by Julia London
But what he hated more than her was the situation that could not be altered, could not be made any different than what it was. There was no way out of the bloody quagmire.
Twenty-three
A s the guests began to filter into the grand salon to greet their hosts before supper, Drake Lockhart moved through the room with a bright smile. Years of bachelorhood had taught him that one of the great joys of life was moving among a sea of pretty women such as this, where a man might carry on to his heart’s content, and on occasion find a young woman willing to play more mature games in the privacy of his carriage house than the childish games played in drawing rooms across Mayfair.
He’d always believed Anna Addison could be one of those women. She had the reputation of being an adventurous sort, not one to put much stock in all of society’s rules for women. And she had let Drake know, on more than one occasion, that she could be seduced. After that torrid kiss in the Featherstone garden, he believed he was well on his way to having her.
There was a time Drake had not been so inclined, but then Anna had gone and shed her sharp exterior by some miracle; she’d come out of her cocoon to be the Season’s most surprising butterfly. Now she was a bit harder to please—she did not seem to long for his attention all the time, and, in fact, there were many times she seemed not to want it at all.
That was something of a bother, for Drake was discovering that the more she did not want his attention, the more he wanted hers.
On the other hand, there was Lucy—sweet, beautiful Lucy. She’d been a willing participant in his games, but in private moments, when he thought to act on their fierce flirtations, he had discovered Lucy was rather prudish. She was not willing to explore her desires, as he rather imagined Anna was willing, but nonetheless, Lucy’s renowned beauty made it impossible for him to ignore her. Since the darling had made her debut, Drake had amused himself on more than one occasion with the fantasy of debasing her perfect flesh, driving deep into that virginal womb and watching her eyes flutter shut with the ecstasy of it.
In recent weeks, he’d begun to have the same sort of fantasy about Anna (although in those particular fantasies he envisioned instructing Anna to impale herself on him).
And there were various assorted other fantasies involving most women of the ton, but none that could elicit so sharp a response in him as those about the Addison sisters.
He realized he was enjoying the game far too much. It amused him—Lucy needed adoration, Anna needed a battle of wits. There was just one small distraction—the bloody Scot was mucking up his fun.
To Drake’s way of thinking, the man had no more business being in London than he did in turning the heads of the two most desirable creatures in town. And as he watched him now in the crowded salon, making love to Lucy with his smile and his eyes, Drake smirked a little. When he returned to London, he’d have a full account of the man from Mr. Garfield. He’d be pleased to expose him to the ton. Just thinking about that happy occasion prompted Drake to smile and move to interrupt an intimate discussion between Lucy and the scoundrel.
He bowed deeply before Lucy. “Miss Lucy, you are as radiant as ever.”
She smiled in that superior way she had, lifting her chin. “Good evening, Mr. Lockhart. I wasn’t aware you had arrived.”
Little liar. He’d seen her up on the first-floor balustrade, leaning over to have a peek when he and Nigel had arrived. “Then I was remiss in not sending word to you straightaway.”
That earned him a cold look, which told Drake she knew about his note to Anna. Sisters! They were not to be trusted in the least. “I shouldn’t like to interrupt,” Drake said, sparing Ardencaple no more than a glance, “but I was having a look at the globe in the corner, and I found that I could not locate exactly where your lady mother’s family hails from. I wondered if you might be kind enough to assist me.”
Lucy’s gaze narrowed. “Is it so very hard to find England on the globe, sir?”
Ooh, she was angry with him, and Drake could not help his smile—he’d very much enjoy bringing her round to adoring him again. “I’m afraid I’m entirely unaccustomed to viewing the world on a globe.”
The Scotsman snorted into his drink.
Lucy sighed with great tedium and glanced at the Scottish bastard. “Would you please excuse me, my lord? I shall endeavor to point out Great Britain to Mr. Lockhart.”
“By all means,” he said with a smile, and Lucy smiled back at him with every feminine inch of herself.
Drake took her by the elbow and steered her clear of the bastard. “Come now, Miss Lucy,” he admonished her. “Would you give all your attention to a foreigner?”
“He’s hardly a foreigner, sir, and I can’t possibly understand what difference it makes, given that your attention recently has been directed elsewhere.”
“Directed elsewhere? Is that the thanks I am to have for courting you all Season?”
“Courting me? How odd that I should think you’ve been courting my sister! But what can I think, what with all the private notes of affection hurled her way?”
“There now, sweetheart,” he said soothingly as they reached the globe. “I fully expected you’d be pleased when she came crying to you with the news that I’ve determined my heart’s inclinations lie elsewhere—but not with her.”
His insinuation had the desired affect; Lucy came to a sudden halt and peered up at him.
“Didn’t she tell you?” he asked, acting terribly surprised.
“No… she said she was to impress your good qualities on me, but I didn’t believe her. I thought you’d written something rather provocative, just for her.”
“My sweet little bird, you assumed to know the bent of my devotion instead of hearing it from mine own lips? Have I been untruthful or unfaithful to my word?”
She thought about that for a moment, then shook her head.
“You know how I feel about you… why should I ever want to jeopardize your good opinion of me?”
Lucy smiled a little then and impudently tossed her head. “I really wouldn’t know,” she said with mock disdain, and put her hands on the globe. “No more than I would know why you can’t seem to find Great Britain, Mr. Lockhart. It is quite plainly here.”
Drake looked up; she was smiling warmly. He returned that smile and carefully leaned over her shoulder to have a look at Great Britain.
Anna’s intolerable day bled into an intolerable night, particularly given Grif’s attention to Lucy. When he’d arrived at the gathering before the supper was served—a little later than most, she noticed—he’d gone to Lucy’s side immediately, smiling gorgeously, his eyes crinkling in the corners. He was doing his part quite well, Anna thought petulantly. Yet she didn’t think it necessary that his smile be that bright.
That smile… she desperately wanted it for herself, and the brighter it shone for Lucy, the harder her heart wrenched. She couldn’t bear to see that smile shining on anyone but her, really, and turned away from him, made her presence known to Mr. Northam.
It seemed forever before they were called to supper, and fortunately, Anna was seated next to Mr. Bradenton, who was quite interested in the hunting dogs she trained, as well as, she sensed, her. She should have been thrilled with the attention of one of the ton’s most eligible bachelors, but she wasn’t. She was perturbed that Mr. Bradenton was seated at the opposite end of the table from Grif, so that in the course of supper she had little opportunity to see Grif at all, for Mr. Bradenton kept her quite engaged.
But she could hear his deep, lilting voice and laugh, and it scored her, over and over again.
Through seven dining courses and three wines, she sat on pins and needles, and when Bette finally announced that the ladies would adjourn to the main salon while the men enjoyed their port, she had to repress the urge to leap from her seat and run.
In the salon, the ladies were treated to sweet wine. Anna sat beside Miss Crabtree, who smiled at her cup of wine as if she enjoyed a secret, while Barbara Lockh
art regaled the ladies with her latest foray onto Bond Street, where she claimed to have purchased an astounding twelve pairs of shoes.
When at last the men rejoined the ladies, Anna made her excuses to Miss Crabtree and offered her seat to Mr. Fynster-Allen, who had rather suddenly appeared by their side, and who sheepishly accepted her place on the settee next to Miss Crabtree. Anna moved to the far end of the salon, away from Drake, away from Mr. Bradenton, and anyone else who looked as if they might wish to speak with her.
And away, unfortunately, from Grif. He strolled in well after the others with a glass of port in hand, casually surveying the crowd. As he looked about the room, his gaze met Anna’s. She didn’t move, just smiled quietly and held his gaze for a long moment. Until Grif lifted his port glass in a silent toast to her… and then to Drake.
Sickly warmth fluttered in her belly, and Anna dropped her gaze to her lap. The cacophony of voices seemed to crowd all rational thought from her head, and she suddenly needed air, a breath of cool night air. She abruptly stood and went to the doors leading onto the terrace, and walked outside.
There was no one about. She walked to the edge of the terrace, gripped the stone railing, and closed her eyes, breathing deeply of the cool night air until the bit of nausea passed. Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked out over the landscape lit by a full moon. Her gaze drifted down to the white rose garden, directly below her. White roses glistened everywhere beneath the moonlight, and Anna had the overwhelming desire to touch them.
What possessed him to follow Anna, Grif could not say. All evening, he kept seeing her in Lockhart’s embrace until he was crazed with it, but he had nevertheless slipped out the terrace doors, away from the laughing voices in the salon and the mangled tune coming from the pianoforte, which some good soul was determined to play.
Anna was not on the terrace. Grif lit a cheroot and walked to the railing. He caught sight of her below, moving languidly among what seemed like hundreds of white roses, pausing here and there to take in their fragrance. In the moonlight Anna looked like one of the flowers—she was wearing a white gown with an overlay of sheer gold silk that shimmered in the milky pale light, strangely illuminating her.
Grif tossed aside the cheroot, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, he headed down, ignoring his conscience shouting at him to turn around.
The gardens were silent but for the sound of the night breezes and crickets, and he could hear her slippers crunching the gravel path. He caught up to her as she reached the bird fountain in the middle of the white roses, where her fingers idly skimmed the edge of the stone bath.
He must have made a sound, for she suddenly turned around. The moment she saw him standing there, something seemed to pass over her eyes, and she broke into an enchantingly warm smile. “Lord Ardencaple!” she said, gliding forth.
“Anna,” he responded quietly. Her hair, dark with glints of gold, was done up in soft curls. The white and gold gown went well with her complexion and her eyes, and Grif thought she never seemed lovelier than she did at that moment, standing there in the glow of the early summer moon.
“What a surprise to find you wandering about the gardens at this hour. I rather supposed you’d be inside, enjoying the company.”
“I rather supposed the same of ye,” he said, and clasped his hands behind his back as he was accustomed to doing when near Anna.
She cocked her head to one side, absently toyed with the sash of her dress as she considered him. “You seem rather pensive, sir. Has my sister treated you ill?”
“I am certain neither of yer sisters would treat meill.”
Anna laughed. “I daresay Bette wouldn’t,” she said with a bit of a wink, then gave him a smile that raced through his veins like fire. Grif grit his teeth and glanced down at the flowers, silently berating himself for having followed her out here like a fool. Her smile, her gaiety…his helplessness—anger and hopelessness rose up in him like an illness, sticking in the back of his throat.
But Anna blithely moved toward him and peeked up at his face. When he did not return her smile, she touched his arm.
Grif flinched away from her touch.
Her smile faded; she dropped her hand. “Dear Lord, what irks you? I’ve not seen you in such ill humor!”
Perhaps because he’d never been in such ill humor, had never felt as if he was turning inside out. “I would have this over and done,” he said curtly.
“Over and done?” She tried to laugh. “Goodness, Lord Ardencaple! The Featherstone event is one of the premier events of the Season! Have you any idea how coveted an invitation to this gathering is?”
“I didna covet an invitation, ye will recall,” he said sharply. “And I donna refer to this affair, but the fact that I am here so that I might entertain yer sister and thereby fulfill me part of the bargain for the beastie.”
“Well, you needn’t be so cross, Grif,” she said quietly. “I can’t possibly imagine how one silly weekend might harm you.”
“That has been the problem, Anna. Ye canna possibly imagine. Ye havena tried to imagine. Ye’ve thought of no one but yerself.”
Anna gasped, but truly he could no longer stand by, gazing at a face he loved without feeling the anger bursting inside of him. He would do well to just endure this interminable weekend so that he could possess the beastie and leave London as quickly as possible. Then he could forget Anna, forget everything that had happened. He’d make himself forget.
“Really?” she asked coolly. “And I suppose you’ve had the good of your fellow mankind at heart all this time?”
He should have turned away from her, standing so regally before him, but he let his gaze drift down her body, to where her perfectly matched, embroidered silk slippers peeked out from beneath her gown, and up again, past long legs covered in the finest silk, past the flare of her hips and the curve of her waist and bosom, to her lush, full mouth, and her glistening eyes, eyes that always glistened with a devil-may-care glee.
“Frankly, one might argue that you’ve thought of no one but yourself as well,” she haughtily continued. “Duping innocent people!”
Grif couldn’t help himself; he smiled lopsidedly. “Ye’re wrong, lass. I’ve good reason for what I do, and well ye know it.”
Anna lifted a sculpted brow. “Ah. And I suppose my reasons are trifling?”
“That is the kindest thing I might say of them.”
“Why is it,” she said, taking a step closer to him, “that gentlemen always assume the reasons for their abominable behavior are infinitely more important than those for a woman’s honest behavior?”
“Because they are,” he said.
“And you think your gargoyle—”
“Beastie—”
“—is more important than the sum of my life?” she asked, thumping him on the chest.
Grif cocked a brow at her boldness. “Aye. I do. The beastie is for me family, for the future of the Scottish Lockharts, whereas yer quest is naugh’ more than a game to ye.”
“A game. That’s what you believe this is to me?”
“Aye. A bloody rotten game,” he said, his smile fading.
She sighed with exasperation. “You may call it what you like, but it’s just as much a matter of my future as it is yours, for I have no choice but to marry, lest I be put on the shelf. I’m in my third Season, Grif—have you any idea how crippling a third Season is for an unmarried woman?” she exclaimed. “If I don’t make a match, I will be put out to field at Whittington Park like an old used-up dog! This is very important to me, and I will thank you not to pretend you haven’t liked playing this so-called game along with me!”
He snorted his disagreement at that, and Anna’s frown deepened. “You have! But you mustn’t be so cross, for it’s almost over, and you will never have to lay eyes on me again,” she said, and incongruently reached for the pearl buttons of his waistcoat.
He looked down at her hand on his waistcoat. “What in heaven’s name do ye think to be doing?”
<
br /> She pressed her lips together, toyed with the buttons of his waistcoat for a moment. “It’s almost over, Grif, and…” She paused, staring intently at his buttons. “And will you kiss me?” she asked in a whisper as she lifted her gaze to his. “Will you kiss me once more like you did that afternoon in the drawing—”
“No,” he said roughly, and pushed her hand away as he stepped back. “God blind me, but I’ve fulfilled me part of this bloody agreement, and now ye may save yer kisses for yer Lockhart and leave me be!”
“But why not?” she rashly insisted, moving forward so she was in front of him again, her body boldly touching his, burning him. “Once I give you the blasted gargoyle, I’ll not ever see you again, will I?” she asked earnestly.
The question made him feel remarkably empty, as if the life had gone out of him. “No,” he said honestly.
She rose up on her toes, so that her lips were just beneath his, almost touching his. “I rather like your kisses, Grif. If I’ll never see you again, where’s the harm?”
He could smell the sweet scent of roses, could all but feel the soft surface of her skin, and suddenly grabbed her arms, his fingers digging into her bare flesh. “Where’s the harm? Are ye so careless with yerself, Anna?” he asked, yanking her close. “Have ye no more regard for yer virtue than this?”
She smiled, but her eyes were suddenly glistening with tears. “I don’t care,” she whispered, her breath warm on his lips. “One day I shall be married and I shall never again know…”
“Know what?” he demanded angrily. “What will ye never know? Another man? That’s the way of life, leannan. Ye make yer choices and ye live with them. Ye donna seek a man’s kiss when ye love another, aye? And ye donna risk losing everything for just a bloody kiss, no’ when ye are on the verge of winning everything ye’ve desired!”
A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and Anna closed her eyes, tilting her face up to his, her lips almost touching his. “I don’t care!” she said again, and collapsed into him.
