The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) (26 page)

“And I’m not the dallying kind of woman,” she said with a shaky smile. “I suppose that leaves us back where we were before.”

The music came to an end. Liza stepped away from Royce. “Thank you for the dance. If you’ll excuse me, there is a cake awaiting my attention.” With that, she collected her bruised and battered heart, and walked determinedly away.

Too wound up in his own emotions to speak, Royce watched her go. She was wearing that ridiculous pink gown, and her hair was already falling from its pins. She was Liza and she was his. Desire heated him through and through, and without a thought, he followed her. She was already standing with Meg at the refreshment table when he reached her, all his feelings suddenly crystal clear as they tumbled from his heart. “Liza, I have something to say to you, and by God, you are going to listen!”

“No, I’m not. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. Now leave me be!”

Meg looked from one to the other. “Well! Perhaps you two should retire to the library and—”

“No,” Liza said, a breathless tone to her voice. “I’m staying right here. With the cake.”

So Liza feared being alone with him again, did she? He looked at her closely, noting her high color, the sad twist to her lips. For the first time in a week, a faint spark of hope buoyed his spirits. “If you will not have private speech with me elsewhere, then we’ll have our discussion right here, in public.”

An elderly matron who was gathering a piece of cake looked up at that, a hopeful expression in her faded eyes.

Liza’s color heightened, but she didn’t budge. “We have nothing more to say to one another.”

“Like hell.” He glanced around the room. “Where is Durham?”

“I don’t know. I’m not his keeper.”

“He left,” Meg offered. She leaned toward Royce and said, “He looked upset, too.”

The spark of hope that flamed in Royce’s heart warmed into something else, something more powerful. Royce took Liza’s hand. “Why did Durham leave?”

She pulled her hand free and took a step back, coming up against the edge of the refreshment table. “It was nothing, really. Lord Durham and I discovered we did not suit. He is more attuned to cows while I’m more attuned to monkeys.
Not
that that’s any of your concern.”

“You’re wrong. If it has anything to do with you, then it’s my
first
concern.”

The matron leaned over to Meg and said in a loud whisper, “Lady Shelbourne, this sounds quite promising!”

Meg nodded emphatically.

Liza made an exasperated noise and whirled to face the refreshment table, presenting Royce with her back. Her hair, which had been pinned in an array of sophisticated curls, was rapidly falling down. Two large brown curls stuck out at odd angles, while one thick curl clung to her ear. “Liza,” he said softly, aware that if he but bent forward just a little, his lips could graze the soft skin of her neck. “Liza, I’m sorry. With all my heart, I beg your forgiveness.”

Meg grabbed the matron’s arm, her eyes wide. “He’s
never
apologized in his life.
Never.
”

Liza covered her face with her hands, but didn’t say a word.

Royce gripped her arms at the elbow. “The other day…I didn’t answer you because I couldn’t. I didn’t realize how much I cared about you until that very moment. I kept telling myself we were just friends. That I wanted to save you from making a mistake. But I know the truth now. I didn’t want to save you
from
Durham, but
for
myself. I love you.”

“You…you say that quite frequently. To lots of women.” Her voice was muffled by her hands.

“Liza, I’ve never said it this way, with such strong feelings in my heart.” He leaned forward until his lips grazed her ear. “And I’ve never said this to anyone: Liza, I love you and I want to marry you. I want to be with you forever.” There. The words were said. They seemed to fill the room around them, dancing on air like so many motes of golden dust. Royce held his breath and waited.

Meg and the matron both sighed loudly, holding on to each other as they watched, blinking back tears.

Trembling from head to toe, Liza dropped her hands from her face and looked down at her feet where her new shoes peeped out from beneath the horrid pink dress, the torn flounce lying limply on the floor beside her foot. Royce’s hands held her firmly, his breath warm on her cheek.

He loved her. He loved her enough to say so in front of a stranger. Enough to say it in front of his sister. Enough to want to marry her. Forever.

Deep inside her heart, something broke open, and joy, pure and strong, poured through her. The emotion was so overwhelming that all she could do was stand there, staring down at her silly shoes, tears gathering.

“Liza? Please—” His voice deepened, his hands tightening on her arms. “Tell me that you love me. I can wait for everything else, if you’ll only tell me that.”

“Royce,” Meg said impatiently, “
do
something! Can’t you see she’s too overcome to speak?”

To Liza’s dismay, Royce gently turned her to face him. She kept her chin tucked, afraid that if she moved, the tears would fall. And they would not be gentle tears, but great guffaws of love and pain and joy.

Royce placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. Then he bent and gently kissed her cheek, looking at her with a gentle, almost awed expression. “Liza Pritchard, will you marry me?”

The elderly matron gulped and dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “Lord love you, Miss Pritchard. If you don’t marry him, I will!”

Liza’s laugh was strangled by a sob. She couldn’t help it. Of all the women Royce had courted, flirted with, cajoled, and dallied, he’d never asked a single one of them to be his wife. Only her.

She looked up into his eyes, finally finding her voice. “Oh, Royce. How can I say no? I love you, too. So very, very much.”

He roughly enveloped her in a warm hug, crushing her against him as he tilted back his head and laughed—long and loud, the sound drawing the attention of everyone within earshot. “God, I love you!”

And then Royce, Liza’s dear best friend, the man who knew her every foible, her every flaw, her too large feet, her inability to dance—and loved her anyway—picked her up and spun her around once, then kissed her full on the lips right in the middle of the Shelbourne ball.

Karen Hawkins

Karen Hawkins discovered the joy of writing at the age of two when she found herself holding a red crayon and facing a lovely blank wall. Since then, she’s developed her writing skills beyond the crayon stage, though she admits that no matter her profession, her favorite writing exercise will always be writing checks at the local mall. A woman can never have too many shoes.

Winner of an RWA Favorite Book of the Year as well the prestigious Maggie Award for Excellence, Karen writes full time when not shopping for shoes.

You can write to Karen at P.O. Box 5292, Kingsport, TN 37663-5292 or visit her online at
www.karenhawkins.com.

Look for Karen’s next delightfully sensuous romance,
Confessions of a Scoundrel,
coming March 2003.

A Dozen Kisses

Mia Ryan

This one I could not have done without Karen Hawkins.

Thanks for knowing exactly when
I needed you to call,
for knowing exactly what to say and for being my best friend when I needed one desperately.

Chapter 1

New to town for our odd little “Winter Season” is the Marquis of Darington, who has not been spied in London for over five years, not since his soldiering days. Rumor has it that he was wounded in action and spent many months convalescing at Ivy Park, in Surrey, which he inherited (along with his title) at the death of his fourth cousin twice removed, the former Lord Darington, who leaves his wife, the dowager Lady Darington, and his daughter, Lady Caroline Starling.

The details of Lord Darington’s injury and recuperation are unknown (indeed, the entire affair is a mystery, even to one as proficient at ferreting out secrets as This Author.) However, it IS known that upon his return from the continent, Lady Darington and her daughter were given very little time to vacate Ivy Park, which they had called home for several decades.

All in all, a most unpleasant affair, indeed.

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN
’
S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
,
28 J
ANUARY
1814

E
rnest Wareing, Earl of Pellering.
She was going to marry a man named Ernest Wareing, Earl of Pellering. For the love of all things holy, the man’s name rhymed.

Lady Caroline Starling didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Since she was in a public place, though hidden away in a corner, she really ought not to do either.

But since it seemed that in the last month she had pretty much lost any control she had ever had over her emotions, Lady Caroline Starling started sobbing right there in the rotunda of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.

It did not make sense that a lady should lose her decorum so, but it made even less sense for Lady Caroline Starling, who hardly ever cried.

Of course, that being said, she had cried more in the last week than she had in her entire twenty-five years upon the earth.

But most importantly, Lady Caroline should not cry, because in the last month, her life had finally, after years of upheaval, come very close to being perfect.

Shouldn’t that mean she would be sitting cheerfully in the box seat next to Lord Pellering, excited to witness Edmund Kean’s portrayal of Shylock?

Yes, of course it should. She ought to be thrilled. Ecstatic. With this thought, Linney started crying even harder.

“Are you all right?”

Linney jumped, her heart nearly stopping at the shock of another human’s voice, especially a distinctly masculine one. She had carefully secreted herself behind some very heavy drapes and a potted plant before turning into a sniveling watering pot.

“Here.”

She blinked at the snowy white linen handkerchief thrust unceremoniously beneath her nose. The handkerchief was held in equally snowy white gloves, which encased fingers that seemed to be of a nice proportion and size.

Linney stopped crying, her attention completely caught by the sight of some anonymous man’s gloved hands.

And, since she could not see the details of the man’s hands, it did strike Linney as strange that she would notice them at all. And, though Linney had never considered herself even close to normal, she felt a bit taken aback that unseen hands could trigger a heretofore unfelt flutter in her stomach.

It was the type of reaction one might have if startled, perhaps.

No, that was not truly the feeling.

Actually, it felt more like the time she had eaten some bad sausage.

With a shake of her head, Linney’s gaze traveled up the dark blue arm of a well-tailored silk jacket, across impressive shoulders to a lovely strong neck, and then, there before her, Linney looked upon the most breathtaking man she had ever seen.

She hiccupped.

“Take it before you ruin your gown,” the man said, shaking the bit of linen beneath her nose once more.

He was truly a gorgeous man, but he had the manners of a heathen. Not that Linney had ever met a heathen. Still, it was suddenly perfectly clear to her that there was no such beast in the world as a man who possessed good looks, good breeding, and sensitivity.

Oh Lord, she was going to cry again.

She grabbed the handkerchief and bunched it against her nose as tears resumed leaking from her eyes. Her knight in shining blue silk simply stood there staring as if she had just stripped naked on stage.

Linney blew her nose, loudly, and then folded the handkerchief so she could use a nice clean patch to wipe her face.

“Thank you,” she said, glancing at the lovely man and holding out his soggy handkerchief to him.

He stared at it for a moment, and then Linney clutched it back to herself in horror.

Well, of course, she could not give it back to him. How incredibly disgusting. “I…” She waited for a moment, hoping he would be the gentleman and suggest she keep it, thus releasing her from this awful and embarrassing experience with some dignity intact.

And, of course, the man continued to stand there staring at her.

The beautiful dolt. He might have the manners to offer her a handkerchief, but, quite obviously, that is where his sense of etiquette ended and his rather pompous bearing took over.

“Well, here, then,” she said, standing and shoving the soiled piece of linen right in his front pocket.

He glanced down at his chest pocket, and then looked back at her.

And Linney instantly wished herself to the nether reaches of China. Why on earth did she let herself do such horrible things? It was the very reason she usually stood up against the wall trying to blend into her surroundings. Whenever she was singled out, she inevitably defied propriety.

Instead of glaring at her, though, as most were wont to do, Lord Gorgeous smiled. Actually, it was a full-blown grin.

And, though she bit at her lip, Linney could not help but grin right back at him.

“You have a dimple,” she said then. Linney slapped her hand over her mouth. She really did need to stop speaking altogether.

Still, he did have a dimple, one, only one, denting his right cheek in a rakish way that made her knees weak.

“And you have passion,” he said.

Linney blinked.

“You do not cry anymore,” he said softly. “This is good. That is…” The man glanced away and then back at her. And he lifted her fingers away from her lips and gently pressed his mouth to them.