by Cara Elliott
Wrinkles could be pressed, smudges could be laundered, mused Gryff as he picked his driving coat up from the floor and hung it over the bedpost. He was more concerned with mending any damage that his recent behavior had done to Lady Brentford’s feelings. Games of flirtation could be harmless, assuming both parties knew how to wield the implements of play and understood the rules. No matter her enthusiasm, the widow was an obvious novice, and as such it was ungentlemanly to take advantage of her lack of experience.
Not that her performance had left anything to be desired. He felt his groin clench at the memory of her eager kisses, her throaty moans.
She had reacted with innocent abandon. Which was why, despite all his rationalizing, he felt slightly soiled.
“I like her,” he murmured, casting a sidelong glance at his reflection in the looking glass to see if he had spouted horns and cloven tongue. Encouraged that voicing such sentiments had not turned him into the Devil Incarnate, he added, “I like her feisty spirit, her tart humor, her quiet strength.” Not to speak of her shapely long legs, her glorious body, her expressive face. She was Beauty who saw herself as merely Ordinary.
Clenching a fist, Gryff found himself wanting to crack the skulls of the men who had failed to make her feel attractive. Alluring. Desirable.
She deserved better.
Ignoring the serpentine slither of guilt that suddenly slid down his spine, he tucked his notebook in his pocket and hurried for the door.
It was a short ride from the inn to Leete Abbey, and for most of it he kept his mind rooted in landscape design. Vistas, ha-has, classical follies—he had a long list of specific elements he wished to see. But as his horse turned into the winding approach to the manor house, Gryff found that his normal sense of self-assurance seemed to have stayed behind in London.
“It’s absurd to feel nervous,” he growled. So what that he had said nothing to Leete about a return visit? By all accounts, the viscount had returned to Town and was once again submerged in the hellholes of Southwark, gaming away what little assets were left to his name.
Gryff felt a surge of sympathy for the supporters of Mary Wollstonecraft’s radical ideas on female equality. Possessing a pizzle did not give a fellow the right to piss away centuries of careful stewardship.
Glowering at the unpruned hedges, he rode into the courtyard. The harsh glare of the midday sun accentuated the unwashed panes of the mullioned windows, the chipped pediments of the colonnading, the broken noses of the ornamental lions. The grand house was like a beautiful lady gone to seed. Once-lovely lines sagged, stretches of smooth, honey-colored stone were riddled with fine cracks.
“Leete ought to be hung by his ballocks from the crumbling roof slates,” he muttered, looking around for a groom to take his mount.
“Alas, if you are looking for revelries, you have arrived several days too late.” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in the lady’s voice. “My brother has left for London, and you would do well to follow, sir. Without him in residence, things are dreadfully dull here at the Abbey.”
He turned in the saddle. “I’m not seeking a party.”
Eliza’s eyes widened as he lifted the broad brim of his beaver hat. “Then why are you here, Lord Haddan?” In a lower, tighter voice she added, “As I said, the revelries have come to an end.”
Gryff dismounted, causing her to retreat a few steps. “I have no intention of intruding on your privacy, Lady Brentford. I would simply like your permission to have a look at the Abbey grounds.”
Her brows pinched together. “What for?”
Not that he could blame her for questioning his motives. If Leete’s cronies ever ventured into the gardens it was likely not to smell the roses but to piss in the bushes.
“I assure you, my intentions are quite benign. I promise, I did not come to further provoke you.” Gryff had assumed that someone would ask for an explanation, so he was prepared with an answer. “A friend of mine has read about Capability Brown’s designs for the Abbey grounds. He’s thinking of making some similar landscaping changes on his own estate and wished for my opinion on certain looks before he undertakes such extensive renovations.”
If anything, her expression turned even more doubtful. “Why would he ask you?”
“I have eyes, Lady Brentford. And an estate of my own,” he replied. “Not all titled gentlemen are indolent idlers. I have plenty of faults, but ignoring my lands is not one of them.”
Eliza flushed at the set-down. “I did not mean to imply—”
“Of course you did.” He softened his words with a smile. “And with good reason, I would guess.”
Her lips twitched. “The last time one of Harry’s friends decided to take a stroll through the grounds, he fell into the lake—but not before setting fire to the boathouse.”
“I trust there was no lasting damage.”
“The beams were merely singed.” Eliza paused. “As for Lord Vestry, I cannot vouch for what scars are left by a lighted cheroot falling on brandy-soaked buckskins.”
Gryff chuckled. “I have no plans for arson. Or for planting gunpowder bombs in the Abbey ruins, decimating your specimen apple trees with an ax, or, for that matter, indulging in any other sort of puerile pranks.” He let his words sink in for a moment before adding, “In short, my intentions are completely honorable.”
The tips of her half boots suddenly seemed of far more interest to her than his own paltry presence. Perhaps, he thought dryly, she was looking for some cryptic message in the powdery patterns of dried dirt. The secret language of the Dust Motes.
Or, more simply, Your Name is Mud.
Eliza’s gaze angled from the ground to the sky. “When clouds are rolling in from the west, it usually means that rain is in the offing. And judging by their color, I would say that it’s going to be more than a passing shower.” The breeze was already rising, setting her skirts to flapping around her ankles. “The choice is yours, of course, but unless you enjoy getting soaked to the skin, you might want to return on the morrow.”
“Is that an invitation?” he murmured.
“Call it a reprieve.” Though she didn’t say from what.
“There is an old saying about discretion being the better part of valor. So I think I shall heed your advice. I might survive a downpour, but my valet would likely turn murderous if my garments were ruined. He is very attached to this coat.”
“Then maybe he ought to be wearing it,” she suggested, the corners of her mouth framing a telltale twitch of humor.
“Prescott would no doubt agree with you.” Gryff made a show of inspecting the sleeves and lapels. “He says it makes me look fat. What do you think?”
At that, Eliza laughed, a light, happy peal that momentarily chased the chill from the moist air. The sound seemed to take her by surprise, for she quickly pressed a gloved hand to her lips.
The unconscious gesture gave hint that she didn’t have much occasion for merriment in her life.
“I think,” she replied, slowly lowering her fingers, “that you are incorrigible, Lord Haddan.”
“Agreed,” he said. “Seeing as you didn’t say ‘insufferable,’ dare I hope that you will consent to guide me around the grounds? I would be happy to provide a picnic, which we might eat down by the lake. It would be a cold collation, of course.” He waggled a brow. “No errant lucifers to spark any trouble.”
She ducked her head, the wind loosening several tendrils of hair from her hairpins. They danced in the scudding light, setting off flashes of red-gold fire. From beneath the poke of her chip-straw bonnet floated a low murmur. “The devil, you say.”
“I was referring to the phosphorus-coated matchsticks, Lady Brentford, not any compatriot of Satan.”
“Yet wherever you go, the Devil seems to follow.”
“I’ll keep him at arm’s length with a pitchfork. I trust the gardener’s shed here has an extra-sturdy one.”
“Incorrigible,” she repeated, trying to tamp down the note of amusement in her to
ne.
More laughter? A good sign.
“I know that you asked for time to think about any further contact, but please say you will come,” pressed Gryff. “What is your favorite treat—besides Miss Haverstick’s walnut shortbread? Kumquats? Caramel apples? Candied violets?”
“My favorite?” Surprise squeezed her voice to a squeak.
“Is that a no to the violets?” Gryff kept nattering nonsense to keep a growl of pure, primal anger trapped in his chest. Good God, had no one ever asked about her likes? Her needs?
“Vile things, those sugar-coated purple petals,” he went on. “The Turks have an almond confection flavored with rosewater. But I daresay I’d have to journey to Constantinople, and that would mean putting off the picnic by a few days. So perhaps we could compromise on gooseberry tarts, and keep our appointment for tomorrow?”
“I haven’t said ‘yes’ yet, Lord Haddan,” she pointed out.
“Yes, but you will,” he replied. “Won’t you?”
“I…oh…why not?” A passing cloud cast her in shadow. Held in the grip of the iron-gray shades, Eliza looked achingly alone and vulnerable. “I—I suppose there’s little harm in casting propriety to the wind.” She made a wry face. “Though considering the fact that our first encounter was in a brothel, it’s rather absurd to speak of us and propriety in the same breath.”
“You will have no cause for complaint.”
She lifted a brow but did not retort.
“I shall call tomorrow at eleven, if that suits you, Lady Brentford.”
“Yes. Fine.” She started to walk away.
In the distance, a grumble of thunder echoed through the hills. Gryff turned up his collar and turned to his horse.
“Custard tarts.”
He stopped abruptly and looked back over his shoulder.
“I like custard tarts. Topped with cinnamon and apples.”
Gryff snapped a salute. Had she asked for sugared moonbeams, dusted with spiced starlight, he would gladly have found a ladder long enough to reach up to the black velvet heavens.
“And you shall have them.”
Her tentative smile was more dazzling than any celestial orb.
“Tomorrow, at eleven,” she confirmed. “And be forewarned, I have a very unladylike appetite.”
Chapter Ten
Eliza rose at first light, nervous as a green girl before her first ball.
“I’m not about to waltz across a parquet dance floor in a stylish swirl of satin and lace,” she reminded herself, catching a glimpse of her decidedly frumpish night rail in the cheval glass. With a self-mocking curtsey at her scarecrow reflection, she rose on her bare toes and pirouetted around the rug. “I’m going to slog through a muddy field in worn muslin and half boots.”
A sweeping bow to Elf sent him scurrying under the bed.
“Thank you, Fair Prince, for your company, but I have another admirer waiting to take me into supper,” she said in a high falsetto. “What? You would like another dance after I’ve plied myself with lobster patties and champagne?” She picked up a washcloth and gave it an airy wave. “La, I’m sorry, milord, but my dance card is completely full.”
The strange feline sounds emanating from beneath the bed hangings seemed to imply that Elf was just as happy to forgo a country gavotte.
“I know, I know—I’ve gone quite mad.” Eliza padded across the floor and propped her hands on the windowsill. The world outside the glass was still painted in shades of gray. Mist floated over the gardens, pale swirls silhouetted against the pewter-dark foliage.
But a glimmer of sunlight behind the distant hills gave hint that the day would brighten.
Brighten.
Somewhere inside her, a spark seemed to flare and send a tiny flame of warmth tickling up to her face. Eliza felt her lips curl up in an involuntary smile.
A picnic—the last time she had been on a picnic, she chased butterflies and made herself sick eating too many sweetmeats. She had been five at the time.
Then her mother had died, and there were no more picnics, just her father’s querulous complaints about the uselessness of daughters, and the damnable expense of a dowry.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “It’s time to break free from the fetters of the past.” She rubbed her wrists, recalling the brass cuffs that had recently encircled her flesh. In its own bizarre way, perhaps that had been the first step to shucking off the guilt and the meek acceptance of Fate in the form of a spendthrift family.
“I’m tired of being treated like a hound on a leash, tugged this way and that by some male master.” Her voice rose, the force of it fogging the panes. She wiped the mist away with her sleeve. “From now on, I’m not going to roll over and play dead on command.”
Her nails drummed a martial tattoo against the glass. So it was imperative to remember that however handsome and charming, Haddan was a danger to her dreams if she let girlish longing get out of hand. The attraction was merely skin deep, she assured herself. It could not—would not—go any further.
“I’m going to listen to my own instincts and allow myself…the freedom to follow my dreams.”
A cottage in the country, not a castle in the sky. A cat for a supper companion, not a handsome marquess. Her dreams were modest. And realistic. Better yet, they were possible, but only if she worked very, very hard for the next few weeks.
This coming painting commission was critical.
One last day of play, and then she must buckle down and forget about green-eyed lords and sinuous dragons. This wasn’t a fanciful fairytale. It was real life, and if anyone was going to write a happy ending, it would have to be her.
“I’m sorry, but you will have to put your horse away in the stable on your own, Lord Haddan,” said Eliza in curt greeting as the marquess reined to a halt in the courtyard. “The groom was needed to help with repairing a fence in the west pastures.”
Gryff swung a large hamper off the pommel of his saddle. “That is not a problem, Lady Brentford. Conditions on the Peninsula were far more grim than these and I managed quite adequately.”
Surprise flickered across her face. “I—I didn’t know you were in the military.”
“The Rakehell Regiment.” He snapped a mock salute. “The Major of Mayhem and Mischief at your service.”
She stepped closer, her stare sharpening as she tilted her head to one side. “Is that a saber scar?” she asked.
Gryff touched his brow. “A mere scratch. I fell off my mount. It was all rather embarrassing.”
“I see.”
Anxious to forestall any further comment, he lifted a corner of the checkered cloth covering the hamper, allowing the scents of sugar and spice to waft up from the wicker. “Custard tarts, fresh from the oven.”
The drab wool of her gown tightened over her breasts as Eliza inhaled deeply.
“Made just the way you like them,” he murmured, trying not to salivate at the sight of her breasts plumped to perfection. His privy part was now straining to stand at ramrod attention.
“Tarts?” Her tongue teased over her lower lip.
“Hot and juicy,” he rasped, feeling as if his body was being griddled over hot coals.
“Do you think they will last until nuncheon? Or should we gobble them down here and now?” Eliza grinned. “No doubt the warm cream would dribble down our chins, but part of the fun of a picnic is throwing manners to the wind and licking up the excess.”
The devil keep me from temptation.
Gripping the reins, Gryff ducked to the other side of his horse’s head and quickly led the animal into the cool shade of the stable. Was she deliberately trying to torture him with talk of tongues and buttery sweets sliding over bare flesh?
Sweat had beaded on the back of his neck, and was shivering its way down his spine.
“I think they will hold out,” he rasped. Though the same could not be said for his self-control. He had vowed to be a gentleman. But like the pastry’s flaky crust, that resolve was in i
mminent danger of crumbling.
“Very well,” she said, far too cheerfully. “Anticipation often makes things taste even sweeter.”
“Right,” he growled. Thankfully, the pungent smells of horse and hay helped quash his lustful thought. By the time he had unsaddled his mount, his wayward body was under control.
Eliza had wandered out to wait by the paddock. Her back was to him, giving him an excellent view of her shapely derriere perched on the top rail of the fence. She had removed her bonnet and had her head tipped up to catch the blade of sunlight cutting through the thinning clouds.
On hearing his approach, she jumped down and jammed the headcovering back in place. The slightly squashed poke of straw looked faintly ridiculous atop her glorious, honey-gold hair.
He was tempted to pluck it off and feed it to his horse.
“Aren’t you worried about getting freckles?” he asked. “I thought ladies lived in mortal peril of spots marring their perfect complexion.”
“You are used to the refined sensibilities of a London belle,” replied Eliza. “The two of us are as different as chalk and cheese. She has elegance. I have spots.” Her chin rose a fraction. “I like the feel of the sun on my face,” she added, her tone daring him to make a snide comment. “And since men are never going to swoon over my looks, why should I care whether I have a dusting of freckles over my nose?”
“Why, indeed?” The fact was, Gryff found her freckles rather endearing. They gave her face character. In contrast, the smooth, marble-white perfection so favored in Town suddenly seemed colorless.
Or perhaps “lifeless” was a better word.
“Is there something specific you wish to see on the estate grounds, Lord Haddan?” she asked, struggling to retie the flapping satin ribbons.
“I have a list…” On impulse, Gryff reached out and snagged the strings. He had left his own curly brimmed beaver hat in the stable with his saddle, preferring to feel the wind in his hair as he walked. “If you don’t like it, why don’t you leave it off?” A yank lifted it off her head. Catching it in midair, Gryff sent it sailing through the breeze, where after several lazy somersaults, it landed neatly atop a fencepost.
