The modiste continued to spout her ideas for the gown, pausing only to make sure her assistant had written everything down. Lana tried to pay attention, but as much as she once enjoyed speaking of gowns and fabrics and overlays, trimming and beading and necklines, she could not concentrate on such details right then.
Brynn was hardly paying attention either. She stood up and turned to Lana, her pinched smile looking forced.
Lady Dinsmore clapped her hands, drawing both their eyes. “Oh, while I’m thinking of it, Lana…if Madame Despain insists on a black lace overlay, then I will have you put aside Lady Briannon’s blue silk that has a similar overlay. You know the one, I’m sure. We are hosting a dinner on Wednesday, and I would not want her to wear anything that could be too akin to Madam Despain’s new gown.”
Brynn roused herself from her obvious distraction. “A dinner?”
Lady Dinsmore sighed. “A handful of your father’s acquaintances, and not one wife among them. I suspect they’ll speak of politics all evening.”
“Acquaintances from Parliament?” Brynn asked, her distraction seeming to settle back into place as she took up pacing the rug between the sofa and divan.
“Yes, and a few foreign dignitaries as well. I will be sure to seat you away from the Duke of Bassford—you know how Italians can be.” Lady Dinsmore fluttered her lashes. “Though I do wish I’d thought to bring my Genoese lace. Mr. Monti hails from Genoa, you see. No matter. I may place you beside the Russian ambassador instead. According to Lord Dinsmore, the fellow is rather taciturn.”
Lana stared at Lady Dinsmore, a quick intake of air scraping down her throat and causing all four women in the morning room to turn toward her with expressions of concern.
“Forgive me…” Lana said, her mind scrambling, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. “I…I have a tickle in my throat.”
Brynn waved a hand toward the tray of lemonade and cakes a footman had delivered earlier. “Do have something to drink, if you like.”
Lana held up her hand. “No, I am fine. Thank you, my lady.”
Her arms would shake like a woman possessed if she tried to pour herself a glass of lemonade right then. A taciturn Russian ambassador? It had to be Viktor Zakorov, but of course there was no proper way to ask for the ambassador’s name without drawing certain attention to herself.
“Well, you needn’t stay, Lana,” Brynn said. “I don’t believe I’ll require your help trying anything on. Will I, Madam Despain?”
The modiste was leaning over her assistant’s shoulder, whispering more things for the girl to jot down. “Not until the fitting.”
Brynn looked relieved, and Lana felt much the same. For a moment. Viktor was going to be here, at Bishop House, under the same roof as Lana. She felt her color draining rapidly at the thought.
“Thank you, my lady,” she whispered, moving toward the door on shaky legs. “I fear I am rather faint.”
Brynn came toward her, concern etched on her brow. “Will you be all right? Should I call for anything from Mrs. Braxton?”
“No, please, I’ll be fine. I only need a moment,” she replied. She needed air and the chance to think. A chance to talk herself away from the edge of panic.
Brynn shooed Lana away, telling her to rest for as long as she liked. On her way down the servant stairwell, she fought the desire to turn around, climb to the top floor, and hide in her room for the next three days. What if Viktor found out that Lord Dinsmore had employed a Russian maid? What if he asked to see and speak to her? He would know her without a shade of a doubt.
Lana would have to be ready to run. She’d send word to Lord Langlevit immediately. Perhaps he could have a carriage waiting outside Bishop House the night of the dinner in case she needed to make a hasty departure.
But then, what about Lady Briannon and the wedding? Brynn trusted Lana. Depended upon her. Lana couldn’t just abandon her, not now. And then there was Gray. He shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow he did.
I can’t leave him.
Lana walked through the kitchens and out the servant entrance, stopping to gulp in the late April air. She felt caught between two impossible things. She couldn’t flee, and she couldn’t stay. Perhaps she could feign illness. But that wouldn’t stop Lady Dinsmore or any of the other family members from inadvertently giving too much away should the subject of her employment arise. She would have to let Lord Langlevit know—he’d know what to do. If Lana could get Percival, the stable boy, to deliver a message to Mrs. Blakely, she would see that it got to the earl. Even if he were busy, Percival would make the run for her.
Nodding to herself, Lana turned back into the kitchens and went to the stillroom. There, she tore a scrap of parchment from a roll Mrs. Braxton used to jot down items she needed at the markets. She found a pencil and wrote a hastily coded poem to Lord Langlevit. Once finished, she folded the parchment, tied it closed with twine, and made her way to the stable house.
She didn’t pause to notice the meticulously manicured garden with its bright yellow tulips in full bloom as she normally would have. Her mind was too distracted to appreciate the lush arbor and the flowering cherry blossom trees she so loved. The garden was small in comparison to the one at Volkonsky Palace, but it was well cared for, and Lana took every opportunity she was afforded to walk its gravel paths. Perhaps she would take a turn through them to collect herself after speaking to Percival, but not now. She was so intent on her thoughts that she nearly crashed into a person exiting the stable door.
“Oh,” she said breathlessly, her heart scattering at the sight of him. Gray looked tired, his blue eyes shadowed. His mouth was a thin slash in his face, and his hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days. She eyed him, noticing the crumpled shirt and cravat hanging from his fingertips. Gray’s disheveled, sleep-deprived, and surly appearance did nothing to alter the startling effect he had on her. Her knees turned to water. He looked haggard, as if he’d slept in the barn. She guessed it was a distinct possibility, given the sharp-edged tension between he and Brynn. “Lord Northridge. I didn’t expect to see you.”
“That is surprising, considering I live here.”
“I meant here at the stables.”
Lana awaited a tart and witty response, as she’d come to expect from him, but this time there was only silence. Normally she knew that Gray wouldn’t be able to resist a verbal volley with her, but for once, he did. He drew a preoccupied breath and nodded toward the house. “Is the modiste still here?”
“Yes, but they are finishing up,” Lana said, watching as a pained frown worried his brow. He was not himself. He hadn’t been himself since Brynn’s engagement had been announced.
Lana knew he cared deeply for his sister’s well-being and, for whatever reason, loathed the late duke and his son. Lana had heard the rumors of the rakish Dancing Duke, of course, but the gossip surrounding his son, the former Lord Hawksfield, leaned toward him possessing a more ruthless temperament than one of carefree debauchery. He was rumored to be as cold as his father had been hot. Still, the ill-fated announcement of Briannon’s engagement to the newly seated duke had created a rift between Gray and Brynn. “You do not approve of the match?” she asked.
His eyes turned to frost in the midafternoon sunlight as they latched on to hers. “Would you want your sister to be wed to the son of a known rakehell? The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree, and Brynn will be in for a life of misery while Hawk does as he pleases.”
Lana wondered whether she should test his temper given his current state of mind, but she couldn’t curb her tongue. “You do not know that. From what I have heard, Lord Hawksfield—I mean Lord Bradburne now, of course—is nothing like his sire, and Lady Briannon seems to care for him. She does not seem opposed to the match.”
Gray eyed her. “Has my sister confided this to you?”
“If she has, my lord, it is her confidence to share.”
His lips tightened at her soft rejoinder, but he did not press further. “
Walk with me,” he said. It was not a harsh command, but it was not a request either.
Her gaze slanted to the open stable door. She would likely not have another opportunity to send word to Langlevit before Wednesday’s dinner. She’d risk drawing Gray’s suspicion, too, especially since he was so focused on knowing the identity of her friend, but she didn’t have much choice.
“I need to speak with Percival for a moment,” she said, and hastily added, “regarding an errand for Lady Dinsmore.”
“I’ll wait.”
Lana made quick work of finding the young Percival, who was mucking out one of the stalls in the back. As always, he was happy to do her tiniest bidding.
“Yes, miss,” Percival repeated. “I’ll go as soon as me chores are done.”
“Thank you, Percy.” Despite feeling a smidge of guilt for taking advantage of his obvious affection for her, Lana flashed her brightest smile as she gave him the directions to Mrs. Blakely’s house and handed him the missive. The boy flushed red and bowed halfway.
Just before going back outside, Lana composed herself and ran a self-conscious hand to redirect the curls escaping her cap. Gray was waiting as promised, a booted foot resting upon the side of the building, his jacket slung over his shoulder with casual elegance. He looked so utterly desirable that Lana felt a rush of heat pool in the core of her body. She would never understand why the very look of him had such an impact upon her. He was attractive, but it wasn’t the only thing that drew her.
It was the gentleness that lay beneath his topmost layers—the sensitivity she’d glimpsed when he was with his daughter, and the protectiveness that he’d shown when he’d offered to help Lana without knowing the entire truth of Viktor or who she really was. Gray seemed to keep people at a distance with his cool, arrogant charm, but with her, he was different. He didn’t hide behind a facade of indifference.
She cleared her throat. “Where would you like to walk, Lord Northridge?”
“Anywhere but there,” he said with a nod toward the house.
They strolled in silence, their feet taking them into the garden. Once inside, they paused to admire the blushing roses in bloom. Gray made no move to converse, and oddly, the quiet between them was a comfortable one. Her fingers drew across one velvet petal of a dusky pink rose, and she winced as a sharp thorn caught her on the wrist. “Roses are strange things, aren’t they?” she murmured, soothing the scratch.
Gray shot her a sidelong glance. “How so?”
“That something so lovely can come out of a bush full of so many prickles and thorns.” Her gaze swept his. “They are worth the injuries one may have to endure.”
“Is that supposed to be a metaphor?”
“Do you wish it to be?”
He cocked his head and with a wry expression replied, “Then the Duke of Bradburne is an entire garden full of thorns.”
Lana laughed. “Surely not an entire garden, my lord.”
“Thorns or not, it is a terrible match, although my mother could scarcely contain her delight at having a duchess for a daughter.” His lips thinned as they pressed deeper into the arbor and out of view of the house. “The ways of the ton disgust me—coveting fortunes and titles like common whores covet coin.”
Lana did not react outwardly at Gray’s coarse words and bitter tone, though he sent her an apologetic glance. She had heard his whispered confessions one day past when he’d thought her to be his own sister. She knew not being able to claim his own daughter because of her illegitimacy gutted him. How he must have suffered, feeling trapped by his social position. And now he was afraid that his sister had chosen to let herself be swayed by the whims of the ton instead of following her heart. His obvious despair made Lana desperate to comfort him.
“You do not mean that,” she said gently, her fingers fluttering to his sleeve. Gray froze at the light contact, his eyes flicking to her hand. A muscle jerked in his cheek, and Lana wondered if he felt the same as she did when he looked at her. The inflammatory thought made her tear her fingers away as if she’d been burned, but Gray stalled them mid-flight.
The space between them turned electric as his bare hands caressed hers. “But I do.”
“Gray,” she began and then caught herself.
“Why don’t you trust me?”
She tugged futilely against his hold. “I do.”
“Then tell me everything.”
“I have already told you.” What I can, she added silently.
His grip tightened. He drew her toward him, as if he’d understood the unspoken part of her response. It seemed he could read her in ways no one else could, and she’d always prided herself on not being an open book. She tried to resist but took the step that made the front of her skirts brush his trousers. “Lord North—”
“I like Gray better,” he said.
“Your mother—” She gasped as his free arm curved around her waist.
“Is busy.”
She craned her neck to see around the tall hedge, the shuttered peaks of Bishop House just visible. “The gardeners—”
“Will know better than to follow us.”
“Please don’t kiss me.”
The words were her only defense against him. Against this hypnotic, mind-drugging power he held over her. Even now, her limbs trembled from the merest graze of his body. His blue eyes held hers, his fingers flexing convulsively at her waist. The truth was while she was afraid of discovery, she was more afraid of what giving in to Gray would mean. She had already proven herself to be foolhardy where he was concerned. He made her common sense scatter.
Gray swallowed, his voice soft. “As you wish.”
Lana didn’t know if it was the simplicity of those three words or the yearning buried within them, but something fragmented inside her. She understood the driving force of his desire—his need—because it mirrored hers. He shifted as if to break the loose union of their hands, and of their own volition, Lana’s fingers gripped his, stalling him. He tensed as her free hand wandered up to his jaw, smoothing over the stubble-roughened skin and skimming past the underside of his full lower lip. Gray’s eyes widened at her bold touch.
“It’s not what I wish,” she confessed in a whisper, “not truly.”
With an inarticulate sound, Gray closed the remaining space between them, crushing their joined palms between their bodies. And when he bent to kiss her, Lana reached to meet him halfway. It wasn’t the chaste kiss she imagined that he would experience in an arbor with women of his own set. No, it was a kiss to shame all other kisses—hot, sweet, demanding—and wholly consensual.
Gray’s mouth took hers, his lips savoring every curve, every recess, every line. His tongue delved past her parted lips, finding hers, and she offered it willingly. She rose up onto her toes to deepen the kiss, mimicking his movements, kissing him as ferociously as he was kissing her. He groaned low in his throat, his hand skimming down her sides to cup her buttocks and draw her flush against his aroused length.
Lana’s body froze at the intimate contact, her eyes going wide at the foreign shock shivering through her. He broke the kiss but held the apex of their bodies together as his gaze met hers. Gray’s eyes continued the work of his tongue, seducing her just as easily as his mouth had. They were dark and dreamy with heat, hinting at the sublime promises of things to come. Her center went liquid with simmering want.
Gray released her only when a man’s voice pierced through the fog surrounding them. It belonged to one of the footmen. “Lord Northridge?”
“Yes. What is it?” he called out, his voice restrained. She could see him gritting his teeth as he strode briskly to meet the footman before the man could come around the corner of a boxwood and see Lana.
“I have an urgent letter marked to your attention, my lord,” she could hear the servant say.
As Gray disappeared around the hedge, she rationalized that the footman, or someone from the main house, must have spied them entering the arbor together. How else would the footman have kno
wn to find him here? A chill ran ragged through her, nearly suffocating the heat that had suffused her body over the last handful of minutes. Why was she so weak and impetuous around this man? She was normally so cautious and pragmatic, and here she was alone in the arbor with Lord Northridge. Should they be seen together, it would spark gossip. Lana shuddered at the thought of any such gossip reaching the housekeeper. Mrs. Frommer would not be forgiving if she were made to look the fool in front of Lady Dinsmore. Nor would Lana expect Lady Dinsmore to take it well that her precious son was gallivanting with the servants. And with Zakorov so close, Lana could not chance losing her position or drawing undue attention to herself.
Gray returned a few moments later with an unfolded letter in hand. His face was ashen as his eyes skipped over the writing.
“What is it?” Lana asked, hurrying to his side and immediately forgetting her own worries.
She half expected him to fold the letter and insist she not concern herself. But Gray surprised her. “It’s from the Coopers.” His voice broke mid-sentence. “Sofia is ill.”
Chapter Twelve
“Must you return to Essex right at this moment, Graham? We have been invited to the Hillensbury ball tomorrow, and Lady Cordelia was so looking forward to seeing you.”
Gray eyed his mother, curbing his frustration as best he could. She wasn’t to be blamed for not knowing or understanding just how swiftly he needed to return to Ferndale and the village of Breckenham. Lady Dinsmore’s displeasure was evident, but the letter…it had burned his hands when he’d first read it, and in the half hour since, it had smoldered a hole within his breast pocket.
Sofia’s simple cold had developed into a fever. And instead of breaking, as the physician had said it would, it had worsened.
“Surely you are much too busy with Brynn’s pending nuptials to be concerned with mine,” he replied, his nerves snapping with impatience to be gone.
“A mother’s job is never done,” she said with an emphatic wave to where Brynn sat in the front parlor, sipping her tea. “And I have two children, not one. Who would blame me to want to see both happily wed?”
My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex) Page 15
