That Scandalous Summer (32 page)

She broke from his gaze and quickly stepped to retrieve her glass. One swallow and it was drained. When she looked around, he knew she was searching for the bell to ring for more.

And he did not want to be part of this—to be the man who, even by accident, drove her to drink more deeply. Happily, he knew now how to distract her.

“You should study Jane,” he said. “She manages a vapid, flirtatious look very well.”

For a moment she went quite still. And then she turned toward him, forgetting about her bell and her empty glass, too. “Jane? You’re using each other’s Christian names now, are you?”

“Not publicly,” he said. Which was true enough. Not privately, either, but he saw no need to mention that.

“My.” She stared at him. “Has the sham become something more, then?”

The question sounded so bright. Suspiciously so. He waited a moment, and sure enough, out came her wide smile: her clever and most dependable mask. “But what happy news!”

“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “I and Jane Hull—that would be a match made in hell.”

“Or perhaps not.” She twirled the glass by the stem before setting it aside. “Perhaps you’d suit each other
perfectly
. Your brother would approve of her, which means you’d have the money you need to keep your hospital afloat. And she would marry into one of the foremost families in England. Why, an ideal match all around.”

He didn’t know how to reply. All the honest answers would not make this conversation more comfortable. “Of course, you forget that a loveless marriage is never a happy bargain.”

Her laugh sounded brittle. “You’re preaching to the wrong congregation, sir. You forget my aim.”

“I don’t forget your ideal,” he said softly. “I have heard you speak of your parents.” And it frightened him, he realized suddenly. For her ideal was the only thing that might persuade her to surrender the chance of a brilliant match—a match to a moneyed aristocrat. And that ideal was a very high standard for a man to meet, particularly if he knew nothing of happy unions.

She was staring at him. He offered her a slight smile. She stepped away from it, then spun on her heel, bound for the bell that stood abandoned on the terrace ledge. He moved too quickly, though; when she started to ring it, he caught her hand.

She went very still. Her wrist was so small.
She
was so small, to contain such a ferociously vibrant force of life.

“Listen,” he said very softly, his entire brain focused on this speech, this damned important speech, a desperate bid to win them both more time. Even if Alastair balked, he might figure out some financial solution, but it would require
time.
“I’ve been thinking on this. Your need can’t be so great that it won’t survive another season. Come
March, London will be rife with bachelors of means. You needn’t resign yourself—”

“Yes, I must,” she said through her teeth. “Do you think I’ve undertaken this course for the fun of it? I know exactly what I need to do.”

“But to enter a loveless marriage, simply for the sake—”

She yanked her hand free. “Do
not
presume to lecture me—
you,
of all people! Michael de Grey, he who says marriage is the quickest cure for love!”

He exhaled. “I did not say that to you, Elizabeth.”

“But I heard you. You said it with conviction. And not for the first time, apparently! It’s your lifelong philosophy, Sanburne said!”

“Never . . .”
Never in reference to you
. “Never with the right woman,” he said slowly. Christ. They were torturing each other, weren’t they? This whole bloody situation was intolerable.

“So what does that mean?” she asked. “Is that why you refuse to follow your brother’s bidding? Are you holding out for the
right kind of woman
?”

He stared at her, biting back words—and pushing down
thoughts
—which he could not voice. She lifted her head, her chin tilting proudly, the angle nearly defiant. After a long moment, it was he who looked away, biting his tongue so hard it was a wonder he did not taste blood.

“Well,” she said. “I wish you much luck, my lord. You may find your wait does not disappoint you. As you say, the season is always rife with moneyed prospects—even for the
men
among us.”

He turned on her so suddenly she flinched. “God damn it, Elizabeth. Do you want me to say things that can’t be unsaid? For I will, you know. I will say them to you, and to anyone else who cares to listen, my brother included.”

Her silence—so stubborn, so
cowardly
; she would drive him to the brink but then step away from it herself—snapped his patience. He seized her by the elbow and hauled her toward him. Planting one hand in her hair—pins scattering, clinking against the bricks—he savaged her mouth. No warning. No polite notice. With his tongue he penetrated her.

And, by God, this,
this
was where he’d needed to be. Where he needed to be again, and again, and again: inside her, his tongue and his cock, every hour of the day, as her small, hot hands closed on his waist, then on his shoulders, grasping, squeezing, as though she were as hungered, as desperate as he. She gasped into his mouth as he bent her over his arm, but he did not care; he was past caring. Let her be, for once, pliable;
he
would set the course here. There were windows above, glass doors to their right; he did not care. He licked and sucked at her; he took her lip between his teeth and growled when she tried to step to one side. “Be still,” he said, and sucked her earlobe into his mouth, and breathed against her as she shivered. She liked that. He had discovered it. This was
his
to know,
his
to employ.

“Did Hollister kiss you like this?” he said into her ear. “Did he?”

“He hasn’t—touched me,” she said. Her palms framed his face, pulled his mouth back to hers. Her lips were not clever now, but crushing, brutal; he would have winced had he not wanted more of it, more of her brutality; he wanted her over him, on top of him, her hands fisted in his hair, pulling to the point of pain.

And there were windows above, and glass doors to their right.

“Here,” he said hoarsely, and tried to move her into
the lee of the building, out of sight of the windows. But the first step broke the spell; and then, just as suddenly as she’d responded to him, she was pulling free, shaking her head, gasping a denial. And though there was savagery in him—which pulsed like a red angry haze, urging him to ignore her, to take her bodily into the darkness, to persuade her, as he knew he could, to like it—he released her. Because, God damn it, he was
not
his father, not a bastard, he would—he would
not
contravene her will—

She backed away, stumbling over the bell and causing a discordant jingle. The sound brought her up short. She looked down to her feet and uttered a curse, a low word that would have shocked Weston beyond all possibility of redemption. And then she snatched up the bell and clutched it to her chest. Turning, she fled to the double doors, letting herself inside without another word.

Once on the other side of the glass, though, she paused to look back. He did not know what his face revealed to her, but whatever she saw, it made her press the flat of her palm to the pane, a gesture that lanced through him more sharply than a knife before she turned and walked away.

That gesture looked so much like a good-bye.

•   •   •

She ran from the terrace. Ran like a coward, her steps only slowing as she neared the drawing room, for fear that somebody might witness her flight.

The murmur of voices within caught her attention—and as she passed, she glimpsed Tilney crowding Mather into a corner. The sight brought her up short. Spinning on her heel, she marched back.

“Very striking eyes,” Tilney was saying as Mather blinked myopically.

Good lord. All thoughts of her own distress evaporated. Had she come upon a boy poking a puppy with a stick, she could not have been more irritated. “Tilney!” she said sharply, causing him to jump and straighten. “Off with you,” she snapped, before he could muster some witticism to cover his fluster. “Go find Katherine or Mrs. Hull if you wish to flirt. My
secretary
has more important matters to manage, and I expect you will remember that in the future.”

With a lifted brow, Tilney looked between the two of them. “Understood,” he said stiffly, and then sketched a bow before exiting.

As Liza closed the door behind him, Mather spoke. “I had that well in hand, ma’am.”

“Oh, I’m certain you did.” The girl’s color was high, and the sight pricked Liza’s temper more sorely. She could not abide men who abused their station to prey on the staff. “Such a wide experience of men you have! No doubt your path to the typing school was
littered
with broken hearts.”

This sarcasm won from Mather a slight smile. “You might be shocked. Typists attract a very rash lot, you know.”

The girl’s color had begun to recede, and Liza could see no other sign that might indicate Tilney had misbehaved with her. Still, she wished to make certain that Mather did not labor under misapprehensions about what her employer would and would not tolerate from guests. “Should anyone ever bother you, darling—and I do mean
anyone,
even if he owns a small country—you know how to scream. And also, I hope, how to kick a man in a way that makes him regret himself?”

For a brief moment, Mather looked struck. Then her smile widened, and she laughed. “Madam, how remarkable that you should ask! That is the
very first lesson
given at typing school!”

“Very good, then. We understand each other.”

“Yes,” Mather murmured. “We do. You are very kind, ma’am.”

“Nonsense. And where are your spectacles?”

“I dropped them,” said Mather. “Mr. Tilney offered to help me find them, but . . .”

Toad.
Liza glanced over the room, surveying with lifted brows the detritus of a very gluttonous high tea. A plate of half-eaten scones lay abandoned in an armchair—directly next to Mather’s spectacles. Removing the plate and handing over the glasses, she took a seat. She would use this opportunity to recover her composure.

Do not think of him.

Mather replaced the frames on her face and blinked experimentally. Watching her, Liza felt exhausted. “Tilney is a rotter,” she said. Men were such endless trouble.
All
of them—even the worthy ones. “I expect he saw your spectacles and decided to ignore them.”

Mather shrugged. “If you mean to warn me, there’s no need, ma’am. I could never take Mr. Tilney seriously. He sneers so regularly that I suspect he shaves his mustache only to spare his nose the whisker burn.” She paused. “As you suggested, Mrs. Hull will do nicely for him.”

Liza laughed in shocked delight. “Mather, I request you never to change. It would be
so
disappointing if you discovered a beneficent streak.”

Mather lowered herself onto the chaise longue opposite. “Then I shall strive at all times to remain a perfect curmudgeon.”

“Such a lovely quality in a secretary!” The rumble of Liza’s stomach reminded her that she had eaten very sparingly today. Food would make an excellent distraction, for her mind wished now to wander back to the terrace, the
last
place it should go. If she thought on how he had kissed her, the things he had said . . .

Her attention alit on a nearby pastry, nearly intact save a bite or two. “Whose plate was that?”

“Lady Sanburne’s, I believe.”

“Oh, that’s fine, then.” Liza picked it up—adding, at Mather’s shocked look, “Well, I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to eat
Katherine’s
leavings. Rabies is fatal, I believe.”

Mather put a hand to her mouth, smothering a giggle. “Madam, you’ve a wicked bite yourself.”

“I suppose that’s why we get on so well, you and I.” Liza took a moment to chew as she glanced around for other likely plates. Sugar was excellent medicine for the sore heart. Why, a slice of poppy seed cake sat untouched by the window! What fool had discarded it? Cook’s cake was a work of genius. “Do you know whose cake—”

But as she glanced back, she forgot her next remark. For once, Mather had set aside her dignity and iron-spined posture. Slumping a little amid the ruffles and flounces of her sapphire satin skirts, she looked like a figure in a romantic painting. The deep blue of her dress brightened her eyes and caused her pale skin to glow. Her vivid hair, the scarlet of oak leaves in autumn, had been curled into ringlets that softened the square shape of her jaw, and her face looked poreless and opalescent, a pearl wreathed in fire.

“Why, you’re utterly beautiful.” Liza heard the surprise
in her own voice, but decided not to append an apology: it would require vanity to take offense, and Mather lacked that entirely.

Sure enough, Mather glanced up with a startled smile. “You’re teasing me.”

“Not in the least.” How had it taken so long to realize the girl’s beauty? Mather had been in her employ for almost two years now.

Mather’s smile slipped into a more wistful curve. “It’s the gown, then.” She looked into her lap, giving the silk an admiring stroke.

An awful thought occurred to Liza. “Have you never used a milliner before?” For now she thought on it, all Mather’s dresses were ready-made affairs, save the few Liza had ordered for this party. “How awful of me! I should have arranged to purchase a wardrobe for you in London.”

“No, ma’am.” Mather spoke calmly. “That is not the usual call for an employer with her secretary.”

“Do I not pay you enough, then? For you know that there are very reasonable milliners—”

“You pay me handsomely. But I fear I’m a penny pincher.”

“Oh.” Nonplussed, Liza paused. “Well, that’s virtuous,” she said. An example she’d do well to follow. “But what are you saving for?” Mather had no family; she was orphan, by her own admission.

Mather shrugged. “A rainy day, I suppose?” Before Liza could inquire into that answer, she added, “I must thank you again. The gown does become me very well. I confess, I find it rather . . . amazing, the illusions such clothing might work.”