Too Tempting to Resist (9 page)

Her friend made a rude sound. “Sunshine and soft summer breezes can only go so far in warming your cockles. The winters in the Lake District are long and cold, my dear.”

“And a man like Haddan isn’t about to settle by the hearth and kindle a cozy little fire,” pointed out Eliza. She paused for an instant, picturing his naked body painted in bold, bright red-gold flames. “He would probably burn the whole house down.”

“I can think of worse ways to go than being consumed by a burning passion,” quipped Augustina.

“Aren’t you,” said Eliza slowly, “supposed to be acting as the Voice of Reason? The Wench of Wisdom?”

A smug little smile crept to her friend’s mouth. “My point exactly.”

“Oh, Gussie.” A laugh welled up in her throat. Really, the conversation was too absurd for the tears that had been prickling at her lashes.

Brushing a leaf from her wide-brimmed hat, Augustina lifted her shears. “But enough said on the subject for now.”

Eliza sighed and dabbed a sleeve to her cheek. “Drat, a bit of pollen seems to have lodged in my eye.”

“A wet washcloth should soothe away the problem,” said Augustina tactfully. “Once you return from the kitchen, let us get back to pruning the garden. Barring any other feline folly or marauding marquess, we should manage to have a peaceful afternoon.”

I
t had started raining just a few miles after leaving Miss Haverstick’s cottage, the squalling clouds and rumbled thunder capturing the agitation of his own unsettled mood. Right and wrong—his assessment of his recent behavior continued to rise and fall with the bumps of the roads.

In a truly foul temper by the time he reached his townhouse, Gryff stomped into the entrance foyer and flung off his sodden driving coat and gloves with a loud oath.

His butler appeared from the corridor and surveyed the puddles with a poker face. “Tea, milord? Or would you prefer something stronger?”

“A hot bath, if you please,” muttered Gryff.
And a large brandy to warm his conscience.
But he snapped his mouth shut. His lapse in judgment had gone on long enough. No need to make a fool of himself in front of his staff.

“Very good, sir.” The butler picked up the marquess’s soggy hat and gingerly shook the mud from its brim. “Mr. Daggett is in the library, sir. He said you would not mind if he looked through several of your books.”

“Books.” Gryff made a face. “I didn’t know he could read.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.” A cough. “He appears to be perusing ones that have mostly pictures.”

“Bloody hell. You had better stubble the order for a bath.” Gryff ran a hand through his lank locks. “Send tea to the library, Mifflin. Along with a nice, dry towel.”

Cameron looked up on hearing the
squish
of steps crossing the Aubusson carpet. “I thought you were staying in Oxfordshire for another two days.”

“Change in plans,” said Gryff curtly, sinking into the armchair by the hearth.

“Any particular reason?”

“No.” A hiss of steam rose up from the coals as he propped his boots on the fender. “Yes.”

“Do you care to elaborate?”

“Actually, I’d rather not.”

Cameron returned to his perusal of the lavishly illustrated book that lay open on the worktable. A page turned with a whispery flutter. “I assume that means a lady is involved.”

“What makes you say that?”

His friend heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Most of your escapades involve females or alcohol, and since you claim that you’re only drinking in moderation these days…” Another page turned. “Is it Leete’s intriguing sister?”

“How the devil do you know about her?” Gryff straightened from his slouch. “I swear, sometimes I think you were birthed by a diabolical
djinn
spirit rather than a flesh-and-blood female.”

“One does not need any special supernatural powers to discern your foibles. One only has to pay a visit to The Wolf’s Lair.” Cameron flipped yet another page. “Sara told me all about your interesting encounter with the Widow Brentford.”

“Nothing
interesting
happened there,” protested Gryff. “We exchanged a few words is all.”

“Then why are you blushing like a schoolboy who’s been caught with his breeches down around his ankles?”

“Because…” The flames wagged, silent, scolding fingers of fire. “Because I’m not very proud of myself about what happened afterward,” he blurted out.

“Ah.”

Gryff waited for him to go on, but his friend leaned down, seemingly engrossed in the colored engraving.

“Ah? That’s all you have to say after I bare my soul?”

Cameron twitched a tiny smile. “I daresay your soul was not the part of your person that was bared to the lady.”

In spite of himself, Gryff let out a harried laugh. “Unfortunately, you are right. Trust me, I had no intention of getting into trouble.”
Trouble—that word was beginning to haunt him.
“But I did.”

“This is beginning to get moderately interesting,” remarked his friend. “Go on.”

“You will probably think that I am making it up if I tell you the truth of it,” muttered Gryff.

“Better and better.” Cameron stretched out his legs and crossed one elegantly shod foot over the other. “I am waiting.”

Gryff shook his head. “Bloody hell, Cam. You know that honor forbids a gentleman from discussing any intimacies with a lady.”

“I should love to hear all the delicious details, but of course, the widow deserves her privacy.” Cameron tapped his fingertips together. “And you are feeling a trifle guilty because of whatever happened between you?”

A gruff nod.

“Yet I am assuming that she was not an unwilling participant in any amorous act.”

“No. But…”

“But what? Sara described Lady Brentford as a very intrepid, intelligent female. I doubt she would appreciate your patronizing attitude.”

“
Patronizing?
” sputtered Gryff.

“Yes, patronizing,” replied his friend flatly. “Give her a little credit for being able to decide what she does and does not want. It sounds to me like she might be heartily sick of men controlling her life.”

He blinked.

“It’s not as if she were a virgin,” pointed out Cameron. “Had you deflowered the young lady, it would, of course, make matters much more complicated. But a widow is allowed to take a lover, if she is discreet.”

“I know, I know. She did say that she had seen a penis before.” He flashed a wry grimace. “Though not a tattoo.”

“Found it fascinating, did she?”

“She said that she admired the artist’s skill.” Gryff rose brusquely as a servant brought in the tea tray, suddenly anxious to wash the sour taste from his mouth. “Look,” he said gruffly, once they were alone again. “However we might jest about the subject, and however she may say that the interlude is best forgotten by both of us, I still can’t shake off the feeling that my behavior was less than honorable.”

“In what way?”

“I…I can’t really put it in words.”

“How odd. Your essays display a great deal of eloquence on the subject of emotions.”

Gryff darted an involuntary glance at his desk, where the drafts of his recent writings lay atop the blotter. “Damnation, you ought not be poking your nose in my private things,” he muttered, though in truth he was rather touched by the praise. Cameron rarely expressed anything other than biting sarcasm.

“Yes, well, the Hellhounds are not known for paying much attention to the strictures of Polite Society.”

“That seems a rather self-serving excuse, don’t you think?” he muttered, though the scolding was meant more for himself than for his friend.

Cameron didn’t reply right away. Pushing back his chair, he went to pour himself a glass of port. “Forgive me, but if we are going to discuss morality, I find myself in need of something a little more fortifying than tea.”

Cradling his cup between his palms, Gryff fixed a brooding stare at the burning logs in the hearth. The cracking seemed a chorus of chidings. Even the tiny tongues of fire seemed to be growing more and more vociferous in reproach.

His friend came to lean a hand on the mantel, and as he stood in profile, the fire cast light and dark flickers over his features. “Now, assuming your question wasn’t simply rhetorical, I’ll give you an answer.” His expression turned even more pensive. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. It is not easy for a man to change.”

“Is that spoken from experience?”

Cameron’s mouth formed an ironic curl. “Of a sort.”

Gryff released a pent-up breath, the small sound echoing the stirring of the ashes. “Why are you so deucedly determined to be cryptic?”

A brusque wave deflected the retort. “This isn’t about me.” Then in a moment of candor that took Gryff by surprise, his friend added, “I’ve plenty of foibles, but unlike you, I’m not eager to address them at this moment.” The shadows dipped and Cameron’s eyes lit again with their usual glint of mocking detachment. “You’ve talked about
your
feelings. But what did the lady have to say when you saw her this morning?”

“I didn’t see her right away,” replied Gryff. “She left to visit a friend before I could arrange a chance to speak with her.”

“But I take it you pursued the matter?”

He nodded. “I—I didn’t plan to at first. But then it seemed cowardly to simply slink on back to Town.”

“So you managed to have a
tête-à-tête
.” A pause. “Or perhaps you put together other bodily parts—”

A warning growl cut off Cameron’s quip.

“Yes, we talked,” he went on. “But it would be ungentlemanly of me to reveal any of the particulars.”

“Do you plan to see her again?”

“I—I haven’t decided. Even if I do, she’s made it clear that…” Suddenly anxious to change the subject, Gryff broke off in mid-sentence as his wandering gaze fell on the open book of engravings. “I trust that you are not thinking of taking that with you. It’s a very valuable edition, and I frequently use it for reference.” He scowled. “Place your purloining paws elsewhere if you are in need of funds.”

“I was merely having a look,” answered Cameron. “I saw a similar volume the other day and wished to confirm that my instincts were correct.”

“Where?” asked Gryff. “There are very few in existence.”

“At one of my dealers.”

“You mean a flash house?” he pressed, referring to a place where thieves brought their stolen items to sell.

“Yes, if you must know. A fellow wanted to sell it to me, along with several other items. I wasn’t overly interested, but the incident piqued my curiosity.”

“In what way?” asked Gryff.

“Oh, just a few little details that would be meaningless to you,” answered Cameron vaguely. He set down his glass of port and slowly walked back to the worktable.

Pages riffled, releasing the pungent scent of printing ink and old paper into the air.

Soothing smells.
Unlike the seductive whiff of feminine florals that had been teasing at his nostrils for much of the day. Damnation, the perfume of Lady Brentford must contain some secret ingredient more intoxicating than drink, for it had left his wits feeling strangely fuzzed.

Another deep inhale of the familiar library scents helped clear his head. Books—they reminded Gryff that he wanted to pay a visit to Watkins & Harold as soon as possible. He was anxious to learn whether the unknown artist had accepted the commission to illustrate his essays. Not that he intended to take “no” for an answer. Over the last few days, the sample sketch had grown dog-eared from constant handling. The more he looked at it, the more he was sure that style was a perfect match for his words.

Oddly enough, the artist seemed to understand his feelings for nature even better than he did.

And so he was determined to make the match. Every man—or woman—had a price, thought Gryff sardonically. He was wealthy enough to afford whatever it might be.

An abrupt question from Cameron drew him back to a less pleasant subject. “By the by, how well do you know Lord Leete?”

“Curse it, I don’t know him bloody well at all.” He rubbed at his temples, feeling a dull throb begin to twitch beneath his fingertips. “Look, even at the best of times, your convoluted questions tend to make my head ache. If you’ve something specific to ask about the fellow, go ahead. Otherwise, I wish to change out of my wet clothes and pay a visit to my publisher.”

“It’s not important,” said his friend with a nonchalant shrug. “Run along and seek solace in your pastoral pursuits.” A pause. “Maybe next time you should make love to the lady in a garden. A ray of sunshine might rub off.”

“Arse,” he grumbled. “I assure you, come rain or shine, it’s highly unlikely that there will be a next time.”

Clip. Clip.
Eliza lowered the blades for a moment to dab the beading of sweat from her brow. The glare of the sun had seemed to bring all her worries into brighter focus.
Clip, clip.
If only she could cut off Harry’s fingers, so he could not hold cards or throw dice.
Clip, clip.
Or maybe some other appendage should be first to go, she thought ruthlessly, suddenly recalling the bill she had seen for some fancy bauble purchased at Rundell and Briggs.

Clip. Clip.
And while she was at it, if only she could cut off this cursed, crazy longing that stirred inside her. Haddan was a Hellhound. And the fact that he made her want to descend to the Devil’s own Lair of Depravity with him was a little frightening.

“Perhaps you ought to move on to another bush,” said Augustina dryly. “Before that one is reduced to a stubble.”

“Sorry. I was thinking of Harry, and yet another asinine expense he’s made. A sapphire bracelet, which I assume went to some opera dancer.” She grimaced. “No matter what I say, he seems oblivious to the fact that we are sailing down the River Tick, and the bilges are fast filling with water.”

“That’s because he expects you to bail him out, as you usually do.”

“It’s not as if I’ve had much choice,” replied Eliza. “I love the Abbey, and cannot bear to let it sink into utter ruin. I’ve no other home.” She stopped there, afraid of turning too maudlin. Indifferent parents, a stranger for a husband—in truth, she had never felt truly welcome anywhere. A home should hold warmth, laughter. Love.

“Since you are asking about choices…” Augustina stepped into the shade. “I do hope you are not considering sacrificing your future to Sir Brighton.”

Eliza turned away to watch a bee buzz around the fragrant petals of a honeysuckle vine.

If only there were a patch of hellebores to stare at, she thought wryly. Which in the secret speech of flowers meant “relieve my anxiety.”

Instead, her gaze strayed to a flash of geranium red—which cheerfully shouted out “Folly! Stupidity!”

But it also meant “true friend,” Eliza reminded herself.

Ha!
She quickly quashed the thought with a silent scoff. As if Haddan had formed any sort of
lasting
attachment to her.

“My dear,” said Augustina, interrupting her musing on botanical language. “I feel that I must speak up. I stood aside in silence the first time you let your family barter your happiness to fill their coffers. It was not my place to voice an objection when your father was alive. But now, I feel no compunction to keep quiet.”

A lump in her throat kept Eliza from responding.

“You were unhappy with Brentford,” pressed on Augustina. “You would be even more miserable with Brighton.” The cuttings crackled underfoot as she shifted her stance. “From what I have heard, he’s a lout and a bully.”