“Ah!” The cry exploded from her as she climaxed. She threw her head back, but he caught her by the hair, directed her mouth to his. She took his long kiss and returned it with her lips and teeth and tongue, wanting to devour him. This, this was pleasure . . . it rippled through her, causing her to shiver again and again.
“Wait,” he said, “wait—” Her turn now to grip his face, to force his mouth to remain with hers, to swallow his gasp as he thrust into her fiercely. But then, with a groan, he ripped himself off her, his seed spilling as he fell by her side.
Her eyes closed. As they lay together, the aftermath of her satisfaction kept her sated and relaxed.
“Aphrodite, they call you.” He spoke into her ear. “But Rome being in fashion, I think I’ll call you Venus instead.”
She laid her hand to his bare chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart. When her eyes opened, he gave her a slow smile. She heard now the singing of birds outside, the rustle of rattling leaves.
Contentment was a hum in her bones. She felt aglow, fierce and brave, as though she had accomplished something here. She leaned in to kiss him, very softly, on the mouth.
“A very fine beginning,” he said against her lips.
Ah. She drew back. This had not been a beginning at all, but an event. Yes, more than an incident; so much more than a mere occasion. But an event all the same: profoundly memorable, but singular.
“What is it?” he asked.
He was so attuned to her. She wondered if any man had ever watched her face so closely. A curious thought, when her face was everywhere. Those stupid photographs.
He was waiting. She smiled at him and slid her hand up his body. His chest hair was sparse, the shape of his muscles translated so clearly by his skin. What a wonder he was to touch.
But her opportunity to do so was drawing to a close.
She took a long breath. She would not regret this. He was lovely, absolutely lovely. And had matters stood . . . differently . . .
No. Don’t think on it. Fingers curling, she lifted her hand away. “I should dress.”
He sat up, watching as she gathered her linens. From the corner of her eye she gauged the depth of his frown, the likelihood that he was about to say something that would force her into an unpleasant speech. His mouth opened.
She bent over to retrieve her corset. Then hid a smile as she heard him exhale. Yes, it was quite a view she was offering him.
His hands closed on her bare hips, pulling her back onto the bed. Onto him, in fact. The intimacy, the sweetness of it, made her eyes close—and then open again in surprise.
“Goodness,” she said. Surely he could not be ready again already. Were men so individual in that regard?
His smile was rueful. “No, not yet,” he said. “I fear I’m too old for such feats.” He touched her hair, gently, and then traced the curve of her ear, his eyes following the motion.
The tenderness in his face arrested her—and then lit a flame of panic in her, a strong instinct of self-preservation. She turned away from him again to hunt for her underclothes. “How old are you, then?”
“All of thirty,” he said.
She froze for a moment. He was younger than her. The news . . . did not please her, which was silly. It made no difference how old he was.
She pulled on her linens, then slipped the corset over her head. “Help me tighten the laces?”
“Such a rush.” She felt his hands at her back. “I’ll try not to take it personally.”
“Don’t,” she said. “It’s only that there’s so much to be done, and—”
“Your guests will be upon you soon. I know.” The corset began to tighten. “I look forward to meeting them. But before I do, I must—”
“About that.” She stared fixedly at the door, steeling herself to correct him. This, too, was a part of playing the merry widow, as much as the pleasure that had come before it. “I know I extended an invitation to you. But after this . . . I think it would be wiser if you did not attend the dinner.”
The laces made a whipping sound as he finished tying them off. His hands fell away, and she turned to face him.
He looked at her, a square look that somehow seemed to delve into her and . . . expose her. She fought the urge to squirm, to glance away.
And then he sat back, putting one palm behind him to brace his weight, a posture that brought the muscles in his arm into stark prominence. “I see,” he said slowly.
She swallowed. She saw as well, and he made a splendid sight: long legs, a flat belly, that gorgeous expanse of chest.
“You think I would make you . . . uncomfortable?” he asked.
He was making her uncomfortable right now, for she barely recognized herself. Her body was lighting up again, warming and loosening, as though she had not been sated five minutes before. His lips . . .
She forced herself to focus on the space an inch above his head. He could not come tomorrow. She feared she was not quite sophisticated enough to manage herself. If he sat nearby, her very body would vibrate to the sound of his voice. And eligible bachelors did not incline to women clearly in lust with their doctors.
“The company will be fast,” she said. She had no intention of honestly speaking of her marital ambitions. Not at this moment. She did not flatter herself that it would be cruel to do so—he had never spoken of love, or even hinted at it to her. But it would be plainly tactless, all the same. “I should not like you to feel uncomfortable.”
His brows rose. “I find it odd that our recent employment here should have given you cause to think me a moralist. If my behavior was not fast enough for you, by all means, let us try it again.”
She felt a flicker of panic, which with an effort she twisted into resentment. He was not going to make this easy. But she owed him nothing. “Very well. To speak honestly, I find you . . . alluring, and I should not like others to notice it. Should rumors reach London, it would be awkward for me.”
“But I thought you had no care for what people said.” He rose off the bed, and despite herself, she looked him up and down and felt breathless again.
He gave her a half smile. “Yes. If you do that in public, I suppose there will be talk.”
She went hot. Hot in the face, and hot . . . elsewhere. “But I won’t,” she said. “For I’ve withdrawn my invitation. My friends will not meet you.”
“I do not accept the withdrawal. In fact”—he took a prowling step toward her, one she matched with a quick retreat—“you may be surprised how well I fit in with your friends. I told you I was not who—”
“Madam!”
The call, distant but distinct, made them both spin toward the door.
“Quickly!” Liza cast a frantic glance around for her blouse, then grabbed it and tugged it on. For his part, Michael had spun to grab up her jacket and bonnet.
“Madam! Are you out here?”
Closer, much closer now. “That’s Mather,” she said breathlessly.
Michael went to the window, then ducked. “Bloody hell, she’s twenty yards away. What in God’s name—”
“I don’t know. She likes to come looking for me.” She could do nothing for her hair; the pins were scattered everywhere. She crammed it into her bonnet, tying the ribbon with record speed. “Stay here. Don’t leave yet. Give it ten minutes.” She bent to cram her feet into her shoes, and then raced for the door.
She stepped out. Mather saw her instantly. She held up a hand, showing the flat of her palm, and her secretary stopped dead. Liza nodded, then lifted a finger to her lips. If anyone else was in the area—which they should not be—she did not wish her secretary to broadcast these curious circumstances.
Shaking out her skirts, she walked forward. Mather’s curious glance roved over her, and everywhere it paused, it called to Liza’s attention the signs of her guilt:
Her jacket was not buttoned properly.
A great chunk of her hair had fallen out of the bonnet.
She wore no gloves.
&
nbsp; Her shoes were not laced.
Joining Mather’s side, she took the girl’s arm in a tight grip and tugged her away from the cottage.
“Silly me,” she said. “I took a nap, and—well, as you see, I’m quite undone.”
“Yes,” said Mather slowly, with no attempt to conceal her skepticism.
Liza would be more to the point, then. “What on earth are you doing out there? Roaming the woods and shrieking my name!”
“The Browards sent a slice of cake to the Hall for you. But I knew you intended to go to their party. I was worried.”
“Mather, I have told you—”
“I know!” The girl pulled free. Shoving her glasses up her nose, she blinked like an earnest owl. “But you haven’t been to church since Mrs. Addison died, and I know it must have been very upsetting, and I worried that perhaps—perhaps—”
“This is Bosbrea, Mather! Did you think I was kidnapped by a farmer? I am perfectly safe!”
“Villains are not confined to cities! It is very naïve to think so, ma’am!”
Liza looked at her in astonishment. The girl looked to be nearly shaking with some suppressed emotion. Surely it couldn’t be fear. “Are you quite all right, darling?”
Mather blinked, then shook her head and rubbed her brow with her knuckles. “Yes. That is—I’m very sorry,” she said more quietly. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice. But please allow me to worry for you. For I owe you a great deal, ma’am, and I do worry. You are far too trusting.”
Her irritation died. How could she resent Mather’s concern? It was so kind, and such an undeserved gift—for despite the girl’s nonsense, she had done nothing to earn such fondness. “You owe me nothing, you silly thing. And—too trusting? I? I’d fear you were drunk, but you don’t partake!”
Mather shook her head stubbornly. “Bad things might happen anywhere, ma’am.”
“You are terribly cynical, dear. I do wonder the cause for it.”
The girl shrugged and made no reply. Asking about her past was always the best way to silence her. Liza knew from experience that pressing further would yield no clues.
With a great sigh, she retrieved the girl’s arm and kept walking. “As you see, I am—as ever—quite safe. Only very sleepy.”
“Because you . . . fell asleep.”
“As I said.”
“In the gamekeeper’s cottage.”
“Well, you’re quite right, it was unnerving to return to the church. And so I fled like a coward to a place where I thought nobody would find me. One doesn’t wish witnesses to one’s cowardice, you know.”
Mather ran a hand over the top of her frizzing red hair, then down to her nape, which she cupped. This was her thoughtful pose, portending some revelation. “But I found you,” she pointed out.
“Yes,” said Liza. “And once again, I will remind you: you are a secretary, not a bloodhound.”
Mather frowned. “And tomorrow I become a harlot.”
“You can’t talk like that,” Liza said with a snort. But perhaps it was a sign of insanity that she followed the girl’s meaning perfectly. “I’m so glad, though, that your wardrobe was readied in time.”
Mather laughed. “Yes, it’s a piece of good luck, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.” And so, too, was Mather’s laugh, for it covered the noise that came from behind them, the sound of a door closing.
Which is a fitting sound, Liza thought, very poetic and fitting. For the door had closed on their event, never to be reopened.
And if that felt like a tragedy to her . . . well, then she would simply not think on it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Laughter spilled out from the drawing room into the dimly lit hall. Liza, returning from a brief conference with the spirit writer on the room allotted to him, paused and then withdrew behind a marble statue to eavesdrop.
She could hear Weston’s ringing laugh, splintered by Hollister’s cool voice and Katherine Hawthorne’s sultry tones. Now from Tilney came a deadpan remark, surprisingly risqué for only—she checked the grandfather clock—seven in the evening.
Well. That boded brilliantly. She tried out her most carefree smile. She must seem light of heart, without a worry in the world.
The mirror across from her did not offer reassurance. The gown was lovely, perfection, the mulberry skirts a delicious confection of satin drapery, the underskirt and jacket of violet velvet. But the colors washed her out. Or perhaps she simply looked weary. To her frustration, she’d tossed and turned half the night, thinking of a man she could not have—and who, to her misfortune, had had her too well and too thoroughly to be so easily forgotten.
“Madam.”
Mather came stalking up the hall, skirts swishing. She’d submitted to the ministrations of Liza’s maid, even submitting to the “unnatural indignity”—as she termed it—of having her hair straightened and then curled. “You look absolutely marvelous,” Liza said warmly. Redheads should never wear any color but mint.
As with all compliments, Mather became selectively deaf. “There’s a problem with the room assignments. The medium has discovered that you placed the spirit writer next door to her. She says—”
“Did you tell her that he and the clairvoyant are mortal enemies?” So the spirit writer had solemnly informed her.
“Yes, I said so.” Mather readjusted her grip on the heavy ledger in her arms, freeing a hand to nudge her wire spectacles back up her nose. The ridiculously thick lenses made her blue eyes look small and squinty and unjustly porcine. Countless times Liza had advised her to do away with them, but Mather seemed determined to believe that she would be blind without their aid. “It makes no difference to her,” the girl continued. “She says she cannot lodge beside a fraud.”
“What? You’re joking!”
Mather shook her head.
Liza sighed. She was intent on housing all the spiritualists together, in the farthest wing from the rest of the guests. After all, it was very difficult to place one’s faith in the mystical powers of someone known to snore.
What she hadn’t foreseen was what a suspicious lot they would be! To a man, each of them assured her that the others whom she had invited were, in fact, con men and shills.
“I don’t understand it,” she said. “Even if Mr. Smith is a fraud, what of it? How can it harm Madame Augustiana’s ability to contact the dead?”
Mather’s brows crested the rim of her spectacles. “Ma’am, I am sorry to say that I have no insight into the workings of Madame Augustiana’s abilities.”
“You’re not sorry at all, you cheeky thing.”
A slow, owlish blink from Mather. “I confess, I may not be.”
Liza snorted. “Well, let Madame Augustiana struggle with the spirits for a bit. I haven’t scheduled her to perform until Friday at the earliest. And what of—”
“That is another message I am bid especially to relay to you.” Mathers checked a notation in the ledger. “Madame Augustiana begs you not to use the word performance, as it may offend the spirits.”
Was that the faintest tremble of amusement in her secretary’s voice? “Mather, you’re not enjoying this, I hope?”
The girl’s square jaw firmed. “No, ma’am. That would not be my place.”
“Oh, stuff that. It would be your place if you’d unbend enough to join the company.” A peculiar creature, Mather. She seemed to have no concern about her spinsterhood, though she was quite pretty, despite her lantern jaw, when she made half an effort. And certainly there were men in the world who would appreciate her . . . unique brand of charm.
“It would not be appropriate,” said Mather. “I have explained this. I agreed to the wardrobe, but—”
“Poppycock! You’re a relation!” It had been such a lovely surprise when they had discovered this a few weeks ago.
“Sixth cousins do not count, ma’am.”
“It must count for something, darling. After all, it’s countable: sixth, six—that’s a number, I believe.”
/> Was that a roll of the eyes Liza detected behind those awful lenses? “Ma’am, you are to be commended for your keen mathematical skills.” Mather retreated a pace. “Shall I inform Madame Augustiana that she may leave, if the lodging does not suit her?”
“Oh, very fierce,” Liza said. “Yes, and say it just like that, with that militant tilt to your jaw.”
Mather smiled. “I think I shall do,” she said, and spun on her heel, giving a little kick that made her skirts froth as she strode away. Deny it though she might, she was enjoying that dress.
Liza took a deep breath and once again met her own eyes in the mirror. She must try for the same joie de vivre. She pinched her cheeks and then pressed her lips together to force some blood into them. There. This smile looked more convincing.
She squared her shoulders and swept into the drawing room.
“There she is!” Tilney sprang off the sofa on which he’d been lounging. She had hesitated before inviting him—he was very close with Nello—but vanity had decided it for her. Not only was Tilney a bachelor, and therefore good practice for Jane, but he was also sure to dispatch to Nello very detailed reports of Liza’s romance and courtship. For that was what this house party held in store for her.
“Good evening,” she called brightly, “what a welcome sight!” And one by one she went around the room, exchanging handshakes and, for the more French among them, kisses.
Jane had been captured by Baron Forbes, which was well and good, provided she was willing to flirt. Silver-haired and sixty and in denial of it, Forbes liked to befriend pretty young things and introduce them as though they were his pets—a habit his wife indulged, so long as he did not grow overly fond of them.
Liza exchanged only the briefest of greetings with them before moving on to Katherine and Nigel Hawthorne, troublesome siblings, who stood in conference with Baroness Forbes. The Hawthornes were tall and slender as greyhounds and colored to match, their eyes and hair a drab brown that blended into their skin, for they were great yachters and forever in the sun. As a result, they had a knack for merging with the woodwork—a skill they used to eavesdrop and garner gossip, which they enjoyed spreading as harmfully as possible.
That Scandalous Summer Page 16
