by Carmen Caine
“Alistair,” he cut her off. “My Alistair.”
“My Alistair,” she repeated with a breath of a laugh.
His name upon her lips sent a shiver of desire through him. He sucked her earlobe between his teeth. She shuddered.
“Say, ‘my darling Alistair.’ I like that even more,” he murmured.
She laughed and, suddenly, he wanted more of her. He pulled pins from her hair, freeing her silken curls to tumble over her shoulders, then turned her in his arms. He took her lips in a sweet kiss, tender and passionate. She closed her eyes and moaned. She fit him perfectly.
He broke the kiss, then tenderly kissed each of her eyelids, and said, “I must ruin this time between us.”
She went rigid, her full, dark lashes flying open in alarm.
“Hush,” he assured her quickly. He rubbed his cheek against hers. “I merely meant these moments of intimacy…will now be more difficult. When an official courtship begins, they will hound us with chaperones. They’ll expect things done in a proper fashion.”
She didn’t relax as expected and, to his surprise, she flattened her palms on his chest and pushed him back. “How can I allow you to court me? Lady Kennedy was right.”
He lifted a brow. “Now that is a name I didn’t expect to hear.” He gathered her close in his arms once again. “Pray tell, what did she say?”
“There are those born to sit in the Blue Drawing Room,” she whispered, her hazel eyes large, “and those who are born to clean it.”
He studied her face, searching for the right words, then the soft refrain of a waltz filtered through the window. He smiled, then whirled with her in his arms.
Alistair nuzzled her ear. “That may very well be, my dear. But it matters little, for you were born to dance in it.” He kissed her again, tenderly, savoring every moment, then slowly stepped back. “Please, Eliza, accept me. Accept my courtship. Dance with me tomorrow in the ball. Wear your dress, your crimson gown. I beg you.” Her brow wrinkled, signaling a response he surely wasn’t inclined to hear. He shook his head. “Think on it. Give our love a chance, Eliza. I will not hear your answer tonight.”
He planted a kiss on the top of her head, then left with a heavy heart, fearing she would, indeed, refuse him on the morrow.
* * *
The day of the ball dawned. More guests arrived, making Alistair feet like a stranger in his own home. He escaped the whirlwind of color, music and lights to brood in his study. Eliza had yet to hunt him down and give him her answer. Was the delay a good sign? A bad one? Was she avoiding him? She must have decided to refuse him and, if so, how could he change her mind?
Sometime later in the afternoon, a brooding Nicholas arrived at his door. “What ails you?” he asked, inviting himself in to sit before the fire.
Alistair heaved a sigh. “Last night, I asked Eliza for the honor of courting her.” When the baronet didn’t reply, he glanced up to find the man staring at the fire, lost in thought.
“There’s little cause for you to fret, my dear fellow. It’s plain for all to see you’re besotted with one another.”
It was a heartening answer. Still, he found it hard to let himself be comforted. “I fear she is trapped by the rules of society.”
“Trapped,” Nicholas repeated in a rough voice.
Alistair cocked his head to one side. “How goes it with you? Is this woman still hellbent on blackmail?”
“Woman?” his friend exploded. “Nay, she is more of a scheming, twisted she-devil.” He closed his eyes and added so softly that Alistair could scarcely hear him, “I’ll handle it. I always do.”
“Aye,” Alistair replied, but when Nicholas refused to explain further, he let his thoughts wander once again to Eliza.
Was it good…or bad that she hadn’t yet arrived to speak with him?
Nicholas stood. “We make a merry pair, hiding in the study on the day of a grand ball. Come, let’s busy ourselves away from our thoughts.”
Against his better judgement, Alistair followed.
The afternoon passed first in a series of card games, but exactly who won or lost, Alistair couldn’t say. He sat in the Blue Drawing Room, pretending to listen to a pianoforte performance by the talented Lady Crenshaw, but his thoughts were on the laughing hazel eyes of a lass who could swear like a sailor.
Dinner arrived, a parade of soups, jellies, creams, good hams from Yorkshire, casseroles, roasts, puddings, cheeses, lemon ice, rose soufflé cakes on elevated stands, wine, claret, whisky—and much more. He couldn’t recall tasting even one bite.
With dinner over, the guests filtered into the spacious ballroom with its gleaming, polished floor, brocade and gold taffeta draped windows, and its pale blue walls trimmed with gilded frieze. Full-sized oil paintings depicting various Kennedy earls hung between heavy mirrors in ornate gilded frames. Venetian cut-glass and silver chandeliers hung from the painted ceilings, the room brilliant with thousands of glistening candles reflecting in the mirrors like stars. Footmen bearing silver trays passed among the guests as couples stepped onto the dance floor and began to swirl around the room in a blur of sparkling jewels and color.
The musicians played.
The dancers danced.
Alistair left the ballroom and wandered the corridors, looking for any sign of Eliza among the guests who milled in those areas, but found none.
The hour grew late.
His despair increased with each passing moment. Eliza would refuse him. He knew that now. She would let society dictate her happiness. Did she not think him worth the effort? Perhaps, he should have tracked her down. But he knew that was wrong. Any answer she gave under duress would not come from her heart. Worse, if he pushed her away… He couldn’t bear the thought. What if she’d left in an effort to escape his attentions? He strode down the hallway toward the front entrance. Turning a corner, he slowed his step. God help him, guests had gathered in the foyer. One man even stood on the lowest step of the grand staircase and leaned a hip against the banister.
Alistair’s heart pounded. He turned back the way he’d come and started—
A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. Alistair whirled.
Nicholas’ hand fell away. Eyes sparking with dry amusement, he said, “Why the long face?”
The man knew right well enough. Alistair turned, but the baronet grabbed his shoulder again.
“Nicholas,” Alistair snarled.
His friend’s grip tightened and he spun Alistair around and chuckled into his ear, “There is your answer, my friend.” He nodded in the direction of the oval grand staircase.
Alistair froze. Eliza descended the stairs, a vision shimmering in a high-waisted gown of crimson silk, enriched with a fine needlework display of glittering silver and seed pearls. Long gloves encased her slender arms, rising within an inch of her sheer cap sleeves trimmed with rosettes. Already, the rebellious curls he loved so much had escaped the gold band in her hair and twined around the base of her slender neck.
The soft, sensuous folds of her skirt and the tantalizing hint of cleavage revealed by her scooped neckline drew his gaze an instant before she reached the landing and he locked his gaze with hers.
Chapter Fifteen
Soup and Rose Water
The cookery book had sealed her fate. The moment Eliza untied the strings and the paper fell away, she had fallen to her knees in tears. The man owned her heart. Accept him? With the honor she knew lived in his soul, how could she not? And his kiss? Her lips still burned and her body still ached for his touch.
She’d spent the entire day listening to Meg’s wise advice as she’d modeled the crimson ballgown for the dressmaker’s last-minute alterations. Oliver had watched in quiet, solid approval while Charlotte had danced around the nursery from pure excitement.
It was later than they all liked before they finally twirled her around for the final inspection. Pleased with their handiwork, they escorted her to the top of the oval grand staircase and watched as she stood nervously wit
h her hand on the rail and one slippered foot poised to take the very first step.
“Go, lass,” Meg encouraged.
Eliza glanced over her shoulder at Oliver and Charlotte, who poked their heads through the railing, grinning widely, as Meg stood behind them, her lips split in a wide grin. Eliza took a deep breath and stared at the swirl of color and glittering diamonds of the world below her, a world so foreign it froze her feet to the landing. Then she saw him. He stood, Nicholas’ hand on his shoulder.
Her heart dropped. She’d hoped to have a few more minutes to steady herself. How could she ever steady herself while in his presence? He stood so tall, so devastatingly handsome in his velvet cutaway coat, snowy, starched white shirt, elegantly knotted gray silk cravat and a lustrous black silk waistcoat.
The guests faded away and, gaze locked on the man who had stolen her heart, she descended, the yards of soft crimson silk floating around her ankles like a cloud.
He turned suddenly.
Her legs weakened.
He stared, unmoving.
Her heart began to pound. Did he not want to see her? Had he changed his mind? Had she miscalculated?
Eliza reached the landing.
Fear knotted her stomach. He still hadn’t moved.
A look of wonder crossed his face. He pushed past Nicholas and, an instant later, stood before her. He captured her hand and brought it to his mouth. The gentle kiss he pressed to her fingers was so…reverential. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Eliza drew a shaky breath and whispered, “If I snuffle the soup and drink the rose water, it is on your head.” She winced at the nervous, strangled sound of her voice. “And heaven help me if I swear.”
His eyes softened. “I am the envy of every man in this room—in the world.” He placed her fingers over his heart and whispered, “I love you.”
His beautiful green eyes seared her soul. Mesmerized, she traced the dimple in his chin with a fingertip and whispered, “I love you more.”
“Propriety be damned,” he growled low in his chest as his pupils darkened with desire. His chiseled lips curved into a smile, and he added in soft warning, “I fear we may be wed scandalously soon after this, my dear.”
Before she could ask, he gathered her close, crushed her against his broad chest, and took her lips in a ravenous kiss.
###
Take a peek at the next Regency Rendezvous Novel
The Archaeologist’s Daughter
Summer Hanford
Only a man with secrets can save her...
Lanora cares nothing for love, marriage, dances or gowns. She cares about people and family. When the rakish Lord William courts her, Lenora sets out to discover what dark secrets motivate him. If she doesn’t learn the truth in time, those she loves could suffer a lifetime of hardship.
Chapter One
William Greydrake, future Marquess of Westlock, lounged on the leather couch in Lethbridge’s London office, watching the attorney shuffle pages. The room, furnished in dark wood, was perpetually gloomy. It suited its occupant.
“Have you any brandy?” William asked. “If I must endure your paper pushing, I should like a drink.”
Lethbridge darted a look at the clock on his mantel. “It’s eleven in the morning.”
“You’re the one who cried urgency. It’s inhumane to drag a man from his bed at this hour, and more so not to compensate for it with a snifter.”
“I haven’t any brandy.” Lethbridge’s words were clipped. He pulled free a page.
“You ought to. The old man pays you enough.”
William could read the frown pinching the attorney’s already narrow features. He’d seen the look often enough, on so many faces, to know what Lethbridge saw. A tailcoat creased from being worn all night. An untied cravat. William’s disheveled brown hair. His still shiny boots, propped on the furniture.
He was the image of an indolent nobleman’s son. Owner of the world. Careless and carefree. It was obvious to anyone who saw William that he’d been out all night, likely gambling, drinking, and enjoying lightskirts. He wore his depravity proudly before the world.
That was how he arranged to appear. His reputation could even explain the occasional black eye. With the marquess’s men watching him, he must jealously guard his true nature, his actual dealings. The old bastard had well-ingrained the price of not conforming to his ideas of what a peer should be.
William leaned his head back on the couch. He studied the ceiling until he properly blotted out the repercussions of falling short of the marquess’s expectations. He dropped his gaze and traced the dark wood paneling with his eyes, skimming over the small door that closed off Lethbridge’s record room.
He adopted an indolent smile and focused on the attorney. “Exactly why am I here?”
“Your father asked me to draw up a list of acceptable brides for you.” Lethbridge proffered a page.
“Brides?” Maybe he really did need that drink. “I have four more years of freedom. The marquess is of the opinion no worthy gentleman weds before thirty.”
“He has changed his mind.” Lethbridge set the page down on the edge of his desk. “He wishes to ensure you marry correctly.”
William drummed his fingers. “Why now?”
Lethbridge drew in a breath, his expression more serious than usual, no mean feat. “Lord Westlock is dying.”
Feet slamming to the floor, William came upright on the couch. “Don’t toy with me, Lethbridge.”
“I assure you, I do not.”
Giddiness swept through him. “Are you certain? He’s sought a doctor’s opinion? A priest’s? We wouldn’t want to be wrong about this.” Could the joyous day finally be at hand? William grinned. A world without the marquess was wonderful to contemplate.
“He is certain, as is his physician.” Lethbridge’s face remained bland, but his eyes went dark with disgust.
“Don’t look at me like that, Lethbridge.” William stood, restive. “The old man is a bastard and a half and you know it. He all but killed my mother.”
Lethbridge dropped his gaze. “Your mother killed his heir, your older brother. She was ill, mentally unfit. The marquess could have seen her hang, but instead he installed her in a facility where she could get the care she needed. I’m sure they did all they could to help her.”
“My mother was not a murderer, or mad.” William’s voice was low as he struggled for an even tone.
“I’m sure you have fond memories of her. You were what, four when she was removed? But I assure you, I’ve seen the papers. A competent doctor declared her unfit.”
“Yes, I know.” A doctor the marquess paid off. “She was violent and unfit. The old man was wracked with grief. Too overcome to set eyes on me, he shipped me, a child of four, off to Mr. Darington in Egypt. Common knowledge.” And all a lie.
“Exactly. It therefore behooves you not to delight in your father’s decline.”
“Tell me this, why was I such a terrible reminder? The world knows I am the image of the marquess. Nothing about me speaks of my mother.” Every mirror a reminder. “While you’re prevaricating, explain as well how the man can have the devil’s own luck with wives. One a mad murderess, one fallen to her death, and a third too ill to remain in England?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re insinuating. The marquess is a great man and worthy of your respect.”
William ran a hand across his hazel eyes, in an effort at calm. Lethbridge was the marquess’s man through. There was no sense arguing with him. Besides, if the old bastard really was dying, it would soon be moot. His spirit buoyed by the prospect of the marquess’s death, William pulled his composure about him.
Eyes open, his attention caught on the page at the edge of the desk. A list of names. A few lines at the bottom. He crossed to scoop it up. “These are the women, then?”
Lethbridge nodded. “He ordered you to sign it, to agree you will marry one.”
William crossed to the fireplace. Behind the clock on t
he mantel hung the dreariest landscape he’d ever encountered. Beneath, the fire wasn’t lit. That would make the room too inviting. Coals glowed red in the grate, though. Perhaps when he was alone, Lethbridge permitted himself to be comfortable.
Leaning on the mantel, William studied the page. What a list. Diamonds of the first water, to be sure. Women with ice in their veins, all of them. The sort of women a man could never know happiness with, likely not even pleasure. Diamonds had sharp edges, after all.
His eyes caught on a name near the bottom of the page. Lady Lanora Hadler, the archaeologist’s daughter. “You said you drew this up?”
“Your father left it to my discretion, after setting his parameters.” Lethbridge sounded proud.
William cast a look over his shoulder, not hiding his disdain. Lethbridge smoothed back his stringy brown hair, used a kerchief to wipe the oil from his hand. Only the attorney would be proud to be asked to draw up such a list. The marquess’s toady, hopping at the chance to please.
William reread the name. The marquess would never have included Lady Lanora, only child of Robert Hadler, Duke of Solworth, a man much respected by the Royal Society for his work uncovering the secrets of Egypt. The marquess had no use for learned men, even dukes, but especially avoided Solworth. If anyone could uncover the secret of William’s past and tarnish the Greydrake name, it was the archaeologist.
Interest tugged at William. He’d long wished for words with the duke. In Egypt, Solworth worked in parallel with his fellow archaeologist, Mr. Darington. A man William had never met, despite well-circulated information to the contrary. Darington, who lied for the marquess, yet, somehow, was the only man William trusted.
Not that courting Lady Lanora would bring her father. It was common knowledge the Duke of Solworth hadn’t set foot in England in a dozen years. More than that, William had spotted Lady Lanora across many a ballroom. Though she had alluring midnight locks, sculpted features and lush curves, she inspired little desire in him. If women of her caliber had ice in their veins, Lady Lanora’s were frozen solid. It was a wonder she could move, let alone with such grace, given how rigid she was. She struck fear into the hearts of most men. Those who dared ask her to dance generally fled after one set.
