by Liz Carlyle
“Desire?” Lisette forced herself to hold his gaze. “No, Napier, I won’t deny it. In fact, I rather doubt women deny you much of anything.”
His lips twitched. “You’d be surprised,” he said.
Lisette lifted one shoulder. “In any case, I thought you were avoiding me rather pointedly.”
“Has it ever occurred to you, Elizabeth, that I might be doing so for your own good?”
She managed a light laugh. “How patronizing that sounds,” she said. “I think you may depend upon me to take care of my own best interests. Didn’t you once say as much?”
“Then perhaps my restraint is for my own good,” he gritted. “And I’d as soon not make a habit, my dear, of pressing my attentions where they aren’t wanted.”
It was her chance, she realized. Moreover, she wanted suddenly to sever that ruthless self-control. “Then perhaps,” she said, dropping her voice, “you should rethink your strategy?”
It was madness, of course, to step closer. Later, she was unable to understand why, but in that moment she yearned to torment him. To set her hand to the wide expanse of his chest and lean into the strength and certainty that seemed to flow from him. To make him acknowledge with his body the words that had just passed his lips.
It was the faintest thing, a mere grazing of skin that was hardly a kiss at all, yet the heat of his mouth seared her. Lisette drew away, her lashes falling half shut, and waited.
But not long.
On a soft oath, Napier yanked her hard against him, one arm catching around her waist. He lowered his face to hers, and she slanted her head. And for an instant, time hung suspended, that wide, sensual mouth lingering over hers a mere two inches away.
“Yes?” he rasped, his breath warm on her cheek.
“Yes,” she said.
Napier obliged her. And this time, when he opened his mouth over hers, it was a slow and deliberate plundering. Willingly she surrendered, opening beneath him and allowing his tongue to curl sinuously around hers.
His mouth was surprisingly soft, his grip enticingly hard. His free hand cupped her cheek, stilling her face—unnecessarily, for her every muscle had melted—as his powerful arm bound her to him. Heat rose between them, redolent with the scent of his shaving soap. Again and again he thrust deeply, taking his time. Tasting her thoroughly.
Rising onto her toes, Lisette invited him to deepen the kiss. The sensation sent something warm and needy curling through her; it twirled around her heart, then spiraled into her belly, drawing her taut with that rushing tide of sensation she was beginning to crave.
It was irrational. So unwise. And yet something inside her pulled her into his fire—as if she might be purified by the heat of him, and unfurled anew like a flower from the ashes.
On a soft moan, Lisette let her hands roam over the hard muscles of his waist, and skate up his back. He shivered at the touch and let his lips slide over one corner of her mouth. They brushed lightly over her cheek, then over her ear, his parted lips warm against her skin.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, “I want—”
Just then, the sharp clack! clack! of Lady Hepplewood’s cane cut into Lisette’s consciousness. They sprang apart just as the old woman turned into the room.
“Well,” she declared, one eye narrowed assessingly. “I’d begun to wonder if the two of you were suffering buyer’s remorse.”
Napier had gone dark as a thunderhead. “You may set your mind at ease on that score, ma’am,” he said gruffly, “but I’d prefer—”
Lady Hepplewood threw up a staying hand, ivory lace falling elegantly around her wrist. “Never mind, Saint-Bryce; you are dismissed,” she said crisply. “My dear Miss Colburne, you are about to part ways with that lovely cashmere shawl. One side is trailing the carpet.”
His jaw twitching a little ominously, Napier cut Lisette one last, lingering look, then bowed stiffly to Lady Hepplewood, his gaze still hot with either passion or temper. With Napier, it was hard to say. But the look warned unequivocally that they were not done.
Lady Hepplewood, apparently, disagreed—at least for the moment.
“Now, Miss Colburne,” she said airily, tossing a thin, finely boned hand at the shelves. “Diana foolishly reshelved the book I wished to read. Be so good as to go up those little steps and fetch me down a copy of Mr. Sterne’s Sentimental Journey. I fear I’m not as nimble as I once was.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Her knees still molten jelly, Lisette managed to roll the ladder into place before Napier’s footsteps had faded down the passageway. She went up and, trailing her finger along the leather spines, saw that Burlingame’s great library held three copies of Sterne’s classic travelogue—an unnecessary extravagance, in her view. But she tugged one out, relieved to see her hand did not shake.
After going back down again, she placed it in the old lady’s hands. “I think this is what you want, ma’am.”
Lady Hepplewood scarcely regarded it. “Miss Colburne,” she said coolly, “might I presume upon our impending kinship?”
Lisette was instantly on guard. “Presume in what way, ma’am?”
“To give advice,” said the old woman. “I was wondering, you see, if you fancy yourself in love with Saint-Bryce.”
Lisette weighed her answer. “I hold him in great esteem,” she hedged. “I think him honest and capable—and handsome in his own way. And I believe we shall be compatible.”
“An excellent response.” A smile seemed to play at Lady Hepplewood’s lips. “In our world, Miss Colburne, it does not do for a wife to become overly attached to her husband.”
“I confess, I never thought of it.”
“Then I beg you will consider it now.” Lady Hepplewood arched one imperious eyebrow. “Indeed, I beg you will not succumb to bourgeois notions and imagine Saint-Bryce must be the great love of your life. If you do, you’ll find it a source of never-ending disappointment. But I daresay you already knew that.”
It was a veiled reference, perhaps, to her parents’ marriage. Or perhaps Lady Hepplewood knew something about Napier’s past that Lisette did not?
On the other hand, perhaps the old woman was just trying to spook her away. If so, then Lisette’s bland answer had probably dashed that hope altogether. But it scarcely mattered; she was not going to be Napier’s wife.
After giving Lady Hepplewood a faint curtsy, Lisette thanked her, then left the old woman perched like a blackbird on a stiff-backed chair by the windows. In the passageway, she exhaled in relief as she turned in the opposite direction from the one Napier had taken. But her mind had turned back to that kiss.
Really, had she quite parted ways with good sense? Once this sham of a betrothal was at an end, she would have to live with the scandal and the memories. The scandal she could run from—and likely would. But another kiss like that, and she feared the memories might follow her to the ends of the earth.
She regained herself somewhat on the long hike through the house, eventually making her way into Lady Hepplewood’s apartments. This required, however, a great many twists and turns along with the aid of a footman—not the philandering Walton, but the more genial fellow whose name at that moment escaped her.
Upon passing through the double reception room, Lisette was thankful the dashing, disreputable Lord Hepplewood was nowhere to be seen. As she followed the servant deeper into the apartment, Lisette realized Duncaster’s sister had been given the use of an entire floor in the west pavilion, a space larger than the whole of Lisette’s cottage and encompassing a private dining room, the withdrawing room, a parlor, a gentleman’s study, and, she later realized, at least six bedchambers.
For a girl born in a narrow, rented town house, the wealth required to maintain such a place was impossible to fathom. Moreover, all the rooms seemed washed with light, and decorated in elegant but neutral shades complemented by furniture that appeared quite new.
The footman stopped and bowed with a flourish of his hand. “The bedchambers lie
along this corridor, miss.”
“Thank you, er . . . Prater, is it not?”
Prater smiled. “Indeed. Shall I show you which door?”
She smiled gratefully. “Yes, please.”
After following him around another corner, Lisette turned into the last bedchamber. Inside, Diana stood over a heap of billowing green; a waist-high heap of drapery fabric and watered silk wall covering.
In fact, the entire room was in disarray, the windows and all the walls save one were stripped down to wood and plaster, and a ladder sat against one wall as if painting were about to begin. A grand suite of walnut furniture had been shoved against the wall that had not yet been stripped, along with a divan lushly upholstered in green brocade that perfectly matched the elaborate velvet bed hangings. The odor of vinegar was strong in the air.
At the sound of door hinges, Diana spun around. “Oh, Elizabeth,” she said a little breathlessly. “What a surprise.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting?”
“Not at all.” But upon seeing the footman, Diana’s brow furrowed. “Oh, and Prater—”
“Yes, miss?” said the servant, already half out the door.
“Was I not clear that this was all to be hauled away and burnt?” she said, gesturing at the heap of green. “And last week, if memory serves.”
“We’ve been short, miss,” said the servant apologetically, “what with Walton ill.”
“Walton was not so ill he couldn’t go haring off to the village Sunday.” Diana spoke in a peevish, somewhat girlish tone. “Was he not assigned to help me here? Honestly, I might as well be a lamp table in this house, for all the heed I’m paid.”
“Beg pardon, miss,” said Prater as he drew the door shut. “I’ll ask leave to help you.”
Lisette was surveying the disarray. “Oh, dear, I am interrupting,” she said, just inside the threshold. “I’m sorry.”
The furrow fell from Diana’s brow. “Oh, not at all.” Her voice was at times so soft as to be nearly inaudible. “Are you hiding from Gwyneth and her frightful telescope?”
Lisette managed to grin. “I’m hiding from any number of people,” she acknowledged. “I think we might make a list.”
“Well, you may take safe harbor here,” said Diana, motioning toward a worktable in the middle of the room. “Come see my samples. And do forgive my speaking so sharply to Prater. It’s really not his job to help me here. It’s Walton’s. He began tearing all this down, then left it in a heap with one wall not finished.”
Lisette laughed. “From what my maid reports, Walton suffers frightfully from lovesickness,” she said, “but if it helps, he actually has been very ill with a dyspeptic stomach.”
Diana’s mouth quirked. “Yes, and won’t Mrs. Boothe be disappointed to hear it.”
Mrs. Boothe, Lisette had learned, was the postmistress. Diana had laid out, Lisette noticed, a row of leather samples alongside the fabric from the previous week, obviously attempting to pair something up.
For a time, Lisette merely watched Diana work. Her hands were quick and clever—and she was not, after all, a nail biter. Instead she had a short third finger, and for a moment Lisette feared an accident. But the nail was intact; it was merely an anomaly.
She must have noticed Lisette staring. “Curious, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry.” Lisette felt her face heat. “I didn’t mean to stare.”
Diana laughed. “Gwyneth has a short, flat thumb,” she said, “and Tony’s middle toe is curiously long. We used to call ourselves the Odd Fingers. We even had a club—and we wouldn’t let Anne join. Cruel, weren’t we?”
Lisette smiled. She wondered what the absent Anne was like. “Which of you is eldest?” she asked.
“Gwyneth, then Tony, then me, then Anne,” she said, her brow furrowed. “Yes, that’s right. Anne is younger than me, but not by much.”
But a fabric had caught Lisette’s eye. “Ooh, I like this silk.” She reached across the table to point at a piece of champagne-colored fabric.
“Yes, I thought perhaps that for the draperies,” said Diana, who was pinning a slightly darker piece to a large square of muslin. “Gwyneth liked it. But it isn’t silk.”
Lisette picked up the loose sample. “But it has a sort of sheen to it,” she murmured, fingering it. “What is it?”
“It’s a fine cotton,” said Diana around a pin now stuck in her mouth. “The manufacturing process is new. The fibers are treated with chemicals that make it shiny.”
“Truly?” Lisette was amazed.
Diana blushed. “My mother was from a Lancashire milling family.”
Lisette tried not to look astonished, but she thought again of Lady Hepplewood’s disdain toward her son’s fiancée. Miss Willet was from an industrial family, too.
“Well, many a man has made a success of himself in that line of work,” said Lisette evenly.
Diana took out the pin, deftly stabbing it into her fabric sample. “I’m not sure Grandpapa did,” she said, “though mother was brought up to be a lady. My uncle is still trying to drag that old mill back from the brink. He sent me all these fabrics.”
She sounded suddenly sad, and a little wistful.
“Tell me about your mother,” Lisette suggested. “What was she like?”
Diana’s gaze instantly softened. “Mamma was very beautiful,” she said, going to the nearest window and holding her creation to the light. “And exceptionally well educated. I think that’s what drew Lady Hepplewood to her in the first place.”
“Lady Hepplewood?”
“Oh, yes.” Diana glanced back from the window. “Did you not know? Mamma was Tony’s first governess. She met Papa her very first day at Loughford. Do you think this filters the light sufficiently?”
Lisette set her head to one side. “We’re facing a little north, so it should do,” she said. “I’d forgotten your father was Hepplewood’s estate agent, as well as his cousin.”
“But Papa was only visiting then,” said Diana, coming back to the table. “He was just up from university, trying to settle on a career. He wanted Hepplewood’s advice.”
Lisette smiled. “Was it love at first sight?”
Diana laughed again. “Mamma said that, for her, it was,” she said. “I think Papa did not fall completely prostrate at her feet until he returned to take up his post. How did your parents meet?”
At Lisette’s wince, Diana stuck out her lip. “Oh, come, I adore romantic stories!”
“I sometimes wonder how romantic it was,” said Lisette on a laugh. “My mother was a seventeen-year-old debutante and Papa was society’s greatest scoundrel. He said he fell in love with her the moment their eyes met. His flirtation caused a frightful scandal. In the end, though, they did marry.”
Diana’s eyes were shining. “And did they live happily ever after?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Lisette shrugged. “Does anyone, really?”
“Yes.” Diana circled around the table to her. “Oh, yes, Elizabeth, they do! Don’t you plan to live happily ever after with Lord Saint-Bryce?”
Coming on the heels of Lady Hepplewood’s philosophy of love, Diana’s optimism was refreshing. “Well, one always hopes for happiness,” she said vaguely. “But sometimes fate intervenes in ways one cannot expect.”
“But you do love him, do you not?” Diana surprised Lisette by seizing both her hands. “Oh, my dear, if you do not, you must on no account marry him. Please, promise me you will not. Nothing should stand in the way of true love—and if you marry now, you’ll never find it.”
Lisette was confused. “But . . . you were going to marry the previous baron,” she said.
Diana hesitated for a heartbeat. “Well, my situation was different,” she said, squeezing Lisette’s hands hard. “But I was so very fond of Saint-Bryce. I had known him since childhood. He was a fine man. A good man.”
“And Lady Hepplewood insisted,” Lisette added, “didn’t she?”
Diana cut her gaze away.
“Diana, did you have to marry him?” she asked, dropping her voice. “I mean, you can marry elsewhere, can you not? You . . . you have been provided for?”
Diana turned back, her eyes softening almost tenderly. “Oh, yes!” she said. “Well provided for. Lord Hepplewood set aside twenty thousand pounds as my marriage settlement in gratitude to Papa. As to Papa, he has done very well for himself. He invests in railroads. I’m his only child.”
“Then you have only to meet your knight in shining armor,” said Lisette brightly. “But Diana, you aren’t apt to meet him here. You . . . why, you should go to London. You should have a Season.”
Diana shrugged. “I did; I came out with Anne,” she said, returning to her drapery samples. “Cousin Cordelia sponsored us the same year. But I’m beyond such nonsense now. Honestly, I should rather we all just went home.”
“Home, to your father?”
“Home to Northumberland.” Diana did not quite meet her gaze. “Yes, to Papa. To . . . all of it, really.”
At last Lisette saw the truth. “Oh, Diana,” she murmured, “do you dislike it here so very much?”
For a time, Diana just fiddled with her fabrics. “We don’t belong here,” she finally said, crushing a wad of cream-colored linen onto the table. “It’s Gwyneth’s house to run now—well, until Duncaster dies—and she doesn’t want anyone’s help. She certainly didn’t want me to marry her father. Anne affirmatively hates me. Cousin Cordelia is miserable and if Tony stays in Town, he’s apt to get . . . well, all I’m saying is I don’t know why we must stay on.”
“Oh, Diana . . .”
Diana gave a sharp sigh. “Lord, I must sound so ungrateful!” she said. “Yes, Cousin Cordelia says we will probably take a little house in Town eventually. And she says Gwyneth must go as well, and stop keeping Mrs. Jansen from her duties.”
But she did not look especially happy about any of it. Lisette was beginning to think Diana and Lady Hepplewood were like millstones around each other’s necks. As to Gwyneth and Lady Hepplewood—or Gwyneth and Mrs. Jansen—Lisette dared not speculate.
