by Cara Elliott
Augustina swore under her breath. “The bastard.”
The oath made Eliza feel a tad more cheerful. Brighton had struck her as a thoroughly dirty dish during the times he had visited the Abbey. That he and the odious Mr. Pearce were cousins only confirmed her intuitive reaction.
“The bastard,” she echoed, finding that saying it aloud helped loosen the knot in her chest.
“Come, let us continue this discussion outdoors, where the breeze will dispel the noxious fumes formed by mention of that smarmy man’s name.” Augustina rose and began to gather up the plates. “I think better when I am wielding my pruning shears.” Eyes narrowing to a martial squint, she added, “Never fear, we’ll figure out what to do.”
Chapter Six
A bump of the wheels jolted Gryff’s attention back to the road. “Damnation,” he growled, fisting the reins and guiding the horses through a tight bend. Despite trying to set his emotions on a straight line, he found his mood veering back and forth between self-loathing and self-serving excuses.
“For God’s sake, I didn’t despoil her innocence,” he muttered, playing the Devil’s Advocate. “She said herself that she had seen a penis before.”
Though her late husband had obviously not been very skilled in its use.
“That’s beside the point.” The snide observation prompted a snappish reply from his Better Half. “Your behavior was unworthy of a gentleman.”
A pause. “Who said I was a gentleman?”
The horses snorted and suddenly shied away from an overhanging branch, nearly knocking him off his perch.
“I’ve never claimed to be a saint, but that does not mean I have sunk to the depths of utter depravity.” The dialogue with his inner demon continued. “Without some code of honor, a man is no better than a slimy earthworm who dwells in the dank, dark dirt.”
The Devil had no clever retort.
“So if I wish to hold my head out of the mud, honor demands that I face Lady Brentford and offer my apologies, instead of crawling back to Town.”
Gryff listened for any rebuttal, but heard only the whistle of the wind. Swerving onto the grassy verge, he turned the phaeton around and flicked his whip over the heads of his startled pair of grays.
“Yes, yes, I know you fine fellows are confused,” he called, settling their skittish trot. “That makes three of us.”
An hour later, Gryff rolled into Harpden, where a few quick questions at one of the local shops elicited directions to a small cottage on the outskirts of town. Tying his team in the shade of a beech tree, he unlatched the wooden gate and, mustering his resolve, headed straight for the front door. It wasn’t as if he was going to face a firing squad—though the lady might be tempted to put a bullet through his ballocks.
Several knocks brought no response, so he stepped back to see if he could spot any movement through the upper windows. After coming all this way, he was loath to leave without speaking to Lady Brentford.
Meow.
The muffled sound seemed to be coming from behind the shutter of the attic dormer. A marmalade paw poked out from between the wooden slats.
Meow, meow.
“Why is it that felines choose to get themselves into trouble when I am near?” he grumbled. Another glance up showed that the heavy iron hinge holding the shutter in place had loosened and was wedged in the thatch.
The kitten’s cries were becoming fainter.
“Oh, blast.” Tugging off his coat and waistcoat, Gryff found a handhold on the age-blackened timbers and started to climb.
Charming as the snug little cottage appeared from afar, its weathered little quirks of character were not conducive to a quick ascent. His highly polished Hessians scrabbled over the rough-textured stucco, leaving streaks of whitewash on the dark leather, and the finespun linen of his shirt snagged in the thorns of wild roses, tearing a rent in the sleeve. Prescott would likely burst into tears on seeing the damage—for all his flexibility in other things, the valet took matters of wardrobe to heart.
Soot smudged his breeches as Gryff edged around the chimney pot and caught tentative hold of the dormer shutter.
“Ouch!” he muttered as his scraped fingers brushed against the rough straw of the roofing. “You had better appreciate this more than the other dratted cat did,” he growled. “Else I might feed you to the chimney storks.”
The kitten hissed as Gryff gently freed its tail from the wooden trap, but instead of darting away, it pawed free the fastenings of his shirt and climbed inside.
“Oh, now I am supposed to serve as your horse and carriage?” he murmured, his lips tipping up as the soft fur tickled against his chest. “Who do you think you are—the Prince Regent?”
Meow.
“The Sovereign of Scrawny Runts?”
At first Gryff heard only a loud purring, but a moment later he was suddenly aware of voices. Agitated feminine voices.
A rock sailed by his ear.
“You think to rob my house, thief!” The next missile plunked him on the shoulder. “Think again!”
“Truce!” Seeing the silver-haired spitfire about to wind up for another throw, Gryff waved a white sleeve in surrender. “I assure you my intentions are naught but honorable, madam!”
She lowered her arm. “Then what are you doing on my roof?”
Gryff was about to answer when a second female emerged from the shrubbery. As she tipped up her chin to meet his gaze, he saw that her cheeks went very pale, and then very pink. The color reminded him of sun-ripening peaches.
“I think he was rescuing Mouse,” said Eliza to her companion.
“Actually I was rescuing a cat.”
“Mouse is a cat,” replied Eliza.
“Ah. I should have guessed.”
“Do you know this intruder, my dear?” asked his assailant.
“Yes,” said Eliza flatly. “Gussie, allow me to present the Marquess of Haddan. I think I can safely say he’s not out to purloin your silver.” Looking back at him, she continued. “Lord Haddan, this is Miss Augustina Haverstick.”
“My apologies, young man,” said Augustina. “However, if you had announced yourself properly, I would not have been forced to defend my property.”
“My fault entirely,” he said dryly. “Be that as it may, while I am up here…have you a hammer?”
“A hammer?” Eliza fixed him with a wary squint. “What for?”
“The shutter’s hinge has come loose from the window frame. If you hand me a hammer, I shall renail it.”
“Oh, Mr. Reading has been promising to fix it for an age, but he’s not yet had time.” Augustina sighed. “It bangs loudly enough to wake the dead when the west wind blows.”
“I shall be happy to serve as a surrogate to Mr. Reading.”
“You know how to fix a shutter?” demanded Eliza.
“I know how to do a great many things, including wield a hammer,” drawled Gryff, taking ungentlemanly delight in watching her face turn a luscious shade of strawberry red. “Pounding in a few loose nails is a simple task.”
“Don’t move a muscle, milord,” piped up Augustina. “I shall be right back.”
Eliza’s eyes widened in alarm. “I’ll fetch it—,” she began, but her friend had already disappeared around the corner of the cottage.
“Miss Haverstick is remarkably spry,” he remarked, rubbing at his shoulder.
The attempt at humor didn’t provoke a smile. As her lashes lowered, and her lips pinched to a crooked line, he, too, suddenly felt a little awkward. “I apologize for intruding without warning, but—”
“But why are you here?” she blurted out.
A good question. And one not easily answered.
He was rescued by the cat. A paw poked out from inside his shirt, followed by a tiny, tufted ear.
“Sorry. I hope you have not suffered further injury to your person,” muttered Eliza. “Mouse has a habit of getting into mischief.”
“Cats have a habit of getting into trouble.” He had meant
it innocently, but the comment sparked a fresh flare of embarrassment.
“Lord Haddan, I am aware that my…actions of last night must have led you to believe that I—”
“I found it!” called Augustina, raising the hammer aloft as she trotted through the opening in the privet hedge. “Took me a moment to recall where I had put it.”
Eliza shot a scowl at her friend, which the spinster cheerfully ignored.
“Here you are, young man,” went on Augustina, blithely handing the tool up to him.
Extracting the ball of fur from inside his shirt, Gryff held out the kitten in exchange. “Mouse would probably prefer not to return to the scene of the crime.” He heard a sharp intake of breath from Eliza. “Not,” he added softly, “that he should feel any remorse about being adventurous.”
“Thank you.” Eliza snatched the kitten from his hands and stepped back.
Taking the hammer, Gryff scrambled back up to the dormer and made quick work of refastening the shutter in its proper place. Seeing that several pieces of the windowframe were loose, he called, “Have you some extra nails, Miss Haverstick?”
“Yes!” came the reedy answer.
“Perhaps Lady Brentford could climb up the stairs to the attic and pass them out to me.” She would likely resent the manipulation, but it seemed the best way of getting a private word with her.
A few minutes later, the mullioned window swung open with some force. “That…” A small canvas sack sailed into his lap. “…was a dirty trick.”
“If you are truly angry, you can go ahead and cosh me on the head with the hammer.”
Eliza looked out from the shadows. “Fix the frame first.”
He laughed. “Very practical.” Shaking a few nails from the sack, he stuck them in his mouth and set to work.
“I am practical,” she said after a hitch of hesitation. “Exceedingly practical. Most of the time, that is.”
“Could you hold this strip in place?” he mumbled around the nails.
Expelling a little whoosh of air, Eliza leaned out of the opening to do as he asked. Her scent—that sweetly spicy blend of verbena and cloves—tickled at his nostrils, stirring an immediate, primitive response.
He shifted slightly to hide the bulge in his breeches. “Thank you, that’s it…now just a little higher.”
Wiggling around, she stretched her arm higher.
Oh, I am evil. Gryff shimmied closer, his shoulder brushing up against her breasts. Evil.
“What are you waiting for? Gideon’s trumpet blast to signal the Resurrection?”
“It’s important…” Tap, tap. “To choose…” Tap, tap. “The right spot…” Tap, tap. “Else the wood might split.” Gryff took another nail from his mouth. “You can let go now.”
She leaned back and set her hands on the sill. The weathered wood framed a charming picture. Sunlight painted her features with a soft, shimmering glow. Glimmers of gold gilded her lashes and the curls that had come loose and now danced in the breeze.
Gryff smiled. She did not smile back.
“Lord Haddan—”
“My name is Gryffin. Or Gryff for short.”
“And it would be most improper for me to call you by either,” she snapped. A sigh followed, and then a rueful quirk pulled at her mouth. “Not that I have any right to speak of propriety after last night. I—”
“That depends on whose definition of propriety one chooses to recognize,” pointed out Gryff.
“Stop interrupting me, sir. It’s difficult enough trying to apologize for my wanton behavior, without having you prolong the agony.”
He handed her the hammer. “Are you saying that you regretted the interlude?”
Her mouth went through a series of strange little contortions, making it impossible to tell whether the jumbled sounds meant “yes” or “no.”
“If by ‘wanton,’ you mean something sordid or squalid, I beg to disagree,” said Gryff.
“I behaved like a strumpet. A shameless hussy.” Eliza looked down at her hands, which were gripped so tightly around the hammer’s handle that her knuckles had gone white. “I…am usually so practical and level-headed.” Her expression screwed to a look of slightly dazed disbelief. “I am n-not in the habit of shedding every scrap of m-morality along with m-my clothing.”
“There’s nothing shameful about having a passionate nature, Lady Brentford.” He reached out and gently tipped up her chin. “We are two sensible adults who decided to embrace our mutual attraction. There is really nothing fundamentally wrong with that. In fact, I thought that what happened between us was quite wonderful.”
Eliza gave a small laugh, though her eyes betrayed a suspicious glitter. “From what I have heard, you find embracing a mutual attraction quite wonderful with anyone who wears skirts. So I won’t take it personally.”
The remark rendered him momentarily mute. She was right—and yet utterly wrong. Making love to her had been different. Wildly, wonderfully different, though how or why was something that defied any attempt to capture it in words.
“Well, you should.” He touched the corner of her mouth and slowly traced the curve of her lower lip. So sweetly, sweetly lush. So perfectly, perfectly pink. And the slight tremor beneath his fingertip made him ache to still her quivering doubts. “Because at this moment I want nothing more than to lean in and kiss you witless.”
She recoiled, confusion coloring her face. “R-really, sir, you must stop teasing me with your silly flirtations.” Edging back, she retreated deeper into the shadows, until her features were naught but a blur of grays. “If you have finished here, Gussie wishes to serve you tea and pastries in the kitchen. Her walnut shortbread is a special treat.”
“How can I resist such a tempting offer? I’ll be down in a moment.”
“Delicious, Miss Haverstick.” Sparkles of sugar danced in the slanting sunlight as Gryff dusted his hands. “I’ve never tasted such sublime shortbread.”
Good God, was Gussie actually simpering?
Eliza stirred another spoonful of honey into her tea. The man could probably charm the scales off of Satan if he so chose. A fact she would do well to remember. The devilish desires stirring inside her must stay smoldering in the deepest, darkest recesses of her being. It was too dangerous to let them see the light of day.
Too wicked to feed their flames with secret fantasies.
“Do help yourself to another piece, Lord Haddan,” said Augustina, pushing the plate across the table. “It’s nice to see a man who has a healthy appetite for sweets.”
Caught in mid-swallow, Eliza let out a loud sputter. “Sorry,” she apologized, clearing her throat with a quick cough. “It must have been a trifle too hot.”
Gryff looked at her with a lazy, lidded gaze and smiled, prompting her stomach to do a series of herky-jerky flip-flops against her ribs. “Would you like to share a bite?”
“Thank you but I’ve had enough,” she said. “Too many of Gussie’s rich butter and sugar treats will make me fat as a Strasbourg goose.”
He ran his gaze slowly along the length of her body. “Your figure looks perfectly shaped to me, Lady Brentford.”
“And no doubt you are an expert on the female form,” she said under her breath.
Augustina elbowed her in the ribs as she reached for the cream pitcher. “More tea, Lord Haddan? Or perhaps you would like to sample a slice of strawberry tart.”
“I’m very fond of tarts…”
Eliza found herself blushing furiously.
“But alas, I, too, had better watch my figure.”
Augustina eyed his tapered waist and flat stomach, which showed indecently well through the light-as-a-feather weave of his shirt, and let out a low snort. “I daresay you have plenty of others watching it closely, milord.”
His eyes lit with unholy amusement. “Why, Miss Haverstick, you are making me blush.”
Rising abruptly, Eliza began to gather up the empty plates. “I’ll clear the table while you two…” Flirt, she thought
rather ungraciously. “…while you discuss the variety of entertainments available in Town.”
Gryff was up in a flash, and somehow she found her hands empty. “I insist that you sit. Having enjoyed the toils of your labor, the least I can do is carry the dishes to the counter.”
He turned, the broad stretch of his back crowding out all else in her line of vision. Sweat had dampened his shirt, accentuating the rippling of muscles beneath fabric.
Feeling a little queasy, Eliza quickly looked away, only to encounter Augustina’s speculative gaze.
Don’t, she mouthed, Say A Word.
Her friend flashed an impish grin, but friendship won out over mischief and she remained mum.
The marquess’s baritone voice rose above the clatter of the crockery. “If you ladies will excuse me, I really ought to go outside and fetch my coat. It’s been terribly rag-mannered of me to sit half-dressed in your presence.”
“You are forgiven, milord,” called Augustina cheerfully. “At my age, it’s rather delightful to sin with a handsome scoundrel.”
His answering chuckle blended into the breeze as he sauntered out the back door. “I shall take that as an invitation to return in a moment.”
Chapter Seven
So that is Haddan?” said Augustina, once the sound had died away. “My goodness, you didn’t mention that he—”
Eliza frantically fluttered her hands, trying to signal her friend to silence. “Ssshhhhh! He’ll be back at any moment and—”
“Look who else is hungry.” Gryff reappeared with the kitten cradled in his coat. “Having awoken refreshed from a nap, he’s now demanding his share of treats.”
The throaty purr—from Mouse, not Haddan—made her start to squirm in her chair. It made no sense that he was having such a very odd effect on her peace of mind. By all rights, the longer she was in his presence, the calmer she should become. Instead she was turning more and more nervous. Jumpy was perhaps a better description. Like a cat trying to dance across a hot griddle. As he came closer, the balls of her feet began to bounce ever so slightly against the floorboards.
