A Season of Ruin

by Anna Bradley

  “Miss Somerset?”

  Another barely discernible eyebrow quirk. “No, sir.”

  What had he done to set off the eyebrow this morning? Surely Rylands hadn’t read Mrs. Tittleton?

  “Good.”

  Robyn took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the landing on the third floor, he didn’t turn left toward his own bedchamber, but instead glanced down over the railing and into the foyer below. He couldn’t see Rylands from this angle, which meant Rylands couldn’t see him, either.

  Robyn turned right, toward the guest wing of the house.

  He didn’t intend to enter Lily’s bedchamber, of course, but there could be no impropriety in waiting outside her door for her to emerge for breakfast, and unless Mrs. bloody Tittleton also lurked in the hallway outside Lily’s room, no one had to know.

  He came to a stop outside her bedchamber. Eight o’clock. They’d arrived home from Almack’s rather late. It could be ages before she emerged, so—

  Thump.

  Robyn pressed his ear to the door and heard a faint splash, the unmistakable sound of water being poured from a pitcher into a porcelain bowl.

  Lily was awake. He could hear her footsteps as she moved about the room.

  She may be awake, but experience had taught him that women could linger in their bedchamber for ages, even when they were in there alone.

  Perhaps he’d just knock. No harm in knocking. He wouldn’t enter her bedchamber, but would speak to her from the hallway.

  Yes, he’d better knock and get this over with. He didn’t have all day to stand around and wait for Lily to dress and come down for breakfast.

  Well, actually, he did have all day, but that wasn’t the point, was it? It wouldn’t take but a minute to tell her about Mrs. Tittleton’s latest assault, and another to reassure her that he’d help her out of the debacle. Then he could be on his way.

  But wasn’t there a chance Lily would be in dishabille when she answered the door? Or only partially dressed? If she were only partially dressed, it stood to reason she’d be partially undressed.

  Lily. Undressed. Without her nun’s garb. Perhaps in a sheer white night rail . . .

  He swallowed. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of any scenario in which it would be proper for him to see Lily undressed. Even so, his hand rose without his consent and his knuckles met the smooth wood of the door.

  Surely she had a robe? Why, he wouldn’t be able to see a thing through her robe. He wasn’t going to enter her bedchamber in any case; he wouldn’t be near enough for it to be at all improper.

  “Yes? Come in,” Lily called.

  Come in? Well, since she insisted, it would be rude of him to refuse. It would be quieter in her room, and much more private, which was just as well, since it was a somewhat delicate matter they had to discuss. Yes, privacy was desirable.

  Robyn took one guilty look behind him, but Mrs. Tittleton didn’t leap from the shadows. No one did. The hallway was deserted.

  He opened the door, stepped over the threshold, and closed it behind him.

  And nearly fell to his knees.

  He didn’t see Lily, but he felt her here, everywhere at once, haunting every corner of the room. In a flash he was back in Lord Barrow’s study with his face buried in her hair, inhaling that delicious scent of warm sun on meadow grasses, that this-is-what-daisies-would-smell-like-if-they-had-a-scent, scent.

  Robyn looked about, but Lily didn’t appear. He wandered across the room to her dressing table as if in a dream. There was none of the usual feminine clutter here; every bottle and jar was arranged in precise rows and Lily’s ribbons and hair fripperies were stacked in a tidy pile in one corner. He retrieved a silver hairbrush, brought it to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled. An image rose in his mind of the brush moving slowly through Lily’s silky, honey-colored waves.

  Yes.

  He stumbled toward the bed, still clutching her brush. The scent was here, too. It rose from the bedclothes and drifted toward him, so palpable it felt as if someone had brushed a daisy against his lips. He stared down at the still unmade bed and pictured Lily tangled in the sheets, her long hair falling in fair waves across the pillow. He reached toward the bed, surprised to see his hand shook, and trailed his fingertips across the silky white sheets.

  He seemed always to touch Lily like this, in half measures, with one finger only, or only with the tips of his fingers. Odd, because he liked to fill his hands with the warm, willing flesh of women he desired.

  His hands, and his mouth.

  But Lily’s flesh wasn’t warm and willing, and she wasn’t a woman he desired. He liked women with spirit. Lily was too stiff. Too tidy. Too proper. He’d already decided that . . .

  Dear God. Her sheets were still warm.

  He heard a shocked gasp behind him and whirled around. Lily had emerged from her dressing closet and stood in the middle of the room, white-faced and openmouthed.

  She was not wearing a robe.

  His sluggish brain ground into action and warned him to turn away, but Robyn’s eyes had other ideas. They devoured the sight of her in her flimsy night rail. The sheer fabric billowed around her legs, too loose to reveal a thing, but the top of the gown skimmed over her upper body, and he could discern, oh so faintly, the pale pink tips of her breasts through the white gown.

  Robyn stared, mesmerized, as those blush-colored peaks began to pearl right before his eyes.

  He ran a shaking hand over his mouth.

  What in God’s name had possessed him to enter her bedchamber? It was a catastrophic mistake. He hadn’t slept in days, not since those few stolen kisses in Lord Barrow’s study, and now—now he’d been cursed with a glimpse of the rosiest, most mouthwatering nipples he’d ever seen.

  Lily held a pink gown of some sort in her hands and she hastily jerked it in front of herself. Astonishment kept her from speaking for a moment. Her mouth worked and a few outraged squeaks emerged, but no words. She looked ready to strangle him with one of her warm, scented sheets.

  When she did find her voice at last, it trembled with rage. “What do you think you’re doing in here, Robyn? Leave my bedchamber at once!”

  That was when Robyn made his second catastrophic mistake. “You did ask me to come in, Lily.”

  Her eyes widened with disbelief. “I didn’t—you—what? Leave, instantly!”

  Robyn held his hands up in front of him and tiptoed toward the door, as if she were a wild animal about to spring on him and tear him to bits with her claws. “I only want to talk to you. I’ll stand here, right by the door. I promise I won’t move.”

  Lily stamped her foot—actually stamped it. Robyn felt a helpless grin twist his lips. He tried to shove it back into his mouth, for he shuddered to think what Lily would do if he dared to laugh at her right now.

  But she saw it, and what could only be described as a howl of rage tore from her throat. She hurled the pink gown at his head with all of her strength. Robyn grabbed it out of the air instinctively before it could hit his face.

  Then they both stood there, staring at each other. Lily looked as though she wished she’d thought things through before she threw her gown at him, and Robyn tried with every fiber in his body not to look at her heaving breasts.

  “Put your robe on,” he choked at last. “Once we’ve had a talk, I’ll leave.”

  Lily turned on her heel without another word and disappeared into her dressing room. She returned a few moments later with her robe cinched like a noose around her waist. She did look a bit more comfortable with the extra layer of protection.

  She shouldn’t. Robe or no robe, the image of her in her white gown, hair streaming down her back, was seared into his brain. He’d never forget it, not even if she were wearing her nun’s habit. Or a suit of armor.

  She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him, her l
ips tight. “Well? What’s so earth-shattering you felt the need to charge into my bedchamber this morning?”

  Robyn opened his mouth to say that after today he’d happily charge into her bedchamber on the merest pretense, but for once his brain was one step ahead of his mouth. He held out the scandal sheet. “This.”

  She didn’t take it. Instead she eyed it as though it were a pistol, cocked and loaded. “I don’t understand. There’s nothing for her to tattle about. Is there?”

  She raised troubled blue eyes to his and just like that she was a little girl again, a sobbing five-year-old child lost in a maze.

  Robyn felt a strange, empty sensation near his chest. “Well, there may be one very minor thing.”

  “What? Has she written about how I was a wallflower at my first Almack’s ball?”

  God, if only it were just that. What would she do when she found out it was so much worse? “Not exactly. Perhaps you’d better read it yourself.”

  He held the paper out and this time she took it. She scanned the first few sentences. “‘Lapse in propriety’? What lapse?”

  Robyn said nothing, just watched as she continued down the lines of text.

  “‘Passionate enthusiasm for each other’s company’? I don’t understand this.”

  He could tell to the very second when she began to suspect what had happened. “‘Waltzing without express permission from our esteemed hostesses.’”

  She folded the paper into neat thirds and balanced it carefully on the side of her dressing table. “Young ladies need permission to waltz at Almack’s?” Her voice was quiet, as if she were whispering an obscenity in church.

  Robyn took a deep breath. “Yes. But you’re new to London, and you didn’t know. No one can blame you for it.”

  Silence. Then, “But you knew. Didn’t you, Robyn?”

  If only she’d just fly into a rage. He could easily soothe an outraged woman. But she didn’t. She simply gazed at him, her blue eyes filled with a hurt she didn’t bother to hide.

  Admit nothing. If ever there was a time to obey that rule, it was now. It would be so much easier if he just told her he hadn’t known. He opened his mouth and the lie hovered on the edge of his tongue, but much to his horror, the truth slipped out. “Yes. I knew.”

  A small sound escaped her—something between a laugh and a sob. “I confess it never occurred to me you’d go out of your way to publicly humiliate me.”

  Robyn’s mouth fell open. Is that what she thought? It wasn’t as if he’d hatched some nefarious scheme to humiliate her. It had just . . . happened. “I didn’t intend to humiliate you. I got angry when you told me you’d asked Archie to replace me as your escort, and . . .”

  He trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence. He hadn’t thought it through, damn it. He’d reacted with pure instinct, much as he always did. He didn’t want to be replaced, and he’d seized an opportunity to make sure it didn’t happen.

  “You were angry,” she repeated in disbelief. “You never wanted to act as my escort this season to begin with. I arranged it so you didn’t have to. That made you angry?”

  He opened his mouth to explain—to charm and cajole and wheedle until her fury dissolved. “I wanted . . .”

  What had he wanted? He hadn’t any idea. He closed his mouth. He couldn’t explain it to her because he didn’t understand it himself.

  Lily didn’t even notice his hesitation. “You were so angry you’ve ruined any chance I might have had to redeem myself with the ton. So angry”—and now her voice had begun to shake—“you’ve seen to it I will never be accepted in society.”

  “Ruined your chances? No. That’s not—”

  But she appeared not to hear him. “You did it all with a single dance, as well. It’s brilliant, actually. Machiavellian, even.”

  Robyn reached her in one stride. Lily’s lips parted in a gasp as he grasped her shoulders.

  His eyes dropped to her mouth and his body flooded with heat. “Stop it, Lily. I never wanted to ruin you, and you won’t be ruined. It’s nothing as hopeless as all that. I’ll make it right.”

  She gave a brittle little laugh and tried to twist away from him. “I don’t see how.”

  He held her fast, his fingers tight on her shoulders. “We’ll go along with Ellie’s plan. It will still work. It’s only a waltz, for God’s sake. I’ll be the very model of the faithful escort, and the ton will forget all about this. We’ll brazen it out, just as we discussed.”

  Lily stared at him for a moment, her eyes going darker with each breath. “No.”

  Her silk robe dragged against his palms as his hands slid down her shoulders. He closed his fingers around her upper arms and pulled her closer to him. “What do you mean, no? This is the only way. You haven’t any other choice.”

  She jerked her chin up. “I do have a choice. I’ve asked Archie to escort me and he’s agreed. I don’t see any reason to change plans now.”

  Robyn stared at her smooth white throat and his breaths came harsher, quicker. “Don’t you? Then you’re a fool. Archie can’t help you out of it—not when both scandals involve you and me. If you’re seen with Archie all over London now, it will only make matters worse.”

  A flush rose from her throat into her cheeks. “Perhaps it will. But I’d rather have Archie, even so.”

  She’d rather have Archie.

  Robyn felt the familiar fury begin to gather in his throat. It continued to swell until it threatened to choke him. He pulled air into his lungs and forced himself to calm. “You’d rather have Archie, would you? I hope you’d rather be ruined than marry Atherton, as well. I told you—Archie can’t do a thing for you anymore.”

  She moistened her lips with her tongue and swallowed. “I don’t care.”

  A deep, hot ache twisted inside him, low in his belly. He snatched her wrists and dragged her hands to his chest and held them there, forced her to feel his heart slam against her palms. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “You need me.”

  Her eyes widened with shock, but she didn’t pull away. She stilled, her hands flat against his chest.

  Robyn held his breath. Was there a chance, then?

  Her eyes never left his as she shook her head. “No. You’re wrong. I’m not ever going to need you, Robyn.”

  He stared at her. The twisting ache turned hard and cold, a ball of ice in his stomach.

  Last night, when they’d waltzed, he’d felt it the instant she gave in to him. For a few brief moments she’d ceased to worry and strategize and plan. She dropped it all into a haphazard pile at her feet and she’d gone soft, boneless. She’d melted against him, and for those brief moments she’d felt perfect in his arms.

  He had only to look at her now to see she’d begun to gather the pieces together again. As soon as he left the room, she’d sit on the floor, pull them into her lap, and try to reassemble them, only this time she’d leave out a piece.

  Him.

  He forced himself to release her before he could give in to the urge to drag her against his body and hold her until she admitted she did need him, that Archie could never do for her what he could. He stepped back, away from her, feeling as though he’d been hit with one of Pelkey’s enormous fists.

  He opened the door. “We’ll see.”

  Once he gained the hallway, he turned back to look at her, but she’d closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Twelve

  To think, she’d been worried the ton would label her a wallflower.

  Casual insolence . . . indecent . . . what else had Mrs. Tittleton said? There had been something about an improper display of affection, hadn’t there?

  And that dreadful picture! The gentleman, with his hand on the lady’s . . . and then the bodice of the lady’s gown, with her . . . Lily’s reflection in the mirror went scarlet.

  It certainly put the ter
m wallflower in perspective.

  “Would you like the gold combs, Miss Lily?” Betsy asked.

  Lily sat at her looking glass, her chin cradled in her hand. She felt as though she’d been sitting here for hours. Betsy stood behind her, surrounded by her artillery of beauty, wielding her combs and pins and pomades like an expert swordsman in her quest to beautify Lily for the Chatsworths’ ball this evening.

  Lily had done her best to pretend there was no ball tonight, but here she was, in a sleek bronze-colored evening gown with Betsy piling her hair atop her head. As if any of the fuss would do the least good at all.

  Her eyes jerked to the glass when she felt Betsy slide the first comb into her hair.

  “Just here, miss,” Betsy said as she coaxed one delicate comb into the smooth waves next to Lily’s ear, just above the elegant mass of curls at the back of her head. Betsy had outdone herself tonight, and the maid’s face shone with satisfaction.

  Lily didn’t have the heart to tell her all of her efforts were wasted. “It’s a masterpiece, Betsy,” she said without enthusiasm. “But I don’t want the combs. Not tonight.”

  Betsy’s face clouded with disappointment. A sharp little arrow of guilt pierced through Lily, but she kept her mouth closed. The filigree combs were designed to glitter like tiny jewels and draw attention to the wearer’s hair, and they did their job admirably.

  Lily didn’t want them. The last thing she wanted was to draw more attention to herself. She’d give anything to be the wallflower she’d dreaded being last night, in fact. The irony was not lost on her, and neither was the absurdity of quibbling with Betsy over the combs. Whether she wore them or not, the ton would find her.

  Had there been any way around it, she wouldn’t even attend the ball, but Lady Catherine had insisted.

  Not just Lady Catherine, but Ellie and Charlotte, as well. Even Delia had been called into the fray. She’d arrived in Mayfair right after breakfast with a copy of the scandal sheet in her reticule, and all five ladies had retired to Lady Catherine’s private parlor with the gravity of soldiers about to embark on a military campaign.