Sweet Enemy

by Heather Snow

  Still, several people had gathered around them, listening. A mixture of pride and unexpected stage fright swirled around in Liliana’s middle.

  “Sugar is a carbon, much like charcoal. I simply altered the mixture a smidge, giving the powder more fuel. Since the fire caught quicker and burned hotter, the gases expanded more rapidly, increasing the speed and force with which the ball left the gun.”

  “Ah,” said someone.

  “Brilliant,” said another.

  Liliana’s chest swelled.

  Aveline chuckled. “Splendid. I shall have to add a lump or two to my powder from here on.”

  A chorus of gentlemen’s laughter went round.

  Liliana’s smile froze. “Ah,” she drew out. “I wouldn’t recommend that, my lord.”

  Aveline’s brows drew down in confusion. “Whyever not?”

  “There are too many variants that can affect the stability of the ratio,” Liliana explained. “Take moisture, for example. I knew the humidity was right today for a positive outcome, but if it had been damp, it may not have worked as intended. There are many other such things you’d need to take into consideration if you wanted to try it again.”

  “Ah,” Aveline said, lifting one shoulder. “There goes my advantage. Nevertheless, it was my honor to be your champion.”

  Liliana returned his smile. “My savior, more like.” Of her pride and, what’s more, from the fate of two weeks stuck by Stratford’s side.

  She glanced around for Stratford one last time and caught a flash of his tall frame slipping through the hedgerow. It seemed she’d annoyed him so greatly he couldn’t even bring himself to congratulate her. Liliana let out a puff of breath. At least she’d seen the last of him, but…She blinked. Was that disappointment she felt? Oh my, it was! What had gotten into her?

  Aveline pulled a watch from his vest pocket and glanced at it, drawing her attention back to him. “As much as I hate to leave, Miss Claremont, I must get back home if I’m to have time to dress and return as your escort tonight.”

  “Home?” If Aveline was leaving, she’d have the rest of the afternoon free. “You’re not a guest at Somerton Park?”

  Aveline shook his head. “My family estate borders Stratford’s land to the east. I can enjoy the festivities here by day and still sleep in my own bed at night.”

  Liliana smiled. If Aveline wasn’t staying at the house, he’d likely have to return home every afternoon to dress for dinner, giving her at least some time to search. If she used it efficiently, she could still find what she came for.

  Aveline tucked the timepiece back into his waistcoat. “You realize, of course, that I have no intention of holding you to the wager.”

  “You don’t?”

  Her elation must have shown on her face, because he said, “You needn’t look so happy about it.” But he grinned, so Liliana didn’t feel too guilty. “They were ridiculous terms anyway, made in the heat of masculine bartering. I have no desire to bind a woman to me who would rather be elsewhere.”

  Brilliant! That had been almost too easy. Still, if she didn’t at least protest, Aveline might take it as insult. “My lord, that’s not—”

  “You needn’t flatter me, Miss Claremont.” Aveline laughed. “We’ve only just met. However, I reserve the right to try to convince you that I have more to offer than just my steady aim.”

  Was Aveline flirting? The wink he tossed her way certainly suggested so. How novel. Nonetheless, she wasn’t interested. The only thing she wanted was to discover who killed her father and why so that she could see justice done.

  And fortune smiled upon her. Not only had she won the wager, but she’d been freed of the terms. No doubt she’d find what she was looking for in no time.

  Geoffrey trailed his mother’s quick gait through the family hall, with Uncle Joss shuffling close behind. The countess threw open the door to her private parlor. Like most of the house, the room had been completely redone after Geoffrey’s father’s death. What he remembered as a warm, if somewhat plain room now boasted a screen of Corinthian columns and red flocked paper on the walls. The plasterwork had been picked with gilt and a bold pattern of reds and blacks wove through the Axminster carpet. It was an aggressive room, much like his mother.

  Right now, she reminded him of an angry terrier—compact, bristling with pent-up energy and ready to snap at unsuspecting passersby. Which was why he’d agreed to follow her off the tournament field rather than stay to congratulate Liliana and Aveline as a gentleman should have. He didn’t need Mother’s fuming tirade to add to the gossip that would inevitably result from his and Liliana’s ill-conceived wager. It would be bad enough as it was.

  The countess whirled on him as soon as Uncle Joss snicked the door closed.

  “I demand you send that little upstart packing.” Mother’s voice pitched high, and her eyes glittered with hostility in her thin face.

  “Miss Claremont, you mean?” Geoffrey put as much nonchalance into his voice as he could. He crossed his arms and leaned a negligent shoulder against the doorjamb. “Whyever would I do that? I quite like her.” A bit of a stretch, perhaps. An odd mixture of irritation, interest and now admiration—in ever-changing order—seemed to characterize his feelings for Liliana.

  But he wouldn’t have Mother dictating to him. She may have run roughshod over his father and brother, but the military had taught Geoffrey much about command. Using your opponent’s worst fear against them had always worked well, and he couldn’t imagine anything disturbing his mother more than the prospect of a daughter-in-law that she deemed unacceptable.

  “Like her?” His mother sputtered, bringing a grim smile to his lips. He felt little remorse for upsetting her. Served her right for springing this affair upon him.

  “Quite,” Geoffrey confirmed.

  The countess rose to her full height, which would be nearly a foot beneath his eyes were she standing next to him instead of across the room. She set her jaw. “Well, you can unlike her. She’s entirely unsuitable.” Mother’s pale skin splotched red as she balled her fists.

  “I disagree,” Geoffrey stated, though he suspected the countess was right, at least where he was concerned. He accepted he would have to wed. He had a responsibility to produce an heir, of course. But even more, a year spent in Parliament had shown him that politics required finesse. A savvy and well-connected political hostess would go a long way in persuading other peers—and their wives—to move in the direction he wanted them to go. If he wanted to change living conditions for ex-soldiers, he’d need to find a partner who brought very specific feminine social skills to the altar.

  But that didn’t stop him from tormenting Mother with the idea of Liliana Claremont for the time being.

  “She’s beautiful, well-spoken and, as she proved this afternoon, quite clever.” Indeed. Geoffrey had very much wanted to stay and hear Liliana’s explanation as to how she’d accomplished his defeat.

  His mother made a moue of distaste. “She’s unnatural,” she countered. “She hasn’t been out in society for the past three seasons. The stupid girl turned down the only offer of marriage she ever received, and I understand that she spends most of her time ensconced in the country doing God knows what,” the countess spat, as if a lady who didn’t regularly dance attendance at society soirees was an abomination. “Lady Turnberry claims Miss Claremont only comes to Town to attend chemical lectures and to pester the Royal Society to accept her as a member. Can you imagine? A woman who thinks herself a scientist?”

  Geoffrey digested this new information. Her wager made much more sense to him, knowing this. What had he said to her? Oh yes, he’d asked her what a woman would know of a man’s pursuits. He inwardly winced. No wonder she’d challenged him.

  He envisioned the determined look on Liliana’s face, and admiration moved to the forefront of the emotional jumble.

  Mother, taking his silence as agreement, he supposed, moved toward him, shaking a finger as she closed the distance between them. “I w
ent to considerable trouble arranging this party. How dare you squire around the only inappropriate miss here.” Her lip jutted out in a pout. “You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you? Just to provoke me.”

  Outrage burst in his chest, past hurts exploding into remembrance. The countess had always been a virago, doing her best to manipulate and control everyone in her sphere. But he was no longer a little boy, trying to please a mother who thought only of herself. It was high time she realized he had no intention of being ruled by her ever again.

  He glared down at his mother and said in his most authoritative voice, “I dare what I will. Should I choose to march right back out to that field, drop to my knees and beg Miss Claremont to be my bride, you will abide by my decision.”

  The countess’ eyes widened as she took a step back. He’d succeeded in shocking her, at least. She looked at him as if she’d just realized she didn’t know him at all. Which, if he thought about it, was true. She’d paid him little attention growing up, preferring instead to focus her energies on his older brother, Henry, who took after her in both looks and personality. And now that Geoffrey was back from the continent, he was a different man altogether.

  Geoffrey noticed Uncle Joss’ wary look and let out a short breath. Estranging himself from his family was not his intent. He forced calm into his voice. “If she were so unsuitable, why on earth did you invite her?”

  Mother’s chin shot up. “I didn’t. I invited her cousin, Lady Penelope. But then her aunt, the marchioness, demanded to bring the chit along.”

  Geoffrey nodded. He didn’t really care, and for his part, he was glad Miss Claremont had been included. He felt a wry grin slide over his face. The party certainly hadn’t been a bore.

  A discreet scratching came from the door. His mother’s face lit and she pushed past him, probably glad for the distraction.

  The door opened as Geoffrey moved into the room and went to stand near the bank of windows. He heard an urgent whisper. The countess nodded and slipped out, sucking the enmity right out of the room.

  Geoffrey turned back to the oversized windows and stepped between two columns to look outside. He peered down at the tournament field through watery glass. Even three stories above her, he spotted Liliana immediately. She was still on the field, a small group of women surrounding her. Liliana glowed like a beacon in blue, the other girls seeming pale in comparison. She looked so lovely, so confident as she gestured animatedly. He wished he could hear—

  “Geoffrey?” The raspy voice so startled him that he nearly jumped. Good God, for the briefest of seconds he’d thought his father spoke to him from beyond the grave. When Geoffrey turned, only Uncle Joss stood there.

  It was uncanny, the resemblance sometimes, but now that Geoffrey focused upon the older man, it faded. Joss was slighter than his father had been, more soft-spoken…though he carried the trademark Wentworth eyes and black hair, which was now shot with gray. Geoffrey wondered if Father’s would be, too, were he alive.

  Joss stood with his hands folded in front of him, looking at Geoffrey as he always did—as though uncertain of his reception. Geoffrey sighed. Uncle Joss’ reticence was Geoffrey’s own fault, and he was sorry for it. But since his father’s death Geoffrey had found it difficult to spend much time in the company of the man who so reminded him of Edmund Wentworth in appearance. It was too painful.

  Uncle Joss cleared his throat, and Geoffrey smiled to put him at ease. Aside from Mother, Joss was his only family.

  “Forgive me,” Joss began, his voice now the tenor Geoffrey knew. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds, but I…I’m sure you know how proud your father was of you. He would have been pleased to see you as earl…not, of course, that he would have wished Henry ill,” Joss was quick to say, “but he told me many times he thought you’d make the better earl.”

  Geoffrey opened his mouth, but Joss halted him with a raised palm.

  “And now that you are, with no brothers behind you, your father’s greatest wish would be for you to marry and produce an heir to carry on his line. You certainly don’t want to leave the estate up to me should you pass without issue,” he said with a laugh.

  “You did fine,” Geoffrey assured. When news of his brother’s death had reached him, Geoffrey had been clinging to life after taking a bayonet through the back at Waterloo. Uncle Joss had had to act as proxy until Geoffrey’s health stabilized enough to make the trip from Belgium.

  “Well, I didn’t run it into the ground, at least,” Joss admitted with a self-deprecating smile. Then his expression turned sober. “But we’re not discussing me. We’re discussing your duty to this family. Why do you fight it so?”

  Geoffrey debated how to answer the man, suspecting that every word he said would be relayed to Mother to be used in further attempts to “influence” him. Yet Joss wore such an earnest expression. Geoffrey regarded him closely. Uncle Joss was a man with no sons, and he a man with no father. Perhaps confiding in Joss might start them on the path of a renewed relationship, which, Geoffrey realized with some surprise, he wanted.

  He took a deep breath. “I don’t fight my duty, Uncle. I know what’s expected of me.” He crossed his arms and sat lightly on the ledge of the window. “It’s just that I know how fragile life is…” He swallowed as the faces of friends snuffed out on countless battlefields assailed him. “And I understand the value of it. I intend to make the most of my life, both as an earl and as a man.”

  Even as he spoke the words, emptiness yawned inside him like an endless black gullet, yet nothing seemed to fill the gorge. He knew he had to embrace his future if he were ever to make a difference, to learn to be at peace despite all he’d seen and knew of life’s injustices—friends lost in ugly, senseless death, and his men returning home to poverty and suffering while he returned to this privileged world where he no longer fit. Where he was all alone.

  Joss’ black brows formed a V. “Your mother is only trying to—”

  “The countess will have to cede to my wishes on this matter.” Geoffrey’s tone rang with finality. No matter how lonely he felt, he would not attach himself to some “nice” girl who tolerated him because she wanted to be a countess. Neither would he settle for the miserable excuse his parents’ union had been. He would find a bride he respected and who respected him—not for his title, but for his passions. One who would work side by side with him to change their country, who wouldn’t balk at diverting their personal wealth to help the common Englishman.

  Liliana’s face blossomed in his mind’s eye, but Geoffrey banished her before the thought could even take shape. Even if she were someone who might suit, she didn’t possess the connections he’d need to push through his reforms.

  “I will find the right bride when I’m meant to. What’s more, choosing a wife is not my first priority,” Geoffrey said. The lives of returning soldiers—the lives he’d vowed to better—were more important than his own.

  Joss regarded him for a moment, though he clearly wanted to say more on the subject. He finally settled on, “What are your priorities, then?”

  Geoffrey considered how much to divulge. He’d shared little of himself with anyone since his return. He knew Uncle Joss had been his father’s confidante. Why shouldn’t Joss be his, as well?

  Geoffrey leaned forward, shifting on the window ledge. “I’m sure you heard something of the uproar last year after I presented my Poverty Relief Bill to Parliament.” He snorted. “You’d have thought I was committing treason by some of the remarks directed my way in the guise of ‘healthy debate.’ ”

  “I remember,” Joss said, nodding. “Plenty of talk went round the clubs at the time, about how you’d been a peer for less than a year and there you were, spouting off about the poor. Aren’t there more pressing problems you could champion?”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “There is no problem dearer to me than this. Not when nearly four hundred thousand of the so-called poor are soldiers returning home from the wars.” He could see Joss didn’t
understand. Perhaps if he made it more personal, more real.

  Geoffrey flexed and stretched his left leg in front of him, shifting on the window seat. “Let me tell you what started me on this path. One day, walking along Bond Street, I ran into an old friend from my regiment—a good, honest man who’d served his country for ten dangerous years. I’d personally seen him show leadership, character and courage, like so many other valiant Britons I served with from all classes.”

  Geoffrey paused for emphasis. “He was starving, Uncle. Absolutely destitute. When he returned home, it was to nothing. Like so many other soldiers, he was released from the military once he was no longer needed, with no money and no prospects. He left his family and fought for his country, only to have her turn her back on him.” Even now, Geoffrey felt anger swelling inside his chest. He gritted his teeth against it. Anger by itself never did any good.

  “I had no idea,” Joss said, not without sympathy.