To Love a Wicked Lord (7 page)

She couldn't, but she too kept any trace of her feelings to herself. She'd relive that delicious moment, gloat over it, study it, and think about all the possibilities only when she was alone again. Pippa's heart was high as she stepped into the carriage. Brighton by evening! She'd certainly speak to him at dinner.

She settled herself in the coach and frowned. What was she doing? She wasn't thinking about Noel. Not at all, and hadn't since Montrose kissed her. No, she thought honestly, not since he'd come near her in the night. She was thoughtful but not gloating as the coach pulled off onto the main road again.

Her grandmother fell asleep almost immediately, so Pippa had time enough and to spare to do all the thinking that she hadn't last night. Noel had never kissed her like that. Well, she supposed he had, but it hadn't felt like that. Still, what folly for her to form a new tendre now, and especially
for a man of so many affects and poses, secrets and moods! And yet, what difference did it make? It was a moment now forever gone. She knew she meant nothing to Montrose. Or did she? Pippa was lost in thought as the carriage rattled on toward Brighton, which might be the end of her search and, she realized, of her ambitions…that was, when she understood exactly what those ambitions now were.

P
ippa went to bed in the dark and awoke at dawn. She stretched herself, remembered where she was, and leaped up. She ran to the window and pulled back a curtain. Brighton! She was in a fine hotel in the center of town. Last night she'd noted that the hotel itself was clean, well furnished, and in good repair, but the darkness had obscured any real look at its surroundings. Nothing prepared her for the view out her high window.

A beautiful scene was before her. A long, oval, well-tended green swath lay in the center of the town, with lovely homes, inns, hotels, and shops on all sides of it. When she looked up she saw the glittering sea in the distance. When she looked into the middle distance, she saw the newly risen sun glinting off huge golden domes and minarets. Surely that was some ancient church, built by a for
eign order. But then she remembered she'd heard that the prince was building a luxurious pavilion here. Could he have created it?

Buildings of many styles bordered the long swath of grass in the center of the city. Staid old homes sat snug, near the road. Older buildings tilting with age stood shoulder to shoulder with new gray and white town houses. It all fit, somehow, and gave the view an aura of charm.

When Pippa looked directly down, she saw that with the rising sun came fashionable equestrians, cantering out for their morning's ride, as they'd done in London that time she'd visited there. She stayed by the window, watching the well-bred, handsome horses and their equally well-bred and handsomely dressed riders.

Pippa put her elbows on the sill, and breathed deep. She scented the sea and the rare, fair spring morning. This was a far better place to be than Bath. The people she saw were young and able, or if not precisely young, then at least agile. It seemed a lively prosperous village. It was even possible Noel was here, or had passed through. She frowned. But if so, why? And where was he now?

If she found him, could she ever forgive him for leaving and not coming back, not telling her his reasons, and not communicating with her for so
long? If he were alive and well, would he want her forgiveness? It no longer mattered. All she wanted now was an answer; an end to the uncertainty and seclusion the situation had brought her. She smiled. All answers might be found here in gloriously glittering Brighton.

Pippa was up and dressed long before her grandmother stirred from her room. That was nothing new. Unless they were traveling on early in the morning, Grandmother stayed abed until noon. It was fashionable, or so she said. And Grandmother, for all her new flirtatious ways, was not a young woman anymore. But Pippa was, and she couldn't wait to be out and about.

After she'd hurriedly washed and dressed, Pippa, in a blue walking gown, with a shawl over her shoulders and a pert straw bonnet on her flaxen hair to prevent the newly risen sun from etching freckles on her nose, left the inn to take the morning air. Her maid accompanied her. The girl was as eager as she was to see the town. Pippa sighed with pleasure. This time was her own. Her outfit was proper, so she didn't worry about her appearance. Her maid was with her; so strange men wouldn't accost her. But neither did either of the two men she knew. She frowned after she stepped out the door to greet the new day. There wasn't a trace of
the marquis or Sir Whitley to be seen, and they usually appeared with the dawn. At least, they appeared and then left to go riding together.

Both gentlemen had avoided her since yesterday, although whenever they saw her grandmother they were all smiles and gallantry. It wasn't as if they were rude to her, Pippa thought. They just made themselves least in sight when they spied her. She didn't blame them. What sort of female went from home looking for her lost fiancé, and then ended up in another fellow's arms? Certainly, the marquis didn't understand her. But then, neither did she, not anymore.

“We'll go for a short walk,” Pippa told her maid. “If you get tired, let me know.”

Anne giggled. “Thank you, but I'm from the county, miss, same as you. Not likely to get tired on a walk, are we?”

“No,” Pippa agreed. “So. Now the question is, do we go left or right?”

She startled as she felt a sudden blast of warm air on her cheek and a snorting sound, as a pleasant male voice asked, “How about straight down the middle?”

She wheeled around and looked up. A huge gray horse stood at her side and looked at her with interest. Lord Montrose sat atop it and was smiling
down at her as he held the horse still. He wore gray and black, and a high beaver hat sat at a cocky tilt on his dark head. He looked immaculate, as ever, at ease and amused, as always. Her breathing sped up, then slowed as she succeeded in concealing the sudden jolt of joy she felt at seeing him so unexpectedly.

“I've taken this fellow out for a run,” he said, patting the horse. “Now, the least I can do is the same for you.”

Her head went up, her nostrils flared. “I don't need a run, thank you,” she said, smoothing her gloves for something to do instead of gaping at him.

He sketched a bow from the saddle. “Excuse me. Badly put. I meant to say, would you care to come for a ride with me?”

“I'm not dressed for riding as you can see,” she said briskly.

“But you are,” he said. “Not for riding a horse, of course; but perfectly for riding in a phaeton. There's one in the hotel's stable ready to be out and around the town, with room for you and me and your maid. I can show you Brighton and tell you its secrets before the noonday sun rouses your grandmother from her bed. Care to go with me?”

It was an irresistible offer for too many reasons
for Pippa to consider just now. She nodded. “That would be useful. I'd like that, yes. I know nothing about Brighton and am not likely to be here again.”

“So stay here,” he said. “Let me return this nag. I'll be back with the carriage and we'll be off.”

Pippa stood waiting. The sun rose higher. It began to seem like a long time, but she couldn't be sure because she was so eager to be off. Still, as time went on, she became afraid he'd been making a jest of her. She'd wait, she vowed, just a little longer, and then stride off with her maid. He could catch up with her later, if indeed, he'd even meant there to be a “later” for them.

She was about to step off when a jaunty yellow high phaeton with blue trim rounded the corner with Montrose at the reins. A young tiger, a boy to hold the horse for his lordship when he stopped, was perched on the back axle. The phaeton had two seats, and the boy helped the maid clamber in the back as Lord Montrose extended a hand to Pippa so she could climb onto the driver's seat with him.

She settled herself and looked at him quizzically. He still wore a dark jacket, but it was a different one, and his hair was obviously damp now, beneath a different high beaver hat.

“I washed and changed,” he said in explanation to her curious look. “Hurriedly to be sure, but thoroughly. I love to ride, but will not put up with smelling like a horse.”

“And so that's why you're late?” she asked.

He smiled. “Wouldn't you rather I be a jot late and smelling like a rose…or rather, a lavender bush?”

She blinked.

“Of course,” he went on, as he picked up the reins, “Bonaparte prefers violets, and wears Seven-Eleven, while our Prince enjoys something sweeter and muskier, but one's scent is not political, or shouldn't be, don't you think?”

He was, she realized, no matter his preference for kisses from females, still a consummate fop. And she oughtn't to forget it for a moment. Curiously, it both calmed and disappointed her.

“You smell like spring rain,” he went on, “with a touch of lilac. Or is the wind blowing from the direction of those magnificent lilacs there by the corner house?”

“I don't remember what I bathed with this morning, or put on after,” she snapped. This wasn't true. She used fine French lilac soap, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing it. He knew too much already. Or did he? She'd had little time
to talk with him recently; first, because she'd felt so shy with him after that kiss, and then because they'd never been alone after that until now.

“Have you had any communications with anyone who saw Noel?” she asked now, because her maid was too far back to hear what they said over the sounds of the horse and carriage coursing over the cobbles.

He laughed. “So soon? No, not even I'm that efficient. But I've sent out my card to everyone who matters so I've hopes of going on polite visits and hearing something new soon enough.”

“Can you think of any reason why he'd have gone to Brighton in particular?” she asked anxiously. “You never really said. I know grandmother and I have followed you like ducklings, but why exactly are we here?”

“Because you wouldn't go home,” he said pleasantly.

Her smile was tight. “That's not what I meant and you know it,” she said.

He shrugged.

“Then, I'll ask a simpler question that won't bore you. Why did my grandfather recommend you?” she asked.

“I'm never bored with you,” he said. “That's part of the problem. But good,” he added, slanting
a dark glance at her. “Why didn't you ask that days ago?”

She was still for a moment. “I'm used to following my grandfather's instructions, I suppose. Now I think I ought not to have gone off so blindly. Why did he send us to you?”

“Your grandfather didn't ask me. He knew better. I fact, he asked me nothing.”

She sat up straight, her eyes wide.

“He couldn't,” Maxwell said, “I've not had the pleasure of meeting him. Don't look so shocked. And don't leap out of the carriage. He asked a mutual friend to recommend someone. I am that someone. And yes, I've tracked down missing persons before. The difference is that this time the missing person doesn't want to be found. Or so I'm coming to believe. Can you think of any reason for that?”

She shook her head. “None. I told you, he was eager to marry me. When he said he had some matters to take care of before we could marry, I never doubted him.”

“Did you love him that much?”

She looked down. “I think I told you that too. I don't know. Not anymore.”

“Abandonment can harden the heart,” he said blandly.

“Well, it's that, and that I began to realize I'd been alone too long when I met him. I mean, not exposed to eligible gentlemen. So who knows how I might have felt had I more suitors? That's as may be. I have to know, why would Noel come to Brighton?…if he did.”

“Why would he go to Bath?” he asked as answer. “Those people I spoke with lead me to believe he did both. Brighton is the closest city to Dieppe, across the channel. Had he relatives or friends in France?”

“You should have asked that before,” she answered testily.

He smiled. “Good parry. So I should have, and so I did. I merely didn't ask you because I thought he never told you the truth about himself.”

“Well, he mightn't have, I suppose, but he never mentioned any desire to leave England or any relatives”—her voice dwindled—“anywhere.”

They drove on in silence for a few minutes. The sea breeze couldn't dispel the growing warmth of the day. Pippa removed her hat, raised her head, closed her eyes, and let the light breeze play with her hair. She thought he might be looking at her, and was glad her eyes were closed. He was maddeningly attractive, even though she'd never fancied such a man of Fashion before. She'd never
met one before, actually. It might have been the fact that all the things he considered essential to his wardrobe, all the airs and graces he affected were so exquisite and fine that they seemed feminine, and because that aspect of him conflicted so strongly with the powerful masculine appeal that emanated from the man.

“Won't your nose turn pink?” Maxwell asked, cutting into her reverie.

She smiled. Of course a fop would think of that. But she reveled in the way the wind teased at her hair so that it slid from its restraints and grazed her cheeks as silken streamers. And the sunlight on her face felt like a caress. “Powder can conceal it,” she murmured as she stared into the scarlet patterns the sunlight made on her inner eyelids. “Or a concoction of crushed cucumber might do it. I really don't care. I've had much more powder and facial cream than sunshine lately.”

He chuckled. Or clucked his tongue at her, or the horse. She didn't care. But soon she lowered her head and looked sidewise at him again.

“My lord?” she said so softly he had to incline his head toward her.

“That…incident, the other night,” she went on, avoiding his eyes, “was very wrong on my part, as well as yours.”

He sighed.

“I know,” she said. “We've discussed it, but I can't stop regretting it. I should have known better. I ask again, can we disregard it?”

“I don't regret it,” he said. “Rather the reverse. But if you like, we can resolve not to repeat it. It doesn't make me think less of you, by the by. In fact, had you not succumbed to my attentions, I'd think less of you. At least, I would think you weren't precisely human.”

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up upright again. “Well, if that doesn't beat all! You think you're that irresistible?”

“No,” he said, considering. “I know it.”

They fell silent. The next time they spoke was when he pointed out a crew of laborers swarming around a huge domed building by the sea. “There,” he said, “is our prince's monstrous big erection. Or part of it.”

“My grandmother,” she said through gritted teeth, “is not herself these days. Or rather, if she is, it's a self I don't know. But though that might have been said in her youth, deep down she knew it wouldn't be taken the same way today and was moreover outrageous, and she said it for that reason.”

“I know,” he said more gently. “Is her condition worsening?”