Too Tempting to Resist (7 page)

“Here you are.” Her friend passed over a double helping of shortbread along with a cup. “You look as though you need an extra bit of food to fortify your strength.”

Eliza was sure that she could not eat, but broke off a piece to hide her confusion. To her surprise, the buttery crumbs were ambrosial on her tongue. The woodsy tang of the nuts and spices reminded her of Haddan—

Stop mooning like a silly schoolgirl.
Hadn’t she sinned enough without seeing the Hellhound’s seductive presence in everything around her?

“Oh, what would I do without your delicious sweets?” murmured Eliza. She reached meditatively for the second piece, but this one remained pinched between her fingers.

“Something truly must be amiss, if you have lost your appetite for my shortbread,” remarked Augustina.

Eliza swallowed hard and essayed a wan smile. “Is it that obvious?”

Her friend eyed the small pyramid of crumbs on the plate and merely lifted a brow.

“Right.” A tremulous sigh. “I—I am unsure of how to start.”

“At the beginning, of course,” said Augustina in her best schoolmistress manner.

And where was that? In a brothel? In a tree?

“Come, come, it can’t be that bad.” A frail hand covered hers, the pale skin looking as delicate as old parchment. “If you’ve murdered Harry, the local squire might hold a fête in your honor.”

Eliza’s laugh was a little rough around the edges. “The only thing I’ve slain is my own reputation.” Her mouth quivered. “You see, I did something Exceedingly Stupid.”

“Ah,” murmured Augustina. She took a moment to add another small spoonful of sugar to her tea. “I take it you did not do this Exceedingly Stupid thing alone.”

She shook her head. “No, the Exceedingly Stupid thing to which I refer
definitely
requires two people.”

A marmalade kitten climbed up on the table and began nosing around the cream pitcher. Her friend tactfully refrained from making the obvious analogy. Instead she merely said, “My dear Eliza…” Her knife sliced off a tiny morsel of tart. “You have been obliged to exist for many years on a diet of bread and water, so to speak. If at this point in your life you crave a taste of sweets—say, a rich, decadent confection oozing with toffee and cream—that is only natural.”

Eliza stared at her spinster friend and felt her jaw drop a fraction.

“We females are not cut from pasteboard, much as some men would like to make us believe. So forget what you have been told. It is
not
wrong to have…carnal desires.”

“It isn’t?”

Augustina thumped her spoon on the scarred wood. “Most definitely not!”

The kitten gave an indignant squeak and jumped down to the floor.

“Oh.” Eliza reached for a fresh piece of shortbread and swallowed it in one bite. “That is a great relief to hear.”

“I am glad that I may still teach you a few lessons.” The spoon began drumming an expectant
tap, tap, tap
on the tabletop. “Now, far be it for me to pry, but if you wish to elaborate on this Exceedingly Stupid thing you have done, I am happy to listen.”

“It’s like one of those ridiculous, horrid novels—you know, the ones with dark, creepy dungeons, and manacles, and whips.” Eliza knew that she was babbling, but decided it didn’t matter. The story defied coherence. “Only it didn’t happen in a dungeon, but in the Burgundy Suite, which is only used to entertain important visitors to the Abbey.”

“Whips?” said Augustina faintly.

“Well, no—no whips. Just manacles.”

“He put
manacles
on you?”

“No, I put them on myself. It was…a mistake.”

Augustina’s silvery brows shot up. “Have you perchance been nibbling some of the mushrooms you collect for your paintings? Because you are beginning to sound as if you are hallucinating.”

“I know, I know.” Eliza hung her head. “There is an old adage about truth being stranger than fiction. If you remember, we once read Scheherazade’s exotic Arabian tales—”

“If you are about to tell me that a handsome genie popped out from one of Harry’s brandy bottles and ravished you on the spot, I am going to summon the apothecary.”

Eliza bit her lip to keep from laughing. “The
he
in question wasn’t a puff of scented smoke. He was definitely a flesh-and-blood Englishman.”

Propping her elbows on the table, Augustina leaned in a little closer. “Well, go on. Is
he
handsome?”

“As sin,” she confessed. “Tall, with divine muscles and the most beautiful eyes in Creation.” A sigh slipped of its own volition from her lips. “And he has a large dragon—”

“Is that what you young people call it these days?” interrupted Augustina. “In my time, some gentlemen referred to their privy part as Abraham’s Rod.”

Eliza’s eyes widened. “How perfectly dreadful. That does not bode well for him believing a female should enjoy the act, does it?”

An unladylike chortle. Which was one of the reasons she loved her friend.

“It was also called a pizzle, a prick, a potato finger,” confided Augustina. “And a pump handle.”

Oh, she liked that. Haddan had quite a lovely pump handle. One that made her wish that she were a wanton tavern maid, whose duties included frequent trips to the trough in order to fill her bucket…

“You know, I hadn’t really thought of it before, but it is interesting how all those euphemisms for penis begin with the letter ‘P,’” mused her former governess.

“Very interesting,” agreed Eliza. She cleared her throat. “Um, speaking of which, you seem to be, er, quite conversant in the subject.”

Chuckling, Augustina gave an airy wave. “Prinny did not invent sexual dalliances, my dear.”

Eliza joined in her friend’s laughter, but as the mirth died away, she suddenly felt a stab of guilt that she had never thought to ask a certain question before.

“Were you ever in love, Gussie?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Augustina softly. “Deeply. Madly. But my family had no money for a dowry, and his family demanded that he marry wealth. We were going to defy them, once James had saved enough from his parish earnings to afford a wife on his own.” She looked down at her plate and carefully rearranged the three remaining slivers of strawberry tart in a neat row. “However, an epidemic of influenza swept through the village, and he refused to stay away from his sick parishioners.” The ivy leaves twining around the window casement fluttered in the breeze, sending patterns of light and dark skittering across the glass.

“So that, my dear, is why I say there is nothing wrong in seizing the moment when you have a chance. I am at an age where I can say with some authority that one rarely regrets the things one has done. But as for the things one hasn’t done…”

A silence—comfortable as only one between two longtime friends can be—filled the time it took for Augustina to add hot water to the pot and refill their cups. Eliza stared pensively at the bits of tea leaves settling in the depths of the sherry-colored liquid.
Was the future written there, or in the riddles of a Gypsy fortuneteller, or in the runes of some ancient Druid spell book?
And if it were, would she want to know it?

Her sigh dissolved the curl of vapor. “You’re right. I am so sorry that I never asked you more about your life before you came to Leete Abbey,”

“Oh, pish. I wouldn’t have told you. The time wasn’t right until this moment,” replied Augustina frankly. “Speaking of which, we have somehow strayed from the subject at hand.” She edged forward in her chair and set her elbows on the table. “Do tell me more about the manacles.”

After gulping down several sips, Eliza gave a halting description of the room and finding the sex toy that Harry and his friends had hung over Gryff’s bed. “I was curious,” she explained. “In a theoretical way, that is. So I simply intended to have a closer look.”

“Quite right. It isn’t every day that one gets to examine such an interesting apparatus,” said Augustina gravely.

“And then…” Heat rose to the ridges of her cheekbones as Eliza recalled watching Gryff strip off his clothing and turn around, the candlelight gilding his masculine profile. “Um, and then…” She glossed over all but the bare facts in admitting her transgression. “Afterwards, I slipped away while he was sleeping, and left at first light to come visit you.” She pressed her palms over her eyes, feeling a flush of heat singe her cheeks. “I couldn’t face him in the light of day.”

“You have no reason to be ashamed,” said her friend stoutly.

“I suppose I am, just a little,” she admitted wryly. “But most of all, I’m confused. I find myself attracted to him, and I don’t want to be.”

“Ah. A friend of Harry…”

“He says that he is
not
a friend of Harry. I—I don’t know precisely what brought him to Leete Abbey, but he didn’t seem interested in spending time with the others.” Her brows pinched together. “There is the mill, of course, which might explain it.”

Augustina nodded sagely. “Yes, men do seem to take delight in watching brutes pummel the stuffing out of each other.”

“Would that some paragon of masculine muscle knock some sense into Harry,” mused Eliza. “But that would not be a mill—it would be a miracle.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Like me making love to one of the most notorious blades in London.

Her expression must have given some hint as to her thoughts, for Augustina hid a grin behind her hand. “Did you like him? Not Harry, of course, but the Lord of the Manacles.”

Eliza tried to think. “He makes me feel rumpled.”

“Rumpled?”

“Delightfully disheveled. Like I looked better with everything slightly askew.” Her hand gave a vague wave before hooking an unruly curl behind her ear. “Like I didn’t have to have every stay laced tightly and every hair pinned in place. He looked at me as if I was Delectable.” She blew out a sigh. “I know, I know, I’m not making any sense.”

“You are making perfect sense, my dear. The man makes you feel like you can be yourself.”

“He makes me laugh,” she added in a small voice, feeling her mouth crook up at the corners. “He’s funny, and doesn’t take himself so seriously.”

“He sounds utterly charming. Does this Paragon of Perfection have a name?”

“Haddan.”

“
The
Haddan. The Hedonist Hellhound?”

Eliza nodded.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Augustina. “That could be trouble.”

Trouble. As if I need any reminder.

“But then,” mused her friend. “Life can be awfully boring without the prospect of a little piss and vinegar.”

A snort of tea nearly went up her nose. “What would I do without you and your wise, witty teachings, Gussie?”

“You would manage just fine, my dear. Though neither of us would laugh quite as much. Which would, of course, be a great pity, as humor is what helps make the sun shine.”

“Right.” A flicker of light on the ivy outside the window reminded her of Gryff’s lazy, lidded gaze. “I have learned a lesson, at least. Men like the marquess have no place in my life.” She forced herself to look away from the glints of shadowed green. “You see, Haddan is not the only threat of trouble. Harry’s debts are getting worse, and I fear that things are truly getting out of control.”

Augustina’s look of amusement sobered to one of concern. “I take it he won’t listen to reason.”

“He turns a deaf ear on all my pleas, and…I don’t quite know what to do. I am powerless to control him. I was in Town last week, staying with Margaret while I met with Mr. Watkins about a commission, and…” She had to pause, in order to wash the taste of fear from her throat with a tiny sip of tea. “Lord Brighton stopped me in Bond Street.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Not in so many words. But he hinted that Harry was…making promises about my future.”

Augustina swore under her breath. “The bastard.”

The oath made Eliza feel a tad more cheerful. Brighton had struck her as a thoroughly dirty dish during the times he had visited the Abbey. That he and the odious Mr. Pearce were cousins only confirmed her intuitive reaction.

“The bastard,” she echoed, finding that saying it aloud helped loosen the knot in her chest.

“Come, let us continue this discussion outdoors, where the breeze will dispel the noxious fumes formed by mention of that smarmy man’s name.” Augustina rose and began to gather up the plates. “I think better when I am wielding my pruning shears.” Eyes narrowing to a martial squint, she added, “Never fear, we’ll figure out what to do.”

A
bump of the wheels jolted Gryff’s attention back to the road. “Damnation,” he growled, fisting the reins and guiding the horses through a tight bend. Despite trying to set his emotions on a straight line, he found his mood veering back and forth between self-loathing and self-serving excuses.

“For God’s sake, I didn’t despoil her innocence,” he muttered, playing the Devil’s Advocate. “She said herself that she had seen a penis before.”

Though her late husband had obviously not been very skilled in its use.

“That’s beside the point.” The snide observation prompted a snappish reply from his Better Half. “Your behavior was unworthy of a gentleman.”

A pause. “Who said I was a gentleman?”

The horses snorted and suddenly shied away from an overhanging branch, nearly knocking him off his perch.

“I’ve never claimed to be a saint, but that does not mean I have sunk to the depths of utter depravity.” The dialogue with his inner demon continued. “Without some code of honor, a man is no better than a slimy earthworm who dwells in the dank, dark dirt.”

The Devil had no clever retort.

“So if I wish to hold my head out of the mud, honor demands that I face Lady Brentford and offer my apologies, instead of crawling back to Town.”

Gryff listened for any rebuttal, but heard only the whistle of the wind. Swerving onto the grassy verge, he turned the phaeton around and flicked his whip over the heads of his startled pair of grays.

“Yes, yes, I know you fine fellows are confused,” he called, settling their skittish trot. “That makes three of us.”

An hour later, Gryff rolled into Harpden, where a few quick questions at one of the local shops elicited directions to a small cottage on the outskirts of town. Tying his team in the shade of a beech tree, he unlatched the wooden gate and, mustering his resolve, headed straight for the front door. It wasn’t as if he was going to face a firing squad—though the lady might be tempted to put a bullet through his ballocks.

Several knocks brought no response, so he stepped back to see if he could spot any movement through the upper windows. After coming all this way, he was loath to leave without speaking to Lady Brentford.

Meow.

The muffled sound seemed to be coming from behind the shutter of the attic dormer. A marmalade paw poked out from between the wooden slats.

Meow, meow.

“Why is it that felines choose to get themselves into trouble when I am near?” he grumbled. Another glance up showed that the heavy iron hinge holding the shutter in place had loosened and was wedged in the thatch.

The kitten’s cries were becoming fainter.

“Oh, blast.” Tugging off his coat and waistcoat, Gryff found a handhold on the age-blackened timbers and started to climb.

Charming as the snug little cottage appeared from afar, its weathered little quirks of character were not conducive to a quick ascent. His highly polished Hessians scrabbled over the rough-textured stucco, leaving streaks of whitewash on the dark leather, and the finespun linen of his shirt snagged in the thorns of wild roses, tearing a rent in the sleeve. Prescott would likely burst into tears on seeing the damage—for all his flexibility in other things, the valet took matters of wardrobe to heart.

Soot smudged his breeches as Gryff edged around the chimney pot and caught tentative hold of the dormer shutter.

“Ouch!” he muttered as his scraped fingers brushed against the rough straw of the roofing. “You had better appreciate this more than the other dratted cat did,” he growled. “Else I might feed you to the chimney storks.”

The kitten hissed as Gryff gently freed its tail from the wooden trap, but instead of darting away, it pawed free the fastenings of his shirt and climbed inside.

“Oh, now I am supposed to serve as your horse and carriage?” he murmured, his lips tipping up as the soft fur tickled against his chest. “Who do you think you are—the Prince Regent?”

Meow.

“The Sovereign of Scrawny Runts?”

At first Gryff heard only a loud purring, but a moment later he was suddenly aware of voices. Agitated feminine voices.

A rock sailed by his ear.

“You think to rob my house, thief!” The next missile plunked him on the shoulder. “Think again!”

“Truce!” Seeing the silver-haired spitfire about to wind up for another throw, Gryff waved a white sleeve in surrender. “I assure you my intentions are naught but honorable, madam!”

She lowered her arm. “Then what are you doing on my roof?”

Gryff was about to answer when a second female emerged from the shrubbery. As she tipped up her chin to meet his gaze, he saw that her cheeks went very pale, and then very pink. The color reminded him of sun-ripening peaches.

“I think he was rescuing Mouse,” said Eliza to her companion.

“Actually I was rescuing a cat.”

“Mouse is a cat,” replied Eliza.

“Ah. I should have guessed.”

“Do you know this intruder, my dear?” asked his assailant.

“Yes,” said Eliza flatly. “Gussie, allow me to present the Marquess of Haddan. I think I can safely say he’s not out to purloin your silver.” Looking back at him, she continued. “Lord Haddan, this is Miss Augustina Haverstick.”

“My apologies, young man,” said Augustina. “However, if you had announced yourself properly, I would not have been forced to defend my property.”

“My fault entirely,” he said dryly. “Be that as it may, while I am up here…have you a hammer?”

“A hammer?” Eliza fixed him with a wary squint. “What for?”

“The shutter’s hinge has come loose from the window frame. If you hand me a hammer, I shall renail it.”

“Oh, Mr. Reading has been promising to fix it for an age, but he’s not yet had time.” Augustina sighed. “It bangs loudly enough to wake the dead when the west wind blows.”

“I shall be happy to serve as a surrogate to Mr. Reading.”

“You know how to fix a shutter?” demanded Eliza.

“I know how to do a great many things, including wield a hammer,” drawled Gryff, taking ungentlemanly delight in watching her face turn a luscious shade of strawberry red. “Pounding in a few loose nails is a simple task.”

“Don’t move a muscle, milord,” piped up Augustina. “I shall be right back.”

Eliza’s eyes widened in alarm. “I’ll fetch it—,” she began, but her friend had already disappeared around the corner of the cottage.

“Miss Haverstick is remarkably spry,” he remarked, rubbing at his shoulder.

The attempt at humor didn’t provoke a smile. As her lashes lowered, and her lips pinched to a crooked line, he, too, suddenly felt a little awkward. “I apologize for intruding without warning, but—”

“But why are you here?” she blurted out.

A good question.
And one not easily answered.

He was rescued by the cat. A paw poked out from inside his shirt, followed by a tiny, tufted ear.

“Sorry. I hope you have not suffered further injury to your person,” muttered Eliza. “Mouse has a habit of getting into mischief.”

“Cats have a habit of getting into trouble.” He had meant it innocently, but the comment sparked a fresh flare of embarrassment.

“Lord Haddan, I am aware that my…actions of last night must have led you to believe that I—”

“I found it!” called Augustina, raising the hammer aloft as she trotted through the opening in the privet hedge. “Took me a moment to recall where I had put it.”

Eliza shot a scowl at her friend, which the spinster cheerfully ignored.

“Here you are, young man,” went on Augustina, blithely handing the tool up to him.

Extracting the ball of fur from inside his shirt, Gryff held out the kitten in exchange. “Mouse would probably prefer not to return to the scene of the crime.” He heard a sharp intake of breath from Eliza. “Not,” he added softly, “that he should feel any remorse about being adventurous.”

“Thank you.” Eliza snatched the kitten from his hands and stepped back.

Taking the hammer, Gryff scrambled back up to the dormer and made quick work of refastening the shutter in its proper place. Seeing that several pieces of the windowframe were loose, he called, “Have you some extra nails, Miss Haverstick?”

“Yes!” came the reedy answer.

“Perhaps Lady Brentford could climb up the stairs to the attic and pass them out to me.” She would likely resent the manipulation, but it seemed the best way of getting a private word with her.

A few minutes later, the mullioned window swung open with some force. “That…” A small canvas sack sailed into his lap. “…was a dirty trick.”

“If you are truly angry, you can go ahead and cosh me on the head with the hammer.”

Eliza looked out from the shadows. “Fix the frame first.”

He laughed. “Very practical.” Shaking a few nails from the sack, he stuck them in his mouth and set to work.

“I
am
practical,” she said after a hitch of hesitation. “Exceedingly practical. Most of the time, that is.”

“Could you hold this strip in place?” he mumbled around the nails.

Expelling a little whoosh of air, Eliza leaned out of the opening to do as he asked. Her scent—that sweetly spicy blend of verbena and cloves—tickled at his nostrils, stirring an immediate, primitive response.

He shifted slightly to hide the bulge in his breeches. “Thank you, that’s it…now just a little higher.”

Wiggling around, she stretched her arm higher.

Oh, I am evil.
Gryff shimmied closer, his shoulder brushing up against her breasts.
Evil.

“What are you waiting for? Gideon’s trumpet blast to signal the Resurrection?”

“It’s important…”
Tap, tap.
“To choose…”
Tap, tap.
“The right spot…”
Tap, tap.
“Else the wood might split.” Gryff took another nail from his mouth. “You can let go now.”

She leaned back and set her hands on the sill. The weathered wood framed a charming picture. Sunlight painted her features with a soft, shimmering glow. Glimmers of gold gilded her lashes and the curls that had come loose and now danced in the breeze.

Gryff smiled. She did not smile back.

“Lord Haddan—”

“My name is Gryffin. Or Gryff for short.”

“And it would be most improper for me to call you by either,” she snapped. A sigh followed, and then a rueful quirk pulled at her mouth. “Not that I have any right to speak of propriety after last night. I—”

“That depends on whose definition of propriety one chooses to recognize,” pointed out Gryff.

“Stop interrupting me, sir. It’s difficult enough trying to apologize for my wanton behavior, without having you prolong the agony.”

He handed her the hammer. “Are you saying that you regretted the interlude?”

Her mouth went through a series of strange little contortions, making it impossible to tell whether the jumbled sounds meant “yes” or “no.”

“If by ‘wanton,’ you mean something sordid or squalid, I beg to disagree,” said Gryff.

“I behaved like a strumpet. A shameless hussy.” Eliza looked down at her hands, which were gripped so tightly around the hammer’s handle that her knuckles had gone white. “I…am usually so practical and level-headed.” Her expression screwed to a look of slightly dazed disbelief. “I am n-not in the habit of shedding every scrap of m-morality along with m-my clothing.”

“There’s nothing shameful about having a passionate nature, Lady Brentford.” He reached out and gently tipped up her chin. “We are two sensible adults who decided to embrace our mutual attraction. There is really nothing fundamentally wrong with that. In fact, I thought that what happened between us was quite wonderful.”

Eliza gave a small laugh, though her eyes betrayed a suspicious glitter. “From what I have heard, you find embracing a mutual attraction quite wonderful with
anyone
who wears skirts. So I won’t take it personally.”

The remark rendered him momentarily mute. She was right—and yet utterly wrong. Making love to her
had
been different. Wildly, wonderfully different, though how or why was something that defied any attempt to capture it in words.

“Well, you should.” He touched the corner of her mouth and slowly traced the curve of her lower lip.
So sweetly, sweetly lush. So perfectly, perfectly pink.
And the slight tremor beneath his fingertip made him ache to still her quivering doubts. “Because at this moment I want nothing more than to lean in and kiss you witless.”

She recoiled, confusion coloring her face. “R-really, sir, you must stop teasing me with your silly flirtations.” Edging back, she retreated deeper into the shadows, until her features were naught but a blur of grays. “If you have finished here, Gussie wishes to serve you tea and pastries in the kitchen. Her walnut shortbread is a special treat.”

“How can I resist such a tempting offer? I’ll be down in a moment.”

“Delicious, Miss Haverstick.” Sparkles of sugar danced in the slanting sunlight as Gryff dusted his hands. “I’ve never tasted such sublime shortbread.”

Good God, was Gussie actually simpering?

Eliza stirred another spoonful of honey into her tea. The man could probably charm the scales off of Satan if he so chose. A fact she would do well to remember. The devilish desires stirring inside her must stay smoldering in the deepest, darkest recesses of her being. It was too dangerous to let them see the light of day.

Too wicked to feed their flames with secret fantasies.

“Do help yourself to another piece, Lord Haddan,” said Augustina, pushing the plate across the table. “It’s nice to see a man who has a healthy appetite for sweets.”

Caught in mid-swallow, Eliza let out a loud sputter. “Sorry,” she apologized, clearing her throat with a quick cough. “It must have been a trifle too hot.”

Gryff looked at her with a lazy, lidded gaze and smiled, prompting her stomach to do a series of herky-jerky flip-flops against her ribs. “Would you like to share a bite?”

“Thank you but I’ve had enough,” she said. “Too many of Gussie’s rich butter and sugar treats will make me fat as a Strasbourg goose.”

He ran his gaze slowly along the length of her body. “Your figure looks perfectly shaped to me, Lady Brentford.”