by Gayle Eden
“No. But then, any woman with sense takes compliments with a grain of salt.”
“Your sense is without question.” His lips quirked. “You’ve wit and a saucy tongue on you, too. And before I’m accused of anything else, I also know you were well educated.”
She was studying him again. Elisha counted that as a plus, although he was aware she had said he looked sinister. To test that claim, he drawled, “Do my looks intimidate you, Lisette.”
“Hardly.” She snorted, but pulled her eyes from him. Smoothing one of her gloves, she offered, “It’s nothing to do with looks. I find it difficult to believe you would be swayed by them either. I mean, that they would overrule the fact that I am a Wimberly.”
He eased away and took a few steps, deliberately blocking her view so she had to look at him.
When her gaze rose to his, he offered, “There is always more to a person than gossip and reputation, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever I thought before I knew the duke and duchess, your family, I have altered that since getting to know them better. Aside from the Marquis—and I find I can even tolerate him from time to time. Your brothers, your parents, I quite liked.”
Her gaze shifted then came back. “I will admit, I know you only by observation. However—it changes not the fact that I am no in hurry to wed anyone.”
“I have no objection to waiting. So long as we have an understanding...”
* * * *
Bloody Hell. Lisette found herself avoiding those molten eyes. She was going to blame everything on the champagne of course; otherwise, she would not be here in the alcove, having this conversation.
By everything, she meant her odd reactions to his touch when he held her hand, or his compliments—his gaze too. That grin or quirk of lips—that while it did not soften his visage completely, it certainly was attractive—in a stomach tingling kind of way.
While she thought of a retort, one to hopefully end the conversation and get it through his skull that they would never have an understanding—she could scarcely believe this man talking to her was the one who kept himself aloof and stood back from everyone else.
This was not going to happen. She was going to get herself bloody out of this alcove and away from him.
“We have no understanding.” She put herself some distance from him. “Other than you need to understand I’m not changing my mind.” Lisette fired that salvo with an arch of her brow, and took off.
Marston watched her turn and fade into the crowd. He had done what he could, but she blocked him at every turn. He had thought for a moment—Bloody hell. It had been a long day. He needed to talk to Smith.
He took his leave shortly afterwards.
Chapter Two
Elisha Roulle entered his shadowy townhouse, afterwards taking off his long winter coat, gloves and hat, while offering some murmured polite word to the butler.
Fifteen feet away from the foyer, he could see the staircase that was somewhat illuminated by a light from the study further back. His usual retreat.
Tonight however he approached the stairs, already removing his formal black jacket and tugging the cravat off. By the time he reached his suite, he was in the white shirt and his black trousers.
Absently, he tossed the items in a sitting room chair. The fire there had a screen against it. Its illumination spread low across the green and white chamber, flickering on the silk stripe in the ivory settee and chair cushions, and on the cherry wood tables and a large vase in the corner. Windows were tall and uncovered so that London’s snowfall presented itself via a trickle of flakes that floated past. Stark in contrast to the backdrop of night sky.
The tread of his boots sounded when he stepped off that carpet and passed through the doorway of his chambers.
The house was a tomb on any day but since his stay with the Duke of Wimberly’s boisterous clan, it seemed an even more austere habitation. It had ever been a grim dwelling thanks to the ruthlessness of his father.
There was a fire glowing in a hearth, opposite the massive bed. That furnishing he had fashioned with great posts decorated with carved leaves. Its size was double that of normal beds. The bolster and pillows were plush, deep ruby and black. There was a reason he put so much care into what he slept on. Chairs flanked the hearth. Beside them sat a table with a decanter and glass.
He went to the chair for now, and sat down rather heavily before leaning to remove his boots. He putt them aside and was undoing his shirt whilst pouring that glass full of whiskey one handed. When the tails of the shirt hung free, the front open, he sat back, lifted the glass, and drank a long pull. Resting his hands on the chair arms, one holding the tumbler, Elisha stared into the flames. The sounds of crackling wood, a clock ticking, his breathing, seemed magnified.
Firelight played over his fierce features, enhancing his swarthy skin and lighting in the silver eyes, glittering over the unyielding bones of his jaw, chin and high cheekbones. It brought out the contrast in the pristine white of his shirt, the softness of the material against the cut plains of his chest and muscled abdomen, and the black hair at his navel, a hint of deep peach nipples from the thinness of the material.
He was oblivious to all save for the warmth the fire provided, along with the mellow whiskey in his throat and belly.
His raven lashes narrowed with the focus of his thoughts.
He was losing, instead of gaining ground, with Lady Lisette.
The sound of footfalls registered in his mind, but it did not disturb him. He half expected it when a shadow passed by him and then the man he called, Smith, was seating himself in the matching chair. Elisha flickered him a glance, noticing he was in his shirtsleeves, buff trousers and wine hued boots.
“You didn’t come to the study,” that smooth deep timbre sounded.
“No.” Elisha took another mouthful from the glass and swallowed.
“How did it go?”
“I’m losing ground. I’m no closer than I was two months ago.” He watched sparks fly upwards and then shower down onto the blanket of flames.
“Did you stick to your plan?”
“Yes.”
There was silence a moment. Marston turned his gaze again on the man.
Those tawny brown eyes were calm on him. The intelligent features were saved from handsome by a break at some point in the bridge of his roman nose. Smith had a compelling visage, attractively molded lips, straight brows, and strong bones. Longish hair, wavy, was tucked behind his ears and lying on the shoulders of a banded-collar shirt that had a few buttons undone. The linen was creased from having been worn all day and had gathers at the shoulders. As were most comfortable shirts needing no starch. Smith’s hair picked up the fire glow, enhancing the caramel and russet shade.
“They will likely be leaving for Wimberly when the weather breaks. The duchess will want to prepare the wedding for their heir, Demetrious. I believe he said something about making a northern estate his home, and likely will, with his bride. I doubt he will wait long to make her that. In any event, the family will leave. The master James had to be back with his regiment by dawn and Aiden to his crew.”
“Do you think her Grace will invite you down?”
“No.” Marston looked back into the flames. “I believe she had hopes... However, she loves her daughter. She won’t force Lisette.” He took another drink.
“Have you kissed her?”
A snort sounded from Elisha. “Have you not been attending my progress, or rather lack of it? No, I have not. She wants nothing to do with me.”
“Are you sure it is not marriage in general?”
“She doesn’t want to settle down to married life. I have told you why. She is a woman who wants to enjoy and experience living.”
“Then it isn’t you in particular she disdains.”
“What difference does it make? It is the same. But to answer your question, she finds me intimidating.”
“I doubt it. She responds to you—in
other ways. Women like strong males with a bit of mystery about them.”
“Trust me, Marston’s are considered, bores, prigs, too condescending and high in the instep—but even were it just me, and not that façade and rep—she does not seem attracted.”
“Then make her attracted.”
When Elisha grunted, Smith said, “We’ve discussed your having to not be so aloof. A spirited woman like Lady Willington has a passionate nature. The Wimberly’s are, I hear. She’s moved in the faster circles and is used to a certain boldness and bluntness.”
“Even were she, I doubt she would consider my interest.”
There was a sigh, a creak of the chair. Elisha watched Smith go over and lean an arm on the mantle, one knee slightly bent. His hand was absently rubbing his cheek, Smith said, “I observed that you did exceptionally well when the Marquis was here. Not only held your own, but also was at ease. From what you told me, it was equally so with her other siblings?”
“Matching wits with Demetrius comes easy, and her brothers are as they all are, including servants and those in their circle—affable and easy going chaps. They are whom they are, confident and possessing a certain kind of humor that likely comes from having all those mixed siblings. As well as being the children of the eccentric duchess. The duke is, for the most part, jovial. They are a family with little pretense. Their mistakes are open for anyone to judge, but so too is their warm nature.”
“Well, she is an heiress, but not an ordinary one. She’s as her family is.”
“In some respects. Most.” Marston agreed. “But that stint being confined when younger makes her a bit different.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I should turn my attentions elsewhere.”
“No. A well-trained, well behaved, proper deb, is the least thing you need.”
Elisha stared at him after that strong objection. He muttered coldly, “I told you what she thinks of me. I cannot force her to accept my company. Even should I, that doesn’t mean she would—care for me.”
Smith pushed away from the mantle and came to take his chair again. “I believe you made a friend of the Marquis of Fielding. No matter what it seemed like. We both know his sort respects men who can hold their own.”
“He’s a sharp wit, but had those demons riding his back. I simply recognized something we had in common, despite my preconceived notions of him.”
“Yes. You re-introduced yourself to the Marquis of Wolford. And while he is a steady sort, impressively intelligent, he’s also a man of the world and he wed an unconventional bride.”
“True. But even should I be invited, I am starting to feel the ass for showing up where Lisette doesn’t want me.”
“You still want her?”
Roughly, Elisha said, “More than ever.”
In his mind were a thousand images of her, aside from how ravishing she looked at the ball, images with the backdrop of autumn hues, the sight of her on horseback, in trousers, riding through the woods with that hair in a braid and a flush to her skin. Laughing, teasing with her brothers, at billiards, at cards, or running up the stairs, passing him as he had descended, with her hair rippling nearly to her waist, and wearing a simple skirt and blouse—at times those aqua eyes meeting his for a split second.
There were images before, before he had gone to Wimberly. They made him follow her to that sophisticated salon that evening. He had been observing Lisette for a while before he knew she was the rakehell’s sister—one of those wild Wimberly offspring. She did not attend many of the stricter balls, but went to the livelier and exciting ones—the ones mostly forbidden girls her age.
He had been fascinated with her. Not only with her open expressions and full laughter, even in a park filled with disapproving society matrons, but by the way she moved. When close enough, the way she talked; blunt, witty, but also with passion. At the museum, on Bond Street, it became the highlight of his week if he spotted her.
That is how Smith discovered it, by observing him, and by witnessing how he could not seem to keep his eyes of her.
Of course, Smith understood why.
That man cut through his thoughts again with, “Will you try one last thing before giving up completely?”
“What?” Elisha finished the whiskey and stood, taking off the shirt and tossing it on a trunk at the foot of the bed.
Smith followed him into the bathing chamber where Marston washed his face in a pan and then dried it.
“Go and see her, tell her you are there to give your regards to the graces, and wish them well, thank her for her hospitality. Tell her—that you wish her well also, that you will not trouble her with your attentions further.
Walking back into the bedchamber, Elisha shot him a raised brow look. “Do you want to write all of that down?”
Smith grinned and leaned a shoulder against the post. “You’ll remember and carry it all off with ease. Just be sure you put…passion… into the thing.”
“Goodnight, Smith.” Elisha looked at him pointedly.
The man nodded but was still smiling when he left.
Lying on the bed, hands stacked under his head, Elisha played out how such a scene might go. When he was satisfied, he closed his eyes. He saw one of her slow smiles in his mind’s eye, and the way she lifted her hair off her nape. Everything in him stirred, but he pushed it down and sought sleep.
* * * *
Lisette sat in one of the private parlors at her father’s house. It was mid-evening. She had slept like the dead after that ball, and too much champagne. She had been dragging when her mother summoned her downstairs and then she had told her Marston wished to speak with her.
Half in panic that he was going to do something drastic—like propose, no one could be more dumbfounded—particularly she, who had cut up, protested, been rude and obvious in her rejection of him—when he gave a quiet and eloquent speech, telling her all that he had relayed to the duke and duchess, thanking the family for their hospitably at Wimberly, and congratulating Deme and Haven.
Subsequently, from his place by the mantle in front of her, he had turned those silvery eyes at her and added, “Your mother informs me you are all departing for Wimberly, and since it is doubtful you and I shall be in company again, I wanted to relay to you my well wishes—for whatever you endeavor to do in life.”
He did that thing…that half smile that so captivated her at the ball. Captivated against her will, of course.
He murmured, “I admire your spirit and zest for living, Lisette. In spite of us being at cross purposes, I enjoyed watching you at Wimberly, your hobbies, your rapport with your siblings.” He pulled away and came over, reaching out his hand.
She could hardly explain or control the accelerated beat of her heart as she lay her own in it. He bowed, pressing his lips to her knuckles. Lisette nearly moaned from sparks skittering over her skin.
Straightening, those eyes gazed at her through half-mast sooty lashes; she still thought his features unyielding. He was a tall man, muscular and dark—but why did his lips look so sensual. His eyes seemed far from cold. More a molten gray?
Marston said huskily, “Should distance give you a more objective view of me, I remain your humble servant.” He bowed again and then left the room.
Never in her life at a loss for words—in fact such a thing would cause alarm for anyone who knew her—Lisette got to her feet and watched him pass through the door and then out.
A frown marred her brow. She realized a hand was pressed to her stomach, and for the life of her, she did not know why she felt so—upset.
Her Mama entered the room shortly afterwards, dressed in a day gown of cobalt blue and having her hair up. She smiled and reached for her hands. “There now, you have gotten your wish. I know you have not been pleased with me since I set my mind on Marston, but I did hope…” She sighed. “Never mind, you shall hear no more of it from me.” She kissed Lisette’s cheeks.
When releasing her, she added, “He was quite eloquent in his words to me, Lisette. I do not dou
bt to you also. Even if you could not care for him, I do believe his rep is undeserved.”
The duchess rang for tea. She seated herself. “Come, have tea with me before you’re off to some amusement. The ball wore me thin, I shall stay in tonight.”
They had tea, and Lisette thanked her for the Birthday ball. They talked of a million things. Nevertheless, her mind was still back on those moments the Viscount was in the room.
Later still, Lisette got dressed to go out. She really had no desire to. Deme and Haven were in a cozy chat with the duke and duchess—making wedding plans, no doubt. Particularly since Haven announced at the late breakfast that she might be with child—carrying the next heir. Everyone was thrilled. Patrick and her father were over the moon. However, it meant the leaving and that the wedding needed to ensue sooner than later.
Standing before the mirror, Lisette smoothed her gown. It had a close fitting bodice with embroidered designs, a straight falling skirt and long sleeves. She liked that the maid had done her hair up with combs and let it fall free. After last night’s elaborate do, she could not stand another. This was simply using the curls that remained, looser but at least the combs felt light. A bit of cosmetics enhanced her eyes and lips. She turned and got her fur-lined cape from the bed.
A night at the theater perhaps? Her father and Deme had a box there. Society would be abuzz with the shocking display Deme and Haven had put on.
That was nothing new for the Wimberly’s.
She went down the stairs, seeing the maids and servants going about duties—tired also, she knew, which was why her mother and the others were having a quiet evening. Her parents preferred she take a maid if she was not going to have Lady Juliette or Haven with her, but Lisette felt fairly safe by herself. She always had a weapon on her, and could use it. Tonight it was a small pistol in the inside pocket of her cape. Sometimes she carried a dirk in her garter. Her mama had told her to, when she first brought her to London. It was cold, snowy out, and Samuel was at the ribbons instead of Haven’s father.
“Is it too much trouble, Samuel?” She asked looking about the streets. “You could get a hack for me.”
