Rags. To the queen, maybe. Gilbert took another large swallow of his ale, noting how very much she looked the daughter of a nobleman, especially in a place like this. If she stayed long she’d be noticed, draw attention to them, which they both knew would be a very bad thing under the circumstances.
“Where did he park?” he asked with a grunt.
“How should I know?” she retorted, glancing around. “Get me a sherry.”
“Don’t be stupid, they don’t serve sherry in a place like this. Besides,” he added gravely, “you won’t be staying long enough to have a drink.”
“Quit being so nervous,” she threw back at him in whispered anger, “I just didn’t know where else to find you.”
“You could always find me at the theater.”
She stared at him, aghast. “That would never be appropriate.” She adjusted her sleeves for something to do with her hands. “Besides, you know I won’t dare travel that far south.”
Gilbert looked at her through furrowed brows. A flimsy excuse, but if nothing else, he would not allow Elinor to ruin everything now by being seen with him here. “What the devil do you want, and make it quick.”
She smiled and leaned forward across the table, careful to avoid touching it. “More money,” she mouthed in whisper.
He should have known. That’s all Elinor ever wanted from him or anyone. “How much?”
“How much can you, a lowly actor of the stage, give me without being forced into debtor’s prison, dear Gilbert?”
“How much do you think you need before being thrown out of your home and onto the street, dear Elinor?” he countered sarcastically, starting to tire of her game.
Her lips and eyes hardened simultaneously, but she avoided a retort. “Two thousand—”
“Go to bloody hell,” he said as he raised his glass to finish the contents.
Elinor flashed him a crooked smile as she raised her hand, her pinkie only inches from his nose. “Remember where I have you wrapped?” she asked in a suddenly icy voice.
Gilbert wanted to reach across the table and break her little neck. Instead he offered her a rather pleasant smile in return as his eyes bore into hers, the actor in him coming out at last. “Did you know Steven is coming home?”
Elinor’s entire demeanor swiftly changed, her youthful figure sagging into the chair as the meaning of that statement grabbed hold, and it took everything in him not to burst out laughing. He waited, adding nothing more, until she swallowed and took a deep breath, coming to terms with the significance of the news.
“When?” she whispered, her eyes wide with a new concern she couldn’t hide, even in the corner darkness of the pub.
He reveled in that. “Soon,” he said very quietly, and with intent. “From what I’ve heard, I think your brother misses you.”
Suddenly the air around them shifted as she composed herself, straightening her rigid back, lifting her chin defiantly as her cheeks flushed with a renewed swell of anger. “There’s no good in that. What sort of plan is the great Gilbert Montague concocting with the evil Steven Chester?”
Gilbert laughed again, ignoring her question. “Elinor, darling, how about five hundred now,” he said as he leaned toward her, lowering his voice to a near-whisper, “and two thousand when I get the rest, for a combined total of two thousand, five hundred?”
She eyed him for a moment, suspiciously, and he knew she only tried to decide if he were hiding something. Gilbert candidly held her gaze, his lips wryly twisted, daring her to defy him again.
She hesitated, a scathing rebuttal no doubt on the tip of her tongue. But ultimately she suppressed it and leaned back again casually in her chair, folding her arms in her lap. “When are you expecting to get the rest?”
He shrugged as he finally looked away himself, toward the blond wench who laughed when a burly man with enormous hands grabbed her behind and squeezed.
“I don’t know,” he replied, sounding bored. “I told her I’d give her a week or two.”
“What?” Elinor screeched as she stood, her chair scooting quickly back across the wooden floor, making enough noise to turn the heads of several bawdy gents.
“Sit down,” Gilbert ordered with a hiss through clenched teeth.
Elinor stood her ground, her eyes glaring into his, nostril’s flaring. “You said this would happen fast, that I’d have the manuscript back in my hands and that rotten son of a—”
“Careful, dear,” Gilbert cut in, grinning again as he raised his glass to the barmaid, signaling her to deliver another. “That’s no language for a lady.”
She slapped the glass from his hands. Startled, he looked back into her eyes, now heated and overflowing with loathing.
“Do you want to hang?” she spat, her tone low and challenging. “I’m the smart one in this charade.”
He ignored her question and slowly rose to tower over her, her physical beauty all but masked by a sordid personality. “Again, you’re wrong, darling Elinor. I’m the lowly actor. Nobody cares about me. You’re the one with everything to lose. Remember that.”
With that whispered threat, Elinor relented, as he knew she would. She straightened her figure and took a step back.
“Just keep me informed,” she warned, pulling gloves from her reticule and attempting to don them quickly. “I’ll be waiting in Fowey.” After a pause, she leaned toward him again, her eyes burning. “You just remember it’s my manuscript.”
He brushed over that, lowering his arms and planting his palms flat on the table.
“Don’t come to me anymore, do you understand?” he warned. “I’ll have the money sent to you in a few days. Now get the hell out of here before someone sees us together.”
Without reply, Elinor lifted her chin high, turned her back on him, and gracefully waltzed out into the night.
Chapter 7
He knew just by being in her presence that Vivian was hoping he’d talk about himself and his past, about Elizabeth, her death and his trial for her murder. She was curious, not just in the manner as gossips from the town, but also as if she actually found it possible that he might not be as evil as society described him, wanting to judge the facts for herself. But even if that possibility warmed him inside, he still found it difficult to consider discussing it. He’d never felt close enough to anyone to bring the accusations, and his trial, into casual conversation, and as it had been the most difficult and emotional challenge of his entire life, he tried like hell to put that part of his past behind him in an attempt to forget it had ever happened. Not that his good intentions toward forgetting came to pass. Rarely a day went by that he didn’t experience some reminder of that dreadful ordeal. His living nightmare. So now, for the present, he’d prefer to know more about her—background and past—before he disclosed his personal tribulations.
Sitting across from her now at dinner, watching candlelight shine off her hair to create a sheen on her clear, smooth skin, it occurred to him that although he’d known of the Widow Rael-Lamont for several years, he knew absolutely nothing about her personally. It was also quite possible that the information she offered socially to friends and acquaintances was totally fabricated, which, he had to admit, he hadn’t considered before now. Of course by looking at her, daintily sipping her soup as she supped with him at his enormous dining room table that he almost never used, she bore herself so properly he had trouble envisioning her as a mere proprietor of a common flower business. No, Vivian Rael-Lamont was all sparkle and vibrant energy, a complex blend of intelligence, beauty, and secrets. An elegant lady on the outside, but with a flair that only hinted at a passionate woman within.
Will tried to concentrate on his food. He’d ordered Wilson to make sure the cook provided the best dinner served in his home in years, and the fare thus far had been outstanding. Tonight they dined on shrimp bisque, which would be followed by roasted fillet of veal in butter cream sauce, broccoli with almonds, ice pudding, orange slices, and brandied custard for dessert. A most delectabl
e meal followed by what he hoped would be even more delectable kissing in the garden by moonlight.
They sat together quietly during the first course, making general conversation as footmen served each entree then stood in waiting by the sideboard. Will sensed that she had difficulty ignoring the servants and so he granted her silent request to keep personal topics at bay. At least until they were essentially alone. And as he watched her smile and move her hands in dramatic fashion while she spoke of something inconsequential that he only pretended to find of interest, he couldn’t help but remember that brief brush of his lips to hers, his heated response to such a simple touch, and the gentle flush that had crept into her cheeks when he’d backed away. That had been days ago, and waiting this long to touch her again had been pure torture.
Now she sat directly across from him at the center of the long oak table, yet so close he could occasionally scent her perfume, watch the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath, catch the candlelight flickering in her eyes when she looked at him. She wore a simple yet elegant gown of burgundy silk, tightly corseted, with puffed, short sleeves and a surprisingly low, square neckline. She’d up-twisted her hair in some loose fashion, weaving in a strand or two of white, shiny pearls. Two simple pearls hung from her earlobes as well, but what kept capturing his attention was the one lone pearl that dangled from a gold chain to nestle itself right in the center of her smooth cleavage. Mesmerizing—
“Your grace?”
He blinked, realizing that he was staring again, and wondering, in some strange erotic manner, if she found it stimulating to know how much he admired her bosom.
“I’m sorry,” he replied, sitting straighter in his chair and raising his fork to cut a bite of veal. “You were saying?”
She smirked and reached for her wineglass. “I asked you if you were aware of the new taxes levied this year on boats entering the harbor from abroad. They seem overly restrictive to me,” she added, taking a sip.
Taxes on goods. He could think of nothing but bedding her naked body, combing his fingers through her loose, long hair, watching her eyelids close in abandoned desire as she welcomed him with arms opened… And she spoke of taxes. Unbelievable.
“In fact,” she continued after swallowing, delicately slicing into a bud of her broccoli, “it’s made it more difficult for me to get good bulbs at a decent price.”
“Would you like me to attempt a change by introducing an act of Parliament for you?” he drawled, lips twisted in smile. “I wouldn’t want to see your business suffer.”
She jerked back a little, her eyes opening wide. “That had not occurred to me, your grace,” she said at once, surprised and flustered and not at all aware that he teased her. “I mean—it was never my intention to take advantage of your station.”
Will sat back in his chair, eyeing her frankly as he twisted the stem of his wineglass with his fingers.
“Advantage of my station?” he returned quietly. “That certainly sounds intriguing.”
Color rose in her cheeks; that damn pearl glistened between her breasts as she squirmed slightly in her chair. To conceal her apparent discomfiture, she took a long swallow of her wine. He waited, gauging her reaction, scratching his jaw very slowly as he leaned on the armrest, enjoying himself thoroughly.
After patting her lips with her napkin and smiling politely to the footman who took her plate and offered more wine, she carried on as if he’d not spoken at all.
“I only became aware of how much this tax has risen from Vicar James, as he mentioned the difficulties imposed on all the working class during his sermon Sunday. I just wasn’t certain if you’d heard—”
“I don’t go to church,” he said abruptly, his tone dropping a shade.
Her brow creased in thought as she tipped her head a fraction. “Whyever not?” she asked in perfect honesty.
She obviously hadn’t considered it, and it made him all the more uncomfortable. He sat forward and folded his hands on the edge of the table. “Because I have sinned beyond reproach, remember? Why go to church when I am damned?”
She almost gasped. He could see the shock in her eyes as the dark pools reflected the flickering candles surrounding them. Silence reigned for seconds until one of his servants cleared his throat behind him, reminding them—or at least her—of the fact that they were not alone.
But to his utter disbelief, instead of cowering or begging his leave as any other lady would do, she suddenly sat up straighter and lifted her wineglass again.
“Nonsense,” she retorted, looking him straight in the eye. “I don’t for a minute believe that. I think perhaps you would do well not to listen to gossip, your grace. You of all people should set an example of your innocence, not hide from society as if you are guilty. Forgive me, sir, but you were not convicted of a crime. Staying away from church only makes you look fearful. Attending would, to all who noticed, make you look as if your innocence is beyond question. Whether you did the deed or not is irrelevant. That is between you and our Maker.” With that, she took a final sip of her wine, smoothed her skirts, then muttered with a smile, “I believe I’m ready for dessert.”
He hadn’t been scolded like that in a long time, and in fact found it a bit staggering that she would speak so boldly to a member of his class. But more importantly, Will had a very difficult time digesting such a pronouncement, on many levels, causing him to abandon his teasing approach, his goading of her, while he considered the meaning of her words.
He had never thought of his acquittal that way, not in all the years since his trial. But she was right, he supposed. Hiding from society only perpetuated the rumors of his guilt. And yet by nature he remained a very private individual. He still could not imagine socializing with the elite, regardless of whether they thought him guilty and condemned of the crime of murder.
What stirred him internally, however, was Vivian, the woman sitting so close to him—the way she looked, smelled, acted. She was like a beautiful, haughty, elegant goddess with a sharp tongue that didn’t irritate, but instead oddly aroused him. He no longer wanted dessert.
After a long, deep inhale, Will pushed his chair back and stood beside it, wondering if she would notice the fact that he was hard for her and that his pants could barely conceal it.
“I would like you to walk with me, Vivian,” he said with soft insistence.
She glanced up to his face, confusion lighting her features. “Now?”
Unfortunately, she didn’t appear to notice. No matter. She would know soon enough how badly he wanted her.
“Now,” he repeated.
A footman was there at once to help her rise, which she did without further comment. Will walked to the end of the table where he waited for her, his arm raised, while she adjusted her skirts and then moved with shoulders erect to his side. Placing her warm palm on his forearm, he stared at her for a moment before proceeding, catching the light on her lovely face, her eyes so bright with uncertainty. Even with the ominous cloud of blackmail and mystery over their heads, it calmed him to have her there, a feeling he’d never experienced before in the presence of a woman.
Quietly, he led her from the dining room, through the music room and out the French doors to the garden where he’d kissed her so briefly only a few days ago.
“Do you know what I find strange, madam?” he asked as they walked side by side on the brick path, away from the main house.
“I’m sure I couldn’t begin to guess,” she replied softly, lifting her face and closing her eyes to the cool nighttime breeze.
He paused in thought for a moment, then murmured, “I find it strange that you never remarried.”
He felt the slightest hesitation in her stride, but otherwise she didn’t offer an explanation. And he wanted an explanation.
“I find it difficult to believe you had no suitors,” he rephrased for her benefit, pushing for answers.
She sighed, stopping at last to gaze out over the expansive ocean she couldn’t see at all through
the darkness of night.
“I haven’t wanted any suitors,” she admitted at last.
He turned to face her, her expression hidden in shadow as the light of the house was behind her. “That’s rather vague.”
She dropped his arm and reached up absentmindedly to twist the pearl at her cleavage with her thumb and forefinger. “I suppose it is.”
Will quashed his annoyance, placing his hands on his hips beneath the edges of his frock coat. “You haven’t… longed for the particular companionship that comes from a marital union? How is that possible?”
That delicate topic made her uncomfortable, though he could only really just sense it.
“I’ve been busy,” she said with a mild shrug.
He didn’t like that answer at all. It was far too evasive and she knew it as well. “Too busy to enjoy the pleasures only a man can give you?” he asked more directly.
She took a step back, crossing her arms in front of her. “Your grace, I don’t think—”
“Why do you refuse to call me Will?”
He couldn’t hide the irritation in his tone, and at this point he didn’t want to.
She touched one palm to her forehead briefly, with the other she continued to play with the pearl lying between her uplifted breasts. She couldn’t possibly know how that mindless action threatened to undo him. It took every ounce of strength within him not to grab her and pull her into his arms.
“I don’t think it’s proper for me to do so,” she admitted quietly after a moment.
Such a ridiculous answer made him shake his head. “You don’t think it’s proper when I have asked you and we are alone like this?”
She turned her attention to him, though he still couldn’t read her features with the light from the house silhouetting her.
“You are a duke,” she said, as if he’d forgotten that simple fact.
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