by Anne Stuart
Curse you, Lizzie, Gabriel thought, keeping his expression suitably bored. He’d have to find some other way to get rid of her. It was already May eve, and apart from locking her in the cellars, he couldn’t fathom a way to keep her out of the woods, where the Chiltons could find her and lure her away to God knew what. And she called his household a den of iniquity!
“I’ll be honored by your company,” he murmured, keeping the irony out of his voice. He rose, sketching a polite bow for all the world as if this were a normal social gathering and he were an ordinary gentleman. The women rose as well, polite as ever, and he paused, glancing down at Lizzie’s feet. Her gown brushed the floor, and he had no idea whether she’d found anything to replace her shoes.
He’d ask her later. Once she was under his roof and he had all the time in the world. Perhaps he’d see for himself. If she wouldn’t leave for Dorset on her own, he could think of one very simple way to drive her away, and he had no qualms about acting on it. Once Jane was safely ensconced in his house, Miss Elizabeth Penshurst would have no choice but to leave in a huff or risk seduction and ruination. He couldn’t see her standing still for that.
“I’ll send someone with a carriage,” he murmured.
“Send Peter,” Jane said.
“I expect Peter will want to see to the horses. Don’t worry, Jane. Everything will be all right.” He didn’t know why he said it, but she was looking so forlorn, and he needed to keep from looking at Lizzie who was glaring daggers into his back.
He was rewarded with Jane’s sunny smile, and he wondered how anyone could think his tall sister plain. “I have faith, Gabriel.”
He could have told her that was her problem. But he merely kissed her on her cheek, wondering what Lizzie would do if he attempted something similar with her. Probably kick him.
LIZZIE SAT BACK down in the small, uncomfortable chair by the hearth. Since they had been totally unable to keep a fire going, it seemed a foolish place to sit, but she was too distracted to do more than wonder at it. She kept her skirts down over her stockinged toes, thanking a merciful providence that Gabriel hadn’t commented on her lack of shoes. He’d been looking, she knew it, and she’d done her best to keep her hem to the floor, refusing him a curious peek. He was truly a wretched human being, and if she had any sense at all, she’d leave his vicinity and Yorkshire entirely as soon as she could.
The only problem was that he seemed far too eager to have her leave, and Lizzie found she could be completely contrary. He might consider her unworthy of his attention, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find her quite annoying. He wanted her gone, and the last thing she was going to do was accede to his wants. Any of them. Particularly when Jane so desperately wanted her to stay.
“You think I’m foolish, don’t you?” Jane said when she returned.
Lizzie summoned a smile. “Why should I?”
“Longing for what I can’t have. Such a waste of human emotion, my brother would tell me.”
“And what is it you want, Jane?” Lizzie knew the answer full well—she had eyes to see and a heart to listen. But she wanted to hear Jane say it, admit to it out loud.
Jane’s mouth quivered in a wry smile. “Peter,” she said. “I want Peter.”
The simplicity of it was breathtaking. Heartbreaking. A thousand complications popped into Lizzie’s mind, and then vanished. “Then,” she said, “you should have him.”
GABRIEL HAD NEVER in his entire life made such a scatterbrained, chuckleheaded mistake, he thought hours later, immured in the half-refurbished library, the tightly closed doors unable to keep the sound of female voices from his sensitive ears. Lizzie hadn’t just arrived in his torn-apart house. She had taken it over, bringing in spring flowers, throwing open the windows, tossing dusty window hangings out into the bright sunlight and setting a small army of servants to scrubbing the derelict kitchen. Jane had watched with wonder, then quickly banished herself to the stables to watch over her precious mare and foal, leaving no one to protect Gabriel from the harridan who seemed determined to ruin his life.
She was doing it on purpose, he knew it. She moved through the house like a whirlwind, working just as hard as the servants, and he found he was too devout a coward to object. He could face almost anything but a woman bent on cleaning. He knew just how far his objections would get him, which was nowhere. He couldn’t very well expect them to live in such clutter and disarray, and he was entirely unwilling to see to the housekeeping himself. He told himself if she wanted to do the work and make the arrangements, then it was her business, but he couldn’t resist listening for the sound of her footsteps on the old floors, the lilt of her voice.
The servants seemed to like her as well, which surprised him. Yorkshiremen didn’t take kindly to southerners, nor to strong-minded women, and Lizzie was both. Then again, there was an earthiness and an honesty about her that would appeal to the country folk. That appealed to him, no matter how much he fought it.
He knew perfectly well why she was doing it. She was determined to keep him at bay, and striding through his house like an ancient warrior goddess summoning her troops was as good a defense as any. Most men would do exactly what he was doing—cower out of sight.
What she didn’t realize was that he liked strong women. What she didn’t realize was that it would take a great deal to make him not want her, and taking over his household, as if she truly belonged there, was not the way to do it. It only tempted him further to believe in the possibility of something he had always refused to consider. He was made to live alone in the forest, with his books and his ghosts. He wasn’t made for domesticity.
When he finally emerged from his lair, the place had been transformed, and he halted, stricken in ways he couldn’t even begin to understand.
The glow of candlelight was warm and welcoming, and somewhere in the distance he could smell roasting fowl and sweet spices. The house smelled of beeswax and lemon, and though the windows had been closed against the rain that had begun to fall, a fresh breeze still lingered, and the panes of glass were spotless. He closed his eyes, and the scent of fresh flowers teased at his nostrils. He could hear voices, he could hear Lizzie, and she was laughing, as he knew she would laugh, deep and rich and full, and he wanted her with a ferocity that left him angry and shaken.
He didn’t want to face her. He didn’t want to see her, talk to her. Be tempted by her. He wanted nothing more than to stop thinking about her, stop caring.
He might just as well have wished he could stop breathing.
“WHAT A WRETCHED night,” Francis murmured, glancing out into the rainswept darkness. “I almost hesitate to send you out in such weather.”
Delilah set her brush down, turning to look at him. “I’m not particularly delighted to be going. Why can’t Merriwether see to it?”
“You know perfectly well he’s on his way back from London. We need a little assurance that all will go according to plan tomorrow. You know I’m a careful man—I dislike leaving anything to chance.”
“This house is filled with people. Surely someone else could be sent?”
He picked up her slender hand and kissed her fingertips. “No one I trust as much as you, dearest. I’m certain you’re more than capable of convincing the two girls to come with you. After all, what possible harm could you do? Whereas some of our friends might be a bit more . . . suspect.”
Delilah pouted. “I’d be far more interested in seeking out Gabriel.”
“Once we have the girls, Gabriel will follow. It’s really quite simple, dearest. I wish you would remember.” Delilah made a face. She had developed a deep fondness for opium, which made her huge eyes deliciously dreamy. It had yet to leave a mark on her exquisite face, but that time would come. Eventually Francis would be forced to do something about it, but in the meantime it made her marvelously compliant.
“I’ll go,” she sa
id mutinously. “But I won’t like it. I don’t see why it can’t wait till tomorrow.”
“Beltane is tomorrow, my precious. Besides, I don’t trust Sir Richard, and you know I’m a stickler for details. Come, my precious, give your devoted husband a kiss and do as he asks you. I promise you shall be well rewarded.”
Delilah’s greedy little face lit up. “Presents?”
“Lots of presents, darling. Haven’t I always taken good care of you?”
“Yes, Francis,” she murmured.
“Then go, love, and bring me back two well-bred innocents.”
“Yes, Francis,” she said again. And she kissed him full on the mouth.
He waited until she left the room before he brought out his lavender-silk handkerchief and carefully wiped his mouth. She’d worn off a bit of the rouge. That could be overlooked; her sudden, tiresome affection was another matter.
It wouldn’t be for long, however. Everyone knew that the more cherished the gift, the more valuable the reward. What better gift to Belarus than one’s own sweet wife? He’d hoped to make her pregnant first, but that had failed, most likely with her complicity. But she was still lovely enough to make a suitable offering, and he could even feel a pang of regret. It would grieve him to part with any of his favored possessions, and Delilah was certainly one of his treasures.
But there would be others as well. He’d find a more fertile, docile wife, get himself an heir, and then dispense with her. Edwina Durham was vapid, pretty, and vain enough to be a perfect candidate, but he still rather fancied her for the wicker cage. Then again, it would keep Sir Richard well in line. He would willingly marry his precious daughter off to Satan himself if her husband was also an earl.
And this time, he wouldn’t be far off, Francis thought with a gentle laugh. Not far off indeed.
Chapter Twenty-One
AS FAR AS LIZZIE could tell, Gabriel was nowhere within the acres and acres of tumbledown house. She looked from one end to the other, picking her way over construction debris and uneven flooring, a branch of candles held high to light her way, but she couldn’t find him anywhere. Outside the rain pounded against the windows. Inside everything was bright and clean and warm, no thanks to him; but Gabriel was nowhere to be found.
Jane had wisely retired to bed, the sleepless night having taken its toll, and Lizzie promised she would soon follow.
But something stopped her. She found her way into the library, the one room she hadn’t dared enter during her flurry of cleaning, and curled up in a large leather chair by the fire. Waiting for him.
She wasn’t precisely sure what she would say when she finally had a moment alone with him. His casual dismissal of her the night before still wounded, his seeming eagerness to send her back to Dorset only made things worse. If she had any sense, any pride, she would pack her things and leave immediately, even if she had to do so on foot.
But she couldn’t. Something tied her to this place, something strong and powerful. It wasn’t simply her infatuation with Gabriel, and she no longer denied that that shameful state existed. It went beyond silly girlish dreams to something deeper and stronger. She couldn’t rid herself of the notion that she belonged here. She couldn’t turn her back on the woods and the trees, the land and the people, any more than she could let Gabriel dismiss her from his life, even if that was the wisest move she could possibly make.
She kicked off the riding boots, which now had to suffice for everyday footwear and curled her feet up under her. There was plenty of fuel in the house—the wood scraps from the new construction and the ancient wood that had recently been replaced kept the fires going strong. It wasn’t that cold a night, but the rain brought a certain dampness to the air, and she shivered anyway.
This was a huge, sprawling, impractical, ridiculous house. It was almost like a fairy castle, lost in the middle of an enchanted wood, and any landholder with sense would hack away the overgrown trees and put in a neatly landscaped park.
She would kill him if he did.
She felt like killing him anyway. The neglect of this place was shameful, wicked. A house needed to be lived in, looked after, cherished. She doubted if all the living and cherishing could make a difference in the cold stones of Hernewood Manor, which was, without a doubt, the bleakest, dourest place she’d ever seen. Perhaps Gabriel didn’t know the difference, didn’t know a house could be filled with light and life. It was still no excuse to abandon this place.
He’d also missed a very fine dinner, which annoyed her to no end. His own sister had demonstrated heretofore unknown culinary talents and made an apple pie with her own strong hands, and yet neither Peter nor Gabriel had bothered to show their faces to praise her. Jane was pale-faced and subdued, and Lizzie had simply gotten angrier as the hours passed.
For all she knew, he could be hiding in a cupboard. She didn’t care. Sooner or later he’d come back to his refuge, and she’d be waiting, ready to trap him.
Of course, he was even more likely to go back to the bedroom upstairs, but she certainly had enough sense not to lie in wait for him up there. She still couldn’t quite believe that that was his room, even though Jane assured her it was. It was a strange room, all twists and turns, nooks and crannies, odd windows and peculiar corners. Far less grand than some of the other rooms, except for that massive bed that looked as if it were a thousand years old. The room hardly befitted the master of an impressive estate, and it was Lizzie’s favorite place in the whole house. Another strike against him, unreasonable though it was.
The sound of the rain was soothing, beating against the stone. She hadn’t realized how weary she was—she’d barely slept the night before, and then spent the greater part of the day working on Gabriel Durham’s massive manor house. It was little wonder she was tired.
She tried to summon her earlier anger, the fury that had fueled her through the day, but it had vanished, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the sound of the rain. He wouldn’t even make an appearance, she thought hazily. She ought to take herself to bed and deal with him in the morning.
And that’s exactly what she would do, she promised herself. In just a few more moments, she would open her eyes and go upstairs. In just a few . . .
“I’M GETTING MARRIED.”
Gabriel eyed Peter with a doubtful expression. “You are?” He glanced at the mug of hard cider, his fifth, then back at Peter’s. “And what did Jane say?”
“I haven’t told her.”
“Don’t you think you should ask her first?” Gabriel said.
“Why should I? I’m not marrying her.”
Gabriel nodded. “I misunderstood. I hadn’t realized you’d formed a passionate attachment elsewhere. Who’s the lucky girl?”
“I haven’t decided. Maybe one of the Twickham girls.”
Gabriel hooted with laughter. “I don’t need to worry about stopping you—your mother would never let you get away with such foolishness.”
“I’m not afraid of my mother,” Peter said with the great dignity of one who had had too much hard cider.
“You should be. Alice terrifies me and always has,” Gabriel said devoutly.
“She doesn’t frighten Janey.”
“What is that apropos of? You just said you aren’t marrying Jane.”
“I wouldn’t insult her by asking.”
Gabriel laughed heartlessly. “You’ll find out what an insult is when she hears of this plan. I think you underestimate my sister. As a matter of fact, I’m certain you do.”
“It’s none of your business,” Peter said.
“The future happiness of my sister? It is indeed. You can’t expect me to stand aside and let you muck everything up.”
“What do you intend to do about it?” Peter demanded belligerently.
“What any sensible man would do. Tell your mother on you.”
Peter put his head down on the table and a moment later began emitting deep snores. Gabriel surveyed him a moment longer, then rose. He hated to leave the huge, comfortable kitchen of the home farm, but he couldn’t put if off any longer. Despite the downpour, he’d have to go back sooner or later. It was late enough, past eleven, and both his sister and the meddlesome Lizzie should be long since retired. He could go to his study and finish off the night with a glass of brandy and the devout prayer that he’d manage to get rid of his beautiful nemesis by the next morning.
He certainly didn’t like the idea of sleeping under the same roof with her. He had the melancholy suspicion she’d taken the old nursery, a rambling, light-filled room that was far too close to his quarters for his comfort. If he hadn’t already seen her in her night rail he’d have a lot easier time of it. He’d seen her in even less—that thin shift had exposed the most arresting shadows on her body, which was unfortunately quite lovely. High breasts, perhaps not quite as large as he preferred, but large enough. A small waist, nicely rounded hips and buttocks, and long legs that could cover miles of hillsides with no difficulty. As the sky had lightened this morning he had allowed himself the dubious treat of watching her move through the morning mist, and that picture had stayed in his thoughts ever since.
The rain had let up a bit when he started for the main house. The home farm had once been a prosperous part of the Rosecliff estate, and the tenants had kept it in better shape than the mansion. Once Gabriel returned to Hernewood, he’d given the farm to Peter as minor enough compensation. Peter could get more out of land and animals than any other living soul, and the farm would thrive under his care. It would be something to leave his children. It would be a place fine enough and prosperous enough to bring even a highborn wife, though Peter was stubbornly refusing to realize it.