That Scandalous Summer

by Meredith Duran

  “Yes, I must,” she said through her teeth. “Do you think I’ve undertaken this course for the fun of it? I know exactly what I need to do.”

  “But to enter a loveless marriage, simply for the sake—”

  She yanked her hand free. “Do not presume to lecture me—you, of all people! Michael de Grey, he who says marriage is the quickest cure for love!”

  He exhaled. “I did not say that to you, Elizabeth.”

  “But I heard you. You said it with conviction. And not for the first time, apparently! It’s your lifelong philosophy, Sanburne said!”

  “Never . . .” Never in reference to you. “Never with the right woman,” he said slowly. Christ. They were torturing each other, weren’t they? This whole bloody situation was intolerable.

  “So what does that mean?” she asked. “Is that why you refuse to follow your brother’s bidding? Are you holding out for the right kind of woman?”

  He stared at her, biting back words—and pushing down thoughts—which he could not voice. She lifted her head, her chin tilting proudly, the angle nearly defiant. After a long moment, it was he who looked away, biting his tongue so hard it was a wonder he did not taste blood.

  “Well,” she said. “I wish you much luck, my lord. You may find your wait does not disappoint you. As you say, the season is always rife with moneyed prospects—even for the men among us.”

  He turned on her so suddenly she flinched. “God damn it, Elizabeth. Do you want me to say things that can’t be unsaid? For I will, you know. I will say them to you, and to anyone else who cares to listen, my brother included.”

  Her silence—so stubborn, so cowardly; she would drive him to the brink but then step away from it herself—snapped his patience. He seized her by the elbow and hauled her toward him. Planting one hand in her hair—pins scattering, clinking against the bricks—he savaged her mouth. No warning. No polite notice. With his tongue he penetrated her.

  And, by God, this, this was where he’d needed to be. Where he needed to be again, and again, and again: inside her, his tongue and his cock, every hour of the day, as her small, hot hands closed on his waist, then on his shoulders, grasping, squeezing, as though she were as hungered, as desperate as he. She gasped into his mouth as he bent her over his arm, but he did not care; he was past caring. Let her be, for once, pliable; he would set the course here. There were windows above, glass doors to their right; he did not care. He licked and sucked at her; he took her lip between his teeth and growled when she tried to step to one side. “Be still,” he said, and sucked her earlobe into his mouth, and breathed against her as she shivered. She liked that. He had discovered it. This was his to know, his to employ.

  “Did Hollister kiss you like this?” he said into her ear. “Did he?”

  “He hasn’t—touched me,” she said. Her palms framed his face, pulled his mouth back to hers. Her lips were not clever now, but crushing, brutal; he would have winced had he not wanted more of it, more of her brutality; he wanted her over him, on top of him, her hands fisted in his hair, pulling to the point of pain.

  And there were windows above, and glass doors to their right.

  “Here,” he said hoarsely, and tried to move her into the lee of the building, out of sight of the windows. But the first step broke the spell; and then, just as suddenly as she’d responded to him, she was pulling free, shaking her head, gasping a denial. And though there was savagery in him—which pulsed like a red angry haze, urging him to ignore her, to take her bodily into the darkness, to persuade her, as he knew he could, to like it—he released her. Because, God damn it, he was not his father, not a bastard, he would—he would not contravene her will—

  She backed away, stumbling over the bell and causing a discordant jingle. The sound brought her up short. She looked down to her feet and uttered a curse, a low word that would have shocked Weston beyond all possibility of redemption. And then she snatched up the bell and clutched it to her chest. Turning, she fled to the double doors, letting herself inside without another word.

  Once on the other side of the glass, though, she paused to look back. He did not know what his face revealed to her, but whatever she saw, it made her press the flat of her palm to the pane, a gesture that lanced through him more sharply than a knife before she turned and walked away.

  That gesture looked so much like a good-bye.

  • • •

  She ran from the terrace. Ran like a coward, her steps only slowing as she neared the drawing room, for fear that somebody might witness her flight.

  The murmur of voices within caught her attention—and as she passed, she glimpsed Tilney crowding Mather into a corner. The sight brought her up short. Spinning on her heel, she marched back.

  “Very striking eyes,” Tilney was saying as Mather blinked myopically.

  Good lord. All thoughts of her own distress evaporated. Had she come upon a boy poking a puppy with a stick, she could not have been more irritated. “Tilney!” she said sharply, causing him to jump and straighten. “Off with you,” she snapped, before he could muster some witticism to cover his fluster. “Go find Katherine or Mrs. Hull if you wish to flirt. My secretary has more important matters to manage, and I expect you will remember that in the future.”

  With a lifted brow, Tilney looked between the two of them. “Understood,” he said stiffly, and then sketched a bow before exiting.

  As Liza closed the door behind him, Mather spoke. “I had that well in hand, ma’am.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you did.” The girl’s color was high, and the sight pricked Liza’s temper more sorely. She could not abide men who abused their station to prey on the staff. “Such a wide experience of men you have! No doubt your path to the typing school was littered with broken hearts.”

  This sarcasm won from Mather a slight smile. “You might be shocked. Typists attract a very rash lot, you know.”

  The girl’s color had begun to recede, and Liza could see no other sign that might indicate Tilney had misbehaved with her. Still, she wished to make certain that Mather did not labor under misapprehensions about what her employer would and would not tolerate from guests. “Should anyone ever bother you, darling—and I do mean anyone, even if he owns a small country—you know how to scream. And also, I hope, how to kick a man in a way that makes him regret himself?”

  For a brief moment, Mather looked struck. Then her smile widened, and she laughed. “Madam, how remarkable that you should ask! That is the very first lesson given at typing school!”

  “Very good, then. We understand each other.”

  “Yes,” Mather murmured. “We do. You are very kind, ma’am.”

  “Nonsense. And where are your spectacles?”

  “I dropped them,” said Mather. “Mr. Tilney offered to help me find them, but . . .”

  Toad. Liza glanced over the room, surveying with lifted brows the detritus of a very gluttonous high tea. A plate of half-eaten scones lay abandoned in an armchair—directly next to Mather’s spectacles. Removing the plate and handing over the glasses, she took a seat. She would use this opportunity to recover her composure.

  Do not think of him.

  Mather replaced the frames on her face and blinked experimentally. Watching her, Liza felt exhausted. “Tilney is a rotter,” she said. Men were such endless trouble. All of them—even the worthy ones. “I expect he saw your spectacles and decided to ignore them.”

  Mather shrugged. “If you mean to warn me, there’s no need, ma’am. I could never take Mr. Tilney seriously. He sneers so regularly that I suspect he shaves his mustache only to spare his nose the whisker burn.” She paused. “As you suggested, Mrs. Hull will do nicely for him.”

  Liza laughed in shocked delight. “Mather, I request you never to change. It would be so disappointing if you discovered a beneficent streak.”

  Mather lowered herself onto the chaise longue opposite. “Then I shall strive at all times to remain a perfect curmudgeon.”

  “Such a lovely quality
in a secretary!” The rumble of Liza’s stomach reminded her that she had eaten very sparingly today. Food would make an excellent distraction, for her mind wished now to wander back to the terrace, the last place it should go. If she thought on how he had kissed her, the things he had said . . .

  Her attention alit on a nearby pastry, nearly intact save a bite or two. “Whose plate was that?”

  “Lady Sanburne’s, I believe.”

  “Oh, that’s fine, then.” Liza picked it up—adding, at Mather’s shocked look, “Well, I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to eat Katherine’s leavings. Rabies is fatal, I believe.”

  Mather put a hand to her mouth, smothering a giggle. “Madam, you’ve a wicked bite yourself.”

  “I suppose that’s why we get on so well, you and I.” Liza took a moment to chew as she glanced around for other likely plates. Sugar was excellent medicine for the sore heart. Why, a slice of poppy seed cake sat untouched by the window! What fool had discarded it? Cook’s cake was a work of genius. “Do you know whose cake—”

  But as she glanced back, she forgot her next remark. For once, Mather had set aside her dignity and iron-spined posture. Slumping a little amid the ruffles and flounces of her sapphire satin skirts, she looked like a figure in a romantic painting. The deep blue of her dress brightened her eyes and caused her pale skin to glow. Her vivid hair, the scarlet of oak leaves in autumn, had been curled into ringlets that softened the square shape of her jaw, and her face looked poreless and opalescent, a pearl wreathed in fire.

  “Why, you’re utterly beautiful.” Liza heard the surprise in her own voice, but decided not to append an apology: it would require vanity to take offense, and Mather lacked that entirely.

  Sure enough, Mather glanced up with a startled smile. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Not in the least.” How had it taken so long to realize the girl’s beauty? Mather had been in her employ for almost two years now.

  Mather’s smile slipped into a more wistful curve. “It’s the gown, then.” She looked into her lap, giving the silk an admiring stroke.

  An awful thought occurred to Liza. “Have you never used a milliner before?” For now she thought on it, all Mather’s dresses were ready-made affairs, save the few Liza had ordered for this party. “How awful of me! I should have arranged to purchase a wardrobe for you in London.”

  “No, ma’am.” Mather spoke calmly. “That is not the usual call for an employer with her secretary.”

  “Do I not pay you enough, then? For you know that there are very reasonable milliners—”

  “You pay me handsomely. But I fear I’m a penny pincher.”

  “Oh.” Nonplussed, Liza paused. “Well, that’s virtuous,” she said. An example she’d do well to follow. “But what are you saving for?” Mather had no family; she was orphan, by her own admission.

  Mather shrugged. “A rainy day, I suppose?” Before Liza could inquire into that answer, she added, “I must thank you again. The gown does become me very well. I confess, I find it rather . . . amazing, the illusions such clothing might work.”

  Liza smiled. “But it’s not the gown that makes you beautiful, silly goose. Or perhaps it is, but only because the gown is an invitation to really look at you. And your spectacles do quite the opposite, you know. They allow you to see, but they blind the rest of us entirely.”

  Mather bit her lip. “Perhaps that is their point,” she said after a moment.

  “Is it?” Casting caution to the wind, Liza crossed the room for the poppy seed cake. The first bite rewarded her courage: moist, flavorful, utterly perfect. “Was typing school so dangerous, then?”

  Mather’s eyes bounced from her hands in her lap to the window, then back to Liza. She rarely talked of her past. This look in her face now was the reason Liza had never pressed her on it. The headmistress of the typing school had recommended her handsomely, and that had been enough for Liza.

  “You needn’t answer,” Liza said gently—although her curiosity was suddenly aflame, eager to seize on this puzzle, which offered a very welcome diversion indeed. Seeing Mather dressed as though to the manor born—and so very comfortable in the role—made her wonder a great many things. Mather spoke in refined accents, but if she had been forced to look for employment, then surely her family had not been sufficiently moneyed to provide a governess for her. “Did the typing school also supply your French?” And her piano skills, and her fine knowledge of geography?

  A line appeared between the girl’s russet brows. “No. The typing school was concerned with more useful things.”

  “How boring that sounds.”

  “Not at all. It’s lovely to learn to be useful. To feel useful. French . . .” Mather pulled a face. “French is not useful.”

  “Spoken like one who has never braved Paris!” Liza took another bite of cake. Because it was Mather, she did something very savage, and talked with her mouth full: “Besides, darling, you are the definition of useful. I suspect you were born so. I am more curious about the French. If not at school, where did you learn it?”

  “From my mother,” Mather said slowly.

  “And did she play the piano, too?”

  “Anyway, it’s quite the opposite, ma’am—I was born utterly useless. And very noisy, I’m assured.”

  A neat evasion. “A bawling baby,” Liza said. “Yes, I can imagine that: you would be colicky. Sometimes I think you still are.”

  Mather laughed. Here was another riddle: the unlikely whiteness of her teeth. Indeed, now that Liza was looking for them, little clues appeared everywhere, contradicting one’s prior assumptions. Mather’s graceful deportment; her height, which suggested hearty meals in her childhood; her self-possession: these things did not suggest a child raised in poverty.

  “Your mother was a Frenchwoman?” Liza guessed.

  Mather shifted a little, her satin skirts crunching. “No, ma’am. She was quite English. Nobody of note,” she said, which struck Liza as odd—for who would imagine a typist’s mother to be otherwise?

  “And your father?” Liza asked.

  “It was only my mother and I.”

  “Widowed, was she?”

  Mather’s mouth thinned briefly. “Abandoned, ma’am.” Her clipped words suggested she’d now grown weary of interrogation.

  “I see.” Liza felt a new suspicion forming.

  “You mustn’t think the worst,” Mather added, making Liza wonder what had come into her own face. “We always had enough to get by.”

  Not living on charity, then. Liza’s intuition strengthened. “I imagine she was very beautiful, your mother.”

  Mather smiled widely now. “Yes, she was. A great beauty, I believe.”

  A rich man’s mistress. It would account for Mather’s caginess, and also explain how an abandoned woman might nevertheless possess an income that would support her child’s education.

  “Then your looks are from your mother,” Liza said. “For in that dress or out of it, you’re a beauty as well. For all that you disguise it.” She reached for a half-drunk cup of tea.

  “I hope I am not a beauty,” Mather said somberly. “For I see how that fortune treats you, madam.”

  The cup halfway to her mouth, Liza froze. “I beg your pardon?”

  Mather sighed. “You are not enjoying this party, ma’am.”

  Liza set down the cup. “Have you overheard something from the guests?” The last thing she needed was tales circulating about her downcast spirits. Good God, Nello would assume he was the cause. How irksome!

  “Nobody else has noticed, I think. But it’s quite clear to me.” Frowning, Mather leaned forward. “Madam, I know you feel some urgency to marry, and were aiming at first for a very grand match. But I wonder . . .” She hesitated. “I do not wish to offend.”

  Liza waved this away. “You have always been frank with me,” she said. Then, with a smile: “At least in regard to my own circumstances. So, out with it, darling.”

  “I wonder if perhaps a title is no
t what you require.” Mather adjusted her spectacles, her blue eyes round and earnest. “You said once that Lord Michael required a . . . saintly virgin, were your words. But that does not strike me as the case.”

  “Ah.” Liza felt the breath and good cheer slip out of her. How instantly and completely her hard-won composure shattered.

  Do you want me to say things that can’t be unsaid? For I will, you know.

  “I should not have spoken,” Mather said instantly. “Forgive me, I—”

  “No. No, don’t worry.” Liza reached again for the teacup, turning it in her palms as she sorted through her thoughts. Good God, she was in trouble. “Mather, you’ve been over the accounts with me. You know how sore my need is. And a second son . . .” She swallowed. “He cannot supply it.”

  In the silence, she kept her eyes on the tea, the bits of leaves at the bottom of the cup. Some thought fortunes could be read in the patterns of the leaves. What a depressing notion—that one’s fortune might literally be located in the dregs.

  “I am no romantic,” Mather said finally, her voice hushed. “You mustn’t think that.”

  Liza’s low laugh ruffled the surface of the tea. “Goodness, Mather. I assure you, I’d never imagined it.”

  “But that’s precisely why I feel emboldened to say this. Marriage is the greatest risk a woman ever takes. I know you have some experience of it, but there are so many shades of unhappiness in a union. And the darkest shades—why, even poverty is not nearly so dangerous.”

  Liza looked up. Mather had bent her head to study her hands where they lay locked together in her lap. The set of her shoulders was stiff.

  “Have you some personal cause to know that?” Liza asked softly.

  Mather looked up, her face unreadable. “I have two eyes, ma’am. And I have seen a great deal with them.”

  Liza hesitated, puzzled by the mystery her secretary had become. “You know I am always here to help you, Mather.”

  The girl’s expression softened. “I do, ma’am. But I speak now of you. I would not like to see you unhappy.”