by Amy Sandas
“I took a hack. It is waiting just down the street.”
“You should have a groom with you,” he insisted.
She cocked her head to the side as she met his concern head on. “Well, I do not. I assure you I am perfectly capable of walking along a public street without someone tripping over my heels.”
“Capable is not the same as safe.”
She laughed. “Come now, this is hardly an area rife with pickpockets.”
He scowled at her insistence on arguing. “But lechers can be anywhere. I will have to accompany you.”
“No,” she said quickly, “That is unnecessary.”
Suspicion rushed through him. “What is the nature of your errand?”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she scanned the length of the street. When she looked back to him, she had her bottom lip clamped between her teeth and her eyes narrowed in indecision. “I would rather not say. And frankly, it is none of your business.”
That was what he feared. “As your betrothed, it is assuredly my business.”
She stood staring at him but did not take the arm he offered. After a minute, he slid his gaze to the side and realized they were being carefully watched by passersby. He hoped this would not turn into a scene, but he had absolutely no intention of letting her traipse off on her own in an unfamiliar neighborhood, heading to God knows where to engage in some secret activity.
“If ours were a typical engagement, I might agree to the premise that my business, personal though it may be, would reflect upon you as my husband. However,” she countered, “since this engagement will not last to the wedding day, such a position is irrelevant.”
He glowered at her reasoning but did not bother to refute it. He had hoped that given enough time, she would come to terms with the alteration in their plans. It seemed three weeks had not been long enough to bring her around.
But that was an argument for another day.
“Nonetheless,” he insisted, “as your betrothed in this moment, it remains my duty to protect your well-being.”
Her eyes widened and she smiled. “Your duty? How very chivalrous of you.” Did he detect a sharp point of sarcasm in her sweet voice? “I am impressed and though a small, secret part of me thrills at such a masculine penchant for unnecessary heroics, I disagree. Now I really must be on my way. Do have a lovely afternoon.” She turned as if to walk away.
As if the conversation were finished.
“Eliza.” He would not be maneuvered on this point.
She turned back to him with a sigh of resignation and propped her hands on her hips. “If you intend to be bullish about this, I will allow you to escort me under a few simple conditions, and only because I do not have the time to stand here and argue. If you cannot agree, I will just return to my hack and do my business on another day.” She cleared her throat. “Since I prefer not to postpone this appointment, I expect you to be reasonable and accept my terms.”
She paused and he angled his head with an imperious tilt, certain he was not going to like this. “Your terms?”
Sliding her hand into the bend of his elbow, she turned him about to continue in the direction she had been heading. “You are to keep quiet and ask no questions. You are along as my escort only. Think of yourself as a groom, not the marquess.” She kept her gaze trained forward, but he glanced aside at her in time to catch the twist of humor at the corner of her mouth. She knew as well as he that he would never be able to accomplish the modest demeanor of a groom. “This business is personal and important. You will do exactly as I say without argument.”
He stared ahead. Did she realize her voice had lowered with that last statement? He couldn’t help but hear the words in an entirely different context. In a flash, he imagined what it might be like to be under her command. He clenched his jaw against the jolts of lust that shot through him.
After a long pause and a deep and audible breath, she continued, “And you will not utter a word of this appointment to anyone in my family. Can you abide by such terms?”
“I shall do my best,” he replied, still snared by the sexual images running rampant through his mind.
“Not good enough, my lord,” she retorted. “I need your solemn vow.”
He grunted, not at all appreciative of her impertinent manner. “You have it.”
“Excellent. And you best trust I shall hold you to it. Now, we have arrived.” She turned them down a narrow walk lined with trimmed hedgerows that led to a nondescript brick building. The address plate beside the brightly painted red door gave the name Whittier & Smith.
“What—” he began, but she cut him off with a sharp pfft and a fierce little glare that reminded him he had agreed not to ask questions or to speak at all for that matter.
He answered with a dark glower but kept his mouth shut as he opened the door. She released his arm to enter ahead of him. He was here as her escort only, he reminded himself. Not as a concerned fiancé wondering what kind of mysterious meeting she had arranged. He tried not to think that she would now be entering the building alone if he had not happened to drive past her when he did.
Inside, the atmosphere was heavy and somewhat musty with a distinctive scent hanging in the air. As his eyes accustomed themselves to the dim lighting, he noted the narrow vestibule they passed through opened to a larger chamber. This room was occupied by a middle-aged clerk seated behind a desk far too large for his slight frame. The rest of the room contained only a long wooden bench and two chairs. Nothing to give Rutherford any clue into the nature of business provided. The clerk was bent over a book spread open in front of him and several more imposing tomes graced the remaining surface of the desk. Rutherford realized then that the scent he noted upon entering the dank building had been the smell of ink and leather.
While Eliza walked confidently toward the clerk, Rutherford followed close behind.
“Excuse me, sir.” She had to say it twice before the clerk raised his head, blinking as he pushed his reading spectacles up to the bridge of his nose.
“Yes, may I help you?”
“I am Miss Elizabeth Terribury. I have an appointment with Mr. Adolphus Whittier.”
The clerk blinked again. And then once more before he leapt to his feet. “Right, right. Miss Terribury. Quite so. Ah, yes, you have an appointment and I believe Mr. Whittier is ready for you. Please give me just a moment to check in with him.” The man sidestepped around his desk, nodding his head.
Rutherford kept behind Eliza’s shoulder. Not so close that she could feel him, but close enough to project his intention loud and clear. Judging by the way the clerk glanced at him and then hesitated with a visible flinch, Rutherford figured he’d gotten his point across.
Eliza turned and looked up with a start at seeing how closely he stood. With a dramatic roll of her eyes, she turned back to the clerk and gave him a winning smile. “Please do not mind the glowering fellow behind me. Despite his hulking size and dark countenance, he is actually rather harmless. Much like a domesticated bison.”
The clerk gave Rutherford another quick and curious glance before he slipped through a door at the back of the room and disappeared.
Eliza spun back around. A glint of fire sparked from her eyes as she tapped the center of his chest with her finger and spoke in a quiet tone that still managed to snap with command. “Do not ruin this for me, Michael. It is far too important. If you do anything to jeopardize this opportunity, I shall never forgive you.”
He felt his scowl deepening across his forehead and he clenched his teeth against the urge to demand she reveal the nature of her call. But he had agreed to her terms and would only renege if he felt her to be in danger.
She tipped her head and lifted her brows, indicating she was still waiting for him to respond in some way to her warning and was losing her patience. He released a heavy breath and covered her hand with his, flattening her palm against his chest. “I do not want you hurt.”
She blinked and her eyes w
idened. He saw the irritation slide away from her expression and her moss-colored eyes grew dark and soft. He wished he could take the words back as his chest seized awkwardly.
She smiled, but just as she parted her lips to respond, the door at the back of the room opened again.
“Miss Terribury, Mr. Whittier will see you now.”
She slipped her hand out from under his as she turned away to follow the clerk without a single backward glance.
Rutherford was left standing in the middle of the room as the door closed again behind them. He was still standing there when the clerk returned a minute or two later. The small man reclaimed his place behind the desk, and though he made a valiant effort to return to what appeared to be rather tedious reading, he continued to lift his gaze every few minutes to cast wary glances at the marquess.
Finally, after several long, uncomfortable moments, the clerk cleared his throat and gestured to a solid wooden chair set in the corner of the room. “You may wait there, my lord, if you’d like. The appointment will not take long, I would think.”
But the appointment did take a long time. Nearly two hours, and by the time the inner door opened again, Rutherford’s backside had gone numb from the hardness of the chair and the unyielding stiffness of his posture.
The moment he saw Eliza, he stood and released a breath of relief as he saw the bright smile lighting her face. Once through the door, she turned back to the gentleman who followed her, presumably Mr. Adolphus Whittier.
He was an older man likely nearing seventy with a bald pate and a rotund belly. He was short, shorter even than Eliza, with deep wrinkles spreading from the corners of his eyes when he smiled.
Eliza turned back to shake his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Whittier. It has been a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, Miss Terribury. I look forward to working with you and will be anxiously awaiting your next correspondence.” Mr. Whittier turned his round face to the marquess as he stood and crossed the room. “You must be Lord Rutherford.”
Rutherford shook the older man’s hand but maintained a haughty demeanor as he met Mr. Whittier’s candid gaze. “I am.”
Mr. Whittier only seemed amused by the cool response and his smile widened. “Do please give my regards to Lady Rutherford when next you see her. It has been far too long since I have had the pleasure of her conversation.”
And with another nod to Eliza, the mysterious Mr. Whittier disappeared back through the door.
“Shall we go?” Eliza asked as if he hadn’t just spent most of his afternoon waiting for her.
He muttered a quick, “Of course,” and led them from the building. Once outside, he noticed his carriage waiting up the street.
He was dying to ask her what that whole business had been about and just how Mr. Whittier knew his grandmother, but he clenched his teeth against the questions, not sure if he was yet released from the terms she had instated. He could feel the excitement rolling off of her, lightening her step to a joyful bounce and brightening the day with the power of her smile.
Apparently, it had been a very good interview.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Eliza’s mind whirled. She was so caught up in delightful disbelief from her meeting with Mr. Whittier she found it impossible to focus on any one thought with so many swirling through her brain. She only slightly registered the marquess leading her from the office and paying her hack before sending it off. It wasn’t until he was helping her up into his carriage that she looked at him in question.
“I will take you home,” he replied to her curious glance.
“Oh, all right,” she answered.
She tried to settle on the plush seat but her excitement was too much and she bounced about on the cushion as the marquess took the seat opposite. This day would forever be branded into her memory as one of the best in her life so far, though she still struggled to believe she had truly just concluded a meeting with the Adolphus Whittier of Whittier & Smith. A few times while in his office, she had been driven to pinch herself to remain convinced it was not all a wonderful dream.
On the day of her departure from Boarhill Manor, Lady Rutherford had drawn her aside and had insisted Eliza allow her to read her manuscript. There had been a glint of determination in the lady’s piercing eyes and Eliza wasn’t convinced she didn’t want to read it simply as a means of having the full story with which to torment her friends. But if Lady Rutherford were the mysterious author of A Lady’s Confession, as Eliza was quite certain she was, then her opinion of Eliza’s work could be helpful. Immediately after her return to London, Eliza had wrapped her manuscript and had it hand-delivered to Lady Rutherford’s London address as had been requested. Not three days later, Eliza had received it back along with a note written in Lady Rutherford’s elaborate old-fashioned script.
My Dear Miss Terribury,
I read through your manuscript three times. The second time because I was not ready for the story to end and the third time to lend it a more critical eye.
I have decided that you have some talent.
Though it is my opinion the story contains more than a few trite clichés, and there exists a scene or two that need to be reworked for proper effect, overall it is an exciting and rather emotional tale that I suspect will create quite a stir amongst readers. Provided, that is, you heed my suggestions.
I have enclosed a letter of introduction to a Mr. Adolphus Whittier of Whittier & Smith in London, the publisher who produced A Lady’s Confession. You would do well to see this introduction for the opportunity it presents. Though there is no guarantee Mr. Whittier will agree with my assessment, he has been successful with the talent I have directed to his office in the past.
Yours sincerely,
Lady R.
At first, Eliza had resisted the idea of using the dowager’s letter of introduction. She was determined to be successful on the merits of her writing or nothing else. But then she realized she was being foolish. As Lady Rutherford had said herself, the introduction provided an opportunity, not a guarantee.
When she’d addressed her manuscript to Mr. Whittier along with Lady Rutherford’s letter more than a week ago Eliza had not allowed herself the expectation of a response. Whittier & Smith was one of the most established and renowned publishers of fiction in London. Mr. Whittier’s reply, when she’d received it only a few days later had been vague, asking only to schedule a meeting with her in person at his offices.
She suspected the personal attention was likely due to Lady Rutherford’s influence and she had hoped he might provide a critique of her work and some words of advice. She did not allow herself to even dream he might consider her manuscript for publication.
“Eliza?” the marquess prompted, effectively pulling her back out of her musings.
“I am sorry,” she answered as she tried to bring her thoughts back in order. “I’m afraid I am in a bit of a daze.”
She studied Rutherford’s face, seeing the effort it took for him to keep from demanding an explanation of her. Though he sat in relaxed composure, she could see the remaining concern in the tension of his mouth and the lines that bisected his brows. She may have come out of the meeting intact and unharmed, but he apparently still had some misgivings about the nature of her appointment.
She smiled, feeling the urge to tell him everything. She knew she risked his censure or worse, but in that flashing moment, she didn’t care. She wanted to share every tidbit of her excitement with him and hoped he might be happy for her.
She leaned forward and whispered in theatrical undertone, “I have the most amazing thing to tell you.” He lifted his brows, as if startled she intended to confess her secret. “Do you know whose offices we just left?”
“Whittier & Smith,” he replied matter-of-factly.
She grinned. “Yes, but do you recognize the names? Do you know their business?”
“No, but I can see you are practically shaking with the desire to tell me,” he drawled and she realized he was down
playing the moment on purpose.
“Michael,” she cried in exasperation, “do not tease me so.”
He chuckled. “What is your amazing news?”
His voice was softened by the curve of his lips as they formed a shadowed smile. Eliza’s body responded. She felt as if another layer had been added to their interaction. A layer reminiscent of the intimacy they’d shared in his bedroom. She tried not to focus on the flicker lighting his dark eyes and the way his gaze kept falling to her mouth. And her bosom.
“You news, Eliza?” he urged.
She scowled at how he managed to distract her from with just a subtle shift in his manner. “Right,” she said with renewed focus. “Mr. Whittier has offered to publish my manuscript.” The way his brows arched told her it was not what he expected. “’Tis true,” she assured with a tremulous laugh. “Though I can barely believe it myself. I may still be experiencing a bit of shock, to tell the truth.”
“Well,” the marquess began, and Eliza braced herself for the scorn and derision she was sure would follow. A lady of quality did not write fiction. Wasn’t that exactly the reason Lady Rutherford had kept the author of A Lady’s Confession a secret all of these years. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you.” He leaned forward across the carriage, and in one swift motion, he lifted her and pulled her into his lap.
She managed only a startled gasp before he took her mouth in a solid kiss.
Her earlier anxiety, the recent excitement and the desire that had been rising over the last several minutes all culminated at once into a firestorm of passion. Eliza wrapped her arms around his neck and twisted her body to press her breasts to his chest. She felt rather than heard the masculine groan that rumbled through his chest as he gripped her buttocks and pulled her hard against his erection.
It was a shock how quickly and furiously the fire raged between them.
Eliza broke from the kiss only to gasp for air and reach down in an attempt to feel the hardness of his length in her hand. But he would not release her to allow access as he surged his hips upward beneath her. She squirmed in response and he bit at her lip to bring her mouth back to his.
