by Cara Elliott
“I like touching you, Haddan,” announced Eliza, surprising herself with the bold statement. Oh, but she did like it. Eager to explore the nuances of his shape, his feel, she changed her tempo, her stroking. It was all so new, so intriguing…
Catching her wrist, Gryff suddenly wrenched free and grabbed a cloth from the hamper to cover himself as he released a rumbled growl through his teeth.
After a moment, he fell back, his chest heaving, his body going limp.
“Haddan?” The brusque movement had broken the erotic spell. Uncertainty swirled up inside her as she realized how impulsive her actions had been. Should she apologize?
He looked up with a lidded gaze, as if reading her thoughts. “Don’t try to think, Lady Brentford. Just feel.”
She drew in a deep breath of the clean-scented country air and held it in her lungs. I feel happy, she decided. However fleeting it may be.
Trouble. Gryff felt the afterglow of their intimacy give way to shadows. He should have listened to the first little warning. Now he was in deep, deep trouble. And in danger of sinking deeper.
All the familiar rules seemed to explode into myriad pieces when he was with Lady Brentford, leaving him feeling conflicted and confused. A part of him—the honorable part—feared that once again he was leading an innocent into ruin.
Unfortunately, Honor’s voice seemed to be growing fainter and fainter.
“Would you mind turning,” he said softly, feeling a little ashamed of himself. “So that I may put myself to rights.”
Eliza scooted around, nervously smoothing her unruly curls and tying them back in with the ribbon she retrieved from the flagstones. By the set of her shoulders, he saw that she was embarrassed.
Pulling on his shirt, Gryff quickly refastened his breeches. The clatter of the cutlery and cider jug as she repacked the hamper was a little overloud.
“Lady Brentford—Eliza…”
She looked up through her lashes.
“Might I ask you to step over here for a moment?”
She hesitated.
“Please.”
Her steps scraped over the stone.
Reaching up, he framed her face between his palms and drew her down for a quick, chaste kiss. “There is no reason for a stormy face. A man and a woman just indulged in a mutually delightful intimate game amid a sparkling of glorious sunlight.” He smiled. “That’s cause for celebration, not recrimination.”
Her mouth crooked. “I seem to turn into the W-whore of Babylon when I’m around you.”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Your passions are nothing to be ashamed of.”
“They aren’t?”
Gryff laughed lightly. “Good heavens, it would be awfully hypocritical of me to say otherwise.”
Her mouth quirked up at the corners. “That’s one of the things I like about you, Haddan. You are honest about who you are.”
The comment stirred an inward cringe. But in truth, he hadn’t really lied to her—he had just told a small fib concerning his real reasons for visiting Leete Abbey. But as they had nothing to do with her, there was no reason to confess. It would only make things more…complicated.
“Hmm—I think I’d like to hear some of the other things you find attractive about me,” joked Gryff, anxious to deflect the talk away from morality.
Eliza rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you get far too many flatteries as it is, sir. I shall keep my thoughts to myself.”
“How cruel,” he murmured, and tucked the last remnants of the meal into the hamper. “Are you tired of walking, or could we return to the manor house by way of the ruins?”
“As you pointed out, it’s a lovely day for a stroll, and unlike your London ladies, I’m a country-bred female, so I am hearty as an ox,” answered Eliza. “We can leave the basket here, and it can be fetched in the morning.”
Her self-deprecating quip made him frown for a moment. “There is nothing ox-like about you, Lady Brentford—”
“I’m hardly a Pocket Venus,” she countered.
“True—rather you are a magnificent Diana, Goddess of the Forest.” He rose and offered his hand. “Lead the way through your realm.”
Chapter Twelve
The Abbey ruins came into view, the crumbling walls still radiating a certain grandeur in the slanting sunlight. Gryff hurried up the last few turns of the path, while Eliza maintained a more leisurely pace in climbing to the crest of the knoll. She smiled, watching him run a hand over the weathered stone. Strangely enough, she didn’t feel too awkward around him. Which was rather odd, considering…
Don’t try to think, she reminded herself. Just feel. Feel the caress of the wind, the tickle of the long grasses against her skirt, the happy thrum of her heart.
“What a marvelous vista,” he called, climbing to a vantage point atop the highest wall.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Eliza shaded her eyes and watched the shadows from the scudding clouds play over the distant hills. “The river adds a certain shimmering quality to the light.”
He nodded and scrambled up a different perch.
“Careful,” she warned. “Some of the stones are loose, and the footing can be treacherous.”
“Hmmm.” Gryff took out his notebook and began writing.
He had been doing that throughout their meanderings, she mused. His friend was lucky to have someone who took such meticulous notes on what he saw.
Climbing up to the lower wall, Eliza watched him, interested to see the concentration in his face. Boyish laughter had given way to a more serious mien, and the expression added depth of character to his handsome face. She had begun to notice the subtle little nicks and scars—he was no indolent fribble and she liked him more for it. Just as she liked the way his hair fell over his cheek, and curled around his collar. He had a habit of tugging at his earlobe, which made the right corner of his mouth curl up.
An oddly endearing quirk.
She bit down hard on her lip to keep from smiling.
He pursed his lips in thought, and as her heart gave a little lurch, Eliza made herself look away. Dangerous. Even without the inner whisper of warning, she knew that things were taking a dangerous turn…
Just then, a sudden gust caught the page and snatched the book from his hand. It spiraled up, and Gryff cried out an oath as it plummeted toward a swampy section of the old cistern.
Eliza grabbed for it, and just managed to catch a corner of the cover. But a loose stone tipped, throwing her off-balance. Arms flailing, she fought to maintain a hold on the precious notebook.
The wall tilted, the sky spun in whirligig circles, and in the next instant she hit the ground with an undignified thump that knocked the wind from her lungs.
“Don’t move!” Gryff’s voice sounded very far away, but as she opened her eyes, Eliza saw he was already scrambling down from his perch.
Oh, wonderful. If ever the marquess needed a resounding reminder that she was not a graceful goddess from glittering ballrooms of Mayfair, this was it. In spades.
She lifted her head, woozily aware of the bits of straw and mud caked on her cheek, and tried to sit up.
“Don’t move!” cried Gryff again, looking worried.
She tried to brush him off, embarrassed at making a spectacle of herself. It was as if some wild woodland sprite had slipped into her skin and taken control of both body and spirit for the day. The real Eliza, Lady Brentford, hung in the shadows, happy to go about her life unnoticed. She did not seek to wrest the crown from the reigning Queen of Sin.
“Stop squirming.” Gryff held her shoulders down, ignoring her querulous protests. “You took a hard fall. Lie still and let me check on whether you’ve broken any bones.” His fingers probed gently along her arms. “Do you feel any pain?”
“No, luckily I landed on my head,” answered Eliza wryly. “It only hurts when I try to think. And since I haven’t been attempting that today, I’m quite comfortable.”
Gryff’s head was bent, so all she could see was the tangle
of his dark hair dancing in the breeze. “Hush.” His voice was gentle, and she found herself choking back further sarcasm. He shifted, and, moving his hands down to her lower legs, hitched up her skirts just enough to feel around her ankles.
“Ouch.”
“I feared so,” he muttered. “I saw your leg twist as you fell.”
“It’s only a twinge,” she said quickly, feeling like a clumsy ox. “It will pass in a moment.” Clenching her hands, she suddenly remembered the little book. “Here are your notes. I trust they didn’t suffer any injury.”
“Your safety is far more valuable than my scrawls.”
“I have been curious. What have you been writing—”
He hastily snatched it out of her hand. “Nothing nearly as important as getting your ankle properly treated.”
“I can easily shake it off.”
“No, there’s already a bit of swelling. But if I remove your boot, it will only get worse.” Gryff unknotted his cravat and started to wrap the length of linen around the sore spot. “I’ll bind it tightly for now. It may be uncomfortable, but it will help later on. Once you are home, you must lie down and keep it elevated with a pillow. No walking for at least a day.” After snugging a firm knot in place, he sat back on his haunches. “Let me help you to a more comfortable spot while I go fetch my horse.”
“No!” Eliza caught hold of his sleeve. “Please, it’s not necessary to make a spectacle of my folly.”
His brows drew together.
“I would rather walk back to the manor.” In truth, it hurt like the devil, but she was determined to salvage some of her pride. “Help me up.”
The marquess hesitated, but after studying her face for a long moment he heaved a sigh and did as she asked.
“It’s quite manageable,” she said through clenched teeth. “Just give me your arm, and I’ll be fine.”
“You know, sometimes discretion is the better part of valor, Lady Brentford. You have nothing to prove to me.”
“Valor.” A mirthless half-laugh slipped out. “Any attempt to paint myself in a heroic light would be rather lame, don’t you think?”
He stopped abruptly and angled to face her, his hands seizing her shoulders. “Let’s not tiptoe around what happened between us this afternoon,” he said softly. “I promised to behave, so if anyone deserves censure, it is I. But that’s not to say I’m sorry about what happened. I’m not.”
Sunlight gilded the rueful curl of his smile. “There seems to be a powerful physical attraction between us,” he went on. “We are two rational adults—”
“That could be considered questionable,” interrupted Eliza.
A glint of humor warmed his gaze. “I concede that emotion did overpower reason for a short interlude. However, my point is, there’s nothing shameful about having a passionate nature.”
She longed to believe him. And yet…
“That may be true for a rake, Lord Haddan. But for a lady, it’s rather more complicated.” She watched a pair of mourning doves flutter through the rustling leaves, their pale wings a blur of light against dark. “And confusing.”
“If I have embarrassed you, I am truly sorry.”
“Fine, fine. Now, let’s…let’s just forget it,” she gabbled, wanting nothing more than to limp home as quickly as possible and nurse her wounds. “Could we please keep moving?”
“Of course.” His expression was unreadable as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “Have a care, it gets a bit steeper here.”
Eliza picked her way down the winding path, holding back a hiss at every step. Oh, the pain served her right, she told herself. It was a paltry penance for her sins.
Thank God for small mercies. At least she hadn’t been struck down by a thunderbolt.
A shallow stream was the last obstacle before they reached the sloping lawns leading up to the main house. Eliza gritted her teeth in preparation for picking a path across the slippery rocks.
Slowly, slowly, and mayhap by some miracle she could avoid another embarrassing tumble from grace.
She lifted her skirts, and then suddenly was floating in air as Gryff swept her up into his arms.
“But, sir, I can make it across on my own!”
“Hush,” he chided. “Don’t you ever allow someone to help carry you over rough spots?”
How to answer? Other than Gussie, there was no “someone” in her life to make such a gallant offer.
Ignoring the stepping stones, Gryff splashed right through the shallow water.
“Your expensive boots are getting ruined,” she pointed out.
“I shall give them a suitable funeral,” he replied. “With full military honors.” Bang, bang, bang—loud stomps punctuated his words, kicking up silvery plumes of spray. “Including a twenty-four gun salute.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “You have a very odd sense of humor, Lord Haddan. Most men take themselves far more seriously than you do.”
“Another of my faults,” he murmured.
“Laughter is never a fault,” replied Eliza. “Unless,” she amended, “it comes at someone else’s expense.” They had reached dry land. “You may put me down now.”
He kept walking.
Though the soft wool of his jacket was proving a seductive pillow, she felt compelled to protest. “Lord Haddan, I’m heavy as a horse.”
“Especially as you consumed the lion’s share of the custard tart,” he teased.
“That was very bad of me.” The scent of the sun-warmed grass and the rhythm of his long, loping stride suddenly had her feeling very sleepy. “Oh, but it was the most delicious thing I ever ate.”
His laugh tickled against her hair. “I’ll bring you another the next time I visit.”
“There mustn’t be a next time.” Eliza’s half-hearted whisper was lost in the buzz of bees circling through a patch of wild figwort. She regarded the dark purple blooms through half-closed eyes, watching the tiny flashes of yellow weave in and out of the long, slender stalks. “That’s what you are telling me—there mustn’t be a next time.”
“Actually figwort means ‘Take a chance on future happiness,’” said Gryff.
Her insides clenched. Yes, and to do that, sir, our paths must diverge. Sooner rather than later.
“However you phrase it, the message is much the same for me.” Eliza shifted in his arms. “I really must insist that you put me down, Lord Haddan. We are close to the manor house, and I’d really prefer not to be spotted in such a compromising position.”
This time, the marquess bowed to her wishes without argument.
“Thank you.” Eliza shook out her skirts, aware that the air all around her suddenly felt several degrees colder now that the heat of his body was gone. “Let us take the right fork up ahead. It’s the shortest route to the front courtyard.”
He offered his arm, careful to keep his distance.
She limped along in awkward silence, her downcast gaze fixed on their feet. Mud marred the once-shiny surface of his boots, and gorse thorns had left deep scratches in the leather.
Gorse. Surely it must have a meaning. A prickly one, no doubt, despite its cheerful yellow blooms.
“How do you know so much about the language of flowers?” she asked, wanting to fill their final moments together with more than the sound of crunching gravel.
“I have an interesting little book from the last century in my library,” he replied.
“Not the one by Mary Wortley Montague?” she exclaimed.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Oh, I have heard about it from members of my Horticulture Society.”
“You don’t have a copy?”
Eliza shook her head. “They are rather rare.” And rather expensive. But that did not begin to explain why a Tulip of the ton would bother reading the volume. She was about to ask when a hail from the housekeeper interrupted the exchange.
“Ah, there you are, Lady Brentford! I was wondering where you had wandered off to…” Mrs. Hil
lhouse stopped short as she rounded the corner of the rose bower, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of the marquess.
“I was at the Abbey ruins and foolishly lost my footing on the stones. Lord Haddan kindly offered his assistance. He likes flowers, you see.” Embarrassment had her gabbling like a goose. “And trees,” she added lamely.
“Leete kindly gave me permission to visit the grounds and make some notes on the landscape design,” explained Gryff smoothly. “Luckily I was close by and was able to come to Lady Brentford’s aid.”
Mrs. Hillhouse maintained a poker face, save for a tiny twitch of her right brow.
It was, knew Eliza from long experience, the housekeeper’s I-smell-a-rat look.
“Lucky, indeed,” commented Mrs. Hillhouse after another appraising look at the disheveled state of their clothing. “I’ll fix a soak of arnica leaves for that ankle.” Setting a hand on her hip, she asked, “Would you like a cloth to wipe the smear of custard from your breeches, milord?”
“Thank you but no, I might feel a trifle peckish during my ride back to the inn.”
The housekeeper’s gimlet gaze softened slightly.
“Was there a reason you were looking for me?” asked Eliza quickly, before any further culinary questions could be asked. The mention of custard had her face burning.
“Aye. Two letters just arrived for you. Seeing as one is from your brother, I thought you would want to see it right away.” Both of them knew that Harry never wrote unless he was in dire straits.
Eliza reluctantly accepted the missives. “Oh, Lord, what scrape has he gotten himself in now?” she muttered, frowning at her sibling’s near-illegible scrawl. The sight of Mr. Watkins’s neat handwriting stirred slightly more positive sentiments.
“Lady Brentford, I fear I have trespassed on your hospitality long enough,” said Gryff. “I shall take my leave and allow you to attend to your family concerns.”
Whatever the news from London, it could wait a few moments longer. Shoving the unopened letters into her pocket, she gave a brusque nod. “Yes, I suppose that it would be best. Mrs. Hillhouse, kindly ask Jem—”