She was tired of being stared at and whispered about because she enjoyed conversing on topics other than fashion and the weather. And she could not help it if she was a miserable dancer and taller than deemed appropriate. If this gentleman was aware of the mockery circulating about her nationality and personality, he was polite enough not to show it.
"I realize you are without a chaperone," he said his tone amused, "but you have my word I shall not abscond with you."
Assuring herself there was no harm in accepting his offer of escort, Elizabeth said, "By all means, let us walk."
Strolling beside him down the path, her flounce dragging behind her, she cuddled Gadzooks in her arms and cast a surreptitious glance at her companion. Thank goodness she wasn't prone to heaving dreamy, romantic sighs, for this was certainly a man who could induce them. Thick ebony hair framed a strikingly handsome face made all the more intriguing by the play of shadows from the moonlight. His eyes were steady and intense, and when he'd gazed at her a moment ago her toes had involuntarily curled inside her slippers. High cheekbones, nose straight as a blade, and a full, firm mouth that she knew could quirk with amusement and she imagined would look fierce in anger.
In truth, everything about him was attractive. But there was no point in finding this stranger intriguing. As soon as he realized what a social disaster she was, he would surely rebuff her, just as so many others had.
"Tell me, Miss Matthews, with whom are you attending this ball?"
"I came with my aunt, Countess Penbroke."
Speculation filled his gaze. "Indeed? I knew her late husband, however I was not aware they had an American niece."
"My mother and Aunt Joanna were sisters. My mother settled in America when she married my father, an American physician." She shot him a sidelong glance. "My mother was born and raised in England. Thus, I am half English."
A smile touched his lips. "So you are, then, only half an Upstart."
She laughed. "Oh, no. I fear I'm still an Upstart through and through."
"Is this your first visit to England?"
"Yes." There was no point in telling him this was more than a visit-that she would never return to her hometown.
"And are you enjoying it?"
She hesitated, but decided to tell him the unvarnished truth. "I like your country, but I find English society and all its rules restricting. I grew up in a rural area and had much more freedom. It is not easy adjusting."
He glanced at her clothing. "Clearly you're experiencing difficulty giving up the American custom of crawling about in the bushes in your evening clothes."
A giggle erupted from between her lips. "Yes, it appears so."
The stables loomed ahead. As they approached, a tremendously plump cat emerged from the doorway and let out a loud meow.
The gentleman bent to stroke the animal. "Hello there, George. How's my girl tonight? Are you missing your baby?"
Elizabeth lowered Gadzooks to the ground and the kitten immediately pounced on George. "Gadzooks's mother is named George?"
He looked up at her from his crouched position and smiled. "Yes. As in 'By George, that cat must be a female because look there-she's having kittens!' My groom named her. Mortlin knows everything about horses, but little, I'm afraid, about cats."
Her answering smile faded as the significance of his words hit her. "Your groom? Are these your cats?"
Austin rose slowly to his feet, inwardly cursing his carelessness. His pleasant interlude was about to come to an end. "Yes, the cats are mine."
Her eyes widened. "Oh, dear. Then this is your home?"
Austin cast a quick glance toward the mansion in the distance. It was where he lived but it hadn't felt like a home in over a year.
"Yes, Bradford Hall belongs to me."
"Then you must be…" She swept downward into an awkward curtsy. "Forgive me, your grace. I didn't realize who you were. You must think me incredibly rude."
He watched her arise from her curtsy, waiting to see her eyes narrow with speculation, flicker with avarice, sparkle with anticipation of how to best put her unexpected meeting with "England's Most Eligible Bachelor" to her advantage.
He saw none of it. Instead, she seemed genuinely distressed. And anxious to get away from him. How very interesting.
"I'm so sorry I said I wasn't enjoying your party," she said, taking several steps backward. "It's a delightful party. Delightful. The food the music, the guests, they are all…"
"Delightful?" he supplied helpfully.
She nodded and retreated several more steps.
His gaze never left her face. Emotions streaked through her expressive eyes-embarrassment, dismay, surprise, but not once did he discern a hint of coyness or speculation. Nor did she seem particularly impressed with his lofty title. But it was the complete lack of something else that utterly fascinated him.
She wasn't flirting with him.
She hadn't flirted earlier, before she'd known who he was, but now…
How incredibly interesting.
"Thank you for escorting me, your grace. I believe I shall return to the house now." She took several more steps backward.
"What about your gown, Miss Matthews? Not even a Colonial Upstart would dare enter the ballroom in your present condition."
Halting, she looked down at herself. "I don't suppose there's any hope that no one would notice."
"No hope at all. Are you and your aunt spending the night?"
"Yes. In fact, we're staying on here at Bradford Hall for several weeks as guests of the dowager duchess…" Understanding dawned in her eyes. "Who is your mother."
"Indeed she is." Austin briefly wondered if his mother had arranged for the visit with the hopes of making a match, but he immediately discarded the idea. He couldn't imagine that his very proper mother would deem an American to be a suitable duchess. No, he knew all too well that she had her matchmaking eye set on several young women of impeccable British lineage. "As long as you're staying here, I believe I can solve your problem. I'll show you to a little-used side entrance that leads directly up to the guest chambers."
There was no mistaking the gratitude in her eyes. "That would certainly avert the social disaster I fear looms on the horizon."
"Then let us be off."
As they walked toward the mansion, Elizabeth asked "I hate to further impose upon your kindness, your grace, but would you mind giving my excuses to my aunt when you return to the ballroom?"
"Of course."
She cleared her throat. "Ah, what excuse shall you use?"
"Excuse? Oh, I suppose I'll say you suffered from a fit of the vapors."
"Vapors!" She sounded outraged. "Nonsense! I would never fall victim to such a frivolous thing. Besides, Aunt Joanna would not believe it. She knows I am of a most robust nature. You must think of something else."
"All right. How about the headache?"
"I never get them."
"Dyspepsia?"
"My stomach never causes me discomfort."
Austin fought the urge to roll his eyes heavenward. "Do you ever suffer from any malady?"
She shook her head. "You keep forgetting that I am-"
"Most robust. Yes, I'm beginning to see that. But I fear that any other excuse, such as a fever, would unduly alarm your aunt."
"Hmmm. I suppose you're right. I don't wish to frighten her. Actually, a headache is not far from the truth. The mere thought of returning to the ballroom sets my temples to pounding. Very well," she said with a nod her tone crisp. "You may say I've succumbed to the headache."
Austin's lips twitched. "Thank you."
She beamed at him. "You're quite welcome."
They arrived at the mansion several minutes later and Austin led her through the shadows to a side door almost entirely obscured with ivy. He felt for the knob and pulled the door open. "There you are. The guest chambers are at the top of the stairs. Be careful on the steps."
"I shall. Thank you again for your kindness."
&
nbsp; "My pleasure."
His gaze searched her face in the dim light. Even completely disheveled she was lovely. And amusing. He could not recall the last time he'd felt so lighthearted. Pressing concerns awaited him once he returned to the house, yet he couldn't resist prolonging this pleasant interlude for a few moments longer. Reaching out, he gently grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. Her hand was warm and soft, her fingers long and slender. The subtle scent of lilacs again assailed him.
Their eyes met and his breath stalled. Damn it, she looked so delightfully mussed… as if a man's hands had disarranged her hair and clothing. His gaze dropped to her mouth… her full, incredibly tempting mouth, and he wondered what she would taste like. He imagined leaning forward, brushing his lips over hers, once, twice, then deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue into the luscious warmth of her mouth. She tasted delicious, like-
"Oh my."
Her fingers tightened on his hand and she regarded him with wide eyes. Her gaze rested on his lips for several seconds, then she looked away, clearly flustered. Warmth crept through him, surprising him. If he didn't know better, he'd swear she'd read his thoughts.
He was about to release her hand when she gasped. Their eyes met and he noted she appeared suddenly pale. He tried to extricate his hand from hers, but she only tightened her grip.
"What's wrong?" he asked, alarmed at her pallor, unnerved by her concentrated stare. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"William."
He froze. "Excuse me?"
Her eyes desperately searched his. "Do you know someone named William?"
Every muscle in his body tensed. "What game are you playing here?"
Instead of answering, she squeezed his hand between her palms and closed her eyes. "He's your brother," she whispered. "You've been told he died while serving his country." She opened her eyes and the look she leveled at him gave him the eerie sensation she could see right into his soul. "It's not true."
His blood turned to ice. He pulled his hand from hers and stepped back, shocked by her words. By God did this woman know his darkest secret? And if she did, how did she know?
The images he'd spent the last year trying to erase crashed through his mind. A dark alley. William meeting with a Frenchman named Gaspard. Crates of weapons. An exchange of money. Haunting questions. A bitter confrontation between brothers. Then, only weeks later, the news that William had died at Waterloo-a war hero.
His heart beat heavily in his chest as he fought to remain calm. Could this woman be more than she appeared? Could she know something about the letter he'd recently received or the activities William had conducted with the French? Could she be the clue he'd spent the last year searching for?
His eyes narrowed on her pale face and he uttered the lie he'd told countless times before. "William died fighting for his country. He is a hero."
"No, your grace."
"Are you saying my brother wasn't a hero?"
"No. I'm saying that he didn't die. Your brother William is alive."
Chapter 2
Elizabeth felt the onset of the numbing fatigue that sometimes followed a vision. She wanted desperately to sit down, but the suspicion blazing from the duke's eyes held her pinned in place.
"You will tell me everything you know that makes you claim my brother is alive," he commanded in an icy tone. "Immediately."
Dear God, why did I say anything? But even as she asked herself, Elizabeth knew the answer. A young woman's face flashed in her mind… the beloved friend she'd never see again… all because Elizabeth remained silent about a premonition. It was a mistake she'd vowed never to make again.
And the fact that this William was alive-surely that was joyous news? But the hostility and distrust in the duke's eyes indicated she'd spoken too hastily. Yet surely she could convince him she spoke the truth.
"I know your brother is alive because I saw him-"
"Where did you see him? When?"
"Just now." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "In my mind."
His eyes narrowed to slits. "In your mind? What rubbish is this? Are you daft?"
"No, your grace. I… I am able to see things. In my mind. I suppose some might call it a second sight. I'm afraid I cannot really explain it."
"And you're saying you saw my brother. Alive."
"Yes."
"If that is true, where is he?"
A frown puckered her brow. "I do not know. My visions are most often vague. I only know he did not die as everyone believes."
"And you expect me to believe this?"
The icy disbelief in his tone chilled her. "I understand your doubts. That which cannot be explained scientifically is easy to dismiss as fiction. I can only assure you that what I am telling you is true."
"What did this man you claim was my brother look like?"
Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, forcing her mind to empty then focus on what she'd seen. "Tall. Broad shouldered. Dark hair."
"How convenient. You've just described half the men in England, including the Regent himself, who, as I'm sure you know, is very much alive. And it would not be difficult to describe my brother when there is a large portrait of him hanging in the gallery."
Opening her eyes, she said "I have not seen a portrait. The man I saw looked like you, and he had a scar."
He stilled and she sensed his sudden tension. 'Scar? Where?"
"On his upper right arm."
"Many men bear scars." A muscle in his jaw ticked. "If you think to convince me that you possess some sort of magical powers, you've picked the wrong man to ply with your schemes. Gypsy thieves have roamed Europe for centuries, claiming such powers, lying, hoping to trick foolish people into parting with their gold, and stealing it if they failed."
Anger shot through her. "I am not a gypsy, a schemer, a thief, or a liar."
"Indeed? I suppose next you'll tell me you can read minds."
"Only occasionally." Her gaze dropped to his mouth, which was set in a disdainful line. "I read your thoughts when you touched my hand."
"Did you? And what was I thinking?"
"You… wished to kiss me."
He merely raised his brows. "It would not require any special powers to hazard such a guess. My attention was momentarily fixed on your mouth."
In spite of his casual reply, however, she could feel his tension, his wariness and suspicion-feelings she was well used to discerning. But underneath those, she felt something else that, in spite of her anger, called out to her.
Loneliness.
Sadness.
Guilt.
They surrounded him like a dark cloak and her heart pinched in sympathy. She knew those feelings all too well, how much they hurt the spirit, ate at the soul.
She, too, had regrets she wished to atone for. Could she, perhaps, help him? Would that ease her own guilt?
Determined to convince him she wasn't crazy and that he had truly desired her for a moment, she whispered "You wanted to kiss me. You wondered what I would taste like. You imagined leaning forward, brushing your lips over mine, once, twice. Then you deepened the kiss…"
His eyes flickered, his gaze darkening then dropping to her mouth. "Go on."
Heat curled through her when she imagined what he'd thought next… his tongue caressing hers. "I believe I've proven my point."
"Do you?" Austin regarded her through narrowed eyes. It was one thing to hazard a guess that he'd thought about kissing her, but it was damned odd that her words had so exactly mirrored his thoughts.
Jesus, what if she were right? What if William was alive? Impossible, illogical hope rushed forward with such force he nearly staggered, but sanity quickly returned. Several soldiers had witnessed William going down in battle. Even though the gunshot wound had destroyed his face, he'd been positively identified by the engraved timepiece found under his body.
There was no mistake. William was dead. If he wasn't, he would have contacted his family and come home.
Unless he were a
traitor to the crown.
His mind reeled. It was damned suspicious that Miss Matthews made this claim on the heels of the disturbing note he'd received a fortnight ago, a note that confirmed his worst fears regarding William's loyalty to the crown. Could she know something about that letter or William's war activities? Might she know something about the Frenchman he'd seen with William?
How had she known about the scar? William had a small scar on his upper right arm, a trophy from a childhood riding mishap. Could she have known William? Intimately enough to know his body?
Softly illuminated in the moonlight, her disarranged hair teased by the summer breeze, she certainly did not look like a spy, a murderess, or a seductress, but he well knew that looks were deceiving. Some of the most beautiful women he knew were vicious, conniving, and heartless. What sort of person lay beneath her innocent facade? He didn't know what game she was playing, but he was determined to find out. And if it was necessary to play along with her "visions" ploy, he would.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word she said "I'm not playing games, your grace. I want to help you."
Damn. He was going to have to be very careful around this woman. While he discarded her claims of visions- what sane man wouldn't?-she was uncannily, eerily perceptive.
If he didn't watch his step, he suspected she might somehow learn his secrets-secrets that could ruin his family.
"Tell me what you know about my brother," he said.
"I don't know anything about him, your grace. Until I touched your hands, I hadn't known he existed."
"Indeed? How long have you been in England?"
"Six months."
"And you expect me to believe that in all that time, no one has mentioned my brother?" A mirthless laugh escaped him.
She hesitated then said in a quiet voice, "I'm afraid I haven't been what one would call the social success of the Season. I find I am most often talked about rather than talked to."
"Surely your aunt keeps you abreast of the latest on dits?
Whirlwind Wedding Page 2
