She had given it over to the safekeeping of kindly Mr. Martin, a fellow member of the Horticulture Society who was a solicitor in the neighboring town of Harpden.
“What about doing more?” His tone had turned wheedling. “You’re jolly good at it.”
A sigh leaked from her lips. “What about spending less?” Eliza pointed to the shiny gold fobs hanging from his watch chain. “Look at you—you’re like a magpie, snatching at every shiny bauble you see without a care of the consequences.” Under her breath, she could not help but add, “Birdbrain.”
Harry sloshed more port into his glass, spilling half of it over the table.
The rich ruby-red wine formed a sticky pool on the pearwood and was in danger of trickling onto the carpet.
An apt metaphor, thought Eliza, seeing as her brother was bleeding the estate dry.
He guzzled a swallow and fixed her with a red-rimmed stare. “Y’know, our problems would be solved if you would stop being so deucedly stubborn and marry Squire Gates. He’s willing to make a very handsome settlement on me for the honor of having your hand.”
“Our problems?” repeated Eliza.
Harry had the grace to flush.
“Squire Gates is over sixty and confined to a Bath chair with gout,” pointed out Eliza. “If you are so keen on marriage, why don’t you find yourself an heiress?”
“I don’t want to don a legshackle,” he protested. “I want to sow my wild oats.” His fist tightened around his glass. “So this is how you pay me back for taking you in and seeing to all your comforts? Lud, I am ill-used for all my kindnesses. You are cruel and ungrateful.” A sniff. “And exceedingly selfish.”
Eliza drew in a deep breath.
Another gulp of wine and Harry began to wallow ever deeper in self-pity. “I
’m going back to Town for several days, and when I return, my friends will be coming with me. How the devil are we going to get the blunt for my party?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Harry.” Seeing as he was already well into his second bottle, she knew it was useless to keep arguing. She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Sell your hunter instead of your sister.”
Gryff looked up as a silver-tipped walking stick tapped, tapped against the newspaper he was perusing. “Well, well, the Prodigal Hound returns. When did you get back to Town?”
“Last night.” Cameron Daggett, the third member of the Hellhounds, took a seat on the arm of the neighboring reading chair and crossed his long legs. As always, he was a picture of well-tailored elegance—save for a few personal touches that were deliberately designed to tweak the noses of Society’s high sticklers. Today it was a lilac-colored cravat made of gauzy Indian silk, rather than a staid length of starched white linen.
“Where have you been?” asked Gryff.
“Oh, here and there.”
Of the three Hellhounds, Cameron Daggett was perhaps the most enigmatic. And dangerous. A man of razor-toothed wit and deliberately outrageous style, he gave the appearance of viewing life as nothing more than a scathing joke. Gryff was among the few people who could stand up to his bite. But Cameron did not allow anyone, even his two close comrades-in-arms, to know what secrets lay beneath his show of worldly cynicism.
“You might have informed your friends of your travels,” chided Gryff. “Connor and his bride were quite disappointed that you did not come to their estate while Sebastian was visiting from Yorkshire.”
“Woof, woof, woof.” With a silent snapping of his fingers, Cameron mimed a barking dog. “Don’t growl at me. You know I rarely pay attention to such formalities. I was otherwise engaged.”
“I shudder to think of the possibilities.”
“Never mind that,” murmured Cameron, who refused to join any of the fancy gentlemen’s clubs in London. “Good God, this place reminds me of a crypt,” he added, glancing around at the other occupants of the room. “Look at your fellow members—they all appear dead.”
