That Scandalous Summer (25 page)

He disguised his astonishment in a sip of wine. Did her friends know so little of her? For he had looked into
her face on Midsummer’s Eve, and he had not seen a woman incapable of heartbreak. Far from it.

“At any rate,” Lady Forbes added idly, “it would take a far better man than Mr. Nelson.”

Nelson
. His brain locked onto the name like a sharpshooter on his target. He felt a sudden, itching need to retire to Elizabeth’s library and comb through a volume of DeBrett’s.
Nelson.
The name rang no bells. “I can’t say I’ve met the man. But if he had Mrs. Chudderley on the line and chose to cast elsewhere, he’s a fool.”

“What a romantical statement,” came Nigel Hawthorne’s voice from across the table. He sat beside Jane Hull, who was alternating between avoiding Michael’s eyes and staring at him avidly. “And how surprising that such romantics should come from
you,
my lord. May we assume the countryside has awakened your chivalry?”

Michael had never met either of the Hawthornes, but they certainly seemed to keep track of
him.
“What can I say? Fresh air works wonders on me.” He recognized Hawthorne’s type from his school days: pinch-faced and malicious, but only when in a crowd. In private, he would whimper and tuck his tail between his legs. Harmless, then, and rather pathetic to boot. “I do hope you enjoy a similar effect,” he said. “You might find the novelty refreshing.”

Hawthorne laughed and lifted his wineglass, giving it a contemplative swirl. “I do wonder . . . how long have you been enjoying the fresh air? The rest of us ran into each other at St. Pancras, but I don’t recall seeing you at the station.”

“You mustn’t twit him,” said his sister sweetly, from Michael’s right. Katherine Hawthorne had been quite content all evening to confine her conversation to Tilney,
who sat diagonally opposite her, on the other side of Jane; but even as she’d spoken with him, she’d been attempting to teach Michael’s right arm the precise shape of her breasts. “Perhaps he wasn’t in first class,” she went on, turning her bark-brown eyes toward Michael. “Some can’t afford it, you know.”

Tilney leaned forward, eager to join in. “Do you know—I didn’t see your luggage brought in, either.”

Mrs. Hull’s eyes were widening rather comically. She darted a nervous glance around their immediate company, as though only now realizing she sat in the carnivorous corner of the table. “I’m flattered,” Michael said, and then smiled at her in reassurance when her panicked gaze touched on him. “I had no idea my whereabouts were of such interest to those who had not met me before this evening. But I suppose friendships spring up in the unlikeliest of places. Even if the friendships themselves are unlikely.”

As Tilney’s eyes narrowed, Michael realized he was enjoying himself. It was not so hard to slip into his old skin, after all. There were mannerisms and attitudes a country doctor was not allowed to employ, that the son and brother of a duke might exercise at will—arrogance being one of them.

Katherine laughed, a low and sultry sound. “Cornwall
is
rather unlikely, isn’t it? I don’t know how we let Liza talk us into such shenanigans.”

“Ah,” said Tilney, “this is nothing. Do you remember last winter in Monte Carlo? My God. I lost half my year’s income in one night.”

And so the conversation turned again, to matters that had nothing to do with Michael. But he listened closely over the remainder of the dinner, gathering from the
lively discussion a good picture of what Elizabeth had meant when she had told him she was different among her London friends.

She was the very definition of fast.

Normally, he had no interest in such routines. But when it came to her . . .

As the dessert course concluded, he deliberately turned his attention toward the head of the table. She was waiting and ready to meet his regard. Her jaw firmed. Her shoulders squared. A laugh started to rise in his throat—she looked like a soldier preparing for battle—but when she stood, his mirth died.

The candlelight licked over her skin like an ardent suitor. Her beauty at this moment could have stopped any man’s breath. But it was her presence that arrested him. She silenced all the conversations without a single word. Her composure was queenly, though the smile she showed the table was false. No one else would have guessed it, but he knew it in his bones.

“I believe we will skip the usual formalities,” she said. “To the drawing room, if no one objects.”

As everyone rose and began to file out, he deliberately slowed his pace. As soon as the last of the guests had passed him, he was not surprised to feel a hand close on his elbow.

He turned. “Yes, Mrs. Chudderley?”

“You,” she said in a sharp whisper, “are coming with
me
.”

Michael let her lead him out of the dining room. But when he opened his mouth to speak, Elizabeth cut him off. “Not another word,” she said in a low voice. “Not until we are somewhere where I may
scream
.”

He made an interested noise in his throat. “That sounds promising.”

She dropped his arm as though it burned. Onward she stalked, her plum-colored skirts frothing around her ankles, her train hissing over the polished wood floor.

He followed her into the little salon off the entry hall. When she turned to face him, his uplifted hands—palms out, in the gesture of surrender—won not the slightest hint of a smile. He said, “I owe you an explanation—”

And then ducked the vase that flew past his head and shattered against the door.

“And an apology to boot,” he said as he straightened.

Bright spots of color burned in her cheeks. “I want nothing from you. Nothing but the sight of your back as you leave! Which you will do,
at once.
You—”

Abruptly she stopped, pressing her lips together very
tightly. But she could not control their trembling, and that small sign of distress caused a startled shock to ripple through him.

He stepped toward her out of instinct. She took an answering step away, her brief look of surprise transmuting to a contempt so transparent that he froze.

Perhaps he had . . . miscalculated her reaction. But he’d supposed she would be
relieved
by the truth. If she had liked him as a doctor, surely she would find him even more pleasing as the son and brother of a duke. What woman would not?

This one, apparently. The look on her face left no doubt of it. “Listen,” he said slowly. “My purpose was not to fool you. I told nobody the truth. I was trying to avoid my brother’s notice here.”

She took a quick, audible breath. “Your brother,” she said. “The Duke of Marwick.”

He tried a rueful smile. It did not hold, for she was looking at him as though he were a stranger, and he did not like it. “That’s the one.”

She walked around a silk-upholstered armchair, stopping behind it as though she required a shield against him. “Make your explanation, then. But keep it short. I have guests waiting.”

“It’s . . . rather too complicated for brevity,” he said. “But I can give you the bare outlines, and later—”

Her brows flew up. “Later? There will be no
later
.”

He exhaled. “Elizabeth, I—”

“I rescind your right to address me so informally.” She gave him a slight, chilling smile. “And I tell you now, if you ever speak of—
us
—abroad, I swear you will regret it. I am no Lady Heverley,
Lord Michael
. I will not sigh when I speak your name.”

Lady Heverley,
again.
His small, disbelieving laugh made her scowl. “You think this is funny?” she asked.

“No. Not in the least.” Not any longer. “I was wrong to misrepresent myself. But I confess, I did not realize . . . that is, you seem strangely . . . furious that I’m better born than you thought.”

She gave him a stony stare. “
Higher
born,” she said. “But far from
better
.”

He stared at her, trying to puzzle it out. “Then it’s simply that I lied. Is that it?” His own words belatedly made him wince. Put so plainly, yes, he could see cause for her anger.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said coldly. “I am well accustomed to frauds.”

Ah. That smarted. “Slotting me in with the other rotters. I suppose I deserve it.”

She shrugged. “One rotter is much the same as the next. Did you imagine you were somehow different?”

“I never meant to lie to you.” How bloody insufficient, even to his own ears. “That is . . . I should have told you sooner.” He had tried to do so in the gamekeeper’s cottage, but . . . he did not think she would care now to hear of his excuse.
It turned out I was more interested in shagging you than taking the time to explain.
No, that line would not serve. He was an ass. “Elizabeth. I’m sorrier than I can say.”

The silence, for a long moment, was broken only by the ticking of a distant clock. She looked down at her hand, rubbing her gloved thumb over her fingertips, and then shrugged again. “I find I do not particularly care for your apologies.”

“Then I must hope my explanation suffices.” He took a deep breath. “My sister-in-law, as you’ll know, passed ten
months ago.” How best to tell this tale, without spilling secrets that were not his to share? “The duchess’s death . . .” No more lies, now. “Her death, and certain truths that emerged thereafter, sent my brother into a decline.”

“Truths.” She put her hands on the back of the chair, gripping it so tightly the fabric wrinkled. “What kind of truths?”

He grimaced. “They aren’t mine to speak. I promise you, if I could . . .”

She stared at him a moment, and then her chest rose and fell on a great breath. “Yes, of course. I suppose they don’t concern me.” She made an odd pause, then shook her head. “Go on, then.”

“My brother’s decline was gradual. At the beginning, he simply seemed less inclined to go into company. Mistrustful of his friends.” Michael hesitated. He did not like to divulge this. But . . . he trusted her. Ironic, that it should take betraying her trust to realize he had faith in her never to betray his. “In February, he ceased to leave the house entirely. This is no ordinary hesitance, mind you. He isn’t ill, he simply refuses to step outside. Not even in the garden. It’s almost as if . . . the world has begun to frighten him.”

“I see.” She watched him narrowly; he had the sense from her of quivering alertness, of powerful impulses leashed by hard effort. “And so, in response, you have undertaken a masquerade in the wilderness. Yes, it all makes
perfect
sense to me now.”

He acknowledged her mockery with a grim smile. “He gave me little choice. He will not sire an heir, he says, so I must do it for him, with a woman of his choosing: otherwise, he will use all his powers to close the hospital.”

A line formed between her dark, winged brows. “The hospital in London. The one that he sponsors.”

“Yes. The one I
founded
.”

“How . . . Machiavellian,” she murmured.

“You don’t know my brother. Machiavelli would be a mere apprentice to him.” He paused. “At any rate, you see why I cannot concede to his terms.”

She averted her face. He watched the plume bob in her coiffure as she smoothed one elbow glove. The stroke of her hand hypnotized him: from the fingers to the elbow, twice, then thrice.

“No,” she finally said, very quietly. “I suppose I don’t.”

He exhaled, an explosive burst of disbelief. “Is my life to be sacrificed for his own pleasure? He is—” He took a deep breath. “You don’t know my brother. I
want
to help him. By God, I tried my best to do it! I lie awake at night worrying over it.”

Her head bowed. The naked desperation in his voice had embarrassed her, he supposed. Probably it should embarrass him, too. But for some reason it felt vitally important that she believe him on this count. “I would
not
abandon him,” he said.

“All right,” she said slowly. She did not look up.

“But you must see, the solution he proposes will help no one. Far from it! He wants the line to continue? Then he will have to leave his house and find a wife of his own.
That
is the medicine I have prescribed.
That
is my cure for him.”

“Ah. So your motives have been purely noble, then.” She lifted her head, and the look on her face made him feel as though some shutter banged hard in his chest.

Lady Forbes imagined this woman immune to hurt?
He had proof to the contrary before his eyes right now, and it cast
him
as the villain. “I have betrayed your trust,” he said, very low. God damn his clumsiness, his stupidity. “That was not noble. And it was never my intention, I promise you.”

Her one-shouldered shrug was no doubt meant to telegraph her indifference. “Rest easy on that front. We made no promises. You were only an afternoon’s distraction, after all.”

The breath went from him, ragged like a laugh, though he felt no humor. Now
he
was the one wounded. How peculiar was that? “I’d hoped we might distract each other a bit longer than that.” A good deal longer. He was only now seeing what potential they had. “What passed between us in that cottage . . . was unlike any passing pleasure I’ve felt. Elizabeth, it did not feel like an afternoon’s distraction to me. Indeed, the more I’ve thought on it—”