The Wickedest Lord Alive (20 page)

The boy fancied himself a poet; certainly, he dressed the part. His tumbling fair locks were cut in the pageboy style he seemed to think romantic but actually made him look like a girl. Instead of a normal cravat, he wore a huge, silly paisley bow. The boy’s coat was made of bottle green velvet and his waistcoat was louder than a trumpet blast.

Cyprian lazed back on the green chaise longue with his fingertips pressed to his brow. Alone, the boy had probably been taking a nap but had snapped into his die-away attitude when he heard someone come into the room.

And this was the damned puppy who would step into Xavier’s shoes one day. After Cyprian’s wastrel father had drained the estate dry, that was.

Not if Xavier could help it.

“Hard at work, Cousin?”

“As you see.” Cyprian waved a lily-white hand toward a writing desk nearby. Stacks of paper covered in looping flamboyant script, ink, several quills, a scattering of sand, a penknife, and other detritus covered the surface. The floor beneath was littered with balls of crumpled paper.

Xavier would like to set the boy to digging a ditch or plowing a field, the way Montford had done to him when Xavier was a youth learning estate management. Then Cyprian would discover what hard work was.

But Cyprian’s competence or lack thereof would shortly become moot. He ought not to let the silly boy’s maunderings bother him so.

At the very least, he acquitted his vacant cousin of taking a hand in any kind of conspiracy against Xavier. Uncle Bernard would no sooner confide in Cyprian than fly to the moon.

“I’m writing a poem about thwarted love,” Cyprian announced. “I’m having the Devil of a time with it, if you must know, Coz.”

“My heart bleeds,” said Xavier.

The boy slapped his knee and sat up with sudden energy. “That’s just it. The heart. The organ of amour. The receptacle of tender emotions in a man’s breast. I have never been thwarted in love, so how am I to write about it?”

Xavier snorted. “Romantic love is a pretty concept dreamed up by people who need some noble justification for slaking their lust.”

Cyprian stared at him as if he’d just killed a puppy. The young man swallowed; then his attention strayed to his work.

Mercilessly, Xavier added, “Given the entire concept is a construct, you need only use your imagination if you want to write about it. Make it up, why don’t you? Just as so many deluded idiots have done before you.”

Before Cyprian could frame a response, Lydgate strolled into the room. “Ah, Xavier,” he said, taking in the situation in a swift glance. “Pricking the bubble of love’s young dream?”

Xavier snorted. “Merely stating facts.”

“Don’t listen to him, Cyprian,” said Lydgate soothingly. “A more cynical man you will never meet.”

Cyprian had been staring at Xavier with blank horror. Now he shook himself and laughed. “Oh, I have learned by now not to regard anything my cousin says about tender emotions. It is well known he has an icicle for a heart.”

The boy hadn’t meant to wound him. He certainly hadn’t succeeded.

“I wonder,” said Lydgate with a gleam of speculation in his eye.

“My heart is an organ which pumps blood, nothing more,” said Xavier.

He sought to change the subject, and moved to the tray of decanters on the sideboard. “May I offer you gentlemen a glass of wine?”

“Thank you, no,” said Lydgate. “I’m looking for Miss Beauchamp. I was told she’d arrived.”

“She must be dressing for dinner by now,” said Xavier, pouring a glass and handing it to Cyprian.

He eyed his young cousin. “You will change out of that ridiculous getup before Montford lays eyes on you, won’t you?”

In spite of himself, Xavier sought to save the poet from Montford’s biting irony. Not that the young fool would notice, but Xavier felt in some part responsible for him.

“No, I won’t be dining,” said Cyprian, frowning at his papers. “I must finish this.”

Hastily, Lydgate intervened before Xavier could snarl. “Now, my boy, let’s hear no more of that. Must dine, you know. Wouldn’t want to risk offending His Grace. Besides, sustenance for the long night of hair-pulling ahead and all that. You may excuse yourself once the ladies leave the table, but not before, understand? Now, you’d best go and dress. You don’t want to be late.”

Cyprian rose obediently, but it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Have all this taken up to your chamber,” said Xavier, indicating the mess of papers Cyprian had accumulated. “If you don’t have a desk there, order one. The library is for relaxing in, not for indulging in die-away airs.”

When Cyprian had gone, Lydgate said, “You are harsh with him.”

“Believe me, I restrained myself.” Xavier sipped his wine. “In any case, my most acid comments sail past him. His head is firmly wedged up his third canto.”

“He is an original, I’ll give him that,” said Lydgate.

“Eccentrics are amusing only when one doesn’t have to live with them or depend on them to be practical.”

“The boy has talent,” said Lydgate. “Have you ever read anything of his?”

“No, and I don’t wish to,” said Xavier.
“Love,”
he scoffed, thinking of Lizzie and her expectations. “What the Devil does
he
know about love?”

“What indeed?” murmured Lydgate. “What does any of us know until we fall?”

*   *   *

By the time she’d returned to the house, Lizzie’s fear and anger had cooled to utter determination. Somehow she’d manage to foil Xavier’s attempt to coerce her into bed. No matter what his rights might be as her husband, he would never physically force her. Of that she was utterly certain.

Plans for the evening revolving in her head, Lizzie caught up with Tom and Clare on the staircase as they all repaired to their bedchambers to dress for dinner.

They paused on the first landing, for Tom was quartered in the bachelor’s wing, far away from innocent females, and their ways parted here.

“This house is immense beyond comprehension,” said Tom. “I’d wager we walked farther than you did this afternoon, Lizzie, for all your ramble was out of doors.”

“So many corridors and passageways and forgotten rooms,” Clare agreed. “I wonder that Lady Davenport could remember the way.”

“The marbles beat Elgin’s collection hands down. Most of them have heads and limbs, for one thing,” said Tom ingenuously. “But what I really liked were the curiosities from the duke’s travels. He was a younger son, you know, and had a lot of freedom until his elder brother died.”

Lizzie was pleased to see that her friends seemed to have buried the hatchet—for the moment, at least. Perhaps being among strangers made each of them more appreciative of the other’s familiarity.

“The house is rather overwhelming,” she agreed. “I do not think I should like to be charged with its upkeep.”

“There are certainly enough servants to see that it runs smoothly,” said Tom. “I’m forever stumbling upon yet another footman.”

He lowered his voice. “My valet says this is supposed to be just a family party, you know.”

Lizzie and Clare exchanged looks. Lizzie said, “I understood from Lord Steyne that it is Lord Lydgate’s habit to invite people along to these gatherings. It is nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And how was your walk, Lizzie?” said Clare, helpfully changing the subject.

“Very pleasant,” said Lizzie, hoping that the heat that suffused her face did not show on her skin as a blush. The mention of her walk made her remember Xavier’s kiss.

“We’d best be going,” said Clare, tucking her hand in Lizzie’s arm. “See you at dinner, Tom.”

When they’d changed and admired each other, Lizzie and Clare went to Aunt Sadie’s bedchamber.

“I was obliged to tell Aunt your secret,” said Clare. “I know you were going to do it, but she wanted to send Briggs to help you dress, so I had to explain. I’m sorry if I did wrong.”

“Not at all,” said Lizzie, swallowing hard. She was relieved she didn’t have to go through it all over again, but apprehensive of Aunt Sadie’s reaction.

She thought of Tom, not to mention Mr. Huntley, but ten to one the gentlemen wouldn’t notice that she wore a new gown or that her hair was arranged by a mistress of the art. Beth, having learned her trade at the heels of Rosamund’s maid, had dressed Lizzie’s hair in a complicated style of bands and twists that were delicate but not overly fussy, a perfect complement to the pale pink gown.

“How did Aunt Sadie take it?” she muttered as they paused outside the bedchamber door.

Clare grinned as she scratched on the door. “You’ll see.”

“My
dearest
girl.” Aunt Sadie hurried forward, her arms outstretched. “I had no notion, none! A marchioness. Oh, it is just like a fairy tale! Let us do our utmost to work toward a happy ending.”

She took Lizzie’s hands and spread them wide. “Ah, everything in the finest taste. As it should be. Mrs. Allbright’s pearls are just the thing. And your hair, Lizzie! You must have your maid show Briggs the styles, yes? Oh, I am beyond thrilled for you, my dear.”

Clare looked on, beaming with delight also. Lizzie felt suddenly the most fortunate woman in the world to have such friends.

“I shall never be a beauty like Clare, but I think this gown makes the most of what I have,” she said, laughing. “Shall we go down?”

Looking enchanting in pale blue trimmed with silk floss, Clare tucked her hand in each lady’s arm as they went downstairs. “I have not laid eyes on Lydgate yet.”

“Wait till he lays eyes on you, Clare,” said Lizzie. “If he’s not smitten already, he certainly will be.”

Aunt Sadie said, “Now, girls, do not get your hopes up on that score. Lydgate is an accomplished flirt. He has escaped parson’s mousetrap time out of mind. My sources say he is a most committed bachelor.”

She broke off as Tom crossed the great hall to greet them. He appeared extremely point-device in evening dress as starkly plain as she’d noticed the Westruther men favored. So she wasn’t the only one whose sartorial style had undergone a transformation.

“There you are, Tom,” said Aunt Sadie, sailing forth to pat his cheek. “Give me your arm, boy.”

With a grin, Tom escorted Aunt Sadie to the drawing room.

“I noticed you have not quarreled with Tom since you arrived,” murmured Lizzie to Clare as they followed behind. “Are you both quite well?”

Clare choked back a giggle. “Give us time. I’m sure we’ll find something soon enough.”

Lord Lydgate was already in the drawing room awaiting them, and upon seeing him, Clare glowed. Tom hailed him and they moved into his orbit.

Mr. Huntley, always overly punctual, attended his mama, who was seated in a chair in the corner of the room. Really, Lizzie thought, if she were indeed engaged to Huntley, she would be more than a little put out at his inattentiveness. As it was, she could only be relieved.

Hilary, Lady Davenport, was present also, with a large, handsome man whose lips held a wicked tilt. That must be Lord Davenport.

Hilary tugged at her husband’s elbow and brought him over to Lizzie. “Miss Allbright, may I present to you my husband, Jonathon?”

The earl bowed. “Delighted, Miss Allbright.” His voice was deep, with a mellow timbre to it. Lizzie could well imagine why Hilary had fallen in love with the rogue.

He procured her a glass of wine, then said, “So, Miss Allbright, tell me. Why would anyone who wasn’t duty-bound to be here set foot in Harcourt?”

Lizzie choked on a laugh.

“Jonathon!” said his wife. “Pray excuse him, Miss Allbright,” she added with a roll of her eyes. “My spouse was raised in a cow byre.”

“No, it’s quite all right,” said Lizzie. “Lord Lydgate stayed in Little Thurston recently and invited us. The Beauchamps, Lady Tiverton, Mr. and Mrs. Huntley, and me.”

“Ah. Hospitable fellow, Lydgate. Particularly when someone else is hosting.” He winked. “Do enjoy yourself, Miss Allbright.”

“There is Cyprian,” murmured Hilary. “I wonder how Xavier managed to tear him from his art.”

“Over here, Poet!” called Davenport, raising his glass.

The man Hilary called Cyprian reminded Lizzie of an elfin king, for his fair beauty seemed almost otherworldly. He certainly
looked
like a poet.

She wondered if he was any good. Most of the young men she knew who turned their hand to verse mangled the English language shamefully.

But Cyprian Westruther did not seem to hear Davenport. He moved on, as if in a trance.

“With us in body but not in spirit,” said Hilary, sighing. “Xavier will be most annoyed.”

“Speak of the Devil,” muttered Davenport under his breath.

Lizzie followed his gaze. Her stomach gave a short stab of excitement. Despite their earlier differences, she’d wanted to see his expression when she wore this gown.

She wasn’t disappointed. When he saw Lizzie, something about him grew more alert. He didn’t smile, but as he moved toward her, ignoring everyone else in the room, she saw the warmth in his eyes.

“Miss Allbright.” He bowed and kissed her hand.

Lizzie curtsied. “Lord Steyne. How … how delightful.”

She sensed, rather than saw, astonishment run through the assembled company like a wind.

With a nod at her companions, Xavier drew her away to meet more of his family.

Chapter Fourteen

The mere touch of her hand set Xavier’s blood humming. To say Lizzie stunned him wouldn’t be quite accurate. But when he’d seen her in that gown, the gown he’d selected for her so carefully, she’d taken his breath away.

A trite phrase, but how else could he describe the momentary feeling of heightened awareness coupled with the light-headedness brought on by suspending one’s breathing for far too many moments?

Lizzie, who’d dressed with practicality and primness back in Little Thurston, was a very different prospect from the cool goddess who now moved easily beside him.

A large hand clapped him on the shoulder. He turned. “Beckenham,” he said, realizing he was pleased to see his kinsman.

He shook Beckenham’s hand, his attention moving to the stunning redhead at Beckenham’s side.

“Georgie, my dear. You are exquisite as always.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, felt her stiffen slightly.