A Season of Ruin (11 page)

They didn't dance so much as they floated across the floor.

She forgot about Mrs. Tittleton. She forgot about the ache in her feet and the terrified child lost in a maze. She forgot why she'd been in such a frenzy over Robyn's behavior. She forgot about Miss Thurston and Miss Darlington and Lord Atherton.

She forgot it all, and let the music flow into the open spaces in her mind where all those worries had been, until she could hear only the swell of the strings and could feel only Robyn's hand, warm and firm against her back.

“There. That's it. You're safe.” His lips grazed the top of her head.

But she wasn't safe. No woman was safe with a man whose touch burned through the silk of her gown as if he held hot coals in his palm. She was more lost now than she'd ever been in that puzzle maze.

The thought drifted through the dimmest recesses of her mind, but it was there and gone so swiftly she wondered if she'd imagined it, and imagined the gentle press of his lips against the wisps of hair at her forehead.

She and Robyn spun into another turn and indistinct faces blurred in and out of her line of vision. The light shifted as it moved over the silk skirts of the lady next to her, a rich magenta, a flash of blood red, like a jewel. Lily noticed the startling whiteness of Robyn's shirt, his strong jaw above his cravat, the shadow of a beard just emerging, and felt the movement of his muscular arm under her gloved fingertips. She looked down at his hand, so much larger than hers, and saw the pale blue silk of her skirts brush against his black breeches.

She heard a soft gasp and realized it came from her.

When the last notes of music finally died away, neither she nor Robyn moved for a moment. The seconds ticked past, one after the other as they stood motionless on the floor. Lily felt the most overwhelming urge to rest her head against his chest.

At last Robyn took her hand. “Come.” He placed her hand on his arm to escort her back to Lady Catherine.

Lily didn't notice the stares, the heads turning to follow their progress, or the young ladies with their lips pressed against their companion's ears.

“Lily,” Lady Catherine said as they approached. Her hand fluttered nervously at her throat. “It grows late.”

Lily looked from Lady Catherine to Ellie, who stared at Robyn, her mouth a thin, grim line.

Whatever was the matter?

Charlotte took a step toward Lily and caught her hand. “Oh, Lily. Didn't you know—”

Lady Catherine laid a warning hand on Charlotte's shoulder and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Charlotte fell silent.

“I'm quite fatigued,” Lady Catherine said in a faint voice.

“Yes. I am, as well.” Ellie took Lily's arm and drew her away from Robyn. “It's time we went home.”

Robyn opened the front door and peered with one bloodshot eye through the crack he'd made, then leapt back, his hand flying up to shield his face.

Jesus
. What business did the sun have to shine so insistently? He'd never known it to do so before. Then again, as he rarely saw London in the daytime, he wasn't one to judge. He opened the door a little wider and peered out, blinking and cursing at the continued assault on his retinas.

He glanced around, but no one was about. The street in front of the Mayfair town house was deserted. It was early yet. The
ton
wouldn't be caught dead rising at this hour. They'd still be asleep, or lounging in their beds with their chocolate in one hand and the scandals sheets in the other.

The scandal sheets—the very reason he was awake, upright, and outdoors at such an ungodly hour. Robyn continued to shield his eyes with a hand as he felt his way down the town house stairs and turned onto one of the quiet streets
of Mayfair. He doubted he'd have to hunt for long before Mrs. Tittleton turned up.

Twenty minutes later he strolled back up to the town house with the scandal sheet tucked under his arm. He peered around the corner. The street was still deserted. He unfolded the sheet, but kept it close to his chest in case anyone crept up behind him and tried to read over his shoulder. He didn't know why he was behaving like a thief smuggling stolen goods past a Bow Street runner. In another few hours all of London would read the story for themselves.

Still, even a condemned man deserved a brief reprieve before the noose tightened around his neck.

He looked down at the scandal sheet and there it was, staring back at him, complete with an illustration of a couple engaged in a risqué waltz. The gentleman leered down at the lady's exposed bosom and one of his gloved hands squeezed her arse. Horrified aristocrats surrounded the scandalous couple, hands over their mouths, and more than one young lady had fallen into a faint.

Robyn had to admit the swooning debutantes were a nice touch.

My dear devoted readers:

It pains Mrs. Tittleton to be obliged to report yet another lapse in propriety so soon after the scandalous events that took place just a few short days ago at Lord and Lady B-----'s musical evening; events that so shocked Mrs. Tittleton's gentle readers. But alas, it seems Mr. R-b—t S—-r—d and Miss L—y S—r—t's passionate enthusiasm for each other's company resulted in another display of affection so improper, several innocent debutantes were carried out of Almack's ballroom in a swoon.

Mrs. Tittleton regrets extremely that fashionable young gentlemen will forget themselves so thoroughly
as to carry on in such a disgraceful manner at Almack's, London's very temple of good breeding. This is to say nothing of certain young ladies who disregard, with casual insolence, Almack's stricture against waltzing without express permission from our esteemed hostesses.

More than one witness to the indecency reported seeing Mr. R-b—t S—-r—d press his lips against Miss L—y S—r—t's golden curls. Mrs. Tittleton feels it incumbent upon her to ask, on behalf of her faithful readers, and with a deeply regretful sigh: What next, Mr. R-b—t S—-r—d and Miss S—r—t? What next?

Robyn reached up to loosen his cravat, but his fingers met only bare skin. Right. He hadn't yet donned his cravat. The noose had tightened. The executioner was hoisting the rope. He needed to see to Lily at once, or he'd swing for sure.

To be fair, he
had
slipped the noose about his own neck.

He'd gone a bit fuzzy around the edges after Lily informed him he was dismissed from his post as escort, but he was reasonably sure he'd never squeezed her arse. He'd remember
that
, if he remembered nothing else.

Even without the arse squeeze, it was bad enough.

But devil take it, a man didn't like to be tossed aside like pair of worn-out Hessians. Surely Lily could understand he had his pride to consider? That was all it was, of course—pride.

Perhaps she wouldn't see it that way, though.

He glanced down at Mrs. Tittleton and thought of Lily's face when she'd told him about being lost in a maze as a child.

Damnation.
Perhaps he'd made just the
tiniest
miscalculation this time.

He'd make it right. He'd be the very model of a perfect escort from now on. If he could just get to Lily before she
found out about this on her own, he could explain. She'd forgive him. Everyone always did.

He folded the paper back under his arm and dashed up the town house stairs.

“Rylands!” He slammed the door shut behind him. “What time is it?”

Rylands, as usual, stood guard in the foyer. “Not yet eight o'clock, sir,” the butler replied in a faintly accusing tone. “In the
morning
,” he added, as if this point needed instant clarification.

“Yes, thank you, Rylands. I did notice quite a large, bright object in the sky. I assume it's the sun. Has my mother come down yet? Or either of my sisters?”

Rylands's left eyebrow rose infinitesimally, just enough to indicate disapproval without being insolent. Another person wouldn't have even noticed it, but Robyn had been on the receiving end of Rylands's eloquent eyebrow before.

“No, sir.”

“Miss Somerset?”

Another barely discernible eyebrow quirk. “No, sir.”

What had he done to set off the eyebrow this morning? Surely Rylands hadn't read Mrs. Tittleton?

“Good.”

Robyn took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the landing on the third floor, he didn't turn left toward his own bedchamber, but instead glanced down over the railing and into the foyer below. He couldn't see Rylands from this angle, which meant Rylands couldn't see him, either.

Robyn turned right, toward the guest wing of the house.

He didn't intend to enter Lily's bedchamber, of course, but there could be no impropriety in waiting outside her door for her to emerge for breakfast, and unless Mrs. bloody Tittleton also lurked in the hallway outside Lily's room, no one had to know.

He came to a stop outside her bedchamber. Eight o'clock.
They'd arrived home from Almack's rather late. It could be ages before she emerged, so—

Thump.

Robyn pressed his ear to the door and heard a faint splash, the unmistakable sound of water being poured from a pitcher into a porcelain bowl.

Lily was awake. He could hear her footsteps as she moved about the room.

She may be awake, but experience had taught him that women could linger in their bedchamber for ages, even when they were in there alone.

Perhaps he'd just knock. No harm in knocking. He wouldn't enter her bedchamber, but would speak to her from the hallway.

Yes, he'd better knock and get this over with. He didn't have all day to stand around and wait for Lily to dress and come down for breakfast.

Well, actually, he
did
have all day, but that wasn't the point, was it? It wouldn't take but a minute to tell her about Mrs. Tittleton's latest assault, and another to reassure her that he'd help her out of the debacle. Then he could be on his way.

But wasn't there a chance Lily would be in dishabille when she answered the door? Or only partially dressed? If she were only partially dressed, it stood to reason she'd be partially undressed.

Lily.
Undressed
. Without her nun's garb. Perhaps in a sheer white night rail . . .

He swallowed. Try as he might, he couldn't think of any scenario in which it would be proper for him to see Lily undressed. Even so, his hand rose without his consent and his knuckles met the smooth wood of the door.

Surely she had a robe? Why, he wouldn't be able to see a thing through her robe. He wasn't going to enter her bedchamber in any case; he wouldn't be near enough for it to be at all improper.

“Yes? Come in,” Lily called.

Come in?
Well, since she insisted, it would be rude of him to refuse. It would be quieter in her room, and much more private, which was just as well, since it was a somewhat delicate matter they had to discuss. Yes, privacy was desirable.

Robyn took one guilty look behind him, but Mrs. Tittleton didn't leap from the shadows. No one did. The hallway was deserted.

He opened the door, stepped over the threshold, and closed it behind him.

And nearly fell to his knees.

He didn't see Lily, but he felt her here, everywhere at once, haunting every corner of the room. In a flash he was back in Lord Barrow's study with his face buried in her hair, inhaling that delicious scent of warm sun on meadow grasses, that this-is-what-daisies-would-smell-like-if-they-had-a-scent, scent.

Robyn looked about, but Lily didn't appear. He wandered across the room to her dressing table as if in a dream. There was none of the usual feminine clutter here; every bottle and jar was arranged in precise rows and Lily's ribbons and hair fripperies were stacked in a tidy pile in one corner. He retrieved a silver hairbrush, brought it to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled. An image rose in his mind of the brush moving slowly through Lily's silky, honey-colored waves.

Yes
.

He stumbled toward the bed, still clutching her brush. The scent was here, too. It rose from the bedclothes and drifted toward him, so palpable it felt as if someone had brushed a daisy against his lips. He stared down at the still unmade bed and pictured Lily tangled in the sheets, her long hair falling in fair waves across the pillow. He reached toward the bed, surprised to see his hand shook, and trailed his fingertips across the silky white sheets.

He seemed always to touch Lily like this, in half measures, with one finger only, or only with the tips of his fingers. Odd, because he liked to fill his hands with the warm, willing flesh of women he desired.

His hands, and his mouth.

But Lily's flesh wasn't warm and willing, and she wasn't a woman he desired. He liked women with spirit. Lily was too stiff. Too tidy. Too proper. He'd already decided that . . .

Dear God
. Her sheets were still warm.

He heard a shocked gasp behind him and whirled around. Lily had emerged from her dressing closet and stood in the middle of the room, white-faced and openmouthed.

She was
not
wearing a robe.

His sluggish brain ground into action and warned him to turn away, but Robyn's eyes had other ideas. They devoured the sight of her in her flimsy night rail. The sheer fabric billowed around her legs, too loose to reveal a thing, but the top of the gown skimmed over her upper body, and he could discern, oh so faintly, the pale pink tips of her breasts through the white gown.

Robyn stared, mesmerized, as those blush-colored peaks began to pearl right before his eyes.

He ran a shaking hand over his mouth.

What in God's name had possessed him to enter her bedchamber? It was a catastrophic mistake. He hadn't slept in days, not since those few stolen kisses in Lord Barrow's study, and now—
now
he'd been cursed with a glimpse of the rosiest, most mouthwatering nipples he'd ever seen.

Lily held a pink gown of some sort in her hands and she hastily jerked it in front of herself. Astonishment kept her from speaking for a moment. Her mouth worked and a few outraged squeaks emerged, but no words. She looked ready to strangle him with one of her warm, scented sheets.

When she did find her voice at last, it trembled with rage. “What do you think you're doing in here, Robyn? Leave my bedchamber at once!”

That was when Robyn made his second catastrophic mistake. “You
did
ask me to come in, Lily.”

Her eyes widened with disbelief. “I didn't—you—
what?
Leave, instantly!”

Robyn held his hands up in front of him and tiptoed toward the door, as if she were a wild animal about to spring on him and tear him to bits with her claws. “I only want to talk to you. I'll stand here, right by the door. I promise I won't move.”

Lily stamped her foot—actually stamped it. Robyn felt a helpless grin twist his lips. He tried to shove it back into his mouth, for he shuddered to think what Lily would do if he dared to
laugh
at her right now.

But she saw it, and what could only be described as a howl of rage tore from her throat. She hurled the pink gown at his head with all of her strength. Robyn grabbed it out of the air instinctively before it could hit his face.

Then they both stood there, staring at each other. Lily looked as though she wished she'd thought things through before she threw her gown at him, and Robyn tried with every fiber in his body
not
to look at her heaving breasts.

“Put your robe on,” he choked at last. “Once we've had a talk, I'll leave.”

Lily turned on her heel without another word and disappeared into her dressing room. She returned a few moments later with her robe cinched like a noose around her waist. She did look a bit more comfortable with the extra layer of protection.