by Julia Quinn
Liza wasn’t so sure she wanted to dance with Royce. Her skin tightened at the thought, and she resolutely made her way to the silver salver that sat on a table at the end of the room.
“I know,” Royce announced, as if the sight of her pouring a drink had spurred him to some decision. “While you sip that, we’re going to make one of those lists you are so fond of.”
“A list?”
“Of things you need to work on to become more accomplished.”
“I don’t need a list—”
“Do you or do you not want my help?”
“I don’t.” She splashed an extra measure of brandy into the snifter.
He rose and picked up a pen from the escritoire that graced the space between two windows, then found a bit of foolscap. “What should we work on first?”
She took her glass and plopped into a chair.
He took the chair opposite hers. “Ah, yes. Seating…” The pen scratched across the paper.
“Blast it, Royce, I know how to sit.”
Royce continued writing. “…proper language…”
“Proper…You can’t mean to teach me to—”
“Perhaps I should just shorten the list to include overall comportment. It will save ink.”
“Bah!” She clunked the glass onto a side table and crossed her arms.
He regarded her thoughtfully, his brows lowered.
After a long moment, she said rather testily, “What?”
“Nothing.”
“It has to be something; you’re staring at me as if you’d never seen me.”
“Was I staring? Sorry. I was just thinking…”
She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her gaze locked on his. “Yes?”
A wicked gleam heated his blue gaze. “You know, it might behoove you to wear a wig. That hair…it will not do.”
She jumped to her feet. It was difficult enough having to change her every way of thinking and doing things, but this—sitting here while Royce criticized every aspect of her person—it was just too much. “I have changed my mind about having you assist me!”
“Ah, you are contrary. At least that’s one feminine trait you seem to have mastered.” He read through the list. “There it is.” With a flourish of the quill, he crossed it off.
“Oh, just stop it!” she snapped, crossing the room and making a mad grab for the paper.
Royce jerked it to one side, and Liza, solely focused on getting that ridiculous list, leaped for it. She landed across his lap, her hands wrapped about the paper. “Aha!” she said, waving her prize.
Strangely, Royce said nothing. Liza tried to twist about to see his face, but she was caught, the weight of his arm pinning her legs to the chair, his hand resting squarely on her bottom. Liza could feel the weight of that hand, the warmth of it seeping through her skirts and making her restless in the oddest way. She wanted to protest, but no words would come.
“Hoyden,” he said, his voice low and husky.
“Let me up.”
“Not yet.” His arm moved slowly down the backs of her legs and then returned to her rump.
Liza closed her eyes against the maelstrom of feeling that touch ignited. “Royce…” But she didn’t ask him to release her. She didn’t want him to.
Royce held completely still, his hand still warm on the curve of her derriere, his other hand resting on the small of her back. But something was different. A slow tension began to build in her breasts. “Royce,” she whispered.
He turned her so that she faced him, no longer sprawled across his lap, but held in his arms. “Liza?” His lips brushed her hair. “Can Durham make you feel like this?”
Raspberries and cream, he was going to kiss her. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to his. His lips descended over hers, at first softly, with a teasing, almost tentative touch. Heat sparked and flared, sending tremors to her stomach and lower. She leaned into him, tightening her arms, opening her mouth beneath his. Royce moaned and deepened the touch, his mouth hotly possessive.
Every thought in Liza’s head melted into a swirl of passion. But before she could do more than grasp Royce’s lapels and pull him closer, Meg’s voice rose from the hallway.
Royce broke the kiss. “Damn,” he swore, his gaze so dark as to appear almost black. “I could shoot my sister.”
Liza suddenly realized how it would look if Meg walked into the room that very moment. “Oh my—Royce, let me up!”
For a second, she thought he’d refuse, but then he gave a short nod and released her.
The second he removed his arms, she stumbled upright, her face as flushed as the rest of her body. She was as disoriented as if she’d been spinning in a circle. She glanced down at the crumpled list she held in her hand. That’s what she got for imbibing before dinner. No more brandy for her. Ever.
Royce stood as well, but he didn’t move away from her. Instead, he smiled and brushed her cheek with a careless finger. “Liza, I hope you learned something. Passion is a necessary ingredient in a successful marriage. Do you have that with Durham?”
Liza stiffened. Royce had attempted to seduce her for no other reason than to win his point about Durham. Anger sifted through her. “Who are you to tell anyone about the factors that make up a successful marriage. You’ve never even been engaged before.”
“I’ve never broken a leg, either, but I can tell you it would hurt,” he retorted. “I was just trying to say that—”
“I will inform Meg that you had to leave.”
The frosty timbre of Liza’s voice made him pause. “Liza, I only want what’s best for you. Durham is not it.”
She met his gaze calmly enough, but he could see from the glitter in her eyes and the way her pulse beat so wildly at her throat that she was anything but calm. “You’d better leave.”
“Very well. We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” Royce said, turning toward the door. He’d known she’d be furious—after all, he was interfering with her life. But still…he thought she’d gotten the message rather nicely. “I’ll call on you at noon.”
“I won’t be home.”
That was his Liza, always challenging and cheeky. He grinned at her over his shoulder. “If you aren’t there, then I’ll just have to hunt you down.”
To infuriate her a bit more, he winked. Grinning to himself, he walked out into the corridor and waited. Within moments, something hard hit the door and shattered. Royce chuckled. A few more sessions like this one and Liza’d never look at another man.
Feeling supremely satisfied, Royce collected his coat and hat from the butler and went on his way, whistling a merry tune and imagining the fun he was going to have convincing Liza of all the reasons she shouldn’t marry Durham.
The next day, Royce arrived at Liza’s neat town house at noon. The day was sparkling bright, the air clear and invigorating, and for some reason, Royce felt invincible. His plan to show Liza the error she’d be making if she settled for a dirt farmer was going perfectly—the kiss had proven that. He absently hummed a tune as he raced lightly up the steps. It was amazing, the passion that had sizzled between them. And it required further investigation.
Royce paused on the landing to adjust his cravat, then reached for the ornate brass knocker. But before his fingers closed over the ring, the door opened and there stood Liza dressed in a red velvet pelisse with a matching hood. She looked damned attractive as the vibrant color brought out the delicate bloom of her skin and made her brown hair seem darker.
“Sir Royce!” Durham said, stepping out onto the landing beside Liza. “What a pleasant surprise. But I’m afraid we’re on our way to the Moreland skating party.”
Royce managed a smile even though he felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. “Indeed?”
“Oh yes!” Liza stood aside so Durham could join them on the landing, then she tucked her hand into the crook of his waiting arm. “It’s a lovely day to go skating.” To further compound the injury, she smiled up into Durham’s face as i
f he were the only man in the world.
Royce tamped down a very uncivilized desire to pound Durham into dust. “I daresay you don’t have the opportunity to skate often in the country, what with all those cows to see to.”
“Oh, we work hard, but I’m not adverse to some fun now and then. I’m quite proficient at skating.” Durham placed a hand over Liza’s and said in a voice deep with hidden meaning, “Liza will learn to skate in a trice. I’m certain she’s a very apt pupil.”
Royce thought he might be ill, though whether it came from Liza’s simpering demeanor or Durham’s heavy-handed attempts at flirting, he couldn’t say. “I hope you have a lovely time, the both of you.” Perhaps the ice would break and Durham would get a good dunking.
Durham smiled benignly. “I’m certain we’ll have a very memorable afternoon. Where are you off to, Sir Royce? Perhaps we can give you a ride—”
“Sir Royce’s carriage is right behind him,” Liza said briskly. “So there’s no need for us to bother.”
Royce could think of no more unpleasant occurrence than sitting in a carriage while Durham and Liza flirted before him. “I believe I’ll make my own way to Swan Pier.”
Liza blinked. “You are going to the Moreland skating party?”
“I never miss a good skate,” Royce answered promptly.
“I didn’t know you could skate.”
“Of course I can.” At least he could when he was six.
“Excellent!” Durham winked at Royce. “We’ll see you there, then!” He made a great show of assisting Liza down the steps to where his carriage waited. Royce watched, seething, as Durham waved off the footman so he could personally help Liza into his carriage and then had the audacity to tuck a rug over her lap.
What made it even worse was that, just as the carriage began to roll down the street, Liza looked out the window directly at him and waved. A happy, gay, aren’t-you-sorry-you-aren’t-with-me sort of wave that made him grind his teeth.
“Blasted woman! I should just leave her be. She’ll marry that fool and the two of them will be miserable for the rest of their lives.” Yes, that would do the trick.
Unfortunately, Royce was committed to halting such foolishness. After all, he’d given his word to Meg. So as soon as Durham’s rather antiquated coach disappeared from sight, Royce spun on his heel and stalked to his own carriage. He tossed an order at his coachman as he leaped inside and slammed the door behind him.
What the hell did she think she was doing, playing with Lord Durham’s affections in such a way? Royce almost felt sympathy for the poor man. The kiss Royce had shared with Liza proved that she couldn’t feel anything for Durham.
Or at least that’s what it had proven to Royce. Uncertainty gripped him. What if the kiss had proven something else to Liza? What if, instead of showing her that Durham was not the man for her, the passion of that kiss had frightened her in some way and made her all the more determined to seek out the safe, passionless presence of a frumpy farmer?
Royce pressed a hand to his forehead. Bloody hell, he’d as good as chased Liza into Durham’s waiting arms. Royce leaned out the window and ordered his coachman to hurry, though it did no good. Within moments, they were caught behind a hideously slow dray, the creaky cart barely moving, the long lines of carts and carriages hemming them in.
It was twenty minutes before he finally arrived at the pier. The Morelands had obviously put a considerable amount of thought into their skating party. Decorations abounded, and servants swarmed the area, handing out skates and pushing carts of refreshments over the uneven ice.
Royce hurried through the crowd, looking for Liza’s red pelisse.
“Royce? Is that you?”
He turned to find Meg standing at his elbow. “Have you seen Liza?”
“She and Lord Durham arrived several moments ago.” Meg frowned. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“I didn’t know about it.”
“Yes, you did. I told you not a week ago and you said you’d rather be strung up by your thumbs than attend.” Her gaze narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
He was looking over her head, trying to find some sign of Liza. “Are they skating?”
“Who? Lord Durham and Liza? Not yet. Durham saw the ice carts the Morelands had provided and he decided Liza would enjoy a ride.”
Royce looked out at the ice. A cacophony of colors crossed the white expanse of the Thames, frozen now in a solid sheet. Well, not so solid, if the thinning patches near the bank were any indication. Royce frowned. “What do these carts look like?”
“There’s one over there.” Meg pointed out on the ice.
A large cart, placed on sled runners and decorated with a fake sprig of flowers and ribbons, went sliding by. A young lady sat in the cart, gripping the sides and laughing as her beau pushed her along.
“Meg, I’m going to see if I can find Liza.” Royce turned on his heel and made his way toward a servant who was handing out skates to guests who had not brought their own. He took the closest set and strapped them to the bottoms of his boots. All too soon, he found himself skating on the Thames.
Well, not skating precisely. More like walking with an occasional effort to glide, which usually ended up with a lurch. Skating had evidently changed since he’d last tried it, as it was much more difficult now. Worse, the ice was rough and filled with dips and ridges and an occasional slush patch.
It took him almost fifteen minutes to find Liza. She was sitting in an ice cart a good distance from the pier. Durham, who appeared to have told the truth about his skating abilities, was making quite a show of pushing her about. He slid the cart in a full circle, and Liza’s delighted laugh rang across the ice.
Damn the man, Royce thought irritably. Someone could get hurt doing such a thing. What if they hit a weak spot? The cart would go under in a moment. His gaze fixed on Liza, he increased his efforts. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but he had to make certain that Liza wasn’t running from him—especially if it meant she would head straight into Durham’s waiting arms.
He tried to move forward, but a ridge of ice stopped him. To his chagrin, at just that moment, Durham leaned forward, his dark head near Liza’s cheek. Bloody hell, was the bastard kissing her cheek?
A dull roar exploded in Royce’s head. The bounder! The cad! Royce had seduced enough women that he knew exactly what that slovenly bastard was about and the thought burned all the way to his stomach.
Royce’s concentration was entirely on Liza, so it was a shock when—whap! Something—or more correctly, someone—ran into him. Royce recognized Lady Anne Bishop in the split second before he stumbled back, trying desperately to right himself. He had no time to do more than gasp her name before he was flailing wildly back toward the shore, off balance and out of control.
Lady Anne meanwhile, was propelled forward at an astonishing rate. Royce winced as she went sailing against Shelbourne’s cousin Susannah Ballister. Though an exceptionally good skater, the poor woman had no chance of saving herself, and she fell into a snowdrift.
Off balance himself, Royce staggered forward, trying desperately not to fall on or in front of anyone else. He managed to save himself at the last moment, grabbing a pole that supported the pier and clinging to it until he’d regained his balance. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. He hated ice skating almost as much as he hated romantic little ice carts.
Royce looked about for some sign of Durham and Liza, but they had once again disappeared. He supposed he should go and assist Miss Ballister out of the drift, but he didn’t dare leave Liza alone with a practiced rakehell like Durham. Royce squinted across the ice and absently noted that Renminster had just reached Susannah. There was no sign of Durham and Liza.
“Sir Royce!” Durham’s deep voice boomed directly behind Royce.
Bloody hell. He carefully turned without letting go of the pole. “Durham.”
“We saw your performance. It was magnificent.”
Royce’s jaw ache
d where his fake smile was plastered. He truly hated dirt farmers who stormed London in an effort to steal away all the best women.
“Royce,” Liza said from the safety of her damned ice cart, her voice brimming with laughter, “I didn’t know you knew how to spin in quite that manner.”
She should have been sympathetic to his plight—she didn’t skate at all. But no. She was laughing even harder than Durham, if that was possible.
“Good to see you again, Sir Royce!” Durham turned Liza’s cart around. “We’ll leave you to enjoy the festivities. Liza and I are going to find something warm to drink.” They were gone before Royce could think of a brilliant comment to halt their smirks.
That did it. Something inside Royce had snapped the instant he’d seen Durham’s lips so close to Liza’s cheek. He was through being gentle. Liza didn’t know the force of his personality if she thought to maneuver him away with such paltry efforts. If anything, she made him want her all the more.
Royce took a deep breath and released the pole, then made his way to the bank. He untied his skates and tossed the stupid things into the nearest snowbank and stalked to his waiting carriage. This was no longer about keeping a friend; it was war. And to the victor went the spoils, every delectable, irritating inch of her.
Chapter 7
Another standout in the I-Clearly-Have-Not-Skated-Since-Early-Childhood category was Sir Royce Pemberly, who was seen desperately clinging to one of the Swan Lane Pier poles while his feet made a mad scramble for purchase beneath him.
It is probably a good thing, don’t you think, Gentle Reader, that Sir Royce was not aware that the ice was thinning near those poles? This Author should not like to have seen the number of people knocked to the ice if Sir Royce’s feet had instead been making a mad scramble for safety.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 4 FEBRUARY 1814
“Pardon me, miss. It’s Sir Royce Pemberley.”
