by Cara Elliott
“Jem has not yet returned from working in the fields,” replied the housekeeper.
“I shall see to my horse,” said Gryff quietly.
“And I shall see to steeping the herbs for your ankle,” said Mrs. Hillhouse. “Unless you need me to help you up the stairs to your room.”
“No, no, I can manage,” mumbled Eliza. It might have been wiser to let the marquess go without a last private word. Trite formalities seemed absurd—and it wasn’t as if she could blurt out, “Oh, thanks for the jolly lovely sexual tryst in the folly by the lake.”
Folly.
Eliza quickly thrust the thought aside.
“Did you see all you came for?” she began—and then quickly wished she could seize the words and cram them back down her throat. So much for trying to sound as cool and sophisticated as a London belle.
“Yes, thank you,” replied Gryff, kindly ignoring the obvious innuendo of her question. “I would, of course, enjoy seeing the whole estate, but I must return to London first thing in the morning. I have other obligations that I must attend to.”
Her fingers brushed against the stiff folds of paper in her pocket. She, too, had pressing matters to sort out. This mad, mad interlude couldn’t be allowed to interfere with her plans.
Step by step. It had been a struggle to overcome all the obstacles in her way. But she had persevered, sacrificed, endured.
“Yes, of course you do,” answered Eliza, deciding to make no mention of the fact that Harry’s troubles and her own business might also require her to leave for Town at first light. God forbid that he think she was following him. He would tire of it, and quickly. A fleeting dalliance with a country widow was one thing. The city was another world entirely. Silky smiles and satin laughter. All was so seamlessly smooth and polished within the highest circles of the ton. Gilded wheels turning within wheels.
Eliza looked away. She didn’t want to think of that. Let this enchanted afternoon remain etched on her memory as…perfect. It was, after all, no more real than a fairy tale.
Concern cut through her reveries. “Will you be well?” asked Gryff.
She forced a cheerful smile. “But of course. I’m a rough-cut country miss, Lord Haddan. I’ve suffered plenty of bumps and bruises. By tomorrow they will be gone. Forgotten.”
“Your letters—”
“Harry is likely up to his usual nonsense,” she assured him. “It’s nothing that I can’t deal with.”
A frown creased his brow. “You shouldn’t have to deal with it.”
“But I do,” she said practically. For only a little while longer.
Gryff plucked at his cuff and smoothed a wrinkle from his sleeve. “Goodbye then.”
“Yes, goodbye.” Eliza essayed a smile as she jiggled her injured ankle. “You had best be on your way before I destroy any other articles of your clothing.”
He eyed the dust-covered cravat and chuckled. “I shall inform Prescott that it marched to its death with great fortitude.”
Oh, I would miss his quirky humor. She stilled the fluttering in her chest with a deep breath. “Thank you for the picnic.”
“It was my pleasure.”
Their eyes met for a moment as she sought to memorize the smoky hue of gold-flecked hazel. Haddan’s Green. To be placed in her paintbox next to the standard hue named Hooker’s Greens.
“I had a lovely time, Lord Haddan,” she went on. “I wish your friend the best of luck in altering his landscape. I hope you came away from the afternoon with some good ideas.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Nature is infinitely inspiring.”
“Quite so.”
He hesitated a fraction and then touched his brow in salute before turning for the stable.
Eliza hobbled toward the back terrace, but some irresistible impulse made her linger behind the privet hedge.
A short while later, hooves clattered over the cobbles and she watched him ride off, waiting until the bend swallowed him from view before turning away.
A welling, hot and bitter as bile, rose in her throat as she trudged up the stone stairs.
“Don’t be a goose.” She swiped a sleeve across her cheeks. “At least I shall never have to say ‘what if?’ I have a memory, not a regret.”
And she would hold that memory dear, and keep it close to warm countless windswept nights on the lonely moors.
Chapter Thirteen
Gryff hurried across the busy street, carefully following the path cleared by the sweep. He had changed his clothes and his water-stained boots on arriving back in London earlier in the day—an act accompanied by several long looks of silent reproach from his valet—but had been too on edge to tarry for more than a short stop at his townhouse.
Throughout the journey back from the country, he had reminded himself that fleeting dalliances were no longer important in his life. More serious pursuits now took precedence over frivolous pleasure. Think of your work, not a beguilingly freespirited widow.
He quickened his steps, trying to outpace the memory of a graceful ankle, a lilting laugh, a lush mouth.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “It’s time for an old dog to learn new tricks.” Paramount of which was thinking with his brain, not his pizzle.
And so, to keep his mind focused on the task at hand, he had decided to pay a visit to Watkins & Harold, rather than send a messenger to inquire whether any reply had come from the elusive Linden.
Yes or no.
It was a bit bemusing how nervous he felt. “No” was not a word that normally answered a request from the Marquess of Haddan. An august title and a glittering fortune were powerful incentives to voice an affirmative. Grease to keep the wheels of life turning with nary a squeak, he thought ruefully, dodging a lumbering dray cart.
But then, Linden was not aware that the commission was coming from a lofty peer. The artist would decide based on the merits of the essays alone.
Which was both frightening and exhilarating.
Turning down a sidestreet, Gryff drew a quick, calming breath before he entered the publisher’s modest brick building.
“Linden has said yes,” said Watkins without preamble as the door to his private office fell shut.
Gryff sat down rather heavily in the chair facing the desk. “Excellent.” He clapped his hands together, trying to look as if he hadn’t been worried sick. “Excellent.”
“That it is. However, we’ve a tight schedule to stick with,” pointed out the publisher. “As I’ve told you, I’d like to have the volume printed in time for the botanical symposium that is to take place next spring in Oxford.”
Gryff swallowed hard. The project was suddenly more than just an idea floating around in his head, more than just scribbles on a scrap of paper. It was taking shape as something real. Ink and paper, bound in calfskin with a gold-stamped title and the author’s name.
A new step. A new dream. Was he truly ready to turn over a new leaf?
“Deadlines, milord—we will have deadlines,” continued Watkins. “I know this is all new to you, but I do run a business.”
“And you are asking whether I can be professional?” said Gryff.
Watkins looked a little uncomfortable but nodded. “In a nutshell, yes.”
“You may count on it,” he replied. “And what of Linden?”
“Having worked with the artist before, I am confident that we will have no reason to rue our choice.”
“Well then, the work should go smoothly as silk.”
The publisher allowed a small smile to bloom on his craggy face. “I am not sure I would phrase it quite that way, milord. Creativity does not always twirl along with the same precise steps as an elegant Mayfair waltz. Artists—and authors—tend to dance to their own music. I’ve learned to expect a stumble or slip along the way. What’s important is to end on the same beat, if you take my meaning.”
“I’m an excellent dancer,” quipped Gryff.
“I don’t doubt it, Lord Haddan. But as an author, you must be p
repared to improvise.”
Improvise. He caught himself thinking of custard tarts and a sun-dappled smile.
“Now, since you are here, let us review the essays you have submitted so far, milord…”
Don’t be daft. Her eyes must be playing tricks on her. Slipping into the shadows of a recessed doorway, Eliza watched a tall, elegantly attired figure stride out of the print shop and turn in the direction of Piccadilly Street.
Stop seeing ghosts, she chided to herself. Or in this case, Gryffs.
Marquess Madness seemed to have seized her brain. Even in the half-light of dawn, she had seen his shape in the flitting shadows of the trees and hedgerows along the route to London. She had thought it was merely the dust on the ancient carriage windowglass that had distorted her vision…
But no, this approaching apparition was not a figment of her imagination. The profile beneath the high crown beaver hat was definitely fashioned from flesh and blood. The aquiline nose, the chiseled lips, the glint of green…
Cringing deeper into the corner of her refuge, Eliza prayed that the marquess would pass by without a sidelong glance.
To her relief, Gryff did not seem to notice that he had company on the quiet sidestreet. Head bent, brow furrowed, he appeared to be lost in thought as he hurried past her.
Eliza waited until she could no longer hear the click of his bootheels on the pavement before venturing out of her hiding place. How strange, she thought, casting a searching look over her shoulder before continuing on her way. The marquess had mentioned having pressing engagements. So why was he visiting an out-of-the-way publisher? Watkins & Harold did not offer popular novels or sporting books.
Perhaps he was purchasing one of the shop’s pretty little gold-stamped books of poetry for a lady friend, to make up for his absence from the ballroom. And boudoir.
She squashed the stirring of jealousy. The thought of rumpled sheets and naked limbs provoked other naughty ideas. Mayhap he was bringing a set of erotic etchings to be bound in soft, smooth calfskin. A prickling of gooseflesh stole up her arms. No, she couldn’t really see the straitlaced Mr. Watkins agreeing to handle such a commission. He wouldn’t agree to be part of anything immoral.
The bells over the front door jingled, reminding her that she wasn’t here to pine over Lord Haddan. There was work to be done.
“Good morning, madam,” greeted the clerk. “Is Mr. Watkins expecting you?”
“Not exactly.” Eliza assumed he had received her agreement to take on the project. “But I would be grateful if he could spare a moment to see me.”
The publisher didn’t keep her waiting long. “Lady Brentford! Please come in,” he exclaimed, gesturing for her to enter his private office. “Er, what a surprise.”
“Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” she replied.
“Not at all, not at all.” And yet, despite the coolness of his office, a beading of moisture had formed along his hairline. “Please have a seat.”
As he hastily rearranged his papers. Eliza thought she caught a glimpse of one of her sketches.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “A family matter has required an unexpected trip to Town. But if this is an inconvenient moment for you, I can return at another time.”
“Not at all,” he repeated, but his smile looked a little strained. “By coincidence, I was, er, just putting together a packet of the final essays for illustration to send to you.”
“Perfect timing,” she remarked.
He dabbed a handkerchief to his brow. “Indeed.”
Eliza refrained from comment on his bizarre behavior, deciding that any mention might only exacerbate his discomfort. The poor man must be suffering from a mild fever, or perhaps a touch of gout, which would explain the odd little bouncing of his foot against the rug.
“Speaking of timing, that is the reason I am here,” she explained. “I am anxious to complete this commission as quickly as possible.”
The publisher’s fidgeting stilled somewhat. “I am happy to hear it. I have set a very tight production schedule in order to have the finished book ready for an important botanical symposium.” His craggy face suddenly spasmed in alarm. “You aren’t hinting that there may be a problem in completing the paintings, are you?”
“No,” she answered quickly, careful to sound confident. “I have no intention of letting you down.”
He blew out his breath. “That is a relief. The author would be greatly disappointed. And you know how temperamental artists can be—yourself aside, of course.” Another dab to his brow. “It is never easy to shepherd a project of this sort through the various stages.”
“And I don’t suppose we make it any easier by insisting on keeping our identities a secret for now.”
Watkins reached for his water glass. “That,” he said tightly, “is putting it mildly.”
“I admit, I’m rather tempted to forego the secrecy and ask for a meeting. From what I’ve read so far, it appears the person who penned the essays has a delightful sense of humor.” Eliza paused. “My guess is that the author is a female.”
A loud croak sounded as Watkins nearly choked in mid-swallow. His face, already a flushed pink to begin with, turned an alarming shade of red. “A f-female?” he sputtered. “W-why would you think that?”
“There is a whimsical note to the writing. In general, men are not whimsical, though there are, of course, exceptions to the rule.” That she could think of one right away was an irrelevant detail that need not be mentioned.
“In general, I would agree with you,” said Watkins carefully.
“But by your reaction, I’m assuming that in this case I am wrong,” she probed.
Sweat now sheened the publisher’s cheeks. “I did not say that,” he protested.
“Forgive me. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable,” apologized Eliza. “I’m curious, that’s all.”
“As is the author,” conceded Watkins with a harried grimace. “I have promised both of you that I would guard your real identities. But it is proving to be a deucedly difficult pledge to keep.”
“I’m sorry. I shall cease pestering you.” She shifted her reticule in her lap. “Indeed, I don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time. But since I am here, might I take those finished essays with me? That way, I could begin work on the art.”
Papers moved in a whispery shuffle over the ink-stained blotter. “Unfortunately, I’ve not yet had a chance to have the lads make copies for you. But they should be done by the end of the day. If, as usual, you are staying with Mr. and Mrs. Frampton, I can have them sent around to Hart Street as soon as they are ready.”
“Thank you. I—I am not sure how long I shall be in Town, so it would be best if they could arrive today.”
Eliza rose. She had put off thinking about Harry’s unsettling summons for as long as possible, but unfortunately it could no longer be avoided. A request for a meeting was unusual in itself. That he had chosen Gunter’s of all places, a café famous for its iced confections, was even odder. Considering his other haunts, such a respectable venue should be welcome. Instead it sent shivers down her spine.
Harry trying to turn her up sweet?
She couldn’t help feeling a foreboding.
“I shall escort you out, Lady Brentford, and drop off these papers at the copy desk,” said Mr. Watkins. “Just give me a moment.”
As he gathered the sheets and sorted them into order, Eliza caught a fleeting glimpse of a boldly slanting script.
No—the idea was absurd.
Blinking, she pressed the heel of her hand to her brow. Stop seeing Haddan in every flutter, every line, every shadow. The ghost of Gryffin must not be allowed to haunt her head.
“There,” he announced, paging through the stack one last time. “All is in order.”
When Eliza looked again, she saw nothing that resembled the handwriting in the marquess’s notebook. She wasn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved.
“By the by,” she said as she fol
lowed him to the door, “was that Lord Haddan I saw coming out of here earlier?”
“Haddan?” The publisher’s voice was muffled by the papers in front of his face. “Perhaps he was picking up a book from one of the clerks. Gentlemen sometimes order a special binding from us.”
There was certainly nothing havey-cavey about that. Eliza felt herself relax. Her nerves were on edge, that was all. Yes, the marquess was knowledgeable about landscape design, but he had offered a perfectly plausible explanation. He was a careful steward of his lands, and it was foolish to read anything deeper into his interest.
“Thank you again for your time, Mr. Watkins,” she said. “In the future, I shall try not to barge in on you unannounced.”
“I look forward to seeing your first paintings, Lady Brentford.” The publisher patted absently at his hair, which was sticking up in spiky little silver tufts. “I have every expectation that when all is said and done, the results of this collaboration will have been well worth the effort.”
“Bloody hell, Cameron, since when have you become the bibliophile?” Gryff paused in the doorway of his library, a little growl of irritation edging the greeting as he saw the branch of candles perched perilously close to a rare volume of seventeenth-century etchings. “And bloody hell, do move those cursed flames away from the paper. Don’t you remember signing a solemn pledge at Oxford not to burn the books?”
“You forget that I did not attend your fancy schools. And from what I have heard, you and Connor paid no heed to the university rules and regulations, so stop your barking,” drawled Cameron. He did, however, shift the silver candelabra to the corner of the worktable.
“Then what in Hades has sparked such an interest in my collection of art books? Or dare I ask?”
“I’ve always been interested in art,” came the cryptic reply.
Abandoning any further interrogation as pointless, Gryff continued on to his desk. “Please note that I use a glass-globed lamp to illuminate…” His words trailed off in a hiss of air. “Damnation, you really must stop pawing through my personal correspondence, Cam.”