To Lure a Proper Lady (17 page)

Lizzie nodded. “Yes, thank goodness. Now, if you'll excuse me.”

He put out an arm but thankfully stopped short of grabbing her by the wrist. Perhaps Sven's looming presence curtailed him. “Not so fast. We haven't finished discussing that small matter I brought up just before.”

Lizzie closed her eyes and counted to ten. When that didn't help, she went on to twenty. “Must we talk about this in front of an audience?”

Snowley glanced at Sven and shrugged. “He doesn't understand.”

He paused and drew in a breath. Here it came. The speech, no doubt rehearsed ahead of time. A prickle of heat crept up the back of Lizzie's neck. She didn't deserve some flowery declaration; certainly not from her cousin, who wouldn't mean a word of it.

Before he could start in, she raised her hand. “That won't be necessary.”

He let out his lungful of air. “Does that mean you'll agree to marry me?”

Yes. Just say yes and make Papa happy.
But the word caught in her throat. She simply couldn't bring herself to voice that single syllable. “I shall have to think on it.”

“Of course.” His lips stretched into a semblance of a smile. “I knew you would say that. You ladies always have to think on things. Just don't take too long.”

“Why?” She couldn't keep the irritation out of her tone. “Do you think I have no other prospects?”

“None your papa will agree to.”

For some reason an image of Dysart passed through her mind. Not that he'd ever be in a position to offer for her. Not that he even nurtured anything in the way of tender feelings for her. At any rate, Snowley had her on that point. Papa wanted one match for her. This one. “If I agree to this, I have my conditions.”

“Does that mean you accept?”

Yes. Say yes. Agree. It's what Papa wants.
But she couldn't force the acceptance out. Not for Papa and not for her sisters. “Does that mean you're willing to take me without even hearing what I want?”

He bounced up on the balls of his feet, reminding her of an overeager puppy yipping after a bone. “What are your conditions?”

“You will keep your nose out of my sisters' affairs. You will not try to arrange husbands for them. And you will allow them to live here at Sherrington Manor for as long as they choose. Only if you agree to that, will I even consider any offer from you.”

“All right,” he replied too quickly.

Good Lord, what had he expected her to demand? Perhaps a restriction on his conjugal rights. Confound it, she should have asked for that, as well. “Then I will consider your proposal.”

“When might I expect an answer?”

In ten years.
“I cannot possibly tell you that. Now, if you don't mind, I'm off to consider.”

She turned and strode back down the hall. She would have to consider, every single aspect. Above all, she'd have to weigh the sacrifice of her own happiness in favor of her sisters' and father's.

In her wake, a single word echoed down the corridor.
“Grattis.”

She'd never learned a single word of Swedish, but some odd feeling told her Sven had just wished her well.

As many times as he'd pulled his hands through his hair, Dysart knew he must look like a madman. But, damn it all, he simply couldn't work out how Lady Whitby fit into the picture. If only he knew more about her. He had a suspicion Great-aunt Matilda could tell him plenty, given the scorn she'd shown the other woman. Unfortunately, she was in no condition to tell anyone anything.

Convenient, that.

He shoved his chair back, stood, and walked a circuit of the small sitting room. Lady Whitby, Lady Whitby. Her involvement with the plot to kill Sherrington simply didn't make sense. His mind kept jumping back to Lady Elizabeth's questions: Why, and why now? Without further information, he could supply no answer to either one.

Remove Lady Whitby from the equation and he still had a bloody mess, one he felt less and less confident in his ability to untangle. He was back to where he'd been this morning, both literally and figuratively, with no solution in sight.

The door handle rattled, and he pivoted. “Who's there?”

Although he already had an excellent idea who would wish to come into this particular room at such a late hour. Only Lady Elizabeth knew he might be in here. Before she even had a chance to reply, he crossed to the door. At her muffled “It's me,” he turned the key in the lock.

She brushed past him as she stepped across the threshold, her skirts a silken whisper. That fleeting touch set his pulse to throbbing. And then he caught sight of her dress. She hadn't changed out of that thrice-damned ball gown. The flickering candlelight revealed the sheen of fine fabric that highlighted tempting curves. He curled his hands into fists.

“I looked for you outside Papa's chambers. You weren't at your place.”

Was it really so late? In answer to his thought, a case clock somewhere in the house tolled a single stroke.

“I hadn't realized. I've been too busy going over…” He waved weakly at the table littered with his notes. At least that gesture busied one hand with something other than touching her. He turned away and yanked at his hair once more. “I've found nothing new.
Nothing.
”

“That's what I came to tell you. I've just been to check on Great-aunt Matilda. It seems Lady Whitby was right, which means we don't need to worry about her as a possible suspect.”

“Bloody marvelous. That's one person we can check off the list. Only several hundred more to go. I could be here the rest of the night—hell, the rest of the week—and still be no closer to finding the culprit.”

He didn't need the swish of her skirts to indicate she'd glided up behind him. He experienced her presence as something tangible, almost as if he could reach out and touch her essence like a handful of the costliest silk. She stood close enough that the scent of expensive perfume, at once vanilla and floral, filled his nostrils. Then he felt a tug at his hair.

“You really have made a mess of things, haven't you?” Her breath just beneath his ear carried the words.

He shut his eyes against the sensation of her fingers combing through his locks, but somehow that only magnified all his senses. God, her touch was at once soothing and arousing. He never wanted her to stop.

“What are you referring to?” He had to force the question through his teeth. “This case?”

He wouldn't blame her if she confirmed his fears. Hell, he wouldn't blame her if she sacked him on the spot. She certainly would if she knew where his thoughts were headed.

“Only your hair.” He could hear the smile behind her reply. He longed to turn and see it, but if he did, he'd only yearn for a taste and then another and another.

“I should go back to my post outside your father's rooms.” He could think there just as well as here. Besides, he needed to extricate himself from her presence before he did something supremely stupid.

“I think we ought to ask Sven to stand guard over Papa. He's like Cerberus guarding the gates to the underworld. He wouldn't let either me or Snowley in to see Great-aunt Matilda.”

That did it. He pivoted to face her. “You were with Snowley?”

Stupid question. Of course she was. She'd danced with him. What Dysart wouldn't have given for the excuse to take her cousin's place. To circle an arm about her waist and lead her through the lilting steps of a waltz, and pray for the brush of her thigh against his. Or better yet, her hips.

She looked down and away. “He had a matter he wished to discuss with me.”

That reply made Dysart's entire body go rigid, and not in a pleasant way. “What matter?”

“Nothing to do with your case. I put him off until later. This…” She glanced at his litter of papers spread across the writing table. “This comes before anything my cousin considers important.”

“I hope he can wait. As I said, I've got exactly nowhere.”

She reached out and laid her fingertips on his forearm. “Tell me about it.”

Her touch seemed to burn through the layers of his topcoat and shirt into his skin. He resisted the impulse to pull away. “What good will that do? I've been over and over it.”

“Maybe once more, with me, will help.”

He ought to tell her no. In fact, he ought to send her off to bed, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Part of him didn't want to lose the contact of her hand on his arm. And that was a problem—a huge one. At some point, he was going to have to set her away from him, but not yet.

And so he did the only thing he could. He sat at the table and launched into his list of suspects, beginning with the duke's doctor, along with potential motivations and the reasons he discounted every one. Dr. Fowler had served Sherrington for years without incident, and nothing about that situation had changed. While Dysart would have loved for Pendleton to be involved because of their history, Pendleton's doings seemed to involve Lady Caroline more than his grace. Great-aunt Matilda, while odd, had no reason to see her nephew to an early grave.

“And then there's Sven.” Dysart reached for a blank sheet of paper and inked his pen. He hadn't yet placed the Swede on his list of suspects, but in the interest of completeness, he ought to.

“Why on earth would you think it was Sven,” Lady Elizabeth protested, “especially as you've just eliminated Great-aunt Matilda?”

He tapped the handle of the pen to his lips. “It's odd, isn't it, that Sven's been in to cure your papa and suddenly he's ready to join the party.”

“Doesn't that point to Sven not being guilty?”

“You'd think so, but he knows an awful lot about your father's condition for someone who isn't around on a regular basis to observe.”

“And his motivation?” she prodded.

She had him. Dysart couldn't come up with a single reason why Sven would try to poison the duke, at least not one that didn't involve his employer—whom they had just eliminated.

“You know who this leaves us with?”

“Snowley,” she whispered.

Snowley, who had the strongest motivation, since he'd wield more power as a duke than a duke's heir presumptive. Snowley, who had made more than one cryptic comment of late involving the duke's future health.

Part of him wondered that she didn't leap to her cousin's defense. Yet another part of him—one he'd rather not examine at the moment—experienced a smug sort of satisfaction that she didn't.

He turned in his seat to face her. “I think you'd better tell me what he wanted to discuss with you just now.”

She looked away long enough to make him wonder if she was considering telling him a lie. But then she met his gaze square on, though she'd caught her lower lip between her teeth. “The usual.”

“Can you define that for me, please?”

“He proposed.”

Unaccountable rage boiled up inside Dysart, and he leapt from his seat. “He
what
?”

“Please.” She put out a hand. “You've known from the beginning this was a possibility. I told you Papa was pushing the match.”

Of course, she had. But his bloody mind only wished to focus on one fact. “Tell me you didn't accept.”

Her jaw dropped. The flicker of the candlelight did nothing to hide her expression. It clearly read,
What sort of idiot do you take me for?
A question he'd rather not ponder, since he'd come out the bigger idiot in comparison even if she had accepted.

“I told him I'd think about it,” she said tightly. “Thankfully, he didn't press me too hard on how long I might take.”

Dysart pursed his lips before he could ask why she hadn't refused Snowley out of hand. It was none of Dysart's affair, no matter how she'd responded to his kisses and touch.

Instead, he curbed his temper and resumed his seat. “Except I can't work out how he's doing it. He's got to have help.” He shuffled through his reams of notes to find his list of the household staff. “I've questioned every single person on this page. Well, except for your father's estate agent. He's never around when I want him, but that's only to be expected.”

“Perhaps he's set off early to collect the midsummer rents.”

What were the odds this one man was Snowley's accomplice? The slimmest possibility meant Dysart had to look into it. Not a single one of the other servants seemed likely.

Unless it was Caruthers. The butler seemed to be called upon every time his grace had an attack. Yes, Caruthers was well placed, and if Snowley was paying him off…The butler might even have hedged where the estate agent was concerned, to put Dysart off the proper scent.

But he didn't know, and if there was one thing he hated, it was not knowing. A growl clambered up from his chest, and he fisted his hand about the list of staff, crumpling it into oblivion.

Her fingers crept back, sifting through his hair, stroking, stroking. In this position, with him sitting and her standing, he had only to pivot and bury his face against the softness of her abdomen. His own fingers could satisfy their itch to sample the contrast in texture between that blush-pink fabric and the creamy swells of flesh riding high above her bodice. Which would be softer?

He couldn't allow the temptation, especially not when she'd just received a proposal from another man, even if he was her cousin. Even if he did bear the ridiculous name of Snowley—not that Dysart was in a position to criticize there. Even if she didn't bear the least bit of affection for him, based on all observation.

No, he couldn't let his mind walk that path. He'd end up acting on the temptation she offered.

“It's late,” he rasped. “Perhaps you should think about getting some rest.”

God help him, he'd almost mentioned bed. And that was the last suggestion he needed to make. As it was, his brain filled with all manner of illicit images where he joined her on that mattress and slowly divested her of every last thread of luxurious clothing. And proceeded to kiss every sensitized inch of her bare skin.

“And what of you?” Her voice was equally husky. Damn it, he hadn't needed to hear that note of arousal.

He forced himself to sit upright. As provocative as her fingers felt against his scalp, they carried a soothing note that made him want to slump on the spot. Despite his sudden stiffness, her fingers kept on with their ministrations.

Turn to me. Give over.
Lay down your burdens and let yourself drift.
She didn't need to say the words. They buzzed throughout his body to the cadence of her touch.

Striving for crispness, not sure he'd succeeded, he grabbed for his papers, gathering them into a pile, tapping them against the tabletop for good measure. “I should go through this again,” he muttered. “Maybe I've missed something.”

To prove his intention, he pulled a page from the back of the stack, shook it out for good measure, and held it at arm's length. Neat rows in a precise hand that looked nothing like his scrawl met his gaze. But it wasn't the list of staff she'd copied out. No, these were lines of dialogue. Her manuscript.

The words that leapt to his unwilling eyes made his jaw drop. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “What the hell is this?”

Lizzie sensed the difference in Dysart immediately. Before, he'd been tense, true, but her fingertips had detected a wavering sort of resistance, as if he were holding an internal debate with himself. Her feminine instincts had told her to keep going, because she could win this battle—though she wasn't completely certain what she might win. Part of her hoped, though, the prize would involve more physical contact.

Now another type of energy radiated from him. Not victory, as if he'd experienced a breakthrough at long last. It was a mix of surprise, shock, and perhaps outrage.

“I don't understand,” she replied carefully. “Aren't those your notes?”

“This isn't.” He held up the page, his expression almost accusatory.

She recognized the neat lines of her handwriting.
Oh, no. Please don't let that be the episode with the kitten.
She'd never live down the humiliation if he happened to identify his fictional counterpart.

“Give me that.”

She made a grab for the paper, but he swept it beyond her reach, the annoying scoundrel.

“I don't think you can write this.”

Though her novel might not be ready for any eyes but her own, she could not resist the impulse to defend her work. “Why? What's wrong with it?”

He gave a cough. “I'm no expert, but I don't think you ought to use the term
ejaculate
just here.”

“Why shouldn't I? It's a perfectly good word.”

Another spate of coughing overtook him.

“Should I get you a glass of water?”

“I may well need something stronger,” he muttered. Then he cleared his throat. “ 
‘I simply cannot come now,' he ejaculated.
You don't see what's off about that?”