Seven Wicked Nights (8 page)

“We can still be friends,” she was saying calmly. “Just…not anything else.”

“Friends.”

“Even…even back then, there were times I almost thought I could like you.”

“You are too generous.” The words came out sounding bitter, but he didn’t intend them that way. He wasn’t bitter. He
wasn’t
. Friendship and kindness from her—it was more than he deserved. Less than he wanted, true, but…

“I haven’t got it in me to give you any more trust than friendship. I’m still not sure I can trust you past three minutes.”

He swallowed. If he’d been his young self, he’d have stalked away in a fit of pique, furious that she’d thwarted him. He would have had his revenge upon her for rejecting him. But he was a great deal older now. And he’d cast enough shadows.

“Good.” He leaned closer to her. “Then in three minutes, we can be friends.”

“Three minutes? Why wait three—”

“Because friends don’t do this,” he replied, and leaned toward her. This time, he didn’t put his arm immediately about her. His lips touched hers. She was still—too still—and for a moment he thought he’d read her wrongly. But then she kissed him back.

She tasted like mint and wild honey. She was soft against him. And, oh, how easy it would be to let his control snap. To see precisely what he could do in the three minutes he’d given himself.

She
liked
kissing him. He could tell by the tenor of her breathing, by the sound she made in her throat as his tongue traced the seam of her lips.

He could tell because she hadn’t slapped him.

He set his arm around her and pulled her close. When she opened up to him, it felt even better than any of his fantasies. His mind could only envision one part of her body at a time—lips or breasts or buttocks, but never all three together. But here in the flesh she was a solid armful, an overload of good things. He could not break her down into constituent parts. It was just Elaine leaning against him, Elaine that made that sound in her throat, and then, by God, she moved
closer
, until her chest brushed his. He was on fire for her.

Still, in the back of his head, he could almost hear the inexorable tick of clockwork, as if this tryst were timed by the watch in this pocket. Three, and his other hand crept down her waist, cupping her close. Two, and his tongue sought hers out. One…

One kiss, and he’d come to the end of her trust.

He pulled back. Her fingers had slipped under his elbows, and they bit into his arms, ten little needle points of pressure. He wasn’t sure if she was holding him close or keeping him at arm’s length.

“Westfeld.” Her voice was just a little rough. “I…I…Please don’t do that again.”

He wanted to ask if she’d liked it. He already knew the answer. She’d liked it, but he’d reminded her, once again, of drowning. He wanted to curse.

“No,” he said softly. “We’re simply friends now, and friends don’t do that to each other. Not ever again.”

Chapter Seven

London, nine months later.

W
HEN
W
ESTFIELD HAD FIRST OFFERED HER FRIENDSHIP
, Elaine hadn’t believed it.
Friendship
was a concept men bandied about to save face when they were rejected.

But he had nonetheless become her friend. He didn’t dance continual attendance on her, but he talked to her on regular occasion and he made her laugh. He introduced her to his friends—all his friends, that was, save Lady Cosgrove—and he talked with hers. As word spread of what he had said, she simply stopped being an object of fun. For the first time in a decade, she could go to a ball and
breathe
.

She couldn’t forgive him—how could she?—but was it so awful to enjoy his company?

“I think,” he said to her on this evening, his voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd at the soirée, “that your seamstress needs a new palette.”

A year ago she’d have bristled, hearing an implied insult. Today she smiled at him indulgently. “Why ever is that? Just because
I
happen to like pink doesn’t mean
you
must wear it.”

“That wasn’t why.” He grinned. “Although I’ll have you know that I turn out very nicely in pink. And purple. Any man can don white and black. It takes a truly masculine fellow to manage lavender.”

She laughed. And that was the best part of it: she could laugh without flinching. It was still too loud and still too long, but she no longer drew whispers from around the room.

“Then why?” she asked.

“Because one day, I want to see you walk into a room not in any of these watered-down colors.” He reached out and flicked the pale rose of her gown. “I want to see you in vibrant red or dark blue. I want to watch you walk into the middle of the room.” He dropped his voice. “And I want to see you take ownership of it.”

“I—oh—I couldn’t.” But what an enticing vision. Still, she would have to be as unaware as her mother to do that. Everyone would look at her. Everyone would talk, and
laugh
. “I’m not a middle-of-the-room sort of person,” she said apologetically.

“Yes, you are. You’ve hidden it deep inside you, but you are.” He was watching her, and she felt something all too familiar stir inside of her.

At times like this, she wished he had never kissed her. She could almost call to mind the feel of his lips against hers. It was a disconcerting thought to have about a friend, and he
was
a friend.

Just a friend, and friends didn’t think about kissing friends. He certainly had put all thoughts of kissing
her
out of his mind. He was affable. He was amusing. He was even reliable, something she never would have predicted. It was just that he wasn’t going to kiss her, and she wasn’t going to kiss him back.

“I prefer to enter the room like a mouse,” Elaine said, joking to dispel her uncertainty. “I creep very quietly along the wainscoting. Have you ever tried to creep wearing bright red? It can’t be done.” She glanced across the room and caught sight of her mother.

“If something is worth doing,” he said, “it’s worth doing bravely.”

“I’m brave,” she protested. “As brave as a mouse. It takes quite a bit of courage to enter a room populated by people a hundred times your size.”

He gave her a look. He didn’t quite roll his eyes, but he glanced heavenward, as if in silent supplication.

“Very well, then,” she said. “If that won’t wash, I’ll be brave as an ostrich. The instant I see something frightening, I’ll stick my head in the sand.”

This brought her only a sorry shake of his head. “My dear,” he said, “ostriches don’t put their heads in the sand. That’s a myth.”

“Oh?” On the other side of the room, her mother was talking to a group of ladies. Lady Stockhurst seemed to be quite excited, Elaine guessed by her exaggerated gesticulations.

Westfeld lectured on. “An ostrich weighs upward of fifteen stone. It can outrun a horse. What need has it for cowardice?”

The ladies who spoke with her mother waved fans. She could not make out their faces, but Elaine could imagine them biting back cruel smiles.

“Very well,” Elaine said. “I promise you, when I weigh fifteen stone I shall relinquish all fear.”

The crowd shifted, and in that moment Elaine saw that the woman standing closest to her mother was Lady Cosgrove. Over all these months, Elaine had begun to relax. But her mother was still her vulnerable heart. She had no protection of her own, and Westfeld couldn’t save her. Without waiting for another word, she started across the room.

“Elaine,” Westfeld hissed, following along beside her. But he’d seen it, too.

They’d talked of a great many things since they had become friends—Parliament and fashion, agriculture and the latest serial from Dickens.

They had not mentioned Westfeld’s friendship with Lady Cosgrove. The woman had kept her distance since the Season started, but Elaine had seen her all too often. It was impossible to escape her; she lived just across the street, after all. Elaine had often wished that it was Lady Cosgrove who was absent, instead of her never-seen husband.

“You know what she’ll do,” Elaine said.

“I know what I won’t let her do.” They were his last words before they joined the group.

“Why, Lady Elaine.” Lady Cosgrove smiled at Elaine while somehow avoiding her cousin’s gaze altogether. “Your mother has just agreed to speak for us a few weeks from now.”

“A lecture?” Elaine tapped her fingers against her skirts. A lecture wouldn’t be so awful. Not many would come, and her mother would enjoy it.

“Better!” her mother exclaimed. “In three weeks’ time, Lady Cosgrove is holding a gala at Hanover Square. There will be music, and
hundreds
of people, all interested in—”

“Mama,” Elaine interrupted blandly, “they’ve thrown tomatoes at some of the larger entertainments.”
Remember. Remember. Lady Cosgrove doesn’t wish us well.

Behind Lady Stockhurst, Lady Cosgrove bit back a smile.

And, it seemed, this wouldn’t be one of the days when her mother recalled such things. “Why would they do that?” her mother mused. “I can’t account for it. Even the lower orders have better things to do with a perfectly good tomato. And genteel society…”

“They throw
rotten
vegetables to express displeasure.”

“Or boredom,” Lady Cosgrove put in. “But, then, Lady Elaine, you don’t believe your own mother is boring, do you?”

“This is all nonsense,” Lady Stockhurst proclaimed. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of, Elaine. The tomato is a
fruit
, not a vegetable.”

By Elaine’s side, Westfeld took her arm. “It will be well,” he said quietly. “It will be well.”

Lady Cosgrove’s lips pinched together.

“How can it be?” Elaine whispered. “I’ve seen how these things go. To expose her to more people, more indignity… How can it be well? I know
you
will be kind, but you cannot control how two dozen people will respond—and there could be as many as a thousand present.”

Westfeld simply shrugged. “What did Archimedes say? If you want to move the world, all you need is a long enough lever. It
will
be well.”

She huffed. “You also need a fulcrum on which to rest your lever, I believe.”

He smiled at that—an expression as arrogant and certain as any she could remember seeing on him.

“Well.” His deep drawl seemed to resonate with some deep part of her. “If ever you need to…rest your lever, here I am.”

She glanced up at him. He was watching her, and she felt as if she might burst into flame. She snatched her arm from his before he could notice. “Do be serious, Westfeld.”

He gave a resigned shake of his head. “And here I thought I was.”

O
VER THE NEXT WEEKS,
E
VAN TRIED TO MAKE JOKES
to lift Elaine’s distress. None of them worked, and finally he stopped jesting altogether. But despite every attempt he made to make her smile, he still held back the truth of what he was doing.

The truth was deadly earnest. By the time he’d found a seat in the hall at Hanover Square before Lady Stockhurst’s lecture, he was feeling the cost of the last two weeks of frantic work. He’d written letters, found couriers, and gone in person to speak to more than half a dozen men.

He’d had to. He understood too well how Diana operated. His cousin had planned for her evening of entertainment to be a stunning success. It started with a scene from the
Pickwick Papers
, performed by the Adelphi Theater. The acting was crisp and believable, the characters expertly portrayed. There followed a concerto by Mendelssohn for piano and violin, and a short intermission for light refreshment. It would end with a performance by the famed soprano, Giulia Grisi.

Lady Stockhurst, sandwiched between these shining lights, seemed to serve all too clear a purpose: she was to be the comic interlude. As she started, she did seem to fit that role. She’d had great star-charts made, showing the course of the planets and the placement of her comet in the night sky. She spoke with great animation; her exuberance overcame all ladylike boundaries. She ended her talk with an impassioned speech on the course of the stars, predicting a return of the heavenly visitation in twelve years’ time.