Lady Lissa's Liaison (To Woo an Heiress, Book 1)

by Randall, Lindsay

  “Ooh, m’lady,” whispered the abigail, her green eyes wide as she stared at her mistress, “fancy that!”

  All patience escaped Lissa. “Fancy what?” she demanded.

  “That you’re still alive, o’course—begging your pardon.”

  “You should be begging for more than that,” Lissa warned. “Enough of this foolishness, Tilly. Get over here this instant.”

  Tilly raced to do her lady’s bidding, tripping on some underbrush as she did so. She managed to upright herself, then, slowing down, very meekly came to Lissa’s side.

  “What ever were you thinking, traipsing through the thicket like some thief in the night?” Lissa demanded.

  “I be thinking o’ my lady being made so much fish feed,” Tilly answered honestly.

  Lissa clicked her tongue. “What utter foolishness.”

  “Oh?” said Tilly, peering past Lissa to Lord Wylde, who was now casting his line with a vengeance. Tilly lowered her voice even more, saying, “He looks the ogre all claim him t’ be, m’lady—mean and angry and chock-full o’ no good intentions!”

  “Tilly.”

  “It be true,” Tilly insisted, “just look!”

  Lissa did.

  Unfortunately, her maid was correct on all accounts. Lord Wylde did indeed appear to be consumed by all manner of deviltry. In fact, he appeared downright dangerous, casting his line with a growing intensity, his grip on his angling rod hard and implacable, and his black gaze even more so.

  Lissa inwardly cringed.

  It seemed the beast that dwelled within Wylde was now unleashed… and Lissa had only herself and her maid to blame.

  Chapter 6

  Gabriel purposely kept to the opposite side of the river, his mood moving from bleak to black as he tossed over in his mind the maid’s toe-shivering fear of him as well as his own uncouth behavior while alone with Lady Lissa in the river hut.

  Whatever had possessed him to kiss the lady, and so thoroughly at that? He’d all but ravished her, and she, blast those very haunting, familiar eyes of hers, had responded with a sweet, yet wild, abandon. It had taken every ounce of Gabriel’s constitution not to wish the whole thing at the devil and just claim her as his own. Gad, but she stirred within him embers of a passion best left to grow cold!

  Gabriel scowled. His behavior this morning was not only inexcusable, but totally unlike him. Or rather, truth be known, his behavior had been the polar opposite of the person he’d contrived to become these past five years. Long ago he’d vowed a vow to never again be guided by the compass of his passions—and he’d kept that vow.

  Until now.

  In just the span of a few hours the too-lovely Lady Lissa had managed to crack the walls he had so carefully built about his emotions. She’d managed to make him feel and want and need. Unfortunately, it was the needing that bothered Gabriel most…

  From his vantage point he had a clear view of Lissa’s perfect form, of that bright halo of blond hair that out-shined the now-climbing sun, and of her summery eyes that were far more blue than any sky he’d ever viewed. She was beauty personified.

  What could she want of him, he wondered for perhaps the hundredth time since meeting her. Ladies such as herself did not go gadding about the river’s edge at dawn, nor did they allow strange gentlemen to kiss them. She’d even chosen to linger in his presence instead of giving him a scathing set-down and then taking her leave, all of which would have been her due since he’d taken such liberties with her.

  But she’d stayed, and had even cast some of the blame for their heated kisses on herself. Now, why was that? Gabriel wondered, his gaze narrowing as he watched her bend to tie yet another handmade fly, her books spread out near her booted feet, her maid nervously hovering about.

  Certainly she’d muttered some nonsense about a trout (our trout, she’d artlessly referred to it, her voice beguilingly breathless every time she did so) that needed to be hooked, and one she swore had swallowed her precious locket—a locket, alas, she could not even fully describe!

  Why was the locket so important?

  Or could it be it wasn’t important at all?

  Damnation! Every time Gabriel tried to think through the puzzle of Lady Lissa’s haunting presence, he found himself at sixes and sevens.

  He strongly suspected there was something more to the lady’s purpose of staying near to him. There was an edge of desperation about her. He could sense it. Gabriel, above all others, knew well of females in dire straits.

  Until a few years ago he had made a habit of saving one particular and too-precious damsel over and over again. He’d promised himself to never repeat that mistake. Never again would he climb up into the boughs over a female. Not even for one so beautiful as Lady Lissa of Clivedon Manor. Not even, he now thought sternly to himself, if she has the coloring and sweet disposition of the woman he’d loved too much and too fiercely in the past….

  Gabriel cast his line with fierce intent. Not surprisingly, he came up short.

  His scowl deepened.

  *

  By late morning Gabriel had not caught the elusive trout Lady Lissa sought, and her abigail seemed near fit to be tied. The red-haired chit had obviously heard and taken to heart all the rumors about him. Lady Lissa however, he observed, was taking great pains to act as though she had not heard those same rumors. By noon, he sensed a chink in the cool armor she sought to buckle about her.

  “I fear I must return home, sir,” Lady Lissa called to him. “I’ve a previous engagement. One I must honor.”

  Gabriel, now on the same side of the river but upstream, did not press her for details. The lady’s life was no business of his. He’d come to the water to be alone. What did he care if she stayed or if she went? He decided he should be thankful she’d finally decided to take her leave.

  He retrieved the fly tethered to his leader, positioned his pole over one shoulder, then traced his steps back to where he’d left Lady Lissa and her abigail.

  “I hate that I must leave now, in the midst of our endeavor,” she was saying, “but it cannot be helped. I have planned a—a rather small gathering in honor of a dear friend’s natal day. My staff is in need of direction, and I must oversee all the preparations.”

  “Then go. Rest assured I shall continue to angle for your trout,” Gabriel said, his own equanimity surprising him.

  “You mean our trout, sir, don’t you?”

  Gad, but how prettily she said the words! Gabriel felt her smile all the way to the toes of his highly polished boots, and wondered if she was aware of her bewitching effect upon him.

  “If it is possible, sir,” she added, “I would very much like to renew our pact on the morrow—that is, if you do not catch the fish today. Say at sunrise? Here?”

  Gabriel heard her maid’s stifled gasp. He ignored it. “If need be I shall meet you,” he promised the lady, though he hoped he would not have to do so. Who knew what temptation would be thrust at him should he find himself alone with her again. “If I have any success in the meantime, I shall send word to you immediately.”

  She smiled again. “Thank you, sir. You cannot possibly know how pleased I am that you have come to my aid.”

  With that, Lady Lissa glided off, her maid nervously following in her wake.

  Wylde watched them take their leave, and feeling like a wretch for doing so, he found himself admiring the back view of the lady almost as much as he did the front view of her. Either coming or going she could make his knees turn to water and his thoughts become so much pap.

  Once he was alone, Gabriel took a deep breath and then settled down atop the monstrous tree trunk that splayed out its unearthed roots atop the river’s edge. He sat there for a very long time, thinking, mulling over the events of the morning. It was then he noticed Lady Lissa had left either her sketchbook or nature journal behind in her haste to head for home.

  Gabriel got up off the tree trunk, swiped the book off the ground, then sat back down. He flipped through several pages. ‘
Twas her writing journal. There were scribblings of notes throughout, all written in a clean, clear hand, and each entry with a bold date as its heading.

  Gabriel carefully turned pages, not really reading the words, but rather just admiring Lady Lissa’s neat script.

  One entry caught his eye. It was a late May entry, dated last year, and the written script was not nearly as legible as the others before it she’d written

  Papa died this day.

  My heart bleeds.

  I fear it always will.

  The next entry wasn’t until late June. Here, she’d written

  Ode to the Month of June

  Fog clips the wings of morning, silent, white,

  like a swan folded in sleep.

  Dew whispers in beads that slide, like tulips

  licking air, petals baring throats to a blaze

  that turns hornet-mean.

  Sun shifts, shade settling deep into earth’s

  bones as rock breathes, and night, like a desert caravan,

  curls around the oasis of moon.

  Three days later, she’d added

  Today, I found myself deep in the leafy hollow just past Crossmire Corners. A league’s distance stretched behind me in a tangle of turns and dusty elderberry vines, while before me sat Crossmire pond—all dark and deep, wind slapping water into the four corners. A slant of slippery stones led from all sides to its twelve-foot, sinister center. What I remember best about the pond is the bright green algae clinging to all sides, bleeding itself bubble by bubble into water black as pitch. Much later in the day, I looked in on the bird’s nest in my favorite tree alongside the River Dove. Four babies were nearly fledged…. I now believe there is life after death, for it was Papa who first showed me the pond and the nest.

  Gabriel closed the journal, loath to read anymore. These were her innermost thoughts. Her life, actually. He should not have read as much as he had. He felt a thief for even thumbing past the first page.

  He stared long and hard at the river, simply listening as the current tumbled under the downed log beneath him. Watched, too, as the air was starred by a number of flies he could not begin to name.

  No doubt Lady Lissa could name each and every one. Doubtless she could also catalog each and every flower blooming nearby. A lover of nature, she was, and a student, too, carefully writing down her observations.

  So what had been her purpose in meeting him alongside her beloved river this morn? Obviously she’d traversed these lands for far longer than he’d dwelled here, and yet he’d never met her until today. Someone so familiar with every plant and animal, every fly, bud, and nest of birds, would be careful enough to get out of the way of another passerby when she wanted to do so.

  Gabriel could only surmise that Lady Lissa hadn’t wanted to sidestep a meeting with him. Clearly, she had intended to make her presence known to him this day. But why? To what end?

  Unfortunately, Gabriel hadn’t a clue.

  By late afternoon he’d managed only a few strikes but not a single catch. Near sundown he packed up his gear, threaded his way back to his river hut to retrieve Lissa’s forgotten blanket, then headed for home, thoughts of the lady in his head. He took his pole, net and basket with him, intending to study Lady Lissa’s fly-making skills during the evening hours, and to perhaps rewax his silk line and soak more of the silk gut leaders.

  His butler, Manningford, a small, thin-haired being who possessed impeccable manners but amazingly little emotional grace, met him at the door before Gabriel even managed to mount the front steps.

  By the grim look on the man’s pinched face, Gabriel knew there was some sort of trouble afoot, no doubt within the ranks of his hired staff.

  Manningford had served Gabriel’s family for decades, and with sheer tenacity had stayed at Gabriel’s side through literally thick and thin.

  Wylde admired the man’s loyalty—had been thankful for it on too many occasions, actually—and had even grown accustomed to Manningford’s gloom-and-doom way of viewing the world and those who peopled it. The one thing Gabriel regretted was that Manningford never smiled.

  “You’ve something of great import to relay to me, Manningford?” Gabriel asked as the butler immediately reached to relieve him of his angling rod. “The cook hasn’t plucked a duck in the wrong way again, has she?”

  Manningford, looking dour as ever, pursed his thin lips. “Cook has prepared kippers for this evening’s meal, my lord. Just as she does every Thursday.”

  “Ah, so that is what has you looking as though you are about to attend a wake. I know how you detest kippers, Manningford. I shall speak with Cook about her penchant to prepare them.”

  “That won’t be necessary, my lord,” said Manningford, a grim note to his voice. “It is not the evening’s fare that concerns me.”

  Gabriel cocked one brow. “So it is something more dire?” He stepped into the coolness of the front hall, intending to deposit his net and basket onto the floor near the inlaid Italian table.

  Manningford, however, quickly scooped up both basket and net, balancing them in his arms along with the angling pole, then managed to close the door silently behind them.

  Gabriel’s arched brow rose higher. “Very well, Manningford. Out with it,” he said. “The last time you were this eager to please was when you delivered the very noxious news that all of the haute monde wanted my head on a platter.”

  Manningford cleared his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing. ” ‘Tis rumors, my lord,” he said. “I thought you should be informed of them. From me. Before you hear of them elsewhere.”

  Gabriel felt his gut tighten, then twist. It was as though a sharp and familiar blade had just been shoved into his innards.

  “Rumors, hmm?” he tried to say lightly. “You and I both know, Manningford, that I’ve had enough of rumors swirling about my head to last a lifetime.”

  “That I do, my lord.”

  “And yet you meet me at the door to fill me with more?”

  Manningford, looking as serious as a pallbearer, nodded. “I feel it is my duty.”

  Gabriel did not move. He suddenly felt five years younger. He felt, blast it all, as though he was once again standing within his father’s home—now his—in Grosvenor Square, and Manningford was informing him of a certain lady’s death, the cause of which had been hideously and forever pinned to Gabriel.

  Quietly, he said, “Tell me, Manningford. Tell me everything.”

  The butler shifted uneasily. He took a deep breath. “It seems, sir, that your name has been affixed with a certain lady of Derbyshire, one who had been chastely and securely hidden from the gentlemen of London Town until recently. The passing of her father a year ago sparked a great deal of interest within the Metropolis. You see, sir, this lady is considered… er, well… ‘quite a catch,’ if you will. Rich as Croesus, she is, and very lovely.”

  Suddenly, Gabriel did not need to be told the identity of the woman. He suspected he had already met her this morning. “Continue, Manningford. Get to the point.”

  “The point is, my lord, that this lady has managed to make it known to one and all in Derbyshire that she is embroiled in a—a… uhm… well, a liaison, sir. With you.”

  “A liaison. With me?” Gabriel was thunderstruck. “Why would she do such a thing?”

  “One can only assume, sir, that it is because of your famous—er… rather infamous past.”

  A storm gathered in Gabriel’s gaze, making the butler squirm with further discomfort. “Just how did you come to that conclusion, Manningford?”

  The man gulped once again, but forced himself to continue. “It is said that this lady wishes to rid herself of her many unwanted suitors, my lord. ‘Tis no secret to those in Derbyshire that she has never had any interest in marriage. In fact, word has it she would sooner form a pact with the devil than be led to the altar.”

  “And?” Gabriel asked, rather impatient now. “I fail to see where in this twisted tale I play a part.”

  “If
I may be so bold, my lord, it seems very apparent that you could play a huge part and not even know it. This lady obviously hopes to pull you into her web and relieve herself of her unwanted admirers.”

  Gabriel thought of Lady Lissa’s wild tale about a trout needing to be hooked and how he could aid her. He felt his blood begin to boll. “Now how the devil does she think that will occur?” he wondered aloud.

  Manningford, believing the question was one he should answer, said seriously, “She obviously hopes that by linking your name with hers she will scare away her suitors. You are, after all, known to be adept with both sword and pistol. Add that to the fact you’ve been known to duel to the finish for a lady’s affection, and well—”

  “That’s enough, Manningford,” Gabriel cut in. “I do not need a detailed account of my past.”

  “Forgive me, sir. Of course you do not. But you did ask.”

  Wylde glared at the butler, not really seeing him. His thoughts were purely on Lady Lissa. So that was why she had sought him out, and why she had stayed even after he’d kissed her so passionately. Not because of some locket or a trout or even because she’d felt some stirring of emotion at his touch, but simply because she angled to cast her name with his and frighten off all the skirters from Town who had come to dance attendance upon her.

  Gabriel ran one hand through the shagged lengths of his hair, not certain whom he wished to curse more—Lady Lissa for her scheming ways, or himself for falling so neatly into her feminine trap.

  ” ‘Tis both distasteful and disgraceful, I know,” offered Manningford. “If you wish for my opinion, sir, I believe the lady is not only playing with fire by dragging your name into such a stew, but she is also placing Master Harry at a grave disadvantage.”

  “Harry,” Gabriel breathed. “God’s teeth, but I hadn’t yet thought of what all this might mean for the boy.”

  “Of course you haven’t, my lord. The news is still too fresh. But mark my words, sir, it will not do to have all the dust of your past kicked up and spread ‘round the shire. Your whole purpose in settling here was to see Master Harry grow up far away from the ugliness of your youth.”