by Jenny Brown
Lord Hartwood made no reply. She heard his boots striking the hard surface of the floor, one sharp staccato tap after another as he paced back and forth behind her. His silence weighed heavily on her. Was it just delaying the explosion, or was he relieved to see her go?
Cornered, she turned back to face him and was shocked by the look of raw anguish she saw displayed on his face in the brief moment before he realized she could see him. It disoriented her, and she found herself unable to do anything but gabble, “I will give you back your money, Your Lordship. Though I must ask you for a couple pounds to live on until I can find some way of maintaining myself. You may trust me for the loan. I will give you my Tetrabiblos to secure it. I have no other valuables.”
“There is no need for that,” he replied, “I trust you, Eliza. Though I don’t know why I should since it took so little to change your opinion of me. Was it not but a few short days ago you told me you believed me to be a man with a heart? You saw good in me and braved the scorn of others because you believed in it. But it took only a few hours in my presence, a few unwary words in which I revealed myself to you, for you to become so disgusted with me that you can only think of flight.” He shrugged, fully in control of himself again. “I thought you had more resolve. Well, so be it. I warned you what I was.”
His voice was cold, as cold as it had been when he had walked in upon Violet disparaging his character in the theater dressing room. But Eliza knew him better now than she had then. She knew that the hardness she heard in his voice was not cold unconcern, far from it.
She had lied to him about why she was leaving and to save herself, she should lie again. She should tell him he had indeed disgusted her. She should stick to her story and make her escape. But despite the coldness in his voice, the eyes he had turned upon her in that one moment when he thought she could not see him were the eyes of an abandoned child. With a shock she realized he cared what she thought of him. It mattered that she had seen good in him where no one else could find it. How could she let him believe she had changed her mind about that, when it meant so much to him?
“You are what I always believed you to be,” she said quietly. “A glorious, loyal, and playful man with an immense need for love. The blame does not lie with you but with me. It has nothing to do with your deception about the will. That was not the problem.”
“Then what is?” His voice was urgent, his burning eyes haloed by his curling golden hair.
“I am unable to maintain the role you have assigned me,” Eliza whispered. “I find it too disturbing to pretend to be your mistress. The scheme was a foolish one. You need a real mistress, not a woman like myself.”
So that was the problem! He was overcome by a burst of inexpressible relief. It was only that he’d frightened her with his passion. Well, that was no surprise. He’d damn near thrust his tongue down her throat in the hallway, treating her like a whore, consumed by the pain roused by his interview with his mother. It had been too much for her, even with the help of Lady Teazle. She was still, after all, a country-bred virgin.
But that thought gave him hope. She hadn’t lost her fundamental belief in his goodness—as mistaken as it might be. So perhaps he could convince her to stay for another few days. Then, if he was careful and treated her with more delicacy, if he led her step by step, respecting her innocence, perhaps she could be persuaded to—to what? The thought struck him like a slap. What really did he want of her? What earthly reason was there to keep her here? He’d made his point with his mother the previous night. Word of the affront he’d offered her would be all around town by this morning. There was no further need to keep a mistress with him, particularly not a mistress who was not a mistress, a virgin who left him burning alone in his bed, yearning for something he would not find in the arms of another, more willing, woman.
What did he want of her? He couldn’t answer that question. He knew only he could not let her go, not yet. The thought of her leaving was intolerable. He couldn’t face it and by God, he would not. He felt his resolve strengthen. He would do whatever it took to make her stay. It wouldn’t be that difficult. Who knew better than a practiced rake how to ensnare a woman and bend her to his will? Seduction came naturally to him and women always yielded to his seductive tricks. It was merely a matter of finding the right bait. True, Eliza was not like other women, he’d already learned that, but this would not be like other seductions. It wasn’t her body he was after—he’d drawn the line there and he would stick to it. Instead he would use his practiced skills to capture that more elusive part of her, her soul. For just a little while. To make her stay until he tired of her, as inevitably he must. Then he would send her on her way, at some time of his choosing. But not right now. Not yet.
“Come,” he said. “We’ll find some place where we can speak in private. I ask but a moment more of your time, then I will let you go.”
He favored her with his most charming smile. Then he turned and strode out of the breakfast room as if he didn’t care a whit whether she followed him or not, though he was relieved to hear her footsteps following behind him. At least he hadn’t completely lost his edge. Eliza had responded as he’d hoped. He’d never yet met a woman who could resist that particular smile. He opened the door to the library. Once she had made her way in, he closed the door with a sigh of relief. Now they could speak freely without fear of being overheard.
He gave no sign of the anxiety he felt as he pondered his next step but made her wait as he idly picked up a book that lay open on the round Chippendale table that stood near the heavy leather chair that had been his father’s. A book of sermons most likely, and indeed inspection proved it to be just such a book. His mother’s tastes hadn’t changed. He busied himself for a moment leafing through it, casting about for the best way to begin his new campaign of chaste seduction. He must not lie. Not after last night. Eliza must be won with the truth, so he would tell her the truth. But very carefully. It only took a moment more until he began to see exactly how the business could be done.
He put down the book and favored Eliza with another smile, cousin to the first and equally effective, then began. “You have played your part brilliantly,” he said. “But I let myself be carried away last night. It was wrong and you are right to be upset. Even a real mistress would have slapped my face had I forced her to be put on display like the one I forced you into. I must ask your forgiveness for the way I used you then, though I don’t deserve it.”
He put on a humble face as he watched the conflicting emotions flicker over Eliza’s face. So far, so good. Women always loved apologies.
Then, still playing for time, he removed his snuffbox from its pocket and busied himself taking a pinch. He inhaled, savoring the sensation, his mind working quickly. At last he spoke. “Last night you accused me of taking nothing seriously and turning everything into a game.”
“I am afraid I taxed you with quite a lot last night.”
“But you were right in all you said to me. It’s just that I’m not used to being spoken to with such candor.”
“Well, that’s no wonder if, as you told me last night, you threaten to call out any man who tries to tell you something you don’t wish to hear.”
“Touché, Eliza!” He winced. “It has been a long time since anyone has had the courage to speak to me with such honesty as yours. My reputation has made most people fearful of me, so they tell me only what they think I want to hear. For that reason I find your candor, though unexpected, most refreshing.”
He walked over to the window, and threw back the heavy drapes, letting the sunshine flood into the room, while he thought out the rest of what he would say. He had flattered her a bit about something he knew she prided herself upon—her candor. Now what to do next?
He cast back to other scenes like this with other women, trying to recall what had worked to keep their interest. Perhaps he could appeal to her feminine need to change him. Women always wanted to change him, and as different as she might be from other wome
n, Eliza had already shown quite a taste for doing that.
At length he spoke. “You say that you have become tired of playing the role of my mistress after three short days,” he said plaintively, with just a hint of a sigh in his voice. “Consider this, Eliza. If you feel like that after playing a role so briefly, can you imagine how I must feel, condemned for the rest of my life to be Lord Lightning? I have been playing him, without a break, these fifteen years.”
Eliza said nothing, but he could see he had caught her attention. It was working. As sure as you could catch a trout with a wriggling worm, you could always catch a woman with the suggestion that you needed her help to change.
“It is only with you, who see beyond the surface, that I feel my true self emerging,” he added. “It frightens me, Eliza, but with your help, perhaps I can break free.”
She made no reply, but merely regarded him steadily with those clear, green eyes.
“You say that I need a real mistress, but I would trade a dozen real mistresses for what you’ve given me. Don’t you see? You’ve offered me something rare. Something no woman has ever before given me.”
“And what is that, Your Lordship?”
“We are long past the point where you should be ‘Your Lordshipping’ me,” he said with an edge of irritation in his voice. “My Christian name is Edward and I would be honored if you would address me with it.”
“Edward,” Eliza said slowly, as if tasting the syllables. He could sense that the intimacy of saying his name was working its expected magic on her. This was easier than he had thought it might be. Now on to the next step.
“You’ve offered me your friendship,” he said at last. “And your friendship is robust and challenging. I’m not used to having a friend who speaks her mind so forcefully, who chides me for my faults and calls me to account for my deficiencies. But even so, I’ve come to see the value of such a friendship.” He let his voice drop for maximum effect. “Please, Eliza. Don’t take it away from me. Not now, when I’ve only begun to appreciate it.”
He stopped his pacing and returned to where she stood. He reached out for her hand and took it gently in his own. How strange it was that though he had already taken so many liberties with her person, he had never before done something as simple as take her hand.
He held it in his for a moment, wordlessly enjoying the feel of her small but strong fingers as they rested against his own, and feeling, too, the involuntary quiver that ran through them. His plea had disturbed her. He could see it in the flush that crept up her graceful neck. Perhaps she was reconsidering her decision. He must keep on talking and not give her time to think. “You also acted the part of a true friend to me last night when you pointed out that I’d treated Mrs. Atwater with indefensible cruelty—perhaps more than you know. The world only saw Lord Lightning displaying his usual disregard for convention, but you saw more—and forced me to look at what I’ve tried to keep hidden, even from myself.”
He paused for effect. What woman could resist an apology coupled with an assurance of her superiority? All that was left to seal her to him, for now, was to share a confidence with her. Women loved to be the repositories of such confidences. It made them feel special and trusted. Fortunately, he had just the confidence to share with her. His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “My cruelty to Mrs. Atwater was all the more inexcusable because I have reason to suspect that it is she, not the woman who calls herself my mother, who actually gave birth to me.”
“But how could that be? Your Lordsh—Edward—” she gasped. “Surely if you had been illegitimate you could not have inherited the title.”
“I fear it is precisely because there was no one to inherit his title except James, who was a sickly child and not expected to live—a title that meant more to him than anything else on earth—that my father prevailed upon my mother to pretend that his bastard was her own child.”
“But would it not be a crime, to pass off a bastard as legitimate to preserve a title?”
“It would. Hence if he and Lady Hartwood colluded that way, no matter what their subsequent feelings for each other, everyone involved would have had every motivation to keep it completely secret.”
“So you are only guessing, then. But what gave you the idea?”
“Many times during my childhood I heard the servants gossiping. They said that after my mother bore James, the doctors told her that it would be very unwise for her to become pregnant again, as delivering James had almost killed her. But with James so sickly my father needed another heir. Does it not stand to reason that if my mother couldn’t give him one he would find someone else who could? Did you not notice how similar to my mother Mrs. Atwater was in her coloring and her looks? If my mother was to claim the child as her own, who was to know the difference?”
“And you believe your mother went along with this?”
“Unwillingly, I wager, but her pride in the title was, if anything, greater than my father’s, since she had paid a heavy price—a huge dowry—to acquire the right to bear it. But Eliza, think! If I wasn’t foisted on her in that way, what other explanation is there for her lifelong hatred of me?”
What explanation indeed? He was trying to ensnare her by sharing a confidence, but the suspicion he had confessed to her was real enough. It had haunted him all of his life.
Eliza’s look of concern deepened. “But if that were true, then the date and time you gave me for your nativity would most likely not be correct. You would have had to be born somewhere else and then brought secretly to your mother’s bedroom after the birth.”
She paused for a moment, deep in thought, then shook her head. “The horoscope I erected for the date and time you gave me fits your character too well for you to have been born at some other time. It describes your conflict with your mother as perfectly as it does your need to play childish pranks and your explosive, Uranian nature. Had you been born a few hours earlier the Moon would still have been far from Mars, nor would Uranus have stood at your midheaven. The planet that tops the chart describes what the world will think of us, and your Uranian nature matches the birth time you gave me too perfectly. Even an hour earlier would not describe the same man. So it’s likely you were born when your mother says you were. It’s only because of how painful the relationship has been between you and your mother that you’ve taken comfort in the thought that you might be your father’s bastard.”
Had he really taken comfort in that thought? Her claim surprised him. He had always kept his fear secret out of shame that he might indeed be an imposter. But it struck him now how little pleasure he would take were he to find proof Lady Hartwood really was his mother. In fact, the thought was horrifying. But of course, Eliza had no proof.
He felt his brow furrowing. “What if your astrologizing is wrong? If I were Mrs. Atwater’s child it would explain so much: The way my father never intervened when my mother took out her anger on me. The way he would do anything—even ruin the family—to placate Mrs. Atwater. If I really were her child and he had illegally put me in a position to inherit his title, imagine the power his mistress would have held over him.”
As he spoke those words, he realized with horror, that in sharing his suspicion with Eliza he had just transferred that same power to her. With what he had just told her, she could expose him to the world. She could ruin him. He must have gone mad to trust her with a secret so important!
But Eliza appeared oblivious to his gaffe. She cocked her head in that charming way she had and said, “Perhaps if I could examine your mother’s nativity, or that of your father, I might be able to determine the truth of the situation better.”
“Perhaps, but you just said you would be leaving me,” he said in a hollow voice, relieved that she betrayed no hint of recognizing the power he had just given her and remembering why it was he had trusted her with so important a confidence. It was essential now that he use it to bind her to him. So he fixed her with his most languishing gaze and adjusted his features into that look women f
ound so hard to resist, the hurt, Byronic look they always fell for. He let his eyes grow soft and let the hurt flood up into them, gazing into her eyes as if he was showing her his soul.
It was only a stratagem. It was only a trick intended to reinforce the careful groundwork he had prepared for her seduction. But as his eyes locked with Eliza’s he felt a sudden loss of control, as if the soul that shone through her flecked green eyes grappled onto his, tore through his ruse, ripped open the tightness that bound his heart and freed within him some spring of inner vitality. He felt his heart pound and sensed her responding with shock to the honesty of what coursed through both of them. They stood together, their eyes joined, feeling the electricity throbbing between them. When at last he couldn’t bear another moment of what she had exposed in him, it took all his strength to tear his eyes away. He stepped back, shaken to the core, praying that she would not leave him now.
Eliza was no less perturbed.
If only he had upbraided her, or scolded her, or made her the target of his cynicism. All that she could have withstood, but not the look of agony that had filled his eyes, the real agony that had been so close to the surface throughout his transparent attempts to manipulate her. Oh, he was still acting. He was playing yet another role as he tried to convince her to stay with him. But it was not an act that he needed her. It was not an act how desperately he wanted her to stay.
She must not give in to him! She must make herself turn away from that teasing smile of his, no matter how beautiful it made her feel. She must remind herself how dangerous beauty was to a woman alone and unprotected. She must not let herself become dependent on the electricity she felt in his presence even if it made her feel as if she were alive for the very first time. She must be strong. She must push him away and respond to his enticements with coldness. She must gather herself up and sweep out of the door. She must give him no hint of how hard it would be for her to leave him. He would only use it against her.
