Except Elizabeth Wyndham wasn’t married, Rand thought, as he dodged a servant bearing a tray of drinks. His inquiries had divulged that much information, along with her real name. Which meant that she was either so grotesquely ugly no man would wed her or she was as poor as Job’s turkey. Or perhaps she was less conventional than her writings suggested.
Dancing couples passed with a swish of petticoats. As he wended his way toward the staircase where Elizabeth would make her entrance, he overheard snatches of conversation concerning the guest of honor.
“The Critical and The Monthly were most uncomplimentary. They said Miss Wyndham’s imagination has become imbued with a disturbingly dark cast.”
“I agree,” stated a second dowager. “When that dreadful Darkstarre violated Lady Guinevere, I found it shocking. Guinevere seemed mesmerized rather than repelled, which is certainly not a proper reaction.”
“But she’s wasting away with remorse,” countered a third dowager. “Which is only as it should be.”
All music and conversation halted simultaneously. The Beresfords and their protégé had begun descending the staircase.
That cannot be Miss Wyndham, thought Rand. He had seen splendid women in his time, but none who possessed this creature’s intense, scorching beauty. He followed her slow, graceful descent with fascination and disbelief. Who would have thought that someone who penned such anemic heroines could appear so lushly sensual? Elizabeth Wyndham didn’t cause a man to ponder genteel flirtation. On the contrary, she conjured up vivid scenes of passionate, timeless lovemaking.
A gallant standing beside Rand said, “Brocade is not the height of fashion, yet Miss Wyndham is just as striking as I heard she was.”
Elizabeth’s low-cut gown blazed like a scarlet flame against the pale marble steps. Watching her, Rand realized how ridiculous he had been to equate this dramatic woman with her fictional characters, or even his dream memory.
However, her personality might not be as daunting as her looks. Before she was lost amidst a dozen whips, Rand glimpsed her downcast eyes and the modest tilt of her head. Experience had taught him that physically provocative women sometimes made less imaginative lovers than their plainer sisters. Most likely B.B. Wyndham was emotionally identical to her heroines, and her personality would prove as dull. In every novel save Castles of Doom, Elizabeth’s ladies had suffered the most unspeakable violations at the hands of mad monks and lusty half brothers and debauched kings. Yet the molested ladies still managed to remain as mentally unsullied as the Virgin Mary. Except for Guinevere. She had definitely enjoyed Darkstarre’s attentions. Which meant what?
I’ll never know, Rand thought, striving vainly for another glimpse of Elizabeth. A woman couldn’t share his present life. Even if she could, he had an inexplicable feeling that this woman might single-handedly bring about his ruination.
***
Elizabeth felt as if she were a sheep surrounded by wolves, but her nervousness quickly subsided. As Charles Beresford performed countless introductions and she noted the admiring stares and comments, her natural confidence returned. None of these smiling bucks had any idea she’d barely begun her final installment of Castles, or that Charles Beresford would soon be referring to her as the former pride of Minerva Press.
“Have you enjoyed your trip to London?” asked a gentleman at her elbow.
“Very much,” she replied, casting him a coy look from behind her open fan.
“Have you been able to spend an afternoon at Bedlam?” asked a second. “I believe you would find it most entertaining. Perhaps I might escort you?”
Before Elizabeth could respond, a third said, “I’ll wager Miss Wyndham would prefer Vauxhall Gardens, or perhaps a boating excursion along the Thames. Would you allow me the honor of your company on the morrow, Miss Wyndham?”
Elizabeth fluttered her fan and gave noncommittal answers. Even if she had been interested in any of these gallants, she hadn’t journeyed to London in order to further her social life. While she had come partially in response to Charles Beresford’s invitation and partially to withdraw money from her earnings so that she could pay her father’s gambling debts, her main reason had involved London’s central library—or more precisely, what she hoped to find in its back rooms. Perhaps after she delved more deeply into the Alcester Chronicles housed there, she would be able to overcome her writer’s block and finish Castles of Doom.
“…read all your books, Miss Wyndham. They show such charm and sensitivity.”
Ordinarily, Elizabeth would have challenged the gentleman’s choice of adjectives, but now she merely batted her eyelashes and murmured, “Thank you.”
Another gallant chimed in. “I haven’t read your novels, Miss Wyndham, but I intend to. I know I shall love them.”
Elizabeth tossed her head and favored each of her would-be suitors with a dazzling smile, all the while thinking that London’s beaus were really very little different from the Dales’. Put any farmer in satin breeches and ingeniously clocked silk stockings, paint his face and prettify his speech, and who could tell the difference?
Charles Beresford approached, accompanied by an imperious-looking matron and a young man.
“May I introduce Lady Avery and her nephew, Roger,” Charles said. “I mentioned them to you before. They are the ones who so recently had that unfortunate incident with the highwaymen.”
“The ruffians took my purse,” Lady Avery said, “and all my jewelry, except for my wedding ring. And then the larger of the two, a veritable Hercules, had the effrontery to kiss my hand.” She looked rather pleased.
“They also took Lady Avery’s copy of Castles of Doom.” Beresford sounded indignant.
“Perhaps they are fans of yours,” Lady Avery said, her eyes crinkling with amusement. She led Elizabeth toward a hallway escritoire, then thrust the second volume of Castles into her hands. “When you autograph this, would you refer to the theft of your novel? I’m dining with the King and Queen tomorrow, and I believe they will be amused by the anecdote.”
“It was actually all quite dreadful,” Roger whined, as Elizabeth dutifully opened the book to its title page and began writing. “Though I suppose crime is common nowadays. Remember when the Prince of Wales, the Prime Minister, and the Lord Chancellor were robbed in broad daylight in the West End, and the Lord Mayor was held at pistol point at Turnham Green?”
Elizabeth didn’t remember. Furthermore, she didn’t care who robbed whom, so long as they left her alone. Signing her name with a flourish, she returned the book to Lady Avery.
“I trust the blackguards will soon be apprehended,” muttered Beresford. “But as far as I’m concerned, hanging is too mild. I agree with that pamphlet we published a few years back, Hanging Not Punishment Enough. We should brand and torture lawbreakers, then force them into a life of servitude on a plantation.”
“I personally found both highwaymen quite dashing,” said Lady Avery. “At my age, the loss of a few trinkets seems a small price to pay for any adventure.”
Fearing offense, Beresford quickly agreed. After mopping his brow with his ever-present handkerchief, he placed his hand on Elizabeth’s arm and whispered, “Everyone is enchanted with you, my dear.”
Elizabeth heard his words, but they didn’t register. Beyond Lady Avery and her pompous nephew, Elizabeth had just spied the most extraordinarily attractive man. “Damn,” she breathed.
“Did you say something?” Beresford asked.
Had Elizabeth been describing her reaction in one of her novels, she would have used words like “thunderstruck” and “heart palpitations,” or perhaps her heroine would have fainted at the sight of the stranger’s dark good looks. Elizabeth didn’t swoon or blush or cry out, but she did feel light-headed. No. Light-headed was too sedate a description. Stunned was more apt. Yes. Stunned.
Far away, Beresford’s voice dipped and soared, but Elizabeth c
ould not hold onto it. She felt as though the stranger’s gaze was probing the deepest recesses of her soul, and she shivered.
Beresford broke off mid-sentence. “Are you cold, my dear?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I just thought I recognized someone I knew.”
How peculiar, she mused. London—nay, all of England—was awash with handsome men, and she had glimpsed many a pleasing face. So why did she feel as if her stays were too tight and each breath a struggle? And why had she said that the stranger appeared familiar? But he was familiar. Perhaps he had once paid court to her?
Noodle-head! She would have remembered that lithe body, so straight and tall. Maybe she had seen him earlier in the day, or last Sunday at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Maybe she had caught a glimpse of him from her window, or perhaps he had visited her father’s inn.
But I would have remembered.
“Excuse me.” Heedless of the surprised looks and raised eyebrows, Elizabeth wove her way through a blur of figures. The music, the rustle of skirts, the coughs and snuff-sneezes, the laughter and conversation all faded from her consciousness as she felt the room contract. However, once she was face to face with the stranger, she couldn’t find anything to say.
This is absurd, she thought, striving to calm her racing pulse. In the Dales she had been proposed to more times than a month had days, and she discarded men as easily as she discarded the used nibs from her quill. Yet now she was virtually struck dumb.
“Who are you?” she finally blurted, and was immediately horrified by her faux pas. A lady must never initiate a conversation lest she be considered guilty of “too warm desires.” A lady could only respond after a man had shown interest in her. And yet here she stood, Elizabeth Wyndham, heroine-for-a-night, behaving with all the subtlety of a streetwalker.
Rather than registering his disapproval, the stranger merely bowed and said, “My name is John Randolph. And you are the famed B.B. Wyndham.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth was struck by the raven color of his hair, which made his eyes appear even more blue. Her novelist’s brain swiftly catalogued the strong line of his jaw, his full mouth, and his long, lean body. Most gentlemen used paint and strategically placed padding, but Mr. Randolph needed no such artifice to enhance his rugged good looks.
“What does the B.B. stand for?” he asked. “Bonny Bess?”
Elizabeth despised women who blushed, and yet she felt her cheeks flame. “Barbara Brownmiller,” she replied. “’Tis my mother’s name. She was my inspiration and…” Elizabeth swallowed. “I have the oddest feeling we’ve met before, sir. Where might that have been?”
“I’ve recently been introduced to your books,” he said, sidestepping her question. “I find them fascinating. Or perhaps I should say disturbing.”
“I know we’ve met before,” she insisted, although ordinarily she would have challenged the word disturbing. “Have you ever visited the Inn of the White Hart? Or the Theatre Royal in York?”
He shook his head. “I’m sure I would have remembered.”
“Are you suggesting that I do not remember?”
“No. I meant it as a compliment, Miss Wyndham.”
“Dance with me, John Randolph,” she said, and was again astonished by her boldness. She prayed that no one had overheard. Hellfire! Her reputation would be forever ruined. She waited for a caustic reply, or even a polite repudiation, but he made no reference to her bad manners.
His eyes, she decided, were the color of the North Sea. She had used that phrase when she had penned her description of Ralf Darkstarre’s eyes.
“What happened to your leg?” she asked, as they took their place among the line of couples.
“The War with the Colonies.”
“You dance very well, despite your limp.”
“I have wondered how we’d meet,” he said.
Although he remained at a discreet distance, Elizabeth felt as if the earth had shifted beneath her feet, as if the very room had tilted. Why? Ordinarily, the warmth of a man’s gaze wouldn’t be unsettling. On the contrary, it would be invigorating. Or boring. What had Mr. Randolph just said about her writing? About Castles of Doom? It was so difficult to concentrate.
“Why is it you’ve never married?” he asked.
His words brought her back to her senses, her normal senses. At first she was startled by his rudeness. Nay, she justified, he was simply inquisitive. Shocked by her advanced age, he had been unable to restrain his curiosity. Furthermore, his question was certainly no more rude than her question about his leg.
“I prefer a more independent path,” she said. “I cannot accept the fact that everything we are, everything we can ever aspire to be, is contained within the duties of daughter, sister, wife, and mother.” Her explanation sounded shrill and false, even to her own ears, though he made no comment.
They danced past the orchestra, the statues from Italy in their wall niches, the portrait of Penelope Beresford above the mantelpiece. They passed the chaperones and young ladies seated in the chairs lining either side of the room, then the orchestra again.
“After reading your books, I had pictured you far differently,” he said.
Elizabeth imagined his disappointment. Undoubtedly, he expected her to be like her heroines. True, they were somewhat vapid. But they were also sprightly and witty, amusing their male partners. They were sweet and compliant, so as not to arouse tempers. They were pure and self-controlled, successfully elevating morals—except when they were being ravished by monks and debauched kings. In other words, her heroines were the perfect complement to a man, something she could never be.
“How did you picture me?” she asked bluntly, abandoning any pretense at witty, sweet, and compliant.
His gaze lingered on her bosom, and she was certain he disapproved of her décolletage. He probably expected her to wear a high-necked muslin frock patterned with dainty flowers.
“I think you are a very formidable force,” he said.
A lady might be described in many ways but formidable could never be construed as a compliment. Elizabeth searched desperately for something clever to say, or better yet, something innocuous. “Where are you from?” she finally managed. “Your accent tells me you’re not from these parts.”
“I’ve lived in many parts of England. In my business I travel a good deal.”
“And what business are you in?” Judging from his clothes, it was a profitable one.
But he merely shook his head. Elizabeth could smell food and burning candles and the faint sandalwood scent of John himself. She glimpsed their reflection in the wall mirror, the brightness of her scarlet gown and his deep blue jacket. Chandeliers shed their sparkle-bright tears while wooden cherubim seemed to swoop down from the rococo moldings. The music drifted to an end. Without asking, John ushered her outside, onto the terrace.
***
The boldness of Elizabeth Wyndham’s gaze and her forthright manner perfectly suited her lush sensuality, Rand thought. As they paused at the railing, his inner voice warned him to lead her back to her drum, then return to the safety of the Rookery. On the other hand, he felt an overwhelming conviction that his first inclination had been correct. They were connected in some bizarre manner, for he had never been so powerfully attracted to a woman. In fact, during their dance, his mind had danced with images of lovemaking. He felt as if he already knew every enticing inch of her body.
He forced himself to keep his gaze on the starless sky. “You’re from the Yorkshire Dales, are you not?”
“You’ve done a bit of checking on me, sir. I’m flattered.”
“I’ve never been to the Dales,” Rand stated, thinking that the sultry air smelled strongly of coal ash, and more faintly of Elizabeth’s perfume. Thank God he had introduced himself as John Randolph, an alias he frequently employed. The name Rand Remington was not unknown in London. After all, he had been a
war hero, fussed over and feted by the very same aristocracy he now robbed.
He had instinctively withheld his name from the beautiful woman who stood by his side. Watching her approach him, watching her weave her way through the faceless dancers, admiring the luminosity of her black-hued eyes, the word betrayal had momentarily thrummed inside his head.
“You should visit the Dales, Mr. Randolph,” she said. “’Tis not unpleasant there, though you might find it quiet after London. I believe the most strenuous activity our justice of the peace has is signing the parish clerk’s accounts.”
“There is little crime, then?”
She laughed. “Indeed not. And if there were, Lord Stafford, our J.P., would be too impotent to deal with it.”
The orchestra struck up a quadrille, and Rand silently congratulated himself on his self-control. Until he felt Elizabeth’s hand close over his own. Slowly, reluctantly, he looked down into her eyes.
“I know why you seem familiar,” she murmured. “I have long imagined someone like you in my novels.”
“The hero, I trust,” he said lightly. But he knew who she meant—Ralf Darkstarre. The knowledge was intoxicating and frightening, exactly the same mix of emotions he experienced while practicing his profession. Reaching out with his free hand, he stroked the contours of her face, lingering at a wispy curl in front of her ear. “’Tis not only the darkness of our hair that is similar,” he said, “but the darkness of our pasts.”
***
John Randolph’s words made no sense to Elizabeth, yet on some level they did. A voice whispered: I have seen your face before. I have seen that look before.
She felt as if her past had fallen away, as if there had never been a time when they hadn’t known each other, so it wasn’t only the chill of the evening shadows that caused her to shiver.
“We have met before,” she whispered. “But why don’t I remember?”
His finger caressed her earlobe, sending even more shivery sensations up and down her spine.
The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter Page 3
