by Julie Beard
"No, my dear, I have my own." Rosalind Cranshaw swept into the room in her usual loving manner. Her graying brown hair was pulled back in a chignon, and rubies dangled from her ears. Her deep sapphire-colored eyes
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tilted upward in a lovely oval shape. She wore a silver gown that fell like a waterfall from her still proud bosom. Liza always thought her to be the most beautiful woman in any room, even though she'd grown plump and was always in a loving tizzy, having forgotten this detail or that. Tonight, however, she looked uncharacteristically sober.
"What is it, Mama?" Liza asked. "Are you worried about the guest list? I'm told this is a small affair. Sir Walter Dewey is the only guest Papa will worry about impressing."
"And he's merely a baronet from Waverly," Celia added in a bored drone, gently mocking her father's tendency to compare the titles and importance of his acquaintances.
"Do not make fun of your father, dear," Rosalind gently reproved. "Now, do be a good girl and leave us alone. I want to talk to your sister in private."
Liza's heart fluttered. Had her mother also guessed her feelings for Jack? Had Liza been mooning too obviously? Had her skin been chafed too raw by Jack's whiskers? She wanted to crawl into the woodwork and disappear.
"Liza, my dear, come sit with me by the window." Rosalind tugged her hand, and they sat side by side on a burgundy sofa.
"What is it, Mama?"
"I am concerned about you."
Liza smiled brashly. "Don't be. I am in perfect health."
"You seem... distressed. Are you worried about your impending engagement?"
Liza had not yet pulled on her gloves. She looked down at her hands and twisted a pearl ring around her middle finger as she measured her response. So her mother was
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finally noticing that all was not well in paradise.
"No, I have simply been distracted by preparations for the engagement announcement. I am sorry if I seem... unhappy. That is not the case."
Rosalind folded her hands and sighed forlornly. "I don't believe you. I don't think you love Lord Barrington at all."
Liza's heart stopped a full beat. She turned to face her fully. "Mother, why are you doing this now when it is nearly too late?"
"I would have questioned you sooner, but I thought you wanted him. Your father was so delighted to have a nobleman court you. And you were the one who said you wanted to accept his offer."
"And I do," Liza said mechanically. "Why must you question me now?"
Rosalind sighed, and her ruby drop earrings swung to and fro from her ears. "I just believe the best marriages are love matches. Don't think your father wants a title so much that he would be willing to sacrifice your happiness."
"I know he wouldn't." Liza adored her father and loved making him proud. But she would never sacrifice herself to someone like Barrington just to please him. Her mother would simply die if she knew the real reason for Liza's actions. "Mama, love matches are not the fashion in high society, which is where Papa wants me to be. Surely you know that."
"I know, I know," Rosalind said in resignation. "I've just noticed the way you look at Mr. Fairchild. And the notion came to mind that I've never seen you look at Lord Barrington with the same obvious admiration."
"Mr. Fairchild is handsome and exciting. But he's a
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rake. He will never marry. Please do not misinterpret my regard for him. I hold him in the highest esteem that one can hold a man of such worldliness. He is in no way competing for my affections with the viscount." He had in fact already won her heart hands down, Liza did not add.
"Very well, dear." Rosalind smiled wistfully. "I'll trust you to be your own best advocate, as you always are. Just follow your heart, dear, and it will always lead you on the best path. Since you are resolved to marry Lord Barrington, I see no reason why his request cannot be agreed upon. I will tell your father at once."
Liza looked up sharply. "What request?"
"Why, his lordship wants to have the engagement party earlier than we had planned. Didn't he tell you? This weekend. Of course, I told him that with such short notice we couldn't possibly prepare as we had hoped to, but he impressed upon me the advantage of having a smaller, more intimate affair. He says he is so in love with you he cannot wait any longer."
"But... but I am not ready to announce our engagement. It is too soon! Tell him it can't be done."
Rosalind pursed her lips, looking quizzically at her daughter. "If you are resolved to marry him, I see no reason to delay, my dear. The settlement has nearly been agreed upon. The only thing left to do is sign the papers and announce it to the world."
"Why can't he wait?"
"Why should he? In truth, my darling, there is no good reason to delay. If you are serious about marrying the viscount, you should move forward with your plans or put an end to them at once. You don't want to acquire a reputation as a jilt. Nothing would be worse."
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Liza went to her dressing table, reaching for her perfume to hide her distress. In her haste, she knocked over the bottle and half the contents gurgled out before she could snatched it upright. Lavender filled the air. "Oh, heavens, look what I've done!"
"I'll send Susan in," Rosalind said, walking to the door. She turned back. "What shall I tell your father, dearest? Proceed with the wedding plans?"
Blood whooshed in Liza's ears. Her heart leapt desperately against her throat. She could back out now. Her mother was all but begging her to. But then, her mother did not know the price they would pay for Liza's change of heart. The price her mother, above all, would pay.
"Very well," Liza said in a choked voice. "This weekend is acceptable."
Rosalind left with a melancholy sigh, and Liza longed to run after her and tell her the truth. But she couldn't. Nor could she follow her mother's naive advice to follow her heart. Where would Liza's heart lead her if she followed? Straight into the arms of Jack Fairchild. And then where would her mother be?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ack could hear the music floating out the windows of the ballroom at Cranshaw Park when he exited his carriage that night. The plucky, sweet strain of a lively violin surged on the breeze that lifted the back of his hair. Music meant dancing, and a dance would give Jack a chance to be close to Liza. He trotted eagerly up the stairs, the letter burning a hole in his pocket.
Liza, Liza, Liza, he thought, her image filling him so completely that his knees nearly buckled on the top marble step. He paused a moment to collect himself, to try to force from his mind the memory of her silky thighs and her screams of pleasure. He cleared his throat and straightened his crisp cravat. Good Lord, he was acting like a besotted schoolboy, he thought as he continued to the front door.
Nothing had given him more satisfaction than giving her that release. Eight years of pent-up passion had been waiting for that moment. And to think what pleasure he
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could give her if they had a chance to really get to know each other as lovers. But would they have that chance? Not if he couldn't find enough evidence against Barring-ton. And not if Lord Abbington discovered where Jack was and decided to come calling. Jack had to convince Liza to call off the engagement regardless of the outcome of the investigation, and to do so quickly. Time was their enemy, and so each moment had to count.
Determined to alter the course of fate, Jack followed the butler into the ballroom. The intimate soiree was just getting under way. There were two dozen people in attendance—neighbors, as well as Arthur and Theo Paley, the Cranshaws, and the family of an old baronet from Waverly who looked like a sheepdog with shaggy gray hair and drooping bags beneath his eyes. He was standing by a life-size Grecian statue, guffawing heartily at Bartholomew Cranshaw's witticisms.
Jack stopped in the doorway a moment to get his bearings and to find his prize. He spotted her dancing at the far end of the long room, and suddenly the world was right again. Barrington was a safe distance away, chatting with a specta
cled young man near a large painting of King Henry VIII. The festivities had just begun.
The ballroom was awash in golden candlelight and a refreshing breeze flowed through the open terrace doors, cooling the napes of the women in their low-cut gowns. The requisite opening minuet was under way. The dancers made a pretty picture, like dolls come to life in a golden haze of comfort and charming conversations.
"Good evening, coz," said Arthur, gaily approaching arm-in-arm with his wife.
"Good evening, Arthur," Jack said warmly. "Theo, you look lovely."
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"Thank you. But not nearly as lovely as Miss Cranshaw. I daresay she shines everyone else down."
They gazed out at the graceful dancers. By far the most radiant among them was Liza.
"She is a lovely lady, to be sure," Jack said with studied indifference. "I have something for her, in fact. If you will excuse me, I'll give it to her straightaway."
"Of course," Theo said, her plump cheeks rounding in a teasing smile. "But only if you promise to dance with me later."
"Agreed," Jack said charmingly, and kissed her hand. He sketched a bow and started to make his way to the far end of the ballroom when a loud voice from behind nearly made him jump out of his skin.
"Fairchild, good to see you," said Bartholomew Cranshaw. Liza's amiable father slapped him on the back. "Impressive little party, eh?"
"Indeed, sir," Jack said, looking down at the jovial man. "It is an honor to be here."
"The honor is mine, Fairchild. The Dewey family came in from Waverly and it seemed a good time, along with your arrival, for some merriment. I am most impressed with your eagerness to work, my boy." He wagged a finger in the air, and his apple-red cheeks rounded with a smile. "You see, I understand the ways of the nobility. You will inherit that title whether your grandfather likes it or not. Money can always be made by a clever lad, and that's my bailiwick, making money."
"I envy you, sir."
"Yes, but one day you will have something I can never have—a title. And here you are, willing to work like a commoner! It's remarkable. I admire that, Fairchild, I do. Too much frivolity in so-called polite society, I say. I
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hope to make you rich, my lad. Now, if you're serious about working, I have a case for you. I'll send the papers over to you in the morning. It's quite complicated, and I'll pay you well."
"That would be capital, sir. Thank you."
Nagged by guilt, Jack shifted his weight from one foot to the other. If Bartholomew Cranshaw knew how far he'd gone to disrupt his daughter's wedding plans, he'd throw Jack out on his ear, not give him business. Normally, Jack wouldn't care. But this was Liza's father. Liza, Liza, Liza. Her name was a drumroll in his head. A mantra. A siren's song.
When a footman appeared at their side with a tray of champagne, Cranshaw took a glass and raised it in the air. Jack took one in turn.
"Let us toast to a long and fruitful association."
"Hear, hear," Jack agreed. He touched the air with his glass, and through the champagne's tawny bubbles he saw Liza approaching. In the pale, beige filter she was a blur of blue material and white diamonds and jet hair. She was a stunning bouquet of silk and lace, creamy skin, and a mesmerizing smile.
"Ah, here comes my daughter. Be a rum one, won't you, Fairchild, and dance with Liza? I don't want Bar-rington to give away their spring wedding by dancing too much with her. I'd like the announcement to be a surprise, though everyone knows they're smelling like April."
"I'd be delighted." Jack waited for her to turn that smile on him, and when she did, fireworks went off in his heart. He grinned as intimately as he dared. "Good evening, Miss Cranshaw."
"Good evening, Mr. Fairchild."
Her eyes, which looked periwinkle in the golden can-
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dlelight, flashed briefly with intimacy. Warm flames burned in their cool depths, sparking that fiery connection between them, turning his blood molten. His legs went taut, and he grew hard. Bloody hell, but he wanted to take her here in the middle of the party.
She turned to her father and smiled sweetly. "Greetings, Papa."
"Greetings, my darling." Cranshaw's face turned as soft as pudding. He grinned lovingly and clucked over his daughter, kissing each cheek. "You outshine the candles, my dear. What did I do to deserve you? You and Celia and your mother? Would you dance with Mr. Fairchild, my dear?"
"I'd be delighted. Shall we join the others?" she asked with a provocative smile.
"Lead the way." He offered his arm, and the touch of her glove on his arm sizzled and branded him, even through his coat. He wanted more. He wanted flesh on flesh. A little bit of her would never again be enough. Stilling his thoughts, he gave her a perfunctory smile as they took their place among the half dozen couples at the far end of the room. Jack surveyed the crowd. There was Celia and a young man whose shaggy blond hair marked him as the baronet's son, and others he did not recognize, but Lord Barrington had disappeared. Relaxing, Jack prayed for a country jig. He listened closely as the fiddler tuned his instrument. When the musician's bow danced on the strings with a few practice strokes, the twangy sounds of a swift tune took shape.
"Oh, a country dance!" Liza said, laughing delightedly.
"Fancy that," Jack said laconically, though his broad grin betrayed his own excitement. "I pray, Miss Cran-
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shaw, you don't let me crush your delicate feet." Then he added in a seductive whisper, "And if I stumble, I hope I may fall into your arms."
"You're entirely too bold, sir," she sniffed, but her eyes twinkled. When she coyly placed her hand in his, a hot jolt trembled up his arm. She placed the other hand on his shoulder, and it was all he could do to keep from pulling her close and devouring her lips in a deep, hungry kiss. The fiddler began the song in earnest and the other couples began to jig around in a broad circle. Jack and Liza followed suit and their hearts soon pumped from the loping steps.
An invisible strand held them tight as their gazes locked, eyes laughing, spirits soaring. As invigorating and merry as the dance was, though, half of Jack's mind was still calculating. He could not forget the sword of doom that hung between them.
"I have a letter for you," he said, bending his head to her ear as they took a half twirl.
The smile fled from her eyes. "Did you find out something?"
As the figure of the dance separated them, he scanned the room and found that Barrington had returned. He was leaning against a white pillar, looking none too pleased to see them dancing.
"Who sent the letter?" Liza asked when they came together again, lifting her chin to be heard above the loud music.
"We must talk privately. I can say no more."
When she circled around in the dance, she realized why. The viscount was watching carefully for untoward intimacy. How she hated him! She turned to Jack. "Meet
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me after the next dance. On the terrace, behind the ivy trellis."
Liza knew that was the only place they could hope to find even a moment of privacy. Like Jack, she kept one eye on Lord Barrington during the rest of the dance. He'd ruined their illusion of freedom. To her surprise, though, Barrington slipped away before the dance was over. She assumed he went to smoke in her father's study. He was fond of drinking and smoking, and he'd already had more than his fill of champagne. She could tell by the bleary look in his eyes, and she prepared herself for a good berating. He was always surly when he drank.
The music ended too soon. Jack and Liza stopped where their last step had taken them—behind an enormous white Roman pillar.
"It's over," he said, chuckling as he caught his breath. He touched the back of a hand to his perspiring forehead. "I'm getting old, Miss Cranshaw. I can't keep up with you."
"No, Mr. Fairchild, you simply don't dance enough. I should go," she whispered, her eyes caressing his face.
Her mind told her to let go, to step back, but her heart would not let her. She tightened her grip on
his hand and shoulder. His luscious mouth was so close, so dusky and smooth and inviting. His brown eyes beheld her with such intense focus it was as if the world outside his arms simply didn't exist. It was hard to care about what Lord Barrington thought, when she was in Jack's arms.
Jack was hers. When they had made love, they'd claimed each other. This was where they belonged. Close. Hearts pounding as one. The others started jostling past them as they exchanged partners, and Liza realized that at any moment their unwillingness to dance with others
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would raise alarms. Jack might be her world, but it wouldn't matter in a few short days when her formal engagement virtually made her the viscount's property.
"The terrace," she reminded him, and dropped a curtsey. She walked briskly away before another could snag her for a dance. Feigning pleasure with anyone else was more than she could handle in her shaky state. She went to chat with Aunt Patty, waiting a dance out as she had instructed Jack. Patty sat on a settee near the entrance. She was a sweet-smiling and friendly little dumpling in white lace and pink rouge.
"What a lovely party," Aunt Patty said, pressing Liza's hand and regarding her niece with sparkling eyes. "Where is that wonderful Mr. Harding? Didn't Mr. Fairchild bring him?"
"Papa didn't invite Mr. Harding," Liza distractedly replied while she listened to the music, waiting for the end of the song.
"What a pity. He so amused me. I certainly hope your father didn't omit him because he's merely a secretary. Surely Bartholomew isn't assuming airs. He himself is only a merchant, after all."
"A very rich one, though, Aunt Patty."
"Why, you know Uncle David was a rat catcher when I first met him, God rest his dear soul. And a loving husband he was. I was fortunate to find him. Your mother and I were nearly starving back then."
"Don't say that too loudly, Auntie. Father doesn't like to discuss the past when the viscount is here."
"I do so hope to see that dear Clayton Harding again."
