His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen Book 4)

by Grace Burrowes

“You’re wise to doubt my claims,” Mrs. Braithwaite replied, picking up her drink. “Ask your uncle. Ask the elderly aunts gracing every family tree, the pensioned governesses and former tutors. They know all the best scandals. I’ll pay a call on you next week and bring you a sample of your mother’s correspondence. In the meanwhile, do your best to insinuate yourself into Grampion’s good graces. He’s reserved to the point of coldness, but I’ve yet to meet the man who couldn’t be charmed by a pretty young lady with a fortune.”

  She swanned off, leaving Lily’s world in tatters.

  For more than a decade, Lily had succeeded in convincing the world she was Mama’s legitimate eldest daughter. In five minutes, Roberta Braithwaite had traded on that fiction to threaten the rest of Lily’s life.

  “Thought the damned creature would never leave you alone,” Uncle Walter said, wineglass in hand. “You’re looking a bit pale, Lily. Too much galloping about in the park at all hours.”

  That was the first indication he’d given that her dawn ride had come to his attention. “My mare wants conditioning. You know Mrs. Braithwaite?”

  He took a sip of his wine, keeping the lady in view over the rim of his glass. “She was an acquaintance of your mother’s, and I do appreciate a healthy figure on a woman. Nonetheless, Nadine’s taste in friends was no more refined than her other inclinations. Let’s leave, before some fool begs an encore from the musicians.”

  Lily spared Hessian not so much as a wave—not when her every move was observed by both a fan-wielding tool of the fiend and Uncle Walter.

  By dawn on Saturday, Lily needed a plan that would protect Mama’s past from becoming public, protect Daisy from her aunt, preserve Grampion’s respect for Lily, and keep Uncle from suspecting trouble was afoot.

  For the first time, Lily understood why her older half-sister, at the age of seventeen, had turned up her nose at propriety and reason, and eloped with Uncle Walter’s house steward.

  * * *

  Hessian had used his morning to meet with his solicitor, for updating a will was something best done sooner rather than later. On the walk back to his town house, he missed Daisy skipping at his side, missed her chatter, her questions.

  Why do trees lose their leaves, but not their pine needles?

  Where do different kinds of birds come from?

  Does London always stink on rainy days?

  Were you friends with my mama, or only neighbors?

  That last question had required some delicacy. Lady Evers had been a woman frustrated by a cordial marriage to a much older man, and Hessian, at a loss for how to deter a female bent on seduction, had been lonely too.

  Most peculiar of all, Lord Evers had more or less expressed gratitude for Hessian’s friendship with Belinda.

  Then her ladyship’s interest in dallying had ceased—or she’d given up on dallying with Hessian—and in less than a year, Daisy had arrived. Hessian had never known—and still didn’t know for sure—whether a casual affair had rekindled her ladyship’s sense of marital loyalty, or whether…

  His steps took him past a shop that sold items for babies and young children. Daisy would delight in such an emporium, so he changed course for purposes of reconnaissance. Then too, he had nieces, and Daisy had brothers.

  And what waited for him at home, besides correspondence, ledgers, and the domestic upheaval of having sacked a drill sergeant from his staff?

  The shop owner had arranged the inventory to resemble a marvelously well-stocked nursery, and the whole place bore the scent of lavender, much as a nursery might. Fanciful animals sewn of cloth, embroidered blankets just the size for swaddling an infant, rattles, storybooks, a pair of hobbyhorses, and art supplies of every description filled the place.

  And in the middle of this cave of wonders stood Lily Ferguson, the most delightful treasure of all.

  “Miss Ferguson.”

  She held a stuffed horse, a velvet bay with black yarn for its mane and tail. “My lord. This is a surprise.”

  The shop girl watched the exchange, so Hessian offered a proper bow. “A fortuitous encounter for me. Perhaps you’ll advise me regarding suitable gifts for Daisy and her brothers?”

  They left the shop thirty minutes later with God only knew what—a herd of stuffed horses, or stuffed bears, possibly some storybooks, and an armada of miniature sailing ships. Hessian sent Lily’s maid and footman home with her purchases and appointed himself her escort.

  “I was hoping to linger a while longer at the shop,” Lily said. “Uncle is in a mood today.”

  “Perhaps he was frustrated with my attention to the musicians last night. I hope you didn’t feel neglected.” Maybe that explained Lily’s less-than-pleased reception of Hessian this morning? He hadn’t wanted to single her out before a half-dozen gossips, and then the damned musicians had gone off on some flight about Herr Beethoven, orchestration, and English music publishers.

  The musicians had kept the debutantes at bay, and thus Hessian had taken shameless advantage of Herr Beethoven’s acolytes.

  “I did not expect your special notice, my lord. The musical entertainment was superb.”

  They paused at an intersection, and Hessian spoke without thinking. “Come back to my house, Lily. We’ll have a late luncheon, and nobody will be the wiser.”

  His suggestion was most improper, but then, they would soon be engaged. That changed the rules, to the point where very few rules applied beyond don’t get caught.

  “I ought not. Uncle will inquire as to my whereabouts.”

  Uncle’s version of an inquiry came close to an interrogation, based on Lily’s tone. “Then we decided to go back to the shop because I forgot a purchase.” The lie rankled even as Hessian spoke it. “Or not. I’ll walk you home and look forward to riding with you later in the week.”

  She looked down one street, then the other. Both were lovely Mayfair thoroughfares, with plane maples leafing out over busy traffic. Gracious homes lined each street, and to a casual onlooker, one choice would have been much the same as the other.

  “Forgive me for tempting you from the path of common sense,” Hessian said. “I was troubled to note Mrs. Roberta Braithwaite among the guests last night. She did not approach me, but the mere sight of her sent my enjoyment of the evening into the ditch.”

  The intersection cleared, and Lily led Hessian into the street. “She upset you.”

  “A woman like that can start talk, and that talk will not make Daisy’s life easier. Mrs. Braithwaite says she wants to provide a home for the child, but I suspect she wants money.” Maybe Lady Evers’s diary could shed light on the role Daisy’s aunt should play in her life? Hessian would have to read the damned thing to find out.

  “Would parting with some coin be that much of a hardship?”

  Lily sounded impatient with Hessian, not with the grasping woman who’d use a child to further her own security.

  “The issue isn’t coin and isn’t even entirely the principle,” Hessian said. “My concern is pragmatic: If Mrs. Braithwaite will threaten scandal or litigation over fifty pounds per quarter, what would she do to gain a thousand? What mad schemes would she fabricate, what wild stories would she propound? Why would Daisy be better off in the care of such a woman than in my own, considering I was clearly the choice of the girl’s parents?”

  When Hessian wasn’t contemplating the pleasant prospect of his next encounter with Lily, such questions increasingly filled his mind. Lady Evers’s journal weighed on his conscience, much as a pistol carried in his pocket would have disturbed the line of a well-tailored jacket.

  Hessian would have to investigate the contents of that damned journal, though not today. He was escorting Lily in the direction of his town house, and the choice of destination had been hers.

  “You think Mrs. Braithwaite would stoop to creating scandal for her own niece?” Lily asked.

  “What does she have to lose? She’ll cast herself as the wounded widow, longing for the company of her departed sister’s
daughter, and I’ll be the unbending aristocrat, keeping a child from her only family on the strength of my arrogant, nipfarthing whim.”

  To describe the situation thus made Hessian seem unreasonable even to himself. And yet, he could not fathom releasing Daisy into the custody of that woman.

  “You are not arrogant.”

  “I’m not a pennypincher either, but until recently, I had to manage my coin carefully. That is no secret.”

  Hessian escorted Lily into his house, the lack of a maid, chaperone, or screeching children making the situation feel a trifle improper—or daring. Worth had doubtless flouted convention far more adventurously, but then, Worth hadn’t been the earl.

  “We’ll take luncheon in the conservatory,” Hessian informed the butler, “and I’ll drive Miss Ferguson home in the phaeton.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Hessian offered Lily his arm, which was silly when no hazard greater than a carpet fringe threatened their progress.

  “We’ve yet to set the tender plants outside, so my conservatory is quite the jungle.”

  Lily accompanied him without comment, which was odd. She never hesitated to speak her mind, and her opinions were always well-thought-out. She had every air and grace claimed by a true lady, and yet, when conversation would have settled Hessian’s nerves, she remained silent.

  He held the conservatory door for her, and then they were enveloped in warmth and quiet. Potted palms and ferns lined walkways between lemon and orange trees. Near the windows, boxes of Holland bulbs were sporting a few precocious daffodils and tulips. The fragrance of hyacinths joined the scents of greenery and rich earth.

  “Daisy and her friends will discover this place on the very next rainy day,” Lily said. “It’s lovely.”

  Lily made no move to touch Hessian, and neither did her expression, posture, or tone invite him to embrace her.

  “I’ve kept the door locked for the most part, lest Daisy disappear up a tree.” But then, Daisy hadn’t played that game since the night she’d met Lily.

  “Mrs. Braithwaite introduced herself to me,” Lily said, brushing her hand over an airy fern. “She claimed to have been an acquaintance of my mother’s.”

  So Roberta Braithwaite was the serpent in the garden. “Did you believe her claims?”

  Lily tugged off her right glove, finger by finger, then her left. “I wish I hadn’t mentioned her name, when at long, long last we have a few minutes’ privacy. Perhaps we can speak of her later.”

  Luncheon would be at least thirty minutes in preparation, and the conservatory doors boasted stout locks.

  “As always, you make great good sense. So why are we standing three yards apart when I’d rather be kissing you silly?”

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  Lily’s emotions were like the conservatory—a crowded tangle of obscured paths and dim shadows shot through with sunbeams of hope and the sweet scent of temptation. She longed to be courted by Hessian Kettering, but deceiving a man she respected took vast reserves of selfishness.

  Self-preservation instincts, Lily had, but selfishness? Enough selfishness and calculation to marry him and carry forward a deception already ten years in the making?

  And then there was Mrs. Braithwaite adding her complications, and all Lily knew was that now—right now—she wanted whatever she could have with Hessian, because even tomorrow was not hers to promise.

  “We stand three yards apart,” Lily said, “because the door is not locked, and luncheon should be delivered any moment.”

  The earl held out his right hand, palm up. “My kitchen has learned not to wait a meal on me. I’d rather have my food fresh and hot, after a short wait, than warm and overdone, though promptly served. I’d like to show you something.”

  Lily wanted to show him many things: the truth of her upbringing and the rotten scheme Mrs. Braithwaite had hatched foremost among them. The latter she’d certainly divulge, while the former… maybe someday?

  She took Grampion’s hand. His grasp was comfortable and confident, much like his kisses. “Where are we going?”

  “Daisy is not the only person in this family to have a hiding place,” he said, leading Lily down a path between the ferns. “I come here when I want solitude, or the maids are busy above stairs and I’m in need of a nap.”

  He opened another door, to a small rectangular room that might once have been an antechamber, though like the conservatory, the outer wall was glass. That glass was obscured by a smoky tint such as the imagination fashioned in dream worlds. Hazy greenery lay beyond the glass wall, and a pair of clerestory windows were open, scenting the little room with scythed grass and hyacinths.

  “You read here,” she said, picking up a copy of Guy Mannering.

  Hessian took the book from her, closed it, and set it on a small table. “I dream here.”

  The room was barely furnished—a chair in the corner, wall sconces on either side. A table that apparently doubled as a writing desk in the opposite corner and, along the glass wall, a bed made up with worn quilts. No knickknacks or art cluttered any surface, all was orderly and spartan.

  “Does something trouble you, Lily?”

  Everything troubled her. Uncle Walter, Mrs. Braithwaite, Oscar… but they were not here, and this privacy with Hessian might never come again.

  Lily twisted the lock above the door latch. “I’ve missed you. That has troubled me.” She stepped close and put her arms around Hessian. His reciprocal embrace was balm to her tattered nerves. “I can see why you doubt Mrs. Braithwaite’s fitness to raise a child. Her manner is presuming.”

  Threatening, more like.

  Hessian’s hold on Lily was careful, his thumb whispering across her nape. “Am I presuming?”

  She rested her cheek against the soft wool of his jacket, wishing she could give him all of her burdens and all of her trust. Hessian was overstepping polite decorum terribly—by embracing her, by being alone with her—and yet Lily wanted even more from him.

  Hessian Kettering was good. He hesitated over white lies, he treasured stolen kisses. He approached life with clear notions of right and wrong, honorable and shameful.

  In terms of standing and integrity, he was well above her touch, even above the touch of Walter Leggett’s legitimate niece, but for the money that young lady had inherited. Lily’s conscience shrieked at her to step away, to use this privacy to inform Grampion that his judgment of Mrs. Braithwaite was all too accurate.

  “You do not presume, my lord. I wish you would.”

  His embrace became subtly more intimate, more cherishing. He kissed her, a different sort of kiss that presaged a different sort of closeness. Long, long ago, Lily had seen tavern maids and grooms when they’d thought themselves unobserved. Their passion had intrigued and troubled her, but she understood now why they’d been so bold.

  Make me forget. Let me pretend. Stop time for me.

  In the conservatory, water trickled in a peaceful whisper. Hessian’s kisses descended in a lazy cascade over Lily’s cheeks, her lips, her throat, to the swell of her bosom. He drew back and freed a half-dozen buttons marching down the middle of Lily’s bodice—not nearly enough.

  I am my mother’s daughter after all. The realization brought Lily relief rather than shame. Loneliness could be a shroud, propriety a grave for a woman’s dreams. Mama had been grieving and alone. She’d failed to produce sons—a great disappointment to the ducal Fergusons, of course—and when she’d lost her husband, she’d faltered.

  Lily had wondered why a woman who had so much to lose had misstepped so recklessly, but the answer was in her arms.

  Pleasure bloomed everywhere Hessian touched, everywhere he kissed. His expressions of desire approached reverence, and everything neglected, judged, and uncertain in Lily reveled in his loving. Anger threaded through her too—at Walter, at years of deception, at parents who’d left her alone too young—though she knew bitterness for false courage by another name.

  She
had now and would make no apologies for allowing herself one impetuous hour.

  “Everywhere,” Hessian murmured, pressing kisses to the swell of her breasts. “Flowers. You. Soft.”

  Lily tugged his shirt from his waistband, and his kisses stopped.

  The breeze teased at her in novel places. The trickling water became loud in the contrasting silence. Lily pressed her forehead against Hessian’s shoulder, praying that his scruples weren’t about to destroy her fantasies.

  “I haven’t yet spoken with your uncle,” Hessian said, tracing a finger along Lily’s eyebrows.

  “That can all wait until later.” Much, much later.

  Such a smile illuminated his eyes—tender, joyous, and so very naughty. “Later, then.”

  Lily had thought that she and Hessian had been intimate. Their kisses had been so bold, their embraces leaving little to the imagination, but she’d known nothing. The touches themselves mattered not half so much as the passion behind them.

  Hessian scooped Lily up and laid her down on the bed. His handling of her was possessive and unapologetic. The lover held her, not the titled gentleman. He sat at her hip and yanked off his boots, then hung his waistcoat on the back of the chair, took off her shoes, and unbuttoned his falls.

  “Hurry,” Lily said. “Please hurry.” Before she lost her nerve, before she denied herself what might be the most glorious hour of her life.

  Hessian’s version of hurrying was maddeningly deliberate. He undid more of her buttons, while Lily lay on her back, the old quilt twisted in her fingers. Then he unlaced the drawstring on her chemise and, finally, the laces on her jumps.

  “You are like a holiday gift,” he said, leaning forward to press his mouth over her heart. “Layers of lace and loveliness, but the best part of all is simply you.”

  No, the best part was him, caressing her bare breasts, making her ache, using his mouth in diabolically sweet, wicked ways.

  “You will drive me mad, Hessian.”

  “I certainly hope to,” he said, sitting up. “You deserve madness.”