When he began to pull away, her eyes fluttered open, and he saw in them passion and wild abandon, an animal released from its cage. Lizbeth leaned against his chest, her eager lips reuniting with his.
Cautiously, he licked her bottom lip, testing her reaction.
Her lips parted in response, and she pulled in his tongue with her own. He explored her mouth, licking, tasting, drinking the pleasure of her. Lips pressed against each other in fierce yearning, tongues simulating what he wished to do with the rest of his body. He would go mad if he couldn’t have her.
A moan, hers or his he couldn’t say, reverberated until the sound sobered his intoxication. It dawned on his hazed brain that they stood in the middle of a museum, however deserted. At any moment someone could see them.
Devil take it, what was he doing?
He pulled away so quickly, he had to reorient himself to keep from stumbling backwards. Lizbeth’s darkened eyes searched his in confusion of the quitted kiss.
Ignoring her labored breathing, her heaving chest, and the swelling in his loins, he took the opportunity to apologize. He stole her kiss and couldn’t offer what should naturally follow such a violation of innocence. He couldn’t, wouldn’t trap her.
“I shouldn’t have done that.” He waited, watching her breathing calm, realization dawning in her expression of what had happened, of what he was saying. “Please, accept my apology. I’ve violated your trust and friendship. It will never happen again.”
She stared at him in confusion, shaking her head. She tried to speak, but only mouthed silently, words caught in her throat.
Never had he felt such an uncontrollable longing for another person. It frightened him. From this moment forward, he must stay away from her before he destroyed her with selfish desire.
With another mumbled apology and all due haste, he escorted her on wobbly legs to the reading room, ready to put distance between them.
Chapter 13
The carriage jolted, rattling the windows and sending Lizbeth bouncing across the seat. Papa Cuthbert sat across from her, holding onto an overhanging leather strap for balance. As they traversed the rocky terrain, he bellowed laughter at her plight.
Outside, sheep grazed in the surrounding fields, a welcome sight after the hubbub and industry of London. The gatehouse with its elliptical arch rising from imposts yawned before them. They passed through and down the drive, happy to be home again.
Home was a two and a half story, five-bay rectangle with two wings enclosing a courtyard. The elbows of the house had decorative quoins with pedimented gables at both wings. The front door stood under a triglyph frieze, Tuscan columns to either side.
Teghyiy Hall came into view as they crested the hill, all the doors and windows open to greet the returning master and friendly cross breezes. The housekeeper, cook, coachman’s wife, and two maids waved as they approached.
If Lizbeth never rode in a carriage again, it would be too soon. Her bum would be sore for weeks, she was sure, after the trek from London to Trevena.
Although the family left London together, Aunt Hazel and Walter ended their journey in Exeter, while Papa and Lizbeth continued to the coast. Lizbeth knew the household would be sad when Charlotte didn’t exit the carriage, but the news of her matrimony would more than make up for her absence.
As happy as she felt to see the wildflowers in bloom and hear the roar of the ocean, she felt an emptiness. She hadn’t spoken to Sebastian since the British Museum.
He had been at the wedding, but he was curt at his kindest. He had eyes only for the wedding party and gave her nothing more than a cursory nod. Watching her sister marry Annick had made the day even gloomier, but she couldn’t say it hadn’t been a handsome ceremony.
It surely must have been the wedding of the Season. While only immediate family attended the ceremony, curious onlookers crowded about the church doors, awaiting the bride and groom’s exit, for it wasn’t every day a duke married. When the doors opened, and the crowd caught sight of the couple, cheers erupted from all sides, along with a fair share of swooning. Those who knew the duke rained flower petals along the walk to the church to the carriage.
The newlyweds matched in picture-perfect serenity, Charlotte in blue satin with ivory lace overlay and Annick in a dark blue cutaway the same shade as Charlotte’s dress with a silk cravat mimicking her overlay. Annick made a show of their departure, unbuttoning his tailed jacket to show off a brightly colored and embroidered waistcoat and catching flower petals in his hat. When they reached the carriage, he tossed coins to the crowd before dipping Charlotte into a very public and very decadent kiss.
While all eyes had been on the bride and groom, hers had been riveted on Sebastian who kept his distance. Of course, he would ignore her. She couldn’t blame him. After all, he’d made it clear from the beginning he didn’t want to be hunted down like a fox by some marriage minded female, and what had she done? She’d thrown herself at him, quite literally. He’d been the best friend she’d ever had, and she’d acted wanton.
Her heart still ached over what happened. She was ashamed and embarrassed. For all her talk of not being interested in romance or marriage, she had proven herself a liar by flirting and lascivious behavior. He must think her a fortune hunting wanton. Her cheeks burned with the humiliation of it.
It didn’t matter that, technically, he kissed her first. Her behavior was deplorable: telling him she found him attractive, fawning over him, touching him, and finally pushing herself onto him. His kiss had been chaste. Hers had been a ghastly display of affection. It was no wonder he avoided her.
Even despite her reservations about a marriage with him, she had hoped against logic he would do something rash, sweep her off her feet, show her that this was, after all, the beginning of love, the start of a fairy tale romance that would be sung about for generations, and by doing so, inspire her to throw all her inhibitions to the wind on the chance that this was true love.
She felt downright thick. The daftest cow in Cornwall. He hadn’t swept her off her feet. Instead, he had kissed her in a way that would torment her for the rest of her days, and then he left for the north. She blamed herself, not him.
What she should be is relieved. As deeply as she’d fallen for him, she had reservations. All would be far better to realize before committing herself to him that it would never work. She would not be a caretaker to a brooding man. She would not be an invisible wife to the lord of the manor. She would not live with a man who couldn’t trust her enough to speak honestly. And yet…
At least now she was home. The sea would recharge her spirit, the healing ocean, the embodiment of magic. If she wanted true love, she need look no further than the capped waves. And she could enjoy the fields, the cliffs, the beaches, and all things naturally wonderful without society or propriety breathing down her neck.
Within an hour of settling in at Teghyiy Hall, Lizbeth grabbed her bonnet and ran for the door to head straight for the seaside, eager to begin the cleansing process and forget all about that man.
Papa shouted out the door after her with his rough and tumble Cornish accent, “No going for a fair stank, Lizzie, my dove, for ‘tis some late already. Two hours, na more. Cook is baking summit special tonight, p’rhaps stargazy pie, like.”
With a dismissive wave behind her, she ran down the drive. Liz had no intention of going for a long walk as Papa worried she might. More like a long swim. The sea called to her.
She ran across the field and over the hill, skittering down the other side past fieldstones and sheep, the sun hot against her back, the wind pushing her onward. She threw her bonnet into the wind and let loose her hair, the gust of nature’s breath blowing it wildly about her face and torso.
She hopped toward the rock wall between her and the cove, peeling off her shoes and flinging them over her shoulder to join the bonnet dancing a minuet with the wind. Reaching the ledge abov
e the cove, she climbed down the rock face, her feet expertly gripping the crag.
Only an hour remained of low tide, just long enough. She reached the bottom, feet sinking into wet, sandy beach. Toes slapped, sloshed, and sucked the sediment with each step, marking her footsteps towards the lapping waves. She walked straight into the waves, water licking her ankles before surging against her knees.
The cold sea chilled her bones, cleansing her. She slipped into the water, pushing out towards the ocean until the waves splashed about her neck, bubbling in her ears. Curious mackerel swam around her, and kelp tickled her toes. She could see clear to the sea floor below. With abandon, she slapped the waves, kicked the currents, splashed and dove into the icy waters, a child at heart.
After her fill of the sea haven, she perched on a flat rock in the cove, her limbs sprawled, the sun warm. The rock face would soon shadow the cove, so she took advantage of the heat while she could to dry her drenched clothes. Wet hair clung to her arms and face, her petticoats soaked and weighty against her skin.
Three small clouds moved above her. She watched them inch across the sky, overlapping to form one large cloud shaped as an angry god who threatened to pound fists against the headland’s cliffside. When her mother was alive, the two of them had lain for hours, guessing cloud shapes and concocting stories of the cloud adventures.
Every waking moment had been spent with her mother, the two of them traipsing the land in search of new escapades. If her mother were here now, they would go together to visit the miners. Tomorrow, she decided, she would bring them breakfast. Cook would bake pasties for her to take. She laughed in memory of her mother’s old tales of buccas, those mythical fairies that caused mining mischief if not bribed with food. She hoped the miners’ luck had held while she was away. No one else would know to leave pasty crumbs for the buccas.
She missed her mother. She hadn’t cried over her death in years, but she did now, a nostalgic cry tinged with remorse. She missed sharing these moments, missed the song of her mother’s voice, missed stories of the Cornish pixies, mermaids, and pirates. Above all else, she missed her best friend.
During her brief acquaintance with Sebastian, she thought she might have finally found someone with whom she shared an emotional kinship, but alas, she was alone again. She had Papa, of course, but it wasn’t the same.
She fought the weighty shadow of despair.
In London, when surrounded by family, she held her chin high and proud, ignoring the bleeding of her heart as Sebastian turned his back on her. Now, alone and a lifetime away from what could have been, she slipped into a hopeless gloom, feeling the sharp cut of betrayal at his behavior, the helplessness of abandonment, and the heartache of never seeing him again. The tears for her mother blended with tears for Sebastian. In her stomach clenched a tight ball of heartbreak, while in her heart, all care drained to emptiness.
After so many years of being alone, she had found someone to relate to, a true kindred spirit, yet he didn’t want her. Undoubtedly, he felt the connection, too. Not enough to find her irresistible, not enough to fight for her, to slay whatever demons haunted him.
To him, she wasn’t worth the sacrifice.
Allowing herself to cry over the lose at last, she rationalized what happened. He hadn’t deceived her. Never had he promised her a future, never had he courted her. He made it clear from their first day that he had no interest in any relationship beyond friendship. And besides, marriage would have never worked, for as much as he began to open to her, he remained distant, secretive, shielding himself from her prying eyes. At no point during their acquaintance had her worries about him subsided, so why grieve for a future that wouldn’t have worked?
Before she could give into temptation, the decision had been ripped from her breast, and all for the better, for now she didn’t have to live with regret. Now she didn’t have to live with a poor decision. Now she could live freely and independently the life she had always planned where only she was master.
Feeling empty, drained from the expenditure of emotion, she released him from her heart. He had been a lark and nothing more. Today, she would be renewed of spirit. Today, she was home.
Her fingertips felt the shadow before she noticed the setting sun. A cold chill from the whipping wind bit her fingers in contrast to the warmth on the rest of her body. The tide would rise dangerously soon to cover the beach with white waves, trapping anyone remaining on the rocks. Making quick work of it, she climbed up the naturally jutting rocks in the cliff-face to reach the plateau above and searched for her discarded bonnet and shoes.
What would Sebastian say at the drenched sight of her? If he had become her husband, would he have allowed her to swim so scandalously? Not that anyone came to this secret place of hers to cause scandal, but what would he say if he saw her now, plodding barefoot across the grass, still dripping wet despite the sun’s best efforts, her soaked hair sticking to her bare arms and about her sodden gown?
With delight, she imagined the ton’s reaction to a countess diving fully clothed into the ocean then walking a half mile home looking like a used mop.
Bonnet and shoes in hand, she walked into the open door of Teghyiy Hall, hoping she could sneak to her room and arrange for Bettye to prepare her bath and evening dress before Papa spotted her.
Too late. He stood in the doorway of the vestibule, his hands clawing at his sideburns in horror.
“Lizzie, my bird! Tell yer Papa ye didn’ go to the cove like. Yer some ummin and stagged now. Dirty and muddy to the bleddy bone.”
She laughed at his horrified expression, comically exaggerated, and ran upstairs before he could scold her more.
Following a warm bath and change of clothes, she joined him before dinner, hoping to exchange stories of homecoming and plan the next week’s exploits, be they calling on neighbors or reading in the parlor. One look at him told her he wasn’t in a playful mood.
He perched next to the fireplace with its carved sea scenes and embedded sea shells. An arm propped against the mantel, the hand running through his salt and pepper hair.
“I’ve done ye a disservice in yer upbringing, my bird. I never should ‘ave indulged ye. I let ye sit with yer cousin an’ ‘is tutors, learnin’ what a boy ought, not a proper lady. I’ve raised a headstrong daughter.”
“Oh, Papa. I’m just like you. And just like Mama, too. That’s not so bad, is it?”
“Na. Ny wonn, my bird. It were fine when ye were young, but now? Ny wonn. I just don’t know. ‘ow will ye make a dutiful wife jumping in oceans?”
Liz’s jaw tightened. “You know I won’t be a dutiful wife, Papa. You know that. You’ve always accepted how I felt about marriage, never once questioning my decision.”
Oh, she didn’t need this now, not after finding an infinitesimal micron of peace today.
“I love ‘aving ye as my companion. But what will ye do when I’m gone? I shouldn’t’a let ye run free as a wildcat, shouldn’t’a spoiled ye with books and business. I made ye wild and some smart. I ruined yer chances.”
“You haven’t ruined anything, Papa. You’ve taught me what being free really means, what being independent feels like, and I wouldn’t sacrifice that for anything. If I truly love someone, just as you loved Mama, it wouldn’t be such a sacrifice, and I would consider matrimony, but not as a dutiful wife, rather as the equal of my beloved. If I must sacrifice my freedom, I won’t do it. Would you have me sell myself to someone like Charlotte’s husband, someone like the Duke of Annick?”
“Would it be so bad? ‘e’s a good’n. I ‘ave no qualms with ‘im. I think Charlotte did herself well marrying ‘im, and I only wish ‘e had a brother for ye.”
“But he’s not a good one,” she protested. “He’s self-absorbed. I won’t begrudge Charlotte her choice, as it was her decision to make, but I can’t abide that man. If he had a brother, he’d be just like him, and I wouldn’t c
onsider the courtship for a minute. He would strip me of my own self before the honeymoon ended. No, I’ll never let someone control me or my decisions. I will never be helpless. I don’t need anyone,” she wrenched her words defensively.
“Don’t speak ill of yer new brother-in-law,” Cuthbert rebuked. “Your views are tainted by headstrong ways. Ye can be independent and still love. Real love doesn’t control, but ye ‘ave to let go and let it happen, not hold so tightly that ye don’t let it in. Ye must open yerself to it, admit ye need the other person, admit yer only whole with ‘em, helpless without ‘em. Independent is a selfish way to live. You sacrifice for the other person because ye want them to be happy and ye want the marriage to work. It is selfishness not to make the sacrifice.”
Liz felt salty tears sting her eyes. “My a’th kar, Papa. I love you. I don’t agree, but my a’th kar. You loved Mama so much that I think your love has blinded you to what marriage is like when you don’t love your spouse. I don’t believe Annick loves Charlotte. And I have yet to meet a man who could love me as you loved Mama, to love me enough to make the sacrifice.” She wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm, sniffling like a schoolgirl at her father’s words, for he knew not how much they pained her.
“What about that cousin of his? That Roddam? You spent a fair time together.”
Her heart caught in her throat. She stared at her hands knowing her father could see straight into her wounded soul.
Trying not to sob, especially over a silly man and after her speech about not wanting to marry, she finally managed a choked whisper. “He didn’t want me.”
“Ah. Now we have it.” He ambled to her, his voice soft and his arms wide.
Wrapping his arms around her, he laid her head against his chest. She could hear his heart beating steady and strong under her ear. The thumping strengthened her, comforted her woes, just as it had as a child sitting on his lap during story time.
The Earl and The Enchantress (An Enchantress Novel Book 1) Page 12
