“I will not manipulate him, if that’s what’s you mean.” She had misled him enough already. He could not bear any more, and neither could she.
“I mean, allow yourself to be the woman he cannot resist. Believe me, it will not take much.”
“I hardly see myself becoming irresistible to a man who has vowed only to touch me for the purpose of getting an heir, and only if it’s already on his agenda.”
“Oh,” cooed Lillian, “but these are the best sorts of men to persuade.”
“You can say that because every man wants you.”
“I can say that”—Lillian dusted off her hands and smoothed her own skirts—“because Rainsleigh wants you. All joking aside, Elisabeth, you know I would not give you to him if I did not believe the two of you were very well suited, or that nature will eventually take its course. I have every confidence that you will emerge happy and in love. Think me dramatic or addled by blind hope if you must, but you will see. You will see.”
“The only one addled here, dear Lillian, is me,” Elisabeth mumbled, turning to stare out at the crowded garden. She spotted Rainsleigh immediately, half a head taller than everyone else. He looked up in the same moment, and her traitorous stomach did a flip. Their gazes locked. He stared but did not smile.
Elisabeth nodded grimly and looked away. “I simply want us to get on with our lives,” she said softly. “The arrangement suits me in the same way it suits him. I merely have a new address.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“I should like to know, Rainsleigh, how you prevent this goldfish pool from flooding the garden when it rains?” Lady Frinfrock cornered the viscount beside the rear garden wall in the third hour of the wedding feast. He’d been shocked to turn around and discover her still going strong.
“You’ve paid no mind to flooding,” she went on, waving her cane at the perfectly dry beds, “none at all. You’ve been lucky with the dry spring we have enjoyed, but when the rains return—and they always return—you will lose half of these beds; mark my words.”
“How astute of you to notice,” Rainsleigh said, looking over the plumage of her hat for some reason to step away. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to have a word with my gardener.”
“Perhaps you would take an interest in your own property,” the marchioness harrumphed. “Servants can only do so much. ’Tis the lord of the manor who steers the vessel. Servants merely swab the decks.”
Rainsleigh had no idea how to respond to this statement; moreover, he didn’t care. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he had cared less about the house or the garden or the bloody drainage. He struggled to keep a pleasant expression on his face and scanned the crowd again for Elisabeth.
She was near the pergola, her back to him, surrounded by a circle of Lady Banning’s friends. He frowned. Were her shoulders drooping? Was she massaging the back of her neck? He worried she had become over-tired. The countess’s friends were a trial for her on any day, and today had not been any day. The preparation, the ceremony, and now going on three hours at the reception. He had not once seen her sit. He cleared his throat, glanced at the marchioness mid-scold, and prepared to make some conciliatory statement and walk away.
“Ah, there you are, the happy groom.” His brother strode into view, bearing drinks in both hands, thank God.
“And hello, my lady,” Beau said to Lady Frinfrock. “Don’t you look lovely in that orange hat?”
The old woman turned, squinting at his brother’s voice. “Ah, Mr. Courtland.” She shaded her eyes. “ ’Tis you. Tell me, how does it feel to wear a proper cravat for perhaps the first time ever in life?”
“Splendid, actually. Just like a noose. But Lady Falcondale and Miss Breedlowe are looking for you, I believe. Something about your opinion on the food being left out too long in the sun?”
Bryson opened his mouth to assure them that the food was of the finest quality, tended by the most professional staff, but Beau winked at him and gave a subtle shake of his head.
“Oh, it’s been ruined, I dare say.” The marchioness sighed, already stumping away. “Only a foolish man would set out such a feast in the heat of the day.”
“Enjoying the party as much as the marchioness?” Beau asked when she was gone. He handed Rainsleigh a drink.
“How long do you think it will go?” It was three o’clock in the afternoon.
“The marchioness? Come now, Bryse, she is unpleasant, but we mustn’t refer to her as ‘it.’ ”
Rainsleigh sighed. “The party. How long will the party go?”
“Oh, right.” He looked around. “Well, it’s your event, Bryse. Bring it to an end whenever you wish. In my experience, parties desist when the spirits run dry.”
“I worry Elisabeth is tired.” He stared at her across the terrace. She looked ethereal, as if she existed only to inhabit this garden.
Now she moved, raising her hand to wave to Miss Breedlowe, and the outline of her body could be seen in gauzy relief through the layers of her dress. Long, slim legs; the tight tuck of her waist above the flare of her hips; her flat stomach and pert breasts. A pang of lust shot through him so acute that he tossed back his drink one gulp.
“Hmmm. What about you, Bryse?” His brother followed his gaze. “Are you . . . tired?” He chuckled and shook his head.
Rainsleigh smirked and turned back to Elisabeth. How, he wondered, would she receive the suggestion that they take their leave? A departure now would not be unacceptable for the bride and groom. But depart and go where? They were already at home. He would risk her rejection, and happily so, if he could think of some alternative destination. He’d already suggested dinner in their separate rooms, and she’d agreed. Was this what she wanted?
She was turning now, walking with the group as her aunt led them into the ballroom.
“Do what you wish, Bryse,” Beau said, more serious now. “You cater to the standards of strangers and what they think is right, or appropriate, or proper, et cetera, et cetera. Can you not make time for your own desires tonight?” He turned to look at him. “For once in your life, Bryson, what do you wish?”
“I wish . . . ” Rainsleigh paused, considering this. “For her to be happy.” This was the truth.
Beau nodded. “Unselfish to the very core. Right. Of course you do. Very well, I’d start by asking her what the bloody hell that might be.”
“Yes,” he said, handing his empty glass to Beau. “Ask her. For once, you may be right.”
Rainsleigh wove his way through the party, following Elisabeth and the laughing, trilling group inside. Business associates and other guests rushed up to wish him well, but he waved them away. When Elisabeth reached the great hall, she slowed down and fell behind Lady Banning and her friends. They didn’t seem to notice, and she stopped altogether. When they moved on, she carefully began to back away.
Only steps behind, Rainsleigh fell in line behind her. Intentionally, he allowed the two of them to collide.
“Oh!” she gasped, bouncing off his chest. He steadied her, catching her around the waist. She was an irresistible bundle of silk and veils.
She tried to spin. “I beg your pard—”
“Only me,” he said gently. His hands lingered.
“So it is,” she said, hopping two steps back. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.
She hesitated a moment. “It has been a grand party, Rainsleigh.”
He glanced around them. “So grand, I worry it may never end. I am concerned about you. Take care that you don’t become over-tired.”
She chuckled. “Yes. I believe even my aunt is tired, and that is saying quite a lot.
“You know I can bring the party to an official close,” he said. “One round of thanks and then send everyone on their way. If you are tired, I shall have no qualms about empting the house.”
“And have this be the gossip of the party?” she teased. “How lovely it was until the viscount booted everyone out. No,
let them enjoy your hospitality. You should enjoy it too. I may”—she cast a glance around, looking at the stairs and then back to him—“may slip away to my bedchamber, if I can find it.”
An image of Elisabeth alone in her bedchamber settled in his brain, and his pulse jumped.
He hesitated, wanting to get the next bit exactly right. “I should be happy to show you around upstairs,” he said.
She turned back to him. There was a light in her eyes he had not seen in some time. “I thought you had relegated this task to your housekeeper,” she reminded him. “Mrs. Linn, was it?” She cocked a delicate eyebrow.
Was she flirting with him?
“Mrs. Linn is terribly busy at the moment,” he said, and he extended his arm.
She took it, looping one hand beneath and placing her other hand on top. She nudged close. Her skirts swished against his boot as they began to walk. She looked behind her to check the location of her aunt, and her hair tickled his hand. He felt the outline of her breast against his arm. It was all he wanted—no, that was a lie. He wanted considerably more, but he would accept this.
“There is a balcony,” he said, climbing the marble stairwell, “that overlooks the garden. We can sit there, unobserved, and watch the guests filter out from above. I’ll ring for a dinner tray if it pleases you.”
“That sounds divine, actually,” she said, allowing him to lead her up. “A balcony, you say?”
“Hmmm. I had it built for star-gazing, actually, and I can show you—”
Just as they reached the top step and turned onto the landing, the distinctive sound of Lady Frinfrock’s froglike voice rose from the hall below.
“I’ve waited long enough,” she was saying, “I will see this illustrious music room wall.”
Rainsleigh and Elisabeth froze for two beats and then slowly turned in unison. There was the marchioness, stumping toward the stairwell with her cane, flanked by her friend, Miss Baker, and Lord and Lady Falcondale, Rainsleigh’s friends from next door.
Elisabeth went tense beside him. “Oh,” she murmured, fatigue clear in her voice. “Sign of a good host, I suppose, if your guests feel free to roam every level of your house.”
“It’s your house too,” he said, swearing in his head. “And I cannot imagine their business up here.”
Moving deftly, he steered Elisabeth to the corner of the landing and then stepped back, so they were out of sight. He looked at her. “Ignore them; they will pass. You are tired. It’s not worth the effort.”
“Even if I was wide awake,” she said, “I’m not sure I would have the fortitude to deal with your neighbor. We’ve already discussed the color of my dress, the style of my hair, and the flavor of the cake.” She let out a weary sigh. “If an idea did not originate with her, she considers it open for debate.”
He chuckled and looked right and left. Elisabeth’s bedroom door was adjacent to the corner, but they could not make it there without colliding with Lady Frinfrock and her entourage. His own door was beyond that, an even greater risk. The landing ended behind them with a small cupboard door.
He swore again and looked back at his neighbors. They continued to come, ascending the stairs with alarming speed, considering the marchioness’s cane. He looked down at Elisabeth. She shrank behind the corner and leaned her head back against the wall. She closed her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said, sighing. “I just need a moment.”
Rainsleigh nodded, searching her face. The perfect constellation of her freckles was irresistible, he thought. He would never grow tired of looking at her.
But now they would deal with the neighbors. He sighed, backing away. He checked their progress on the stairs. He swore. He scanned the landing again.
“Elisabeth,” he said, suddenly inspired, “take heart.” He grabbed up her hand. “I don’t think we’ve yet been spotted.” He tugged her off the wall.
“What do you mean?” She laughed, staring at their clasped hands.
“Follow me.” Staying close to the wall, he whipped open the small door to the adjacent cupboard. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he gestured for her to step inside.
She laughed again but hesitated only for a minute. Lady Frinfrock could be heard bearing down on the upper steps now, just feet away from the landing. Elisabeth hopped in.
Rainsleigh shot a glance over his shoulder. Falcondale rounded the corner, and he caught his gaze. His friend cocked one suggestive eyebrow. Rainsleigh raised one finger to his lips and silently shook his head. Not a word, he mouthed, and then he nimbly stepped inside behind his wife.
Elisabeth laughed, and he shushed her gently, nudging her further in. She ignored him and laughed more still, struggling to untangle her veil and skirts from various mop and broom handles propped against the wall. When she was free, he reached around her and pulled the door shut with a click.
“Shhh,” he said again, but this only seemed to elicit more laughter. Now she was entirely out of control, and he settled his hand over her mouth to cup the sound. He shushed her again, but it was no use. Her composure dissolved in a fit of giggles, and she lost her balance. Rainsleigh swore, laughing now too, and broadened his stance to support her. He caught her up with his free hand.
The moment his palm closed over her waist, the laughter stopped. Silence settled around them like the curtain on a stage, and their other senses came alive. He smelled the perfume of her hair. He looked down and saw her profile in the darkness. He felt . . . oh, God. He breathed deeply, savoring what he felt. Her lips under one hand, her body beneath the other.
“Please tell me this is not my bedchamber,” she whispered against his fingers.
With considerable effort, he drew his hand away from her mouth. “A cupboard,” he managed to say.
“I think they saw us,” she said. “I know they saw us.”
“Lady Frinfrock only sees what stares her in the face,” he whispered, and she laughed again.
“Shhh,” he reminded her, and something about the darkness and the proximity propelled him to rest his face against her veil and hair. He breathed in. She leaned against him, her back to his front, and his heartbeat ricocheted against her. Meanwhile, her bottom . . . oh, God . . . the delicious curve of her bottom was tucked against him, a perfect, perfect fit.
But now they heard footsteps outside the door, laughter, voices.
She tensed, and Rainsleigh tucked her closer. Elisabeth nestled back, and he made a low, strangled noise. His body had, perhaps, never been so acutely, strainingly aware of another human form.
The footsteps and voices grew louder, louder. They were right outside. Rainsleigh held his breath, oblivious to the irony of hiding from his own wedding guests—oblivious to everything but the feel of his wife in his arms.
And then, just as quickly as they had come, the footsteps began to fade. They were left with nothing more than the overwhelming sensation of each other’s proximity and the sound of their own shallow breath.
“Elisabeth?” he finally said, his voice barely audible. His mouth was just inches from her ear. He need only dip his head a fraction of an inch to touch it to his lips to its softness.
“Yes?”
“Are you . . . ” He forgot what he intended to say.
She wiggled, setting off a surge of pleasure that tested the limits of his self-control.
He released her waist, desperate to get a handle on his desire, and his body raged at the separation. He clenched his fists at his sides to prevent himself from snatching her back.
Free of his grasp, Elisabeth now began to fidget. She adjusted her veil, her skirts, her coronet. Despite the gap between them, each tug and pat brought her pressing up against him. He swallowed a groan.
“Sorry,” she whispered, but she kept moving, puffing the sleeves of her dress, smoothing her hair.
Now she shuffled, staggered a step, and began to turn. Slowly, silently, she revolved to face him in the tight space. When her back was to the door, she leaned against it and tipped her head up.
In the darkness, he could barely make out her face.
He swallowed. A moment passed. Two. Three. A hundred. Time ceased to make sense. He knew only the beats of his own rapidly pounding heart.
The door behind her creaked, and she jumped. He reached out to steady her, and his fingertips brushed her knuckles, the lightest of contact. It felt so incredibly right. As right as anything he’d known since he’d last held her, weeks ago. He reached out again. A glancing brush, a graze on her arm. The third time, she opened her fingers and captured his hand. Their linked fingers sank into the layers of her gown.
She tugged slightly—or did he?—and their faces were closer now. A whisper apart. He felt her breath on his neck. His own breathing seemed out of his control.
A thin line of light glowed beneath the door, and when he’d stared long enough, he could make out the curve of her eyelashes against her cheek. These became a defining feature, a landmark. He watched them shut, and open, shut again. He heard her lick her lips. It was his undoing.
He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her. Slowly, gently. He was deliberate, and cautious, and careful. Just in case.
She did not turn away. She tipped her head higher, receiving him, welcoming him. He closed his eyes and tasted. She was, at the same time, familiar and new. Forbidden and his very own. A moan escaped him, and he squeezed the hand he held. She opened her hands and spread her fingers, closing them again around his, entwined.
His only purpose in the world became the feel of her lips, the scent of her, the feel of her hair brushing the backs of his hands.
He drew away—not far, just enough—and balanced his forehead on hers. He willed himself to go slowly, to catch his breath. For a time, they did not move, they merely . . . felt. The dark closet locked them away from past and future, from the whole bloody balance of the earth.
It was their first real embrace since the museum, as imminent as it was unexpected. What had been a slow-burning, day-long desire now roared through his body like a maelstrom. Now he dipped down to kiss her again, ravaging her mouth like a starving man. She dropped her head against the door and received the kiss, returned it, fed it.
A Proper Scandal Page 22
