“What reasons did he give you?” Jane asked.
Cresting the stairs, she turned to pin Jane with a steely look. “None that concern us. And I hope you realize that you mustn’t speak of this to anyone. It will only make you look the fool for having believed him.”
“Oh.” Jane frowned. “Of course. But . . . will he join us for the remainder of the party?” She brightened. “And perhaps call down his brother? His grace is widowed, I believe.”
Her calculations were as transparent as glass. “No,” said Liza. “Lord Michael has gone back to London. And as for his brother . . .” She shook her head. “They call the Duke of Marwick ‘the Kingmaker.’ Did you know that?”
“Oh!” Jane looked entranced. “But why?”
“Because he has put men into power,” Liza said. “Men like Hollister, in fact. But when they grow disagreeable, he also destroys them.”
“But surely he would not do so with a woman!”
“Better,” Liza said, “that we don’t find out.”
• • •
Michael woke with a start. No light from beneath the curtains. For a moment he was disoriented. His flat? His office in the hospital?
No. Bosbrea. He had sent Elizabeth’s coachman away from his doorstep. Had needed time to think before making a decision regarding his departure.
Thirst gripped him. He sat up, rubbing his face, and swung his feet off the bed. The chill of the floorboards reminded him of something—
He’d been dreaming.
He sucked in a breath, for it came back over him so vividly—the feel of the dream, the dark suffocating hopelessness of it. Himself a boy, hiding in the wardrobe as his parents fought. Alastair curled beside him, pressing a finger to his lips to keep him quiet.
Not so much a dream as a memory, then. That summer before he’d first gone away to school. The last summer his parents had still lived under one roof. A house party under way, their parents the hosts. His father had invited his mistress du jour—flaunted her beneath their mother’s nose. And when Maman had raged, he’d slapped her. Alastair had seized Michael to keep him from bursting out of the wardrobe. “You’ll make it worse,” he’d whispered.
Through the wardrobe doors, left an inch ajar, they had watched as Maman gave nearly as good as she’d got. She’d scored their father with her nails, raised a trail of blood down his cheek. Good, Michael had thought. Good.
I’ll let the world know you have the pox, she’d screamed. We’ll see how your lovers like you then!
Their father had charged toward her. Alastair had pulled Michael’s head into his chest, as though blindness would protect him from the sounds.
He exhaled now. Stood and walked to the basin. The cool water was soothing to his throat. On the desk a few feet away rested the letter that had been awaiting him on his arrival home—a note from Alastair, sent by Halsted. His brother was closing the hospital unless Michael reappeared in London by the end of the week.
Was it an empty threat? He wasn’t sure. But while the letter had enraged him earlier, he gazed on it now and felt nothing but . . . grief.
As children, they had survived a hell together. Alastair had helped him to survive it. And now his brother had discovered a fresh hell, and was striking out from that place of darkness.
He returned the tin cup to the table, the metal so cold against his fingertips. Yes, he felt grief. But not hatred. Hatred was born of relationships like his parents’. They had hurt each other so terribly. Alastair’s threats could never approach that level of betrayal.
That was good. Michael never wanted to be betrayed like that.
Marriage had always seemed to him like an invitation for such betrayals. Behold, for instance, what had happened to Alastair. But . . . he supposed marriage was not required to betray someone.
“Fuck.” He sat back down on the bed, the ugly word still ringing in his ears.
His father had tried to walk away from their mother. She had fought back against his abandonment—for the custody of her children, which she had lost; for money to live on, which she had been denied; and above all, for her dignity, though in the end, the publicity attached to her legal efforts had destroyed that, too. She had not been able to move in public without being cursed and accosted. Loose: Michael had not known the word could be a slur until he’d heard it applied to his mother by his classmates. Whore. Slut.
She’d been none of those things. But such were the ways of the world, which cared little for facts—or creativity—when it came to condemning a woman.
One rotter is much the same as the next, Elizabeth had said to him. Did you imagine you were somehow different?
He was not his father’s son. Not in the ways that counted. He’d done wrong by her? Then he was not going to walk away before he made it right.
He lay back down, staring at the ceiling. She needed money. How was that? He could not imagine that her parents would have wed her to Chudderley were the man unable to support her in style.
Well, whatever the cause, she needed money. He would not quarrel with that; he would never scorn a woman’s mercenary concerns. He had seen what the want of funds might do, even to a lady of high birth. His mother had possessed friends in the highest places, but they had not, in the end, protected her. Poverty was not fashionable.
He’d been too young to help his mother. Had she not died while he was at university—well, medicine would not have been his choice. Instead he would have made it his business to make money, the better to see her comfortable. He would not have depended on Alastair for that. Alastair had been too inclined to take the middle road, to strike compromises, to claim their father had his own reasons that mitigated his sins.
No, he would never have trusted Alastair with their mother’s surety. But instead she had sickened, and Michael had loathed and mistrusted the bumbling doctors’ treatments, and so he’d decided to learn how he could help her recover.
He’d learned too late. She was gone by the time he’d entered his practice. But if he had not been able to help her, he could help now. He had no money to give Elizabeth, but he had knowledge of men who did. Weston, in particular.
The pain in his knuckles startled him. His hands had curled into fists. He forced them to flatten on the sheets. His own feelings were immaterial in this. He had no money. And Alastair would never approve of her. God, no. His brother was too much a pompous prig to give her a single chance.
So. He would do this. And then he would go back to London. For suddenly his exile seemed foolish. He had proved a point, but now he was no longer interested in protecting his own pride.
Weston. Weston it would be. A decent fellow. But Michael would wager he had never once thought of Elizabeth as a marriage prospect. Weston had such tedious tastes in women. Conventional femininity appealed to him. Knitting, and watercolors, and skill at the piano, and needlepoint . . .
A smile twitched his lips. He recalled her confession at their first meeting. No artist with a needle, she. Her flowers emerged as blobs.
But that talk wouldn’t suit Weston. He would admire her wit only when it did not cut too sharply. Would be drawn to blushes rather than saucy flirtations. If she had a talent for the harp or piano, all the better.
She would need to know these things. So, tomorrow he would tell her. And he would begin, too, to work on Weston—encouraging the man’s awareness, and ultimately aiding his courtship, of the woman whom Michael . . .
He rolled over to smother his groan in the pillow.
The woman whom he owed. And that was all it could be.
That, he told himself, was all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Liza was dressing when Mather burst in with the news: she had spotted Lord Michael strolling with Lord Weston on the east lawn. “Wasn’t he supposed to have left?”
“Yes.” Perhaps the exhaustion of another sleepless night had stupefied her, but Liza could muster only the smallest flicker of outrage. She knew he hadn’t gone on to the station; the coachman’s
message had been awaiting her with her morning tea.
Perhaps . . . in some part of her . . . she was relieved. He had kept his promise not to go.
That did not mean she would let him stay, though. “I’ll deal with him when I’ve dressed,” she said, and dispatched Mather to go keep an eye on him.
Not half an hour later, Mather returned. “He has joined the breakfast table, madam. Mrs. Hull was . . . loudly delighted by his change of plans.”
Liza now sat at the dressing table, where Hankins was pinning up her hair. “Something simple,” she murmured—archery and croquet did not support high style. “I suppose everyone thinks he’s actually a proper guest, then.”
“Yes, madam.” Mather shifted her weight. “Shall I have the footmen toss him out?”
“No, of course not. I’ve told you, we mustn’t cause a scene.” Hankins stepped back, and Liza nodded her approval: a simple bun, high on her head, with a fringe of Josephine curls over her brow. “The pearl earrings,” she said, and Hankins went to fetch them.
“He’s eating all the food!” Mather was twisting her wrists. What she thought of Michael’s sudden elevation in rank, Liza could only guess, but judging by the girl’s ferocious scowl, she disliked being fooled as much as Liza did. “There were at least six eggs on his plate, by my count!”
Despite herself, Liza laughed. “Matters aren’t quite so desperate as that, you know. Why, I believe we can even spare eight eggs, should his appetite require it.”
“I thought you didn’t wish him here!”
In the mirror, she watched her smile slip away. “You’re right.” Her humor was misplaced. What is he about, here?
A knock came at the door. Mather went to answer it, cutting off Hankins by two long strides.
Michael stood in the doorway.
Liza spun around on her stool. She was impressed, despite herself, by this newest evidence of his temerity. Finding his way to her bedchambers required the kind of audacity she’d thought native only to Americans.
“You can’t come in here!” Mather hissed. “She’s still dressing!”
“No,” said Liza, “do let him in.” She turned back toward her reflection, eyeing herself. She would not lose her temper today. Indeed, the memory of her distress last night was embarrassing. She’d reflected on it all through the night. That he had almost driven her to tears! She barely recognized herself around him.
That would not do. Her guests had come to Cornwall to be entertained by Elizabeth Chudderley, fashionable beauty, consummate hostess. Michael de Grey had sprung a surprise on her, but he would not manage to discompose her again.
She smiled at herself, very deliberately: the same smile she wore in all the photographs. Your face is like a beautiful mask, an admirer had once told her. I can see nothing of your thoughts.
It was quite the compliment. Only now did she realize that.
Michael came into view in the glass. “Good morning,” he said.
“Another fine suit,” she observed. Pinstripe, this one. “I suppose you must have an entire wardrobe hidden away. Did you think the countryside could not bear such well-cut jackets? I assure you, even mere doctors may dress well.”
A rueful smile tipped his mouth. “Compliments to my wardrobe, when I came prepared to duck a vase. My luck is turning.”
She sighed. “All my vases are carefully chosen. I regretted the loss the moment I threw it.”
He caught the insult. “Not worth it, was I?”
She shrugged. Yes, her smile was holding.
“Perhaps your mind will change when you hear my proposal,” he said.
Mather gave a violent start—interpreting the comment, no doubt, as an overture to seduction. Liza returned her scandalized look with a benign smile. “Mather, darling, I’ll ask you and Hankins to leave us be for a few minutes.” For her maid had just returned with the jewelry case, which Liza took before nodding toward the door.
“But—” The girl looked between them. “Madam, you’re in your dressing room!”
“Then make certain not to tell everyone where we are,” Liza said. “You shouldn’t like to foment a scandal—or a marriage.” She winked at Michael. “God knows that would serve neither of our purposes. Lord Michael requires a saintly virgin, and I . . . well, you know what I require.”
Mather’s mouth formed a perfect O. Hankins, who had seen worse—she had, after all, known Nello—took Mather’s arm and guided her out.
Once the door had closed, Liza turned back toward her dressing table, busying herself with a jar of powder—dipping her brush, then carefully smoothing it over her skin. She had spoken truly to Katherine Hawthorne; these sleepless nights were very bad for the skin. “Your proposal, sir?” If he was bent on seduction, she had a laugh prepared for him.
“I propose to help you land Weston.”
A puff of powder flew up, dispersing in a brief haze. “I beg your pardon?”
“I know him.” Movement in the mirror: he took his hat out from beneath his arm, then turned it around in his hands. “From school. You’re going about it wrong. He likes the demure ones. Blushes instead of quips.”
“I see.” She laid down the powder brush and reached for the rouge.
“No cosmetics, either.”
Her hand stilled over the pot as her temper began to kindle. She welcomed its return; without it, she’d felt very much like a burned-out candle, cold and dark. “I believe I know how to snare a man’s interest, but thank you for your advice.”
He took a step toward her. “I mean what I say. You offered me friendship once. I mean to be a friend to you now. You need money. I have none. But I have knowledge that can help you secure it. And, more than that, I can influence Weston. Or Hollister, if you prefer. A well-placed comment here; a suggestion there.”
She stared at her hand atop the rouge pot. A new freckle, damn it. Right atop her middle knuckle. “You mean to . . . help me win a husband.”
“I do.”
She glanced up at her own expression. A very pretty face, though too round to belong to a great beauty. With Michael’s cheekbones, age might not have terrified her so. But she still looked young, though perhaps that was a trick of the emotion on her face. Surely only the young were still vulnerable to such a great and illogical sense of hurt.
She blinked very rapidly, then reached for the earring case. So. Her lover—her former, one-time lover—wished to help her secure the attentions of another man. “How amusing,” she made herself say. The pearls were slippery, troublesome little devils. One of them simply did not want to go in.
Suddenly he was behind her. “Let me,” he said, and the air carried the warmth and scent of him, that faint musk that her body had grown to know. He bent down and she froze, disbelieving, strangely unable to protest. Get away.
His breath coasted across her cheek. His fingers gently brushed over her hair and a shiver rippled through her. His touch on her earlobe was warm and light. Large hands, so skilled at delicate operations. The earring slid through her piercing. His mouth—it must have been an accident—brushed the rim of her ear as he withdrew.
Her hands hovered uselessly over the dressing table. She let them fall to her lap as she exhaled.
The silence felt charged with something unspeakable and fragile. Yet it seemed to accumulate weight by the second, until her throat was full and she needed to swallow. When she braced herself sufficiently to look at his face in the glass, his eyes were shut. But he opened them immediately, as though he felt her regard.
“They become you,” he said. He visibly swallowed. “The earrings.”
She managed a faint smile. He looked ridiculously out of place in her dressing room. In another mood, she might have appreciated how the light through the lace curtains limned his tall, broad-shouldered body.
He was clutching his hat so tightly that the brim was bending.
The realization touched off a strange welling in her breast—regret mixed with . . . other things, undeserved and unwelcom
e. Sympathy.
And longing.
“You want to help me find a husband,” she said.
Was that a flash of pain she saw in his face? No. She must be imagining it. His jaw squared. “Yes,” he said.
The syllable was adamant. He had no doubts. “Then don’t look at me like that,” she said.
He laughed softly and turned to the window. A muscle flexed in his jaw. Then he faced her again. “I could say the same to you.”
“But that would be unwise,” she said. “For as I told you, you were only an afternoon’s distraction.”
“Indeed.” He took a deep breath, then his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. Devastating smile. It caught at her heart like a hook. “A very pleasant distraction, but a fleeting one.”
A pang ran through her, which she ignored. They were striking a bargain here, in coded language. “Nearly forgotten by now,” she said, to test him.
“Circumstances being what they are,” he agreed.
Very well, they would be civilized about this. She would not throw him out; he would not make a scene. She closed the earring case, running her fingers along the velvet nap. “Circumstances can be so annoying. Always popping up. But I suppose they can be managed civilly. Between friends.”
They looked at each other another moment in the mirror. Then, on a deep breath, she rose and turned toward him. He was a full head taller, but from this distance, standing did give her some advantage. She felt firmer on her feet, and firmer yet when she did not have to look at her own reflection and see what was revealed there. “Your brother will find out you’re here,” she said. “The Hawthornes posted a dozen letters this morning.”
He sighed. “I’d foreseen that. But it’s time I came out of hiding. I received a letter he’d written . . . it seems my brother has decided to increase the stakes in this ridiculous game. Or perhaps I’m wrong to call it a game, for he . . .” He shook his head, and she felt a weird shock to see him look so openly troubled.
My brother raised me. Suddenly she remembered him telling her so, that long-ago day when they had visited the Browards’, before Mary’s baby had come. Some ancient scandal had surrounded his father, the late Duke of Marwick . . . a very public, very unhappy divorce. It came to her now, sending another shock through her. My brother raised me. Why, he’d told her more that day than she had known to listen for.
That Scandalous Summer Page 20
