The Love of a Libertine

by Jess Michaels

  Lizzie folded her arms. “It isn’t as if I don’t make myself available. I visit the village regularly and call on a great many friends and tenants.”

  “Of course you do,” Amelia rushed to agree. “I only mean…Lizzie, I worry about you. Your desire to avoid all gatherings like this, I fear, will limit your choices in the future.”

  Lizzie shifted. “I assume you mean my marital choices.”

  “Yes, to be blunt about it. It isn’t that anyone expects you to marry tomorrow. You are young and have many years to find the right person. But if you refuse to look or make any attempt, then how will you ever do so?”

  “Hugh will arrange a marriage for me eventually,” Lizzie said with a little shrug that dismissed her darker feelings on the subject. “We will discuss what match will make the most sense from a financial perspective and a title advantage. I will meet the person and if I feel I could get along with them on a basic level, then we’ll marry.”

  Amelia stared at her, lips parted with surprise and, it seemed, horror. “Lizzie!”

  Lizzie shook her head. “What? That is how it is done in our world.”

  “Perhaps in some corners of our world, but never ours. You cannot want such a bloodless, loveless union. Not when you are surrounded by friends who are made so happy by love! By passion. You cannot tell me that you want something less than a true union of the heart.”

  “I don’t want that,” Lizzie insisted, though there was a twinge of regret in her heart that she shoved away so the words rang strong and true.

  “A great many people have said the same,” Amelia insisted, worrying her hands before her. “But you know love is true. That it’s real.”

  “I also know it isn’t for me,” Lizzie said as firmly as she could muster.

  Amelia stared at her, eyes wide and shiny with tears that didn’t fall. Tears of pain and pity and loss. Lizzie hated that she had put them there, but this had been a conversation a long time in the making and perhaps it was best to have it and be done with it.

  Amelia cleared her throat. “Perhaps you could—”

  Lizzie held up a hand to interrupt her. “I know you mean well. I love you more than anything for it. But I cannot risk what you are describing, Amelia. I won’t.”

  Now Amelia’s jaw set and the expression on her face went from grief to anger. “I hate that Aaron Walters did this to you. I hate that he took something you feel you cannot get back.”

  “Virginity is not retrievable,” Lizzie said, and felt her cheeks heat with a blush.

  “It’s not your virginity I’m referring to,” Amelia said, arching a brow.

  “Well, I’m not sorry,” Lizzie declared, brightening her tone as best she could. “I mean, I am. Of course I am. But what I went through…it brought you to Hugh, didn’t it? So there’s…something good from the bad, and that is enough for me.”

  Amelia was silent for a beat, and then she whispered, “We want you to be happy, my love.”

  Lizzie stepped forward and took her sister-in-law’s hand. She lifted it to her heart, and for a moment the two women simply held stares, connected as they had been since the first moment Lizzie met Amelia. They’d been true sisters ever since, and she knew Amelia would feel her heart if she allowed it.

  “Then let me stay home,” Lizzie said softly. “I am not up for the assembly tonight. I will do it some other time.”

  Amelia’s breath left her lips in a shuddering sigh, but Lizzie knew it was a sound of surrender. She’d won this battle, though it didn’t feel like a triumph of any kind. When she saw Amelia’s pity, it felt more like a defeat. “If that is what you want, I will speak to Hugh.”

  “Very good,” Lizzie said with a sigh of her own. “Come, I was thinking about going to the music room to practice my pianoforte. I’ll walk with you to my brother’s study.”

  Amelia nodded and the two linked arms as they exited her private parlor and walked down the hall together. “You won’t make a fuss with Katherine and Charlotte, will you?” Lizzie asked as they neared Hugh’s study.

  Amelia shook her head. “I’ll tell them you felt under the weather. A slight headache.”

  Lizzie was going to answer her, to thank her for her discretion, but she was distracted as Morgan rounded a corner from the opposite side of the hall and came toward them with a long, certain stride. He was wearing a jacket today, and the buttons strained slightly against that broad chest.

  He smiled as he saw them standing a few feet from Hugh’s office. A bright, wide smile that made Lizzie want to return the expression, no matter how fraught her morning had been. But she fought the urge and merely inclined her head in his direction as a greeting, then squeezed Amelia’s hand and slipped away from the both toward the music room. She hoped there she could find a little peace.

  It seemed the last place it existed for her in this house. And she needed to lock everything out, especially Morgan Banfield, and find that peace again.

  Morgan and the duchess stood together, watching as Lizzie walked away down the hall without anything more than an acknowledging nod in their direction. The duchess let out a tiny, almost imperceptible sigh of worry and then gave him a strained smile.

  “Good morning, Mr. Banfield. I assume my husband is working away in his study?”

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” he returned as he opened the door and motioned her to enter first. “Please join us. I know he will enjoy the interruption if it is you who creates it.”

  “Banfield, did you find that ledger?” Brighthollow said without looking up from his desk.

  “I did, Your Grace. And I found something else I thought you might wish to see,” Morgan said, and the duchess laughed.

  That brought Brighthollow’s head up from his work, and his expression softened with pure pleasure as his gaze fell on his wife. “I will take this interruption every day,” he said, pushing to his feet and motioning Morgan to the desk.

  Morgan stepped away to take the seat that Brighthollow had abandoned and dipped his gaze into the ledger to give the pair a moment of privacy.

  “You do not know what a light you bring into this room,” Brighthollow said as he kissed his wife’s hand and drew her a little closer. “That gown is beautiful. I always convince myself you cannot be so beautiful, that I must have conjured you as a dream, but then you come into the room and prove me very happily wrong.”

  The duchess rested a hand on his chest with a smile. “You are a charmer today. How goes the work?”

  Brighthollow sent a quick glance back at Morgan. “Very well. It seems I drag ledgers all over this house, so Mr. Banfield is being so kind as to retrieve them for a long-needed review.”

  “It is no trouble,” Morgan said, keeping his gaze in the books. “I believe we have them all here now.”

  “And what about you?” Brighthollow asked, his attention returning, always and forever, to his wife. “Did you talk to Lizzie?”

  Morgan froze, quill balanced above the ledger, at the mention of Elizabeth. He glanced up briefly and saw the duchess’s concern plain across her pretty face.

  “I…did. She cried off the assembly ball tonight, just as I feared she would.” The duchess let out a shuddering sigh.

  Brighthollow’s shoulders rolled forward. “I see. I had hoped you could convince her.”

  “I tried,” Her Grace said, and there was a hint of tears thickening her voice. “Oh, Hugh, she still blames herself for—”

  Morgan tensed and lifted his gaze again, but she cut herself off before she could reveal anything of value to him. But now he had a hint of something he hadn’t known before. Elizabeth blamed herself for something. What, he couldn’t imagine. What could a gentle and genteel lady such as she have done that required self-blame?

  He couldn’t imagine she’d ever had a wild streak or done anyone harm. It wasn’t in her nature. He knew that after spending five minutes in her company.

  Brighthollow cupped his wife’s cheek, and Morgan realized he was wiping a tear from her
skin. Then he sighed. “I’ll talk to her about it.”

  “I don’t know,” Her Grace said. “We’ve talked it to death, haven’t we? I see her panic every time the subject is broached. We need to reevaluate our plan, I think. Perhaps just leave her be for a while.”

  “Wait too long and her moment might pass,” Brighthollow mused.

  “Push too hard and she’ll shut us out forever,” his wife whispered. “Things are going to change soon, Hugh. For all of us.”

  Brighthollow seemed to consider that a moment. He cast a quick glance at Morgan, who continued working away as if he hadn’t heard a bit of this conversation. That was what servants did, wasn’t it? They faded into the woodwork, pretended not to see or hear or imagine.

  That was his place now. Even if it wasn’t his nature.

  “You’re right,” Brighthollow said, and leaned in to gently kiss his wife. “We’ll discuss it later. Perhaps tonight with Charlotte and Ewan. They might have advice.”

  The duchess squeezed his hand. “Perhaps. I’ll see you later. Good afternoon, Mr. Banfield.”

  She slipped away, and Brighthollow came to the opposite side of the desk and sank into a chair. For a moment, he stared straight ahead, his gaze blank as if he were in some faraway place. Thinking of Elizabeth, it seemed. Worrying over her, for that was clear as anything.

  Morgan couldn’t help but think of his own brother. Robert was making attempts to connect recently. This assistance in obtaining the position here was one example. But he couldn’t imagine Roseford crashing himself on the rocks with such power as Brighthollow did for Elizabeth.

  He found himself a little jealous of their powerful bond.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Morgan said, not looking at Brighthollow but keeping his focus on the line of numbers before him.

  “No,” Brighthollow said, and his sharp tone made Morgan glance at him. The duke had speared him with a focused glare. “Let us discuss the ledgers, shall we?”

  Morgan inclined his head, giving over to whatever his employer desired because there was little other choice. But his mind was left to ponder what he’d overheard regarding Elizabeth. That she was in trouble of some kind intrigued him. And even if he shouldn’t, he wanted to find out exactly what kind of trouble it was.

  Chapter 8

  Silence was Lizzie’s only companion as she took a long stroll down the hallways of the house. The entire party had left for the assembly ball an hour before, and at first she had enjoyed the quiet and peace of only the occasional servant bobbing by and the tick of the clock as she worked on her needlepoint.

  The joy of silence had lasted a while. Except in the past quarter of the hour, she had begun to feel…restless. A little lonely.

  But that was ridiculous, of course. She wasn’t lonely. Being alone was a perfectly wonderful state to be in. There was nothing wrong with it.

  Which was how she’d found herself walking down the halls toward the library. She’d find a friend in a book, just as she always did. That would quiet the regrets in her mind.

  “Not regrets,” she growled at herself through clenched teeth. “I have no regrets. I didn’t want to go to the ball, I didn’t want to exhibit for a passel of people. I wanted to be by myself, and by myself I…”

  She trailed off as she entered the library and found Morgan Banfield among the books for the second time since his arrival. He was sitting before the fire, a book in hand, but he looked up as she entered the room. His dark brown gaze swept over her from head to toe before he shut the book with a soft thud. “Good evening, Elizabeth.”

  She swallowed hard. “You—you shouldn’t call me that.”

  He blinked, almost as if he hadn’t realized he was doing so. Then he pushed to his feet and tossed the book onto the side table. With a shrug, he said, “That’s probably true. But I’ve spent my life not following rules. This transition to doing so isn’t always easy.”

  Those words were a stark reminder and Lizzie folded her arms as a shield before her. “Yes. I can see that about you.”

  “Directives, though,” he drawled as he came closer by a long step. “Those I’m exceedingly good at. Do you want me to be proper, Elizabeth? Because if you do, I will. But I think perhaps we might be…friends at some point.”

  She bent her head. He was testing her. The universe was testing her, it seemed, by sending him here and making him exactly as he was. What she should do, of course, was to set him down and demand he address her properly, whether in private or public. What she should do was walk away from him and find something else to do with her time.

  But she didn’t. Because he asked her what she wanted and right now what she wanted flew to the top of her mind, taunting her. She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to hear her name from his lips. She wanted to be…imprudent.

  Even though she knew the consequences of such a thing.

  “My friends…” She caught her breath. “My friends call me Lizzie…Morgan.”

  He arched a brow and a smile tilted his lips. “And is that what you want me to call you? That childhood name?”

  She hesitated. She’d been Lizzie so long, she hadn’t really ever thought about it in those terms. “I suppose it is my childhood name. Hugh always called me Lizzie and then everyone else did the same for as long as I can recall.”

  “But I don’t think you’re that person anymore,” he said softly.

  She tensed because there was a hint of knowledge in his stare. He didn’t guess that—he knew that. How, she wasn’t certain. Was it just because he was so observant or had he heard something? Had he been told something? Her cheeks heated at the thought.

  “No,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “I suppose I’m not. Time and experience changes us all.”

  “That it does,” he said. “So shall I call you Lizzie like the rest? Or Elizabeth?”

  She worried her lip for a moment. How did he do that? How did he just spew a few words and turn her on her head? Demand she look at herself in some new way? It was exceedingly frustrating.

  But he was still waiting for an answer to his question, so she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered, “Elizabeth.”

  He gave just the hint of a smile, then turned and picked up the book he’d discarded upon her entry. He crossed to the shelf and placed it back where it belonged, and without looking at her said, “Were you looking for something?”

  She swallowed. Here was her opportunity to walk away. To lie and say she just saw the light beneath the door or that she didn’t come in for anything.

  Only she didn’t. She stepped closer, hating herself for not being able to resist. “A book to pass the time,” she admitted.

  He pivoted and speared her with another of those close glances. “Because the others are at the assembly ball,” he said. “And you didn’t go.”

  She pursed her lips. He was challenging her, or it felt that way. And she went on the defensive immediately. “I didn’t want to,” she snapped, perhaps more sharply than she had intended to.

  “Why?”

  She glared at him. “Why do you have so many questions?” she burst out. “Why are you always watching everyone?”

  His eyebrows lifted at the unexpected outburst. “Am I?”

  She huffed out a breath. “Please don’t play me for a fool. Of course you are, I see it every time you’re in a room. You look through me, you look through everyone. Like you’re trying to see everything.”

  He shifted slightly, and for a moment she saw a slip of the mask he always wore. His eyes darted away from hers. So he didn’t like to be seen, even if he could see. Well, it served him right.

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we all have different ways of…coping.”

  She was shocked at the response, given so softly and so directly. “Coping?” she repeated.

  He shrugged, and she saw his struggle in maintaining a nonchalant distance at this topic. “Of course. You hide. I…see. They’re both ways to keep the darkness away, aren’t they?”

/>   Her breath was short. She could hardly find it as she stood staring up at this man. This utterly confusing, fascinating man who shouldn’t be in her library. Who shouldn’t call her by her first name. Who shouldn’t speak of darkness because it wasn’t a polite dinner topic.

  But he did and was all of those things.

  “For a while,” she admitted.

  There was a flutter of a smile on his face, but it was not accompanied by pleasure. No, it was a pained expression. “I suppose we are both finding that out. Demons are a difficult thing.”

  She edged a little closer. They were still three long paces apart, but it felt like the room shrank every time either one of them took any quarter.

  “What are your demons, Morgan Banfield?” she asked, even though she shouldn’t want to know. Shouldn’t pry.

  He arched a brow and leaned a little closer. “I’m not sure you want to know the answer to that question, Lizzie.”

  That nickname was a slur from his lips. An accusation that she was too innocent to understand.

  So she stepped up once more, closing the gap further, and put her hands on her hips.

  “I asked the question. Perhaps you are too afraid to answer it.”

  There was a fire in Elizabeth’s eyes that Morgan hadn’t seen before. A challenge to answer his own when he had expected a retreat. People so rarely surprised him that he wasn’t prepared for this slip of a woman who rocked him on his heels.

  No one ever asked him about his life. No one ever saw past the façade he had so carefully crafted during years and years of necessity. But here Elizabeth was. And he felt the strangest urge to…tell her. To strip himself open and let her see everything ugly. Maybe it would be better for both of them in the end, at that.

  She would surely run if she knew the truth. Stop stalking him across the library with those blue eyes like sapphires.

  “You must be able to guess, my lady,” he drawled, reverting to casual flirtation because it was his safest place. “With a brother like mine. With a father like mine. I’m an infamous bastard, Elizabeth. Isn’t that demon enough?”