by Gayle Callen
“We keep coming back to that, do we?”
She popped a strawberry into her mouth and enjoyed the sweet burst of flavor. Even watching her eat seemed to distract him. He must be easily distracted by women.
“You’d become such a good girl, Elizabeth. Did you grow tired of it?”
“No,” she said truthfully. “I discovered I wanted the feminine things in life, a home, a family.”
“But since you didn’t yet have them, you decided to once again be . . . wild?”
His voice deepened with intimacy, and seemed to stir up something forbidden inside her. What was wrong that now even his voice affected her?
“I’m not wild,” she said crossly, then took a bite of cheese.
“When you take off your clothes for a strange man, I’d call that wild. Now if you took off your clothes for me . . .”
A blush heated her face immediately. “This must be the reaction you want,” she said too quickly, not wanting to think about the image his words painted. There was only one man who deserved such intimacy—her husband, the one she freely chose. “I hope everyone sees my face.”
He was watching her too closely. “Everyone sees . . .? Oh, your blush,” he said, nodding. “You want them to believe I’m making love to you.”
“Peter!” She wanted to throw something at him.
“And there is your new habit of thievery.”
Back to the original subject—was she relieved or not? “Trying to take the painting? That was an act of desperation.”
“Like our soon-to-be-announced engagement?”
She took a bite of chicken and didn’t answer.
“Why are you so desperate, Elizabeth?” he asked softly.
“Tell me about Emily Leland.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re changing the subject.”
“I’ve already told you that my reasons are my own. I didn’t change my mind in less than twenty-four hours.”
“But I can help.”
“You are helping. And I’m grateful. So tell me about Emily.”
“There’s even less to talk about than my flirtation with Susanna.”
But Elizabeth had seen him standing beside Emily, her cousin Matthew’s wife, just the other night. They had seemed . . . awkward together, and she’d written it off as uneasiness because he’d tried to court a widow who wasn’t truly a widow.
But after listening to him discuss Emily with her mother, she had to wonder if there was a story there.
“And you’re accusing me of deception,” she said, hoping for a response.
“The pot and the kettle, that’s us.” He took another long drink of lemonade.
The sun was blazing today, a rare hot day in London, burning off the fog and the usual haze of coal dust. She’d let her shawl lie in a heap behind her, but her bonnet protected her face from the direct sun.
She couldn’t let the conversation go. “Then you’re saying you can be deceptive, too?”
“What do you call our engagement?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m talking about Emily.”
“There’s no deception, Elizabeth,” he said.
Though a smile lingered about his mouth, her curiosity heightened instead of fading.
“Did you know that Emily is with child?” she asked, watching closely for his reaction.
He smiled with genuine pleasure. “How wonderful for them. They will make fine parents.”
Well, that revealed nothing.
And then he reached into the basket and brought out a small tart. Instead of setting it on her plate, he held it to her mouth, his expression full of challenge.
She should take it from him, she knew. It was surely indecent to allow a man to feed her from his fingertips. But holding his gaze, she leaned forward and took a bite. His eyes narrowed, and without questioning her instinct, she lingered a moment, her lips close to his fingers. He might know how to court a woman, but she had some ideas of her own.
He laughed as he withdrew the tart, and there was a wickedness in his gaze that said he could answer her challenge.
Suddenly, she felt a strange tickling on her leg. She brushed at her skirts, Peter arched a questioning brow—and then she saw an ant on her plate. With a cry she slapped at her skirts.
“What is it?” he demanded, coming to his knees.
“Ants!” It suddenly seemed as if hundreds of them could be crawling on her legs. It was all she could do not to shriek her outrage. “Do something, Peter!”
“You know I’m at your service, but I doubt you want my hands beneath your skirts in Hyde Park. Try standing up.”
“Ooh!” she cried in frustration, jumping to her feet. She shook her skirts repeatedly, swishing them across her legs.
Grateful for the turn of events, Peter relaxed back on one elbow, watching the show, enjoying her discomfort—anything to minimize his reaction to their flirtation. Feeding her the tart had been a way to distract her from questions about Emily he didn’t want to answer. But when Elizabeth had leaned toward him, her mouth so close to his hand, her eyes full of innocent challenge, he could have easily startled all of Hyde Park by kissing her. The ants had been divine intervention.
He squinted up, watching her haloed by the sun. Its brilliance glittered across her white dress scattered with blue flowers like someone had thrown a bouquet in the air. Matching blue and white silk flowers decorated her bonnet, blue ribbons dangling. She was a confection of summer, and he wanted to taste her.
Patience, he told himself. He wanted more than winning a bet as his reward for this false engagement. He needed to understand her—he needed to help her. Why he needed so much, he didn’t want to examine too closely.
At last she stopped moving, her face full of concentration.
“Feel any more ants?” he asked lazily.
She shook her head. “Why aren’t you packing the basket? We certainly can’t linger here. Don’t you want to show me how fast you can drive your carriage?”
“At your service, Lady Elizabeth.”
He put away their picnic lunch. When he tried to hand her the basket so he could fold the blanket, she looked at it like it was an ant colony, then shuddered and refused. She’d become such a girl.
And he liked it.
He escorted her back to the phaeton, saw her look sharpen as she waved at a passing carriage. “Who was that?” he asked.
“Lucy Gibson and her brother,” she said lightly. “Let’s hurry and catch up with them.”
While he was putting the basket on the floor of the back seat, she climbed into the phaeton without his help.
“You should have waited for me,” he said as he sat beside her. The groom and maid climbed in behind them.
“Why?” she asked, not looking at him. She leaned forward, as if urging the horses with her very posture.
Peter took up the reins and guided the horses out into the lane. “We could have made a touching show of romance as I handed you up into the seat, my hands trembling with your nearness.”
“You should write a romantic novel,” she said absently, not looking at him.
He’d lost her attention, and he didn’t know why, considering that she wanted to advertise their supposed engagement. But he went along with her request, guiding the horses out onto the lane, easing them into a trot then a canter to gain ground. They caught up with the Gibson carriage, and the two young ladies waved at each other. Peter knew of the young baron, but not personally. Yet Gibson eyed Peter’s new phaeton, then urged his horses into a gallop, pulling ahead.
“Faster, Peter!” Elizabeth cried, holding onto the rail behind her.
Peter glanced over his shoulder, and although both the groom and maid were holding on with both hands, the maid didn’t look frightened. So he went faster, enjoying the competition and Elizabeth’s eagerness. Her bonnet fell back onto her neck, held on only by the ribbons. Several strands of her dark hair flew about her face, and her smile was full of excited eagerness. Meeting his eyes, she la
ughed aloud.
If he kept watching her, he’d lose control of the phaeton, so he concentrated on his driving, reaching the far end of the park before Gibson. At last he pulled up, letting the horses walk to cool down. Gibson pulled alongside him, and the two carriages took the turn, meandering slowly.
“That was so exciting!” Elizabeth called.
Her friend Miss Gibson sank against her brother and closed her eyes.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Gibson called.
“Forgive me,” Elizabeth said. “William, allow me to present Mr. Peter Derby. Peter, this is Lord Gibson. You know his sister Miss Lucinda Gibson.”
“Lord Gibson.” Peter nodded. “Miss Gibson, I never would have believed you enjoyed a dangerous race.”
Miss Gibson shuddered. “ ‘Enjoyed’ is not the right word, Mr. Derby. I thought I would be flung from the carriage.” She elbowed her brother hard. “You can be surprisingly competitive sometimes.”
Gibson grinned.
“I enjoy a good competition, too.” Elizabeth tried to tame some of her windblown hair with her fingers.
She had missed a curl, so Peter reached to tuck it behind her ear. Her eyes widened at his touch, but she didn’t duck away from him. So her engagement act was also for the Gibsons. He wondered if she’d confided anything in her friend. He would have to find out, the better to question Miss Gibson about Elizabeth’s secrets before it was too late.
Gibson touched the brim of his hat. “We’re late for an engagement. A pleasure to meet you, Derby.”
Peter nodded back, and as the pair drove off, Elizabeth smiled up at him in complete pleasure.
“I enjoyed that immensely,” she said. “You know how to court a young lady, Peter Derby.”
“If the young lady enjoys competitions and picnics.”
“And that’s me. Now you can take me home, because I’m certain my mother is waiting to talk with me. You made quite the impression on her so far.”
“I assumed that’s what you wanted.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Chapter 7
When Elizabeth and Peter returned to Madingley House, she allowed him to help her from the carriage, even though her mind could not focus on projecting her newfound love.
William had seen her with Peter—William had wanted to race them. Was he already jealous? If it was so easy to arouse that emotion in him, why hadn’t she been able to do it sooner? Of course, he hadn’t often attended events meant to show off eligible young ladies.
As Peter accompanied her to the door, she glanced up at him, almost ready to thank him for his help—but no, he had his own motives for helping her. Besides the wager, she suspected he might be along simply for amusement, as if it were a game. Was that how he treated women now? Perhaps his failed relationships with Susanna and Emily had sent him to the safety of a certain kind of woman who wasn’t interested in marriage. As close as she had felt to Peter when she was young, she could not claim to know him well now that he was a man.
“It was a lovely ride, Peter. Thank you.”
He bowed. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m sorry I cannot invite you in.”
“I understand. I couldn’t anyway. I have a meeting.”
“An infamous railway meeting?”
“Infamous already? That was easy.” He smiled. “But yes, business calls.”
“We’ll have to discuss what you do with the railway, Peter.”
“I’m not just investing?”
She narrowed her eyes, watching his serene expression. “I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps I can match you secret for secret, Elizabeth.” He bent low over her gloved hand and kissed it.
It would have been a harmless courtesy—until he lifted his warm gaze to hers. His eyes were warm, intimate, too knowing.
Just as she pulled away with haste, the butler opened the door.
Peter stepped back. “Good day, Lady Elizabeth.”
Swallowing hard, she said, “Come to see me soon, Peter,” adding a trace of wistfulness. She watched him walk away, realizing it wasn’t difficult to show a bit of longing—longing for the truth about Peter, anyway.
Then she squared her shoulders and prepared to face her mother. It happened more quickly than she’d guessed, for the duchess was waiting in Elizabeth’s bedroom, reading a book as she reclined on a chaise beneath the sunny window.
Elizabeth shut the door. “Mama, what a surprise. Now I can tell you all about my picnic with Peter!”
“Picnic?” her mother said, lowering her book to read Elizabeth instead.
“Isn’t he thoughtful?” Elizabeth gushed, then turned away, warning herself not to go too far. She set down her bonnet and shawl on the bed. “We even raced Lucy and her brother through the park.”
“And did Peter win?” her mother asked dryly.
Elizabeth gave an uncertain blink. “Of course. He has a new phaeton, after all.”
“And he wants to impress you.”
Blushing was becoming too easy. “I think so.”
“I never thought he needed to, before.” Her mother sat up on the chaise but didn’t stand. “My sweet Elizabeth, is there a reason Peter believes he must impress you? Have you given him . . . encouragement?”
Elizabeth walked to her mother and sat down on the chaise beside her. “Mama, what are you trying to say?” she asked carefully.
The duchess sighed and took her hand to rub it between her own. “I know you expected more . . . excitement as a young lady in London.”
Her mother had no idea how much excitement she’d truly had. “It has been everything I imagined it would be, Mama.”
The duchess shook her head. “No, I believe you’ve somehow been disappointed, and I worry that you are turning to Peter because he’s . . . familiar.”
“Familiar?” Elizabeth echoed. She was about to perpetrate a lie on her mother, her whole family—yet was offended that her mother would think something else that wasn’t complimentary.
“You haven’t received some attention that you wanted,” her mother continued.
“I do believe you’re wrong,” Elizabeth said, removing her hand and trying to smile. “I’m growing to know him in a different way than I thought possible.”
The duchess nodded. “Then promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I am being careful.” In a softer voice, she said, “I have discovered feelings for Peter that go beyond friendship.” She needed to allay her mother’s suspicions, yet still prepare her for the revelation of the engagement.
Instead of smiling, her mother only studied her face more carefully. “Be patient with those feelings, Elizabeth. Make certain they are real.”
“I will, Mama, I promise.” She hugged her then, because she loved her mother’s concern—but also giving her mother less chance to read her expression.
* * *
The invitation to dinner at Madingley House arrived not an hour after Peter returned home. He was sitting at the desk in the corner of his bedroom, going through his mail, when Mary Anne burst in without knocking, striding toward him wearing a frown.
Peter leaned back in his chair. “Good thing I wasn’t changing.”
His sister Mary Anne dropped an envelope on his desk, on which his name was written in a lovely feminine hand.
“Hand-delivered,” she said with a sniff.
He couldn’t help noticing that her gown was a dark brown. She could have been an unobtrusive governess. But there was a chalk smear on her skirt, and it hadn’t come from a child’s slate. Now if she’d added some red and yellow ribbons, perhaps sewed little fabric flowers across the bodice, the gown would have highlighted her light hair and pretty blue eyes.
But he would not say those things to her. His mother had done that enough, he was certain. So he only grinned at her and opened the envelope. Inside was a dinner invitation from the Dowager Duchess of Madingley—for that night. He arched an eyebrow, considering the implications.
; “It’s from Lady Elizabeth?” Mary Anne said coolly.
“No, from her mother. I’ve been invited to dinner.”
Mary Anne leaned her palms against the desk, whitening her knuckles.
“Don’t worry, you haven’t been invited.”
Her demeanor brightened. “I don’t know whether I’m truly relieved.”
“Since when?”
“I imagine their billiard table is exquisite.”
He shook his head.
“Ah well, brother mine, you can brave that lair yourself.” She considered him as she toyed with a chunk of sealing wax. “Why invite you at the last minute?”
He tilted his head as if considering her question. “A last minute guest sent regrets and they need their numbers rounded?”
He expected her to laugh, but instead she scowled. “They’re using you.”
“Not the duchess,” he said. “I don’t believe she’s filling out her table. No, this is about Elizabeth.”
There, he might as well broach a subject that would soon arise more often. He felt the need to prepare his sister—but he was preparing her for a lie. Rubbing his forehead with one hand, he reminded himself that something was so wrong that Elizabeth couldn’t tell him about it. She needed his help.
But so did his sister, and lies were not a good answer. Yet . . . the way he desired Elizabeth was not a lie.
Before he could speak, Mary Anne said, “I don’t like her, you know.”
“Mary Anne, how can you not like her?”
“She doesn’t seem human! I have never met anyone who thought herself so perfect.”
“She’s never done anything to give that impression. She is a beautiful woman, born into a powerful family. Those things are more luck than anything else.”
“Luck? Fine, maybe that’s why she’s always smiling—no one with bad luck could ever be that happy. It’s like she’s a doll with only one emotion.”
“Perhaps the two of you never got on well enough for you to see another side of her. And that is her fault as much as yours.” Then another thought made him regard his sister with worry. “I’ve always considered her my friend, although until recently we did not socialize as much as we used to. Did you believe that kept me away from you?”