“Thank you,” Lily said. “That’s very kind of you.” She walked briskly past Fenris and Kirk. “You can’t imagine how badly it hurts, Ginny.” Her voice trembled, though Mountjoy could not help the impression that she was, at last, exaggerating her injury and the pain she was in. Eugenia put an arm around her shoulders. Lily shuddered. “Imagine the horror if blood had gotten on my gown. And yes, let’s do find Dr. Longfield. Quickly. I believe I’m feeling faint.”
Mountjoy watched Lily and Eugenia walk down the hallway, their heads together. “Thank God the man passed out,” Fenris said from his position at Kirk’s side.
“Why is that?”
“I suspect he’ll not recall that you were alone with Miss Wellstone.” He stood. Slowly. “I, however, will not.”
He gazed at the marquess. “Nothing happened, Fenris.”
Fenris ran the bottom of his thumb over his fingernails. “That’s never the point where scandal is concerned, is it? Your grace.”
“I don’t give a bloody damn what rumors you start, Fenris.”
“Gossip can be quite vicious.”
“I’ll marry her if I must.”
The marquess flinched. “Where I am concerned, you are, for now, both safe from that fate.” Kirk moaned, and Fenris hauled him to his feet. “You might wish to make yourself scarce.”
Mountjoy walked away and waited in another corridor where he counted to one hundred before he returned to the salon. On the way there, he stopped a servant and ordered his carriage to be brought around. He found Nigel and let him know they would be returning to Bitterward.
Not long after Mountjoy’s unexceptional return to the salon, there was a commotion that proved to be Lily returning with Dr. Longfield. Her injured finger was done up in a plaster. Eugenia walked at her side, an arm around her waist. He met them halfway.
“She’ll have an aching finger tonight, your grace,” Dr. Longfield said. “A glass of your best sherry will go a long way to relieving her discomfort.”
“Thank you.”
Longfield continued to address Mountjoy. “I’ll call in a day or two to confirm everything’s going well with my most beautiful patient. Put a fresh plaster on it tomorrow and don’t hesitate to send for me if anything seems amiss.”
Mountjoy nodded. “I will.”
The doctor left to attend to Mr. Kirk, and Mountjoy took that opportunity to tell them he’d ordered the carriage. Lily said nothing, but he thought both women looked relieved to have avoided another encounter with Fenris. Their good luck did not last, for just as they reached the stairs that would lead to the entrance hall, Fenris intercepted them.
“Your grace,” he said, bowing to Mountjoy. For a man who had done nothing to make himself agreeable to Mountjoy or his siblings, he had some nerve accosting them. Fenris looked between Eugenia and Miss Wellstone, but his attention lingered on Eugenia. Mountjoy, well aware of the role Fenris had played in attempting to convince Robert Bryant not to marry Eugenia, silently counted to ten. The urge to plant his fist in the man’s face did not fade. “Mrs. Bryant.”
Eugenia, whom Mountjoy had never in his life seen cut anyone, turned her back on Fenris. Lily said nothing. Fenris blanched, but that was the only sign that he was affected by Eugenia’s refusal to acknowledge him. Could he truly have expected anything else from her when his offense against her was so grave?
The marquess bowed to Lily. “Cousin.”
Mountjoy kept his hand on Lily’s elbow. He didn’t like the man, and now that he knew of his relationship to Lily, he liked him even less. “We are on our way out, Fenris.”
“I shan’t detain you long,” he replied.
A flash of irritation passed over Eugenia’s face. “Mountjoy, we ought to go now. Lily is not well at all. She’s had a shock.”
Fenris took an abortive step forward. “Miss Wellstone,” he said quickly. “Did you know you look very much like your grandmother? And mine.”
“How would I know such a thing?” Lily said, her words clipped.
Fenris paled.
“Enough is enough, my lord.” Mountjoy shifted so that he stood between Lily and her cousin. “Another time you might be welcome. But not now.”
The marquess gave them both a curt nod and once again, his gaze slid from Lily to linger on Eugenia. Did the man still resent her for her marriage to Robert Bryant? Mountjoy found himself making a fist of his free hand. He would not allow anyone to cause Eugenia any more pain. Most especially not this man. Bloody officious prig.
Fenris bowed again. “Your leave, Mrs. Bryant. Mountjoy.” He hesitated, as close as Mountjoy had ever seen to uncertainty. “Cousin Lily.”
“Good day,” Mountjoy said.
They left Fenris standing at the top of the stairs. Quite alone.
At the front door, Mountjoy took the doorknob out of his pocket and handed it to the Kirks’ butler. “You’ll want to have this repaired.”
Lord Fenris, Mountjoy thought as he handed his sister and Lily into his carriage, had not behaved like a man who despised his estranged cousin. Quite the opposite.
Chapter Ten
HAVING FINISHED VOLUME ONE OF THE NOVEL SHE’D selected the night of her arrival, Lily made her way to the library in search of the second volume. She carried a lantern in one hand and the first volume of her novel in the other. She had not bothered yet to dress for bed and still wore the gown she’d worn at supper, a sumptuous white silk trimmed with lace she’d tatted herself last winter at Syton House. Amid the lace were gold gauze flowers no larger than her littlest fingernail that she’d spent most of one Easter week making. Similar flowers around the hem complimented the burgundy bodice. Her slippers were white satin embroidered with matching burgundy flowers picked with tiny gold accents.
Pearls were her jewelry of choice tonight: at her ears, her throat, and even a strand wound through her hair and one on the first finger of her left hand. Her injured hand was not yet healed enough for jewelry. She’d changed the ribbon of her Gypsy medallion to a white silk that matched her ensemble. Her shawl was white cashmere embroidered with gold silk and gold accents to match her slippers. Even at four-thirty in the morning, one ought to look one’s best.
In the library, she set the lantern on the table nearest the bookcase where the novels were shelved. She kept her volume in hand while she admired the room. The ceiling, though not visible at its highest point, was the original Gothic structure, vaulted with structural ribs that supported the central dome. One of these days she would add a sketch of this library to her growing collection of architecturally interesting structures and rooms. There were no windows here, and what walls were not covered with shelves were carved stone. In one such corner stood a suit of armor, supported by a stand and polished to a sheen. Upon closer inspection, she found some wag had placed a book of poetry in its upraised steel hand.
She stood before the armor, rapt. Which ancestor of the duke’s had last covered himself in all that metal and ridden to battle? A dent marred the chest plate, a small defect near where the man’s ribs must have been. She imagined Mountjoy’s ancestor standing beside his destrier, sword in his hand, defending himself—no—attacking his enemy.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. She recognized that determined stride, having by now heard it on those occasions when the duke was home. She was therefore prepared when she faced the doorway. The shiver down her spine was familiar, too.
Mountjoy appeared in the doorway but stopped without stepping over the threshold.
“Good evening, your grace,” she said.
He leaned against the side of the doorway, looking, for once, especially dashing in a luxurious midnight blue silk banyan. Gold embroidery of Arabian flair decorated the fabric. The banyan was nipped in close around his arms and chest, though he’d not closed the garment but left it open to show his waistcoat and shirt. The silk fell to the tops of his shoes, draping in a way that came only from superior workmanship. And the colors. Blue and gold were luscious on him. His waistcoat wa
s a match for the banyan, with the same fabric and embroidery, by which she assumed banyan and waistcoat had been purchased as a set.
“Wellstone.”
She wanted to drink him in, caress that gorgeous fabric, and tell him how very lovely he looked. Instead, she pointed to the corner. “Do you know, sir, when that suit of armor was last worn?”
His eyes followed the direction of her arm. “March the twenty-ninth, fourteen and sixty-one.”
“The Battle of Towton?”
He nodded. “It was.” He used his shoulder to push himself upright. “You know your history.”
“I do, your grace.” She didn’t say so, but she appreciated that he was not bothered by her historical knowledge. It had been her unhappy experience that some men disliked the mere hint of erudition in a woman. As a child, there had been little for her to do but read what books were in her father’s library. Books of history, for the most part. And a great many treatises on architecture. She had become expert in both subjects. Had it not been for the housekeeper taking pity on her she might never have learned more feminine occupations.
“An ancestor of mine fought at Towton. He took an arrow in the thigh.”
“Was he badly hurt?”
“Not enough to keep him from continuing to fight. He was loyal to King Edward.” He walked in. “Up late as usual I see.”
His coming so near set off tingles in her chest and the backs of her knees. One of the inappropriate dreams she’d begun having, now for several nights running, had as its setting this very library.
“You don’t sleep well,” he said in his smoke-edged tenor. “Why is that?”
“Why does the sun rise in the morning and set at night? Because the world is made that way.” She shrugged. “I am not made to sleep at night. Since I shall be up one or two more hours at least, I’ve come down to fetch the next volume of the novel I selected the night I arrived.”
“You are enjoying the story?”
“Very much. It’s quite exciting.”
“Then you did take something thrilling from the library that night.”
“I did, sir.” She wasn’t sure whether she ought to respond to the suggestion that lurked in his comment. “The heroine, Miss Quince, has been attacked by banditti whilst escaping from her uncle who wishes to force her to marry his odious son. She is in love, sir, with a poor young man who possesses a noble brow. I suspect the author’s use of noble is no accident and that he is a prince in disguise. Or else unaware of his heritage.”
“And vast fortune.”
“Indeed.” She smiled, pleased to have him join in. “I further suspect that the captain of the banditti is the brother she believes was lost at sea when she was a girl.”
He kept walking toward her. She did enjoy watching him move. He was a graceful man. The most shocking notions came to mind while she did, and really, where those thoughts came from did not bear examination. Him nude, bending to kiss a woman, moments from sliding into her willing body. As he had slid into hers in her dreams. More than once.
Her experience with Greer had taught her just how much she adored the male physique. Even though she’d not been with anyone since, there were times she longed for intimacy, for the pleasure a man’s body could give. There had been occasions when she’d thought even a man she did not love would do. The Duke of Mountjoy put just those sorts of thoughts into her head.
“What are you thinking, Wellstone?” His banyan shimmered in the light. This was the sort of fabric he ought to wear all the time, rich and flattering to his coloring and features.
“Nothing I will confess to you, sir.”
He was now in front of the suit of armor and mere inches from her. Lily was nearly five feet and ten inches, and Mountjoy was at least two inches taller than she. He gazed at her.
More wicked thoughts occurred to her, more images from her dream, more forbidden longings. Whatever might happen, she would be safe. The Duke of Mountjoy was a decent man who had no expectations of her outside of this room. Her fortune was of no consequence to him. To him, her family connections meant nothing. Before much longer she would go home to Syton House, and if she had lovely memories of Mountjoy to add to her visit, then she would be a lucky woman indeed.
“Dr. Longfield is right. Your eyes are very fine. Full of life and spirit.”
“Good heavens,” she managed, somehow, to reply in a cool voice. She did not feel about him the way she’d felt about Greer, and he had no deep feelings for her, either. They could flirt in this way that was not innocent and have no fear of unwanted entanglements. “Was that a compliment buried in there?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. To you and Dr. Longfield.” Her belly tightened. She’d worked so hard to suppress her attraction to him and all that simply vanished. He filled the room with his presence. She wanted to touch him. Yearned to touch him. To taste his skin, his mouth, feel his hair beneath her fingers, his breath warm against her skin.
“When I was in town this afternoon I happened to see him. He asked after you.”
“I hope you told him I’m well.”
“I did. He then described your eyes to me at length, but he was certain they were black.”
“Why on earth would he say anything at all about my eyes?” She walked away from him, heading for the shelves. “It was my finger he treated.”
“I’ve no idea. But one wants to know such things precisely,” he said. “When one is forced to listen to a man prattle on for the better part of half an hour about a woman’s eyes. Could my memory be faulty, and your eyes are black? Or some other color entirely?”
She clutched her book. He had a way of making even a large room feel small. “Five minutes or twenty-five, I observe that he did not trouble himself to discover their actual color.”
“I grant you that.” He didn’t quite smile, but there was a lightening of his countenance that suggested he might. She resisted taking a step back when the duke took a step forward. Under no circumstances would she retreat from this spot. She intended to stand here as if her slippers were glued to the floor. “What color are they? Let me see, Wellstone.”
She lifted her chin and opened her eyes as wide as she could. “As you can see, a very common brown, your grace.”
He took her book from her while she blinked to recover her vision. What he did with the book she had no notion whatever. “There’s nothing common about you.”
Since he was so close, she put her hands on his chest. She knew immediately she oughtn’t have. Because everything changed. Her world was no longer safe. Mountjoy tensed, but he didn’t move away. He stayed just where he was, his moss green eyes on her face. The silk beneath her palms was as rich as she’d imagined.
“This is lovely,” she said, stroking the material. “You look a god in this.”
“A god?” His low voice sent a thrill through her, a warmth that centered in her belly.
“Yes.” She left her hand on his chest. “Arrayed in gold befitting your status as a deity.”
“It was a gift from a friend who traveled to Anatolia.”
What could he mean but a former lover? Of course he had had lovers in his life. A man of his great physicality must have lovers. “Was she very beautiful?”
The distance between them became smaller yet, and that made her pulse leap. A hint of citrus clung to his skin. “Why do you assume it was a woman?”
She curled her fingers around the lapels of his banyan, just beneath his chin, and that was the moment that sealed her fate, because he still did not move away. And she didn’t want to. She didn’t. Because she wanted to kiss Mountjoy. And more. The anticipation was delicious. “Wasn’t it?”
“No.” He smiled, and it killed her to see the curve of his mouth, the tender shape of his lower lip. He had kissed other women. Taken them in his arms and whispered endearments to them.
“I hate them all,” she said. “Your previous lovers. All the women you’ve held and loved.”
“You shouldn’t.�
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She leaned forward, dizzy with the images in her head and the longing for him to do…something.
“The friend who gave me this was a man,” he said. “I met him not long after I came into my title. He was in the army at the time and was soon after deployed near Constantinople. He’s only recently retired to the English countryside where he lives a very dull existence, so he tells me.”
“He has exquisite taste.” She stroked the silk, traced one of the sumptuous patterns embroidered in the fabric of his waistcoat. “You need more clothes like this.”
“My valet, Wellstone, says much the same thing.” He didn’t move. Neither did she. “He’s in raptures whenever I wear this.”
Not Wicked Enough Page 10
