Secrets of a Scandalous Bride (8 page)

Her heart melted a little. He did not once question her certainty of Pymm’s guilt, despite her complete lack of evidence.

It meant everything to her. Even Sarah had had grave reservations, and in her heart, Elizabeth feared her friends were helping her despite their own serious doubts as well. Sarah, and Ata, and all of her friends were loyal to a fault.

“Of course he did not ravish me. Don’t you think my father taught me how to defend my virtue? I know where a man’s vulnerable parts are.”

His lips were trembling, and she very much feared it was with laughter.

“I won’t forgive you if you laugh at me right now.”

A wicked smile curved his lips but not a sound escaped. “So…what sort of hold does he have on you, Elizabeth?”

“I did not give you leave to use my Christian name.”

His silent mocking smile was all she was to receive.

“I’ve told you everything of importance,” she insisted quietly. “Now, let go of me.”

“Or what?” he murmured. “About to breach my vulnerable parts, are you?”

“No. Yours are not in the usual place.”

He gaped at her. “Really? And just where are they?”

She looked up at the hardened planes of his lean face—a face that gave away nothing and wanted nothing. Here stood a human island buffeted by the winds of his ruinous past.

And she took a chance.

All at once she stood on her tiptoes and gently, oh-so-gently, brushed her lips against his firm mouth. “Here,” she whispered.

He exhaled roughly with a hiss.

“And here,” she continued, pressing her lips against the hollow of his faintly whiskered cheek. She pulled back slightly to examine his reaction.

He stood as expressionless and still as a sentry at St. James Palace. Only his eyes tracked her.

She pressed another kiss on his neck and felt his Adam’s apple bob. It was the only sign that she had breached the emotional landscape of a man who had formed private walls more secure than any fortress. She suspected he revealed himself to no one, not even to himself. It was the effect of grave deprivation in his childhood, something that could never be overcome. Yet she offered tenderness in the face of such stark austerity of emotions. Her hands barely touched him as they moved toward his taut belly—the root of his hunger.

He immediately stilled her fingers as they gently brushed the buttons of his gray silk waistcoat.

“Wrong paddock,” he whispered softly and put her from him.

Mortified by his incorrect assumption, she took a step back. But he followed her, his eyes hard and fixed on her. Without knowing, she found herself backed against a towering oak. He reached for her face, and she swallowed. Yet it was not a caress he sought to give. With gentleness, he disengaged the long forgotten itchy black wig from her head. “This is a goddamn travesty,” he murmured, while he pulled the pins from her hair, which she’d tried to flatten and hide. In silence he worked until he extracted the last pin and then he ran his fingers through her loosened locks to massage her aching scalp. It was all she could do not to moan with gratitude.

“I’m very sorry for involving you in that awful scene at St. George’s,” she whispered.

“It doesn’t matter. You can’t say I was surprised,” he replied. “Weddings do have the damnedest effect on you.”

She wanted to weep for his magnanimous attitude. The gentlemen she knew would have rung a peal for involving them in such a shameful scene.

He stroked her cheeks while he cradled her head, heat gathering in his pale eyes, darkening them. One thumb dropped slightly to caress her slightly parted lips. Her breath caught.

And in the blink of an eye his expression changed—his shuttered expression gave way just the merest bit. He cursed softly and leaned his forehead against hers.

She lowered her gaze only to find his great chest drawing in air repeatedly. He seemed to be fighting some sort of decision.

And then, all at once, he closed the distance and dipped down. She could feel his harsh exhalation on her cheek as his lips found hers, and a feeling of intense awareness of the man holding her rushed through her. He bent his knees and shifted his powerful arms to gather her close—his broad chest pressed against her breasts, causing an ache within her.

He groaned and held her as if to provide shelter from a tempest; as if he would guard her with his life.

Dear God above. He was
kissing
her—not like the show in church, or her tentative gesture of tenderness. This was a transferal of emotion.

His mouth teased hers with unforgettably tender yet masculine thoroughness; tasting her, caressing her lips until she relinquished all control. He nipped at the seam of her lips and instinctively she opened to him—making herself vulnerable to him for the first time. His tongue twined with her own while his hands pulled the small of her back more tightly against his strong body. His hands swept lower to cup her bottom more firmly to him, making her very aware of an immense ridge pressing against her.

She was overwhelmed by the raw passion coursing between them. Never had she felt such white heat. But then again, she had only ever been kissed twice in her life—and never had it involved such raw carnality. This was not a proper kiss. This was everything forbidden to a virtuous female. It was everything she should run from. Her feet refused to move.

He had sworn not to do this. His tightly banked desire and emotions were not ever to run amok. He lived by a simple, rigid code of conduct, and he would not be swayed. And yet…this tall glass of femininity was dissolving every single last one of his solid rules. It appalled him how easily she got under his skin; the ache in his ballocks radiated, setting every bloody inch of him on fire for her.

It had been decades since he’d truly tasted a woman’s lips. A joining of the essential parts when he chose, yes. But this. This taste of everything delicious was the very thing that could lead to ruination.

Christ, she was so sweet, so innocent, and she unleashed a ravenous hunger for tenderness, for touch,
for taste, for something so primal and so necessary. For something he refused to acknowledge.

He crushed her to him, reveling in her clean, warm bouquet of freshly milled soap and the softness of her skin. She was the balm for all the harshness in his life. And the honey-warm taste of her tempted him beyond anything he’d known.

She knew next to nothing of kissing. Her lips and her movements were uncertain, soft as a nymph’s wings trailing against a petal, and just as fragile. Christ, he was waxing sentimental like a bloody, sodding poet.

She did not shy away from anything he demanded. She allowed him to guide her slender long arms about his neck. She had made no protest as he touched her and tasted her, giving herself so generously. Tangling himself in her silken charms, he momentarily forgot every last one of his hard-won principles.

And he did it with relish—with joy.

The unmistakable sound of someone clearing his throat rended the air. Breathlessly, they broke away from each other and she swung about to the other side of the thick tree trunk.

“Jonesy?” he rasped. “Your timing is bloody impeccable.”

“Just as you taught me, sir.”

He edged around the rough bark of the tree and whispered one particularly choice raw curse as he awkwardly rearranged the damned massive evidence of his arousal for her. “Come, Miss Ashburton,” he said, disgusted by his momentary loss of wits. He offered his arm, and she placed her hand atop it, allowing him to stiffly lead her to the plain carriage. He
handed her in and she waited in expectation of his entering the carriage too. She was to be disappointed.

“Where would you like Mr. Jones to take you, then?”

“I have a choice?”

“We all have choices, Elizabeth.”

“Are you not getting into this carriage?”

He eyed her shrewdly. “No. I’ve my own affairs to see to, as do you.”

She paused, a faint blush cresting her pretty cheeks. “So, you are letting me go? I’m no longer in your debt, even after today’s debacle?”

He gave a curt nod.

“But my affairs…”

“Will be brought to you.”

“But the new cook—I promised that I’d help her the first day and…”

Perhaps if she had hinted—had said just one word of what had passed between them, he would have hesitated. But merely for a moment. He glanced at Jonesy trying mightily to disregard the pair of them with his breathy whistling. “Take her to Portman Square—the long way around. To Helston House. The lady has an engagement.”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Her face drained of color at the double entendre. He turned away to casually collect her forgotten wig from the ground. He passed it to her, along with the pins, taking care not to touch her hands. He then closed the carriage’s door firmly and stepped away.

A small voice inside Elizabeth’s mind told her it might very well be the last she ever saw of the most
misunderstood man in England. He was as confounding as a sly fox during a hunt. But then, who was she to fully understand him or any man? Had she not already demonstrated that she was the very worst judge of character the world had ever known?

R
owland Manning stared beyond the whorls of dust left by the departing carriage only to see the mudflats of his childhood in front of him. All thoughts of the beautiful woman who was capable of leveling all his scruples with just one taste of her fled at the scene before him. He squinted against the sun to see them.

The mudlarks. The children and old women, bedraggled, in rags and sackcloth caps, were looked upon as pecking birds, not worthy of even being considered human. He inhaled sharply.

Why in hell had he thought to bring her here? He had sworn never to come back. Without knowing, he walked toward the embankment. The river was at its lowest ebb in the never-ending cycle of the tides, the timetables of his childhood.

Christ. The children looked far smaller and scrawnier than he remembered. But then, he had been that same size, most likely. No. He had always been far larger than the others. Born from superior stock, his mother had always said.

Born of a strong aristocratic sire, unlike Howard or Mary.

He pinched the bridge of his nose as the stench of the oozing muck reached his nostrils. It was said that every evidence of sin and the transience of life could be found at the bottom of the River Thames. Only the lowest wretches eked out an existence by dredging through it in search of lost coal and anything of value.

He looked down at his hands and exhaled. He’d never forget the sensation of the slippery muck. All at once he was dizzy and nauseous and remembered he’d not eaten this morning in his rush to witness the scene at St. George’s. His legs carried him away from the riverbank, until he realized he’d walked all the way back to the stables, so far and so fast that he forgot all about his breakfast, if not his wretched past.

Elizabeth touched her kiss-swollen lips with the tip of her finger as the carriage moved ever closer to Helston House. She’d had no idea a kiss could engage such a tumult of emotions in her breast. She’d completely lost her bearings when he’d taken her within the circle of his arms. It was as if, for a few minutes of time, there had been only the two of them in the world—and only a purity of happiness between them. Her breasts ached to feel his hard chest against them. She had been lost in his arms and had completely cut loose the multitude of fears that weighed so heavily on her. She had tasted passion, tasted hope.

All impossibly poignant thoughts flew from her mind at the sight of two scarlet-coated officers just past the carriage window. Elizabeth supposed she had always known it would be only a matter of time
before she would have to face the man who had been obsessed with her for so long.

And yet, as the small carriage drew near the magnificent Corinthian-columned frontage of Number Twelve Portman Square, her courage failed nearly as fast as her hastily rearranged coiffure. She repinned a loose lock and smoothed the lovely simple blue silk gown Ata had given her the first fortnight she and Sarah had dared to call on the dowager duchess with the vaguest of connections. And here Elizabeth was again, depending on the dowager and other people who had no reason to help her.

Upon spying her descent from the carriage, one of the pair of mounted soldiers moved toward her. She hurried up the white marble stairs, but stopped mid-step.

Just like that, she realized she was through with running and hiding. She turned and had the temerity to wave at the man. Surprised, he halted his horse in front of Helston House and dipped his head. She sedately climbed to the landing, where the door opened before she could even raise the knocker.

As Elizabeth stepped inside, Sarah rushed down the grand curved staircase and flew into her arms. The gentlest, kindest lady—one part best friend to two parts wise older sister—embraced her. Elizabeth pulled back finally to drink in the sight of Sarah’s fine gray eyes and sweet smile. Just behind her, Elizabeth spied Mr. John Brown and the handsome gentleman who had escorted Sarah in St. George’s, as well as the dowager duchess, carrying her little brown dog, all of whom descended the staircase in a decidedly more sedate fashion.

“Oh, Eliza, I hope you’ve not come out of misplaced fear for me,” Sarah murmured. “But in my heart, I admit…”

“Yes?” Elizabeth said, laughing and yet with tears in her eyes.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve longed to make certain you were unharmed. Ah, what a fine kettle of fish we’ve brought down upon us, dearest.”

“Not we. I,” Elizabeth returned.

Ata tottered forward, her little dog snugly tucked under her arm. “I assured Sarah you would come and then we would make sense of all of this. I really never liked the idea of running away or hiding. It never solves anything.” The dowager eyed Mr. Brown with a curious mixture of embarrassment and annoyance.

“Yes, ma’am.” Elizabeth bobbed a polite curtsy before the older woman pulled her sleeve, insisting on a kiss on her wrinkled cheek.

Mr. Brown shook her hand warmly, and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. “My dear, don’t listen to Ata. I assure you that running away is a perfectly acceptable thing to do.”

“Well!” Ata appeared ready to say something much stronger, but held her tongue. This was a first. There was something very wrong with the way Ata looked at Mr. Brown, and the way Mr. Brown regarded Ata. It was as if Ata did not know precisely what to do or say.

“Elizabeth,” Ata finally continued, “come, I must introduce you to the Earl of Wymith, Beaufort’s good friend and neighbor in Derbyshire. Lord Wymith, may I present Mrs., no,
Miss
Elizabeth Ashburton to you? I’m so sorry, Elizabeth, I’m still having
a difficult time remembering that you were never married.”

“No, I’m so sorry I did not tell you the truth straightaway, when first we met.”

The tall gentleman’s brown eyes twinkled as he bowed over her hand. “Delighted to meet the lady inclined to set General Leland Pymm on his ear.”

“Now, Wymith, we’ll have none of that…yet,” Ata said.

“Where is everyone else?” Elizabeth asked softly.

Sarah grasped her hand as if she was afraid of losing sight of her. “They are at the breakfast celebration for the Duke and new Duchess of Beaufort, to determine if anyone other than Pymm recognized you in that wig. Mr. Brown suggested it.”

“No,” Ata said, petulantly. “It was my idea. I’m very adept at intrigue and I instinctively knew we should try to infiltrate to learn all we could.”

Mr. Brown’s long-suffering sigh spoke volumes.

Elizabeth studied the expressions of everyone before her. “And General Pymm?”

“He’s waiting for you in the drawing room above stairs, Eliza,” Sarah murmured, her face pale and drawn.

Lord Wymith gazed at Sarah with great warmth in his expression, and offered his arm to her. “Mrs. Winters, I beg you to take my arm.”

Elizabeth watched Sarah’s shy countenance as she accepted the handsome gentleman’s support. Ah, so that was the way things stood. In the short span of days she had disappeared, the world had spun on, time constantly shifting the state of affairs for all. Even Sarah, the most constant variable in Elizabeth’s life,
had found solace in someone new, Lord Wymith.

Ata’s one gnarled hand stayed Elizabeth’s resolution to face Pymm. “Elizabeth, we have but a moment, my dear. Luc, Quinn and Michael have tasked me with informing—not that I ever needed their permission, you understand—well, you are not to accept the general’s suit under any circumstances. That is,” she paused, uncertain, “unless you truly desire it. We will of course stand by whatever decision you choose.”

Mr. Brown edged closer. “Do what is in your heart, lass.”

“Words to live by,” Ata muttered darkly.

“Perhaps I should return to the Countess of Home’s townhouse,” Mr. Brown replied, staring at Ata.

“Do what is in your heart, old man,” Ata muttered.

Sarah intruded in her patient way before daggers were drawn. “Elizabeth, you do not have to go to him.”

Ata continued, turning her back on Mr. Brown. “Yes. What do we care that the general is a decorated war hero and veteran? Did you hear about the palace he is planning to build next to Wellington’s? Everyone’s taken to calling it Number
Two,
since Wellington’s taken Number One, London. It smells of unoriginality, it does, and no one can like that.” The dowager’s sympathy was evident in her farfetched attempt to tarnish Pymm.

The thing was, the general appeared as perfect as a summer day such as this one. And the kindly dowager was searching far and wide to cloud his character, to make Elizabeth’s actions appear less ridiculous. It was an example of one of the many reasons Elizabeth had
come to love Ata. None of the militia’s daughters or wives, except Sarah, had ever befriended her. Indeed, she’d been branded an audacious, headstrong girl to be avoided. Those women had banded against her the day she’d donned a pair of breeches to ride astride on a long march instead of enduring the jostling carts with the other women. Elizabeth just could not bear to disappoint the only ladies who had ever accepted her in their circle.

“Honestly,” Ata continued, “the general has no idea that he is nothing compared to my dear Wellington. I refuse to allow him to win me over, despite his excellent manners this last week.”

“Ata, he is still wholly responsible for the success o’ the final drive against the frogs,” Mr. Brown said, a hint of his Scottish brogue in evidence. “Never forget that. The rest of our countrymen have not. And they love him because he is notorious for leading divisions into battle, and not sitting on a hill and watching it unfold.”

“Yes, well, he probably only got into the thick of it when the odds were overwhelmingly in his favor.” Uncertainty washed over Ata’s expression, making her all the more argumentative. “And shouldn’t generals stand at a distance to watch and redirect little groups of men as needed?”

Mr. Brown stared at the dowager stiffly. “Little groups? It’s not like a quilting circle, Ata.”

It made Elizabeth sad to see Ata and her Mr. Brown still at odds. Apparently, for five decades they had sparred during a never-resolved dance of denied attraction.

“Your Grace,” Lord Wymith said, coming to Mr.
Brown’s aid, “even the Prince Regent has suggested Wellington could not have chased Napoleon across the Pyrenees without Pymm.” He paused and turned to Elizabeth. “Can this general be as terrible as you’ve suggested? Did you witness…”

“No…And I could be entirely wrong. Really, it would be no great surprise if I were.” Elizabeth glanced steadily at each of her friends—new and old.

“He said he had his officers looking for you because he felt obligated to return your father’s affairs,” Ata said, uncertainty in her voice. “He has a very pretty way with words. In fact, this is the second letter delivered to you this week. I’m sorry we took the liberty of opening it, but it arrived without a name…”

Elizabeth quickly unfolded the note.

Elizabeth forced herself to address all the anxious faces surrounding her. “It’s all right. I’ve taken my decision. I think I’ve known all along what I would do.”

They all started, and began talking.

Ata won out. “Whatever you decide, we will follow through. Grand wedding, grand escape.”

“I’m tired of hiding, Ata,” she murmured, her sadness escalating.

The petite lady heaved a sigh of what appeared to be great relief. “Well, still…whatever you decide. I’m very good at planning weddings, you know. We will—”

“Hello, Elizabeth.” The voice echoed from above them and they all glanced up. Pymm stood at the gilt railing in all his magnificent regalia, his scarlet coat encrusted with such medals, ribbons and gold braid signifying a great warrior in his prime, enjoying success at his leisure. Sunlight from a round window above scattered across him, leaving him bathed in golden light, his blond hair dazzling.

“I require your presence now, if you please.” His voice commanded in the same odd fashion as always, cracking to a different pitch on the occasional syllable, as if he were regressing to the higher voice of his boyhood. It caused a shiver to wend its way down her spine.

Ata’s mouth clamped shut. It was the first time Elizabeth had witnessed the dowager effectively silenced. As the group began to move to the stair, one last word floated down.

“I would beg a private interview.”

They all paused, discomfited by his request.

“I beg your pardon,” the general chuckled, a smile carved from his thin lips. “I, of course, do not mean to imply that one of her friends should not accompany her. Propriety must be ensured, especially for a future duchess. Mrs. Winters?”

“Of course, sir,” Sarah replied, her voice clear.

Elizabeth and Sarah ascended slowly, Ata’s whispered words following them, “A tea tray shall be ordered, and…” Eliza heard no more.

The touch of Leland Pymm’s very white gloved fingers unnerved Elizabeth as he bent over her hand before leading her beyond the frescoed gallery into the most formal drawing room of the famous residence. The Duke of Helston’s spirit emanated from every last detail in the ancient yet elegant Graeco-Roman–inspired room.

Pymm indicated a high-backed chaise with gilt serpents supporting dark chocolate cushions. Eliza sank into the corner as the general’s determined eyes and languid hand motioned Sarah toward the front-facing windows at the other end of the long room filled with antiquities of generations of Helstons. Sarah’s eyes offered a silent apology to her friend.

He arranged himself and the plumage of his regimentals on the same chaise, far too close for comfort.

He began quietly. He always did. “My dearest Elizabeth,” he said, his upper lip pursed in a weak fashion. “I am impressed by your efforts, my dear. You have no idea how much I delight in a good chase.”