by Cara Elliott
On second thought, a cat would be far too intelligent to keep going once its paw touched heated metal.
“I can’t say I blame him,” went on Haddan. “There are so many delectable morsels in here, a man can’t help but be tempted to sin.”
Augustina covered her mouth to stifle a chortle.
Flustered, Eliza quickly rose and went to pour a saucer of cream for the kitten. Up-down, up-down. She was beginning to feel like a child’s jack-in-the-box. “How do you know Mouse is a he?” she demanded, trying to distract herself from thoughts of sin.
“I checked. He has a pizzle.”
A pizzle. Bending down to place the cream on the floor brought her eye level with the fall of Gryff’s breeches.
So much for keeping thoughts of sin at bay.
“You know, Eliza and I were just discussing the fact that so many euphemisms for the male privy parts begin with the letter ‘P,’” offered Augustina. “I find it rather interesting.”
“It sounds like a fascinating topic,” agreed Gryff, a roguish twinkle lighting his eyes. “Actually, I can think of several that don’t—but I shall refrain from saying them in Polite company.”
“I am always in quest of broadening my intellectual horizons,” responded Augustina. “Even if it means transgressing beyond the bounds of so-called Propriety.”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Eliza. “But this notebook fell out of your coat pocket.” She picked up the leather book and brushed off the cat hairs clinging to its covers.
“Thank you.” Gryff was no longer looking quite so amused as he plucked it from her grasp.
“A lexicon of naughty words?” she asked, gratified to see that the sun-bronzed slant of his cheekbones had turned a shade redder. Tit for tat, she thought, spotting the hammer lying atop the jelly cabinet. He wasn’t the only one who could hit a sensitive spot. “A collection of passionate billet-doux?”
His smile was back in place, though it looked a little crooked at the edge. “Sadly, no. Sorry to disappoint you, Lady Brentford, but it contains far more boring material than that.”
“Like what?” she pressed.
“Notes,” he said gruffly. “Mere reminders of some mundane tasks that need to be done.”
Eliza sensed he was evading the question. But before she could inquire further, Augustina suddenly rose. “Well, seeing as my kitchen is in good hands, I shall return to pruning my roses.”
“I shall—”
“You shall stay here and keep His Lordship company,” said her friend firmly. “It would be quite rude to leave him alone.”
Eliza scowled, a look her former governess cheerfully ignored. “You wouldn’t want him to think that I taught you bad manners.”
“Right,” she muttered. “We certainly wouldn’t want him to be shocked at my behavior.”
Augustina merely winked as she swanned out the door.
Gryff waited until the footsteps on the flagstones faded. “Sorry, I don’t mean to tease you into a tither,” he said softly. “I can see that my presence is making you uncomfortable, so I’ll not prolong it. Might I ask you walk me out to my phaeton?”
Seeing her hesitation, he added, “You asked why I came here, Lady Brentford, and as of yet, I’ve not answered you. It was to make my apologies. Not, I must repeat, because I regret anything about our interlude, but because I took advantage of your…position. That was wrong of me.”
She looked away, a loosened curl falling to hide her downcast gaze. “Let us leave off the arguments of right and wrong. There is no point in parsing the past.”
“And the future?” he asked quietly.
Eliza started putting the remaining shortbread away in a tin. “Would you like a few squares for the trip back to London, sir?”
“Ah, a dismissal, no matter how sweetly phrased.” Gryff smiled. “Thank you, but I shall survive without sustenance.” He buttoned his waistcoat and smoothed the wrinkles from his coat sleeve.
“Nonetheless, Gussie would be disappointed if you did not take some along.” She folded a few of the pastries in a square of linen. “Come along, sir.”
They walked through the herb garden and circled around to the front of the cottage.
“Miss Haverstick has a good eye for color and texture.” Gryff studied the border plantings. “Though I daresay you’ve had an influence in this.”
“How—” she began and then stopped abruptly.
His suspicions confirmed, he replied, “Because they are similar in feel to the plantings around your hideaway at the Abbey. You clearly have a feel for landscape design.”
“I—I dabble,” she admitted. “I like flowers, and how they fit into their surroundings.”
“The earth does not lie. There is something elementally refreshing in the truth that Nature must provide nourishment for life to sprout, green and wonderful, full of potential.”
Her brows drew together, as she thought for a moment. “That sounds vaguely familiar,” she murmured, looking faintly puzzled. “Is it by one of the Lake Poets?”
He shook his head, feeling a little bemused. “No, it was written by someone unpublished.”
“It’s a lovely sentiment.” She walked on several paces and then slanted him a sidelong look. “I am surprised that you noticed the nuances of the gardens here and at the Abbey, sir. Most men don’t.”
He shrugged and exaggerated a laugh. “I appreciate Beauty in all its glorious guises.”
Her gaze flicked to the silvery stalks of columbine, but not before he caught a glimpse of her eyes.
Gryff felt his chest tighten with a sudden clench of anger. Damn the men who had made her feel less than lovely or desirable. On impulse, he reached out and took hold of her wrist.
“Lord Haddan…”
He couldn’t help it. At the sight of her quivering lips, he tugged her into the shade of a coppery beech tree. Sunlight drizzled through the leaves, painting her face in shades of gold and amber. She tried to shy away, but he pulled her close, heat drumming through him as the touch of her body set his skin afire.
“Kiss me,” he rasped, his hands caressing her shoulders.
Eliza lifted her chin, her breath quickening to ragged little gasps.
Leaning in, Gryff gently touched his lips to hers. One, two, three heartbeats, and then she pulled back, breaking the bond between them.
“Y-you had best go, Lord Haddan,” she said.
“Why?” he murmured. “Because you want to make love with me again?” It was half question, half seduction.
He felt her stiffen against him, and then relax into a reluctant laugh. “Yes, I suppose that I do,” she admitted with delightful frankness. “But it would not be wise.”
She was right—and it was wrong to seduce her into temptation. But he couldn’t quite make himself let her go.
“Are you always ruled by your head?” he asked, stroking a thumb along the line of her jaw.
“I can’t afford to throw caution to the wind,” replied Eliza. “It’s too dangerous.”
Like a serpent, the word coiled itself around his conscience and slowly squeezed. Danger wasn’t all that frightening—it added a spice to life, he told himself. It couldn’t really hurt either of them. She was a widow, and if they were discreet, the worst that could happen was a bit of unpleasant speculation.
“If we are careful, there is no reason for anyone to know,” he murmured. “If we both take enjoyment in it, there is nothing wrong in enjoying an intimate relationship, Lady Brentford.”
“I see now why you are so successful at seducing women.” She said it lightly but the reply lanced through his skin.
“Being far more experienced in dalliances, you are no doubt right that the consequences are not very serious—for you, that is,” she went on. “However, they are for me. I cannot risk such a distraction in my life right now.”
“Why?” he asked.
She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Because I have other plans.”
Which she clearly did not intend
to share with him. Not that it was surprising. He was a near stranger, who had spent most of their time together pawing and snabbering over her body. The thought didn’t make him feel proud of himself.
You are a gentleman, Gryffin. And a gentleman ought to honor her wishes and walk out of her life.
And yet…
“Will you see me again? Perhaps just to take a walk, if that is what you prefer.”
“I…I will have to think about it,” answered Eliza.
“Of course.”
Her words were a reminder that he, too, should keep his mind on serious pursuits. He had vowed to leave his rakehell days behind him. And do something meaningful with his life. A fleeting tryst with a country widow would be a mistake. A step backward when he had vowed to march forward in a new direction.
Gryff took a moment longer to get his wayward longings under control, then untied the long phaeton reins from one of the low-hanging branches and turned back to take his leave.
Eliza had moved a step back and was staring away into the distance, a pensive look shading her face. Several curls had slipped free of their pins and were dancing in the breeze. Her collar was askew, her skirts were dusty, and yet there was a simple, natural beauty to her slightly ruffled appearance. She made the London ladies in all their fancy fineries look like naught but bits of polished glass. Smooth and glittery, but possessing no depth or substance.
While she had intriguing angles and textures, hints of hidden facets, all the more alluring for their uneven edges.
He came up quietly beside her, and in one quick flick, looped the leather around her wrists.
She gave a squeak of surprise. “S-sir!”
Pulling her close, Gryff slanted his mouth over hers, cutting off her protest with a long and lush embrace. “If that is to be our last kiss, it should at least be somewhat memorable.” With that, he released her and vaulted up to the perch of his phaeton.
“Give my regards to Miss Haverstick. I hope the two of you enjoy your afternoon in the gardens.” The horses snorted and started forward, anxious to be off. “I suggest you trim back the perovskia by the back wall. It’s getting a little leggy.”
Augustina looked up as Eliza came around the high hedge and paused in its shadow. “You are mad—” she began.
“I know, I know,” said Eliza softly. “It was utter madness to have given way to impulse and succumbed to the charms of a rake.”
“You are mad not to set your cap for Lord Haddan,” corrected her friend. “Why, if I were fifty years younger, I’d be lifting my skirts to run after him. And I’d be whacking at your legs with a cricket bat to keep you from chasing after him, too.”
“I should never do anything as undignified as chase after a rogue,” huffed Eliza. “No matter how charming or well-muscled.”
“You are mad,” repeated Augustina. “He is worth the trouble. A man who rescues cats and fixes broken shutters does not grow on every tree.”
No, just the large oak outside my cottage workroom window, thought Eliza wryly.
“Haddan is absolutely perfect for you.”
“I doubt that he sees the match in quite the same light as you do.” Her mouth quirked in a mirthless smile. “He bedded me, Gussie. As he has a great many other women. It doesn’t go any deeper than that.”
“He looks at you with more than lust in his eyes,” insisted her friend with endearing loyalty.
“You aren’t wearing your spectacles,” pointed out Eliza.
“Ha! It’s clear as crystal that he makes you laugh.”
“And he will probably make me cry if I take your suggestions to heart,” she answered softly. “Do you really think a man like Haddan is seeking anything more than a roll in the hay? At the moment, I seem to have caught his fancy. But once the novelty of our tryst wears off, he’ll tire of country pleasures and move on to something else.”
“To me, Haddan appears very different than Harry and his rakehell friends,” said Augustina.
“That’s because you insist on viewing him through rose-colored lenses.” Eliza pressed her hands over her eyes, hoping to banish the picture of Haddan and his sinfully seductive dragon from her brain. Unfortunately, they seemed tattooed on the back of her lids.
No wonder the Bible prophets thought that graven images were wicked. Beware lest you act corruptly by making a carved image for yourselves, in the form of any figure, the likeness of male…
She offered a swift, silent prayer to the Heavens to deliver her from temptation, ending it with a chuffed sigh. “Please, Gussie, I have trouble enough with trying to keep Harry in check and my own dreams alive. So let us drop the subject of Lord Haddan and his rakish repertoire of charms. They are, I confess, potent. But it would be foolish in the extreme to pursue the relationship, and I like to think that I’m not a fool.”
To herself, she added, For only a fool makes the same mistake twice.
“If you insist,” grumbled Augustina, though a stubborn tilt kept her chin angled at a mulish jut. “But trust your elderly teacher—you’ve still a number of lessons to learn about men.”
“I’d rather you teach me how best to avoid them.” Cats, she thought. Cats and paintboxes made far more comfortable companions. “Once I’m settled in my own solitary little place overlooking the lakes and hills, independent and free from the machinations of men, I shall have everything I want in life.”
Her friend made a rude sound. “Sunshine and soft summer breezes can only go so far in warming your cockles. The winters in the Lake District are long and cold, my dear.”
“And a man like Haddan isn’t about to settle by the hearth and kindle a cozy little fire,” pointed out Eliza. She paused for an instant, picturing his naked body painted in bold, bright red-gold flames. “He would probably burn the whole house down.”
“I can think of worse ways to go than being consumed by a burning passion,” quipped Augustina.
“Aren’t you,” said Eliza slowly, “supposed to be acting as the Voice of Reason? The Wench of Wisdom?”
A smug little smile crept to her friend’s mouth. “My point exactly.”
“Oh, Gussie.” A laugh welled up in her throat. Really, the conversation was too absurd for the tears that had been prickling at her lashes.
Brushing a leaf from her wide-brimmed hat, Augustina lifted her shears. “But enough said on the subject for now.”
Eliza sighed and dabbed a sleeve to her cheek. “Drat, a bit of pollen seems to have lodged in my eye.”
“A wet washcloth should soothe away the problem,” said Augustina tactfully. “Once you return from the kitchen, let us get back to pruning the garden. Barring any other feline folly or marauding marquess, we should manage to have a peaceful afternoon.”
Chapter Eight
It had started raining just a few miles after leaving Miss Haverstick’s cottage, the squalling clouds and rumbled thunder capturing the agitation of his own unsettled mood. Right and wrong—his assessment of his recent behavior continued to rise and fall with the bumps of the roads.
In a truly foul temper by the time he reached his townhouse, Gryff stomped into the entrance foyer and flung off his sodden driving coat and gloves with a loud oath.
His butler appeared from the corridor and surveyed the puddles with a poker face. “Tea, milord? Or would you prefer something stronger?”
“A hot bath, if you please,” muttered Gryff. And a large brandy to warm his conscience. But he snapped his mouth shut. His lapse in judgment had gone on long enough. No need to make a fool of himself in front of his staff.
“Very good, sir.” The butler picked up the marquess’s soggy hat and gingerly shook the mud from its brim. “Mr. Daggett is in the library, sir. He said you would not mind if he looked through several of your books.”
“Books.” Gryff made a face. “I didn’t know he could read.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.” A cough. “He appears to be perusing ones that have mostly pictures.”
“Bloody hel
l. You had better stubble the order for a bath.” Gryff ran a hand through his lank locks. “Send tea to the library, Mifflin. Along with a nice, dry towel.”
Cameron looked up on hearing the squish of steps crossing the Aubusson carpet. “I thought you were staying in Oxfordshire for another two days.”
“Change in plans,” said Gryff curtly, sinking into the armchair by the hearth.
“Any particular reason?”
“No.” A hiss of steam rose up from the coals as he propped his boots on the fender. “Yes.”
“Do you care to elaborate?”
“Actually, I’d rather not.”
Cameron returned to his perusal of the lavishly illustrated book that lay open on the worktable. A page turned with a whispery flutter. “I assume that means a lady is involved.”
“What makes you say that?”
His friend heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Most of your escapades involve females or alcohol, and since you claim that you’re only drinking in moderation these days…” Another page turned. “Is it Leete’s intriguing sister?”
“How the devil do you know about her?” Gryff straightened from his slouch. “I swear, sometimes I think you were birthed by a diabolical djinn spirit rather than a flesh-and-blood female.”
“One does not need any special supernatural powers to discern your foibles. One only has to pay a visit to The Wolf’s Lair.” Cameron flipped yet another page. “Sara told me all about your interesting encounter with the Widow Brentford.”
“Nothing interesting happened there,” protested Gryff. “We exchanged a few words is all.”
“Then why are you blushing like a schoolboy who’s been caught with his breeches down around his ankles?”
“Because…” The flames wagged, silent, scolding fingers of fire. “Because I’m not very proud of myself about what happened afterward,” he blurted out.
“Ah.”
Gryff waited for him to go on, but his friend leaned down, seemingly engrossed in the colored engraving.
“Ah? That’s all you have to say after I bare my soul?”
Cameron twitched a tiny smile. “I daresay your soul was not the part of your person that was bared to the lady.”
