His chuckle joined hers. “Your niece says the same thing. And speaking of your niece, I’d like a private word with you about her.”
She raised her eyebrows, continuing to fan herself. He had expected more dialogue first. It seemed rude to blurt out such a request without preamble. Where was the instruction book explaining how such things were done? A step-by-step guide on how to ask for permission to court a young woman, and then a follow up manual on how to do the courting.
He gripped the watch until he was sure an impression of the engraving imprinted in his palm. Give me strength.
Hazel bored of the silence. “Out with it. The room couldn’t be more private if we were on our own island.”
“I request permission to court your niece, Lizbeth,” he stammered, hoping some of what he said sounded confident. He didn’t feel confident.
“Took you long enough. You’ve done it backwards, you know. You’ve wooed her before asking permission. And, technically, you should be asking permission of her father, although I will gladly serve in his stead.”
She patted his arm affectionately and continued, “Lizbeth is a silly girl with romanticized notions of independence in spinsterhood. I’ve tried for years to talk her into marrying my boy, but she’ll have nothing to do with the institution. Perhaps you’re the man to talk sense into her. If she’ll agree to your proposal of courtship, then I have no qualms about the matter. Do be quick about it, dear boy, for we leave at the end of the month, and I do hate long engagements.”
Resuming his post in the far corner of the room, he watched as the family came in one-by-one and formed their receiving line to welcome guests, some of whom had yet to meet the new duchess.
Lizbeth had joined the party shortly after her sister, but she hadn’t seen him in his hiding spot. No one had. He preferred it this way, observing from safety, watching her when she didn’t know she was being watched. Several times she touched her cameo, the jewelry of choice this evening.
He remembered with a tightening in his chest that at the picnic she had worn the miniature he gifted her. The sight had made his heart pound and his stomach flutter. However subtle, it had fueled him with the hope he needed.
Tonight, she must be calling on her mother’s strength to survive an evening amongst the nobility of north England. Lizbeth moved swiftly through the room to stand against the wall near a set of double doors leading to the garden. She looked anxiously around her, speaking to no one. Did she look for him in the crowd? For a moment, he imagined what it would be like to walk in with her, the butler announcing them as the Earl and Countess of Roddam. He could only hope she truly returned his affection and didn’t think of him as only a friend.
The butler, Mr. Thin-Lips, as Sebastian thought of him, announced the arrival of a young lady who pranced into the room as though she were the new duchess. Kid gloves, pink fan, pink bow, blonde straw-colored hair that would have confused a hungry horse. He groaned. She must be Lady Argot, his dinner companion. She looked like someone his aunt would want him to fancy.
Shortly behind her another young lady was introduced, peach hair, purple bow, lace gloves. Maybe that was Lady Argot. He really should have been listening to the butler, but he didn’t care enough to pay attention. He already found his appetite waning at these dinner prospects.
Before long, a third girl, identical to the other two, walked in. They always seemed to come in threes, these vapid blonde chits, apples of their mama’s eyes, spoiled and entitled. He’d like to ask them what they thought of the slavery abolition bill, if they’d ever hammered ore at a tin mine, or better yet if they liked to swim nude in the ocean.
Chuckling, he decided to save that last question for a terribly awkward social moment, as it would be sure to get a rise from polite society. Somehow, he suspected Lizbeth would approve of his little joke.
Three sets of double doors along the back wall opened by way of invisible footmen, and Aunt Catherine invited everyone to walk the gardens and take cocktails before dinner.
Enough. He pushed himself out of the chair and with long strides closed the gap between the far end of the room and Lizbeth.
Probably his imagination, but he would swear on the bible her eyes brightened and her posture relaxed when she saw him. She released her cameo and held out her hands to him. Short of embracing her, he stopped a few feet from her and clasped her hands, bringing the buttoned gloves to his lips one after another.
“Escape with me,” he dared.
“I’m yours,” she whispered.
They followed the other guests who walked onto the grotto to collect their cocktails and explore the park. While he couldn’t quite abscond with her into the wilderness, at least they were in the open air.
Hazel stepped over to them, then, and said much louder than necessary, “I wish to see the rose garden. Would you care to show me, Your Lordship? Come, Lizbeth.”
He offered his arms to them both and escorted the two away from the crowd around to a hidden vista where a clump of trees concealed the walled garden.
“Oh, I see a lovely bush in the far corner there,” Hazel remarked. “I must go sniff the flowers because I’m sure those smell differently from all the others.” Without waiting for a response, she strolled to the far side.
No matter that he had visited Lyonn Manor every other day since their arrival, and no matter that this private moment may be his only chance to settle things regarding courtship, he found himself dumbstruck as to what to say. Now was his opportunity to ask her permission to court her officially and publicly. Not a task to be taken lightly since all would know his intentions of courting would inevitably lead to a proposal of marriage. How does someone who swore against marriage and even spurned the woman in question now present himself as a serious suitor?
His voice caught in his throat.
He had her alone and may not get the chance again this evening, or even the next time he visited. Now was his chance. He stared at her, knees locked, back stiff, tongue tied.
She spoke first to break the silence. “Charlotte informed me that I will be sitting with a Lord Cavanaugh at dinner. Am I pleased or disappointed?”
He grimaced in repugnance. “Lord Cavanaugh is nearly fifty with ear hair and nose hair that could reach out and devour his food for him.”
“Oh dear. That does sound dreadful. Shall we send smoke signals to each other from our seats?”
“Better yet, let’s disguise our bites into secret messages. If we nibble, conversation is tedious. If we take large bites, the present company is loquacious. Or better yet, the choice of food sends the message. Vegetables could signify boredom while meats indicate wits’ end. Bread rolls could be the cue for drastic measures, perhaps the need for one of us to break into song and dance midmeal.”
“And if we should stop eating altogether?” she inquired, full of laughter over his absurd scheme.
“That would mean the nose hairs have waved hello, so you’ve lost your appetite.” He grinned impishly. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll be sitting next to Lady Argot.”
“Is that the one with the purple, pink, or green bow?”
“No idea. They all look the same to me.” He confessed.
“I did get to peek at the seating chart earlier today, and we are seated diagonally, one seat removed, so not too far. I found that reassuring even if it would be impolite to talk across a table.”
“Then let’s be the most impolite dinner guests ever to eat at Lyonn Manor. We’ll never be invited to a dinner again. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” He joked, partly in earnest.
“For shame, Sebastian! I don’t want to embarrass my sister too much, so I shall try to be polite, but you know how we country girls lack decorum. I may forget a rule or two when it comes to fine dining. In fact, you might not be at all surprised if I start a food fight.” She winked at him, smiling deliciously, her lips ripe for nibbli
ng.
He slipped the glove off his right hand and touched her cheek with his thumb. In response, she tilted her head to rest her cheek in his palm. Caressing her silken skin, he sighed audibly. A vision of loveliness.
He lowered his head, his lips meeting her left cheek. Tracing her jaw line, he kissed a trail to her mouth, brushing her lips teasingly. She smelled like home and tasted like heaven. He purred.
Opening his mouth against hers, his tongue pushed inside, hungrily licking and suckling. He felt her arms snake around his waist and up his back, pulling him against her body, her bosom pressed against his chest. A rush of heat assaulted his body, arousing him, hardening him.
Wrapping his arms around her, he lifted her against him, sliding her body along his hardness, feeling against his breeches the apex between her legs. Instinctively, she tightened her own grip and deepened the kiss. He moaned against her gasping mouth, lost in time and place.
“Ahem!” Hazel loudly cleared her throat, breaking their embrace.
As they untwined limbs, blushing with embarrassment, Hazel began rattling louder than necessary, “Thank you for sharing such horticultural genius, Your Lordship. Yes, I would like to visit the conservatory during my stay. Thank you for the offer.”
He realized, then, that although Hazel stood with her back to them for a modicum of privacy, she was pretending to talk to them because someone or several someones were approaching the garden. He made quick work of distancing himself from Lizbeth.
Slipping on his glove, he turned his back to Lizbeth to adjust his nether region so his dalliance wouldn’t be quite so obvious to everyone. He could hear them now, voices of three maybe four people coming closer. When he turned, he saw with chagrin that Liz’s lips were red and swollen from his embrace.
With a hurried hush, he commanded, “Sniff the roses. My attentions have left a mark.”
He snuck a hasty cheek kiss before he retreated to Hazel’s side, picking up where she left off. “Aye, the conservatory has clippings and seeds of several genus of roses that you may wish to take with you for your own garden.”
He would buy Hazel a rose arbor after being, to his advantage, the most improprietous chaperone he’d ever met. She had the power to force them to marry on the morrow after witnessing such a display of affection, but she knew his intentions were genuine. He suspected she wanted him to romance Liz before the proposal in case her niece held any residual prejudices to marriage. At least that was the impression he received from her earlier.
Three guests entered the garden, then, and eyed Sebastian and his duo with disinterest. Liz’s face was buried in the roses, but he noticed with a touch of pride and a chuckle that her neck matched the color of the rose petals. The intruders incuriously passed through the walled garden and out the iron gate at the opposite end.
As naturalistic as the landscape tried to be, Sebastian had always found the garden pretentious, especially the hidden temples and walled sections. Until today. Today he gave a silent thanks to Mr. Brown for designing secret areas in which to hide. Their privacy had, however, been trespassed upon, with more guests entering the rose garden.
As they traipsed back to the house, he cursed at himself for not asking the question he had sought privacy to ask.
An hour later, they found themselves at the dinner table. Everyone removed their gloves to begin the course. Aunt Catherine bragged at her end of the table about taking snuff with Queen Charlotte in the snuff room. Lizbeth sat not far away from him, eyeing Lord Nosehair in alarm. She probably thought Sebastian had exaggerated the man’s hair. Now she would realize he had understated the length.
Lady Argot, with the pink bow, sat to his left and demurely blushed, batted eyelashes, and giggled in his direction. He cast her his most forbidding scowl, hoping to discourage her flirtation, for clearly someone had apprised her of both his eligibility and his wealth. Unperturbed, she increased the speed of her eyelash flutter.
By the third course, Lady Argot had nearly driven him to distraction with her incessant chatter about her new wardrobe for next Season. In terms of lady’s wiles, he tried to surmise how her wardrobe was supposed to impress him or make for engaging conversation in which to snare a titled bachelor.
He had not said a single word yet, not that the blonde twit noticed or cared. In desperation, he turned his most menacing frown her way, which usually sent little ladies like her running for the hills, but this one was persistent, not the least abashed by his poor mannerisms or rude behavior. Aunt Catherine must have numbered his titles for the vixen. He admired her determination at the very least.
He cast a silent, desperate plea to Lizbeth. She looked back, taking enormously unladylike bites of a bread roll. It took all his fortitude not to howl with laughter as he racked his brain to remember what they had agreed large bites and bread rolls would signal.
A diabolical smile spread across his face.
Turning to Lady Talksalot, he said just loud enough for Lizbeth to hear, “Have you ever eaten haggis?”
Lady Pinkbow stopped talking to gape at his first words of the evening. “Hagwhat?”
“Haggis. There’s a most endearing ode to the delectable dish by the illustrious poet Robert Burns that you simply must hear. After which recitation, if you’re duly impressed, I will invite you to swim with me in the Annick lake at midnight tonight, in the buff if you’re daring. What do you say, Lady Argot?”
Without his needing to say more, the young lady gasped and glowered, her face red with humiliation. As appalled as she was by his uncouth reply to her new wardrobe, he was honestly surprised she didn’t slap him in front of all and sundry. The lady turned away from him to initiate conversation to the gentleman on her other side.
Disappointing. He had hoped to recite Burns for her listening pleasure.
A quick look towards Liz rewarded him with a face equally tinged red, but only from holding back what likely would have been raucous laughter. Her eyes sparkling, she shook her head at him, then said across the table that he was the silliest man in England.
Without a shadow of doubt, he wanted to marry this woman.
Chapter 21
The second week passed uneventfully, at least by her estimation. She helped her sister organize an autumn fete, sat rigidly in drawing room chairs while Charlotte entertained, and was treated to steady visitations of Sebastian, who insisted several times on talking with her privately but never offered more than polite conversation, fidgeting with his chronometer instead of speaking his mind.
Lizbeth’s third week in Northumberland arrived to find her bereft. Nothing had been settled with Sebastian.
For all his sultry glances, he appeared only to desire friendship. She couldn’t fathom why he had kissed her in the garden if he weren’t interested in courting her. Was she so terrible at kissing?
To her relief, he had not made overtures of wanting her as a ladybird, which she feared was an impending offer. She began to suspect he saw her as a friend with whom he could safely pursue a physical relationship without worrying she would trap him into marriage. As unorthodox as it would be to proposition a spinster as a mistress, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, not after they had both expressed such disinterest in marriage. What other explanation could there be for his refusal to court her properly?
The thought made her sick. No, she didn’t want an unhappy marriage wherein she would be a piece of property. But she didn’t want to be someone’s mistress either. To think that might be his only interest in her made her ill for nearly the entire second week of her visit. Her hope for more waned with each passing day.
While they still had time, all the days in the world couldn’t motivate a disinterested man to make a move. Had she sent the wrong signals? Had she made too much of a deal of not wanting to marry? Did he truly not feel the same way about her?
Her heart ached that he hadn’t made any declarations or given
her a reason to extend her stay. The winter months were far enough that if prompted, she could extend her stay another month. Alas, no such prompting came from either her sister or Sebastian.
She sat in the parlor with Captain Henry, reading a book from Annick’s study, a surprise from the duke himself who had been making a concentrated effort to befriend her. Not an entirely losing battle, as much as she disliked him, since her sister did appear happier. Whatever their marriage woes, the encouragement from herself and the private words from Aunt Hazel seemed to do the trick.
The cockatoo serenaded her while she read the same line in succession, her mind otherwise engaged. During Sebastian’s most recent visit, he had extended an invitation to the entire family to lunch at his home, Dunstanburgh Castle. Charlotte and Annick declined, and thus did the dowager duchess and Lady Mary. Hazel and Lizbeth were the only two to accept his offer. She suspected Hazel accepted to prompt Lizbeth to do so. Hazel’s matchmaking, however much in vain, was obvious.
The clock couldn’t possibly tick slower. The words in the book blurred as Liz stared unseeingly at the page, too busy counting the minutes to his arrival.
Even if she did have a somewhat disparaging vision of a ruined lean-to for his home and Sebastian welcoming them to the pile of rubble with claims it needed light restoration, she nevertheless looked forward to seeing his castle. He was, after all, the first Lancaster to live there for several centuries.
She wondered if seeing his home would bring them closer together, if somehow the intimacy of being in his private dwelling would break the barriers, initiating a proposal. Bah! She needed to release the dream. He would never propose. He would never open to her.
She had begun to heal after London, but then this trip dredged up all the buried feelings for him. Marriage was out of the question. He was nothing more than a dream, an ideal she’d created that didn’t exist. The sooner she accepted the truth, the less she would be hurt by his rejection. Again.
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