by Cara Elliott
Her anger could not quite overshadow the ripple of longing, as if for one instant she had been tempted to confide in him.
“Damn.” Out of habit, his steps veered to the side table, where he poured himself a large tumbler of brandy. Several months ago, solving a troubling conundrum was simple—all he had to do was simply pickle his wits in several bottles of potent spirits. “It is far easier to be a rogue than a man of conscience,” he muttered, lifting a baleful salute to the marble bust of Socrates set atop the manuscript cabinet.
Perching a hip on the corner of his desk, he twirled the glass between his palms. The color of the liquid, spinning from deep bronze to amber gold in the glow of the argent lamp, reminded him of Lady Brentford’s unruly curls dancing free in the fresh country sunlight. A bold, bright spirit ought not be dimmed by dark shadows. They had hung beneath her eyes like bruises.
His gaze moved to the gilt-framed watercolor by Redouté that was leaning against the curio cabinet. It was still half-wrapped, with only a hint of the rose showing.
“Have you any advice to offer on the situation?” he growled. “A rose ought to feel an affinity for a lady in trouble.”
The leaves hung limp and lifeless.
A sigh—or was it a snarl—slipped from his lips. After a brooding moment, he set the glass down and turned to ink instead of brandy.
Inspired by the memories of her unfettered reactions to the landscape of Leete Abbey, he began to write, the words flowing fast and furious. For nearly an hour the only sounds in the library were the hurried scratch of the nib and the faint hiss of the glowing coals burning down to dark embers in the hearth. When finally he put down his pen and scraped back his chair, the skewed stack of papers on his blotter held a finished essay.
“She is my Muse,” he murmured, slowly skimming through the scrawled pages. “Like Linden, Lady Brentford helps me see things that I would miss on my own.” This essay was his best yet, the tone both lyrical and down to earth. It bothered him that the laughter had died from her voice, and he felt helpless to do anything about it.
“What are you doing holed up like a monk doing penance in his cell?” Cameron lit the candelabra by the doorway with his single taper. “Ye gods, don’t you find it rather depressing to be sitting here in near darkness?”
“I’m brooding,” he shot back. “So the ambiance is appropriate.”
“Oh?” His friend raised a brow. “About what? Linden?”
“And a lady.”
“Ah. I should have guessed that a female would be involved.” Cameron crossed to the hearth and propped a boot on the brass fender. “The one you were watching outside of Gunter’s? With a look, I might add, that would have melted a hogshead full of iced chocolate cream.”
“I can’t explain it. I seem to be besotted,” admitted Gryff. “Smitten like a schoolboy.”
“You who have resisted the charms of every Beauty and Temptress in Town?” His friend sounded amused. “I take it the lady in Grosvenor Square was Leete’s sister—the one with whom you had that tasty dalliance.”
A growl warned Cameron that any risqué remarks would not be welcome. “Yes, that was Lady Brentford,” added Gryff. “And I fear that she may be in some trouble.”
“Seeing as Leete is her brother, I don’t doubt it.”
“Stubble the jests. This isn’t a subject for levity,” he snapped. The image of Leete laughing with the baronet prodded him to ask, “What do you know about Brighton?”
“Not much, save that he and his cousin are considered very unsavory fellows by some of my acquaintances.”
“Why?”
Cameron shrugged in response. “I’ve never asked. But I can make some inquiries if you like.”
“Thank you, that would be helpful,” replied Gryff. Pursing his lips in thought, he drummed his fingers on the blotter. “Speaking of Linden, have you learned anything more?”
“My friend has taken a little jaunt to the country. But I’ve another idea on how to get information,” replied Cameron.
“I think I’d rather not know what it is,” he said.
“I think you are right,” quipped his friend.
Once his chuffed laugh had died away, Gryff stared moodily at the barely glowing coals. “I feel so bloody useless. Is there naught I can do but sit and wait while you take action?”
“You are in a strange mood.” Cameron came over to the desk and eyed the glass of brandy. Seeing it was untouched, he lifted it to his lips. “May I?”
He gave a curt wave.
“Might I ask another question?” Without waiting for an answer, Cameron continued. “Why do you care so passionately about Lady Brentford and her problems?”
Gryff didn’t quite know how to articulate his feelings.
“Well, I had better get to work,” said his friend after downing the brandy in one quick swallow. “You are far more entertaining company when you’re not blue-deviled.”
“I appreciate your touching concern for my state of mind,” he said gruffly. “By the by, is there a reason you stopped by in the first place?”
“I just happened to be in the area and saw a light in the library window,” answered Cameron vaguely.
“To see the library, you have to be in passing through one of the back alleyways.”
His friend merely smiled. “I’ll stop by again as soon as I have anything to report.”
“Blue-deviled,” muttered Gryff as the door clicked shut. Perhaps it was because he was tormented by the sparkle in his mind’s eye of rich sapphire, its brilliance clouded by the shadow of men—
Men. He suddenly sat up a bit straighter. Had Lady Brentford’s sarcastic comment of men and their toys been directed at him, as well as her brother? At the time, he had been too concerned by her troubled face to give the words any heed. But now, in the dark, quiet depths of the night, with no distractions save for his own introspective thoughts, the statement came back to haunt him.
“Oh, surely she doesn’t think that I see her as simply an object of amusement.”
In answer, the oppressive silence in the room seemed to grow louder.
Gryff made himself think back on their encounters. And in each one there was no denying that he had behaved like a snapping beast, pawing, poking, prodding—entirely for his own pleasure.
No, not entirely, he amended. She had seemed to enjoy their intimacies as well.
Still, despite the self-serving platitudes, he was for a moment overwhelmed with a sense of shame.
Picking up his little notebook, he slowly thumbed through the pages, rereading his scribbled record of her comments throughout the afternoon.
“I need to clarify some things between us, Lady Brentford,” he muttered. “Whether you want me to or not.”
Eliza added a small splash of water to her mixing palette and carefully wet her paintbrush. “A touch of burnt sienna,” she murmured, drawing the soft sable bristles over a square of dried pigment, “will tone down the brightness of the cerulean blue…”
She had arrived back at the Abbey at a little past noon, and for the moment, there was nothing more she could do to put her plan into action. On the morrow, she would ride over to ask Gussie for a council of war. Her old governess would be eager to help do battle against Brighton and his terrible ultimatum.
With her sharp mind, of course, thought Eliza wryly, and not with her frail body.
Though on second thought, she could picture Gussie seeking to slice off the baronet’s potato finger with her pruning shears.
The image cheered her mood considerably.
As did the wash of color taking shape on the thick sheet of watercolor paper. Painting allowed her to escape from her worldly worries, if only for a short interlude. The act of creating shapes and textures, of mixing shades and hues, of adding line and detail was supremely satisfying.
Sitting back, she studied the specimen she had clipped from her cottage garden. It was a purple columbine, whose message was “I intend to win.” “Perhaps later, I�
�ll cut a bouquet of chrysanthemums,” she said to Elf as the cat jumped up onto her worktable. “Which mean ‘abundance and wealth.’”
Meow.
“Right, this columbine does look a little wilted. Shall we go gather a fresh one?”
Meow.
“How refreshing to be in the company of such an agreeable male,” she quipped, watching the marmalade tail disappear out the door. “Harry and his friend are beasts.”
As for Haddan the Hellhound…
She gathered her paintbox, sketchpad, and water jar, deciding the day was much too nice to remain cooped up inside. Besides, Haddan made her think of sunlight drizzling through leaves like liquid honey, of breezes soft as a whispered laugh, of meadowgrasses dancing to the freespirited notes of the songbirds.
To be sure, the marquess had a devilish charm, but the moniker of “hellhound” did not really fit the man she had come to know. Her Haddan was no hard-hearted predator, no rapacious rogue. He was funny, sensitive, compassionate, and…
Nice. That summed it up succinctly.
“He’s nice,” said Eliza loudly. “But I’m never going to see him again.” She drew in a lungful of air and held it, waiting a moment for the pain in her chest to subside.
“I can live with that,” she murmured, setting down her things and moving to the flower beds. Forcing herself to forget his kind offer to help, she plucked a freshly fallen oak leaf—which symbolized bravery—and stuck it in the twined coil of her hair. “I cannot depend on anyone else to fight my battles. If Brighton is to be beaten, I must find a way to do it myself.”
Gryff reined his horse to halt by the stone cottage and dismounted, careful to keep the well-wrapped bouquet from being squashed. It had taken several stops to find a flower shop that offered purple hyacinth, which said “please forgive me” in the language of flowers. He would add his own embellishments to the basic message—he glanced at the age-blackened oak—assuming she didn’t shut the door in his face.
Leaving his mount to graze in the shade of the trees, he approached the entrance and gave a soft knock.
No answer.
Frowning, Gryff waited a few moments, uncertain of what to do. Not wanting to cause her any embarrassment at the manor house, he had decided to pay a discreet visit to her hideaway, hoping to find her alone. Given what he had to say, a private meeting would be best. Just the two of them.
Clearing an odd nervousness from his throat, he knocked again.
Still no stirring from within.
“Hell and damnation,” he muttered. “Some imp of Satan must be conspiring against me—”
Meow.
Speak of the devil. Looking up, Gryff saw the cat curled atop the gated archway. “Halloo, remember me?”
The cat twitched its whiskers.
“Why, thank you for the kind invitation,” he said, trying the iron latch. It released with a raspy clink.
He opened the gate just enough to squeeze through and pushed it closed behind him. The high, weathered walls with their earthtone lichens and twines of gray-green ivy gave no hint of what was hidden within the mortised stones. Gryff stopped short and blinked at the riot of textures and colors, feeling a little drunk, a little disoriented. In the space of a few small steps, he had been magically transported from staid Oxfordshire to an exotic pleasure garden in some unknown land.
The impression was accentuated by the sight of a fanciful female figure twirling in circles on the soft grass. A garland of oak leaves and daisies crowned her hair, which, freed from its pins, spilled over her shoulders in glorious honey-colored waves. The curling ends danced across the back of a white peasant blouse, its gauzy cotton liberally embroidered with bright flowers.
His gaze slid lower, taking in the billowy scarlet trousers, snugged at the ankles with turquoise ties, and her bare feet.
She must have heard his sharp intake of breath, for she stopped humming and spun around.
“You make a very striking Gypsy sorceress, Lady Brentford.”
Her mouth opened and closed several times before any words came out. “I—You—W-who in the name of the Devil gave you permission to invade my privacy?”
“Imp of Satan bade me to come in,” replied Gryff. “Though I admit, I might have misunderstood his invitation.”
She bit her lower lip. “Oh, never mind that. More importantly, why are you here?”
The crackling sounded like crickets chirping as he held out the odd-shaped package wrapped in thick brown paper. Strangely enough, he felt a little tongue-tied, so all he said was, “To bring you this.”
She made no move to take it.
“It won’t bite,” he murmured.
Pushing back her sleeves, Eliza gingerly plucked it from his outstretched hand.
“Sorry, it’s a little like carrying coals to Newcastle,” he went on as she started to undo the wrapping. “Had I known, I could have brought gold bangles and a floral headscarf. But that would not have sent quite the right message.”
“Which is?”
The paper fell away, revealing a bouquet of pale purple blooms.
“Please forgive me,” they both said at once, reciting the secret language of lavender hyacinths.
A breeze ruffled through the tall spikes of lavender, filling the air with its sweet herbal fragrance. He watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed in and out.
“Forgive you for what?” she asked softly.
“I thought maybe…that is, I worried whether you might…” It was his turn to stammer. “Hell’s bells, I am making a complete mull of this, aren’t I?” He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I haven’t felt this awkward since I was a spotty-faced schoolboy trying to ask the milkmaid for a kiss.”
Her lips twitched. “I bet you didn’t have to ask twice.”
“Actually she turned me down flat,” replied Gryff. “I was short for my age, and a trifle plump.”
Eliza arched her brows in disbelief. “That rather defies the imagination.”
“So does this.” A sweep of his hand encompassed the profusion of the colorful plantings. “It’s remarkably unique—in a wonderful way.” As are you, he wanted to add.
“Thank you. But—”
“But I still haven’t explained my presence,” interrupted Gryff. Her hint of a smile had loosened the knot in his tongue. “Yes, right. Well, the thing is, I was thinking about what you said yesterday about men and their toys.”
Her lashes flicked down, hiding her eyes.
“And I wanted to assure you that I’ve never thought of you in such a way,” he went on in a rush. “If I’ve given you the wrong impression—” He tipped his chin at the bouquet in her hands. “I beg your forgiveness.”
Eliza touched a fingertip to one of the petals. “I was speaking of men in general. There are always exceptions to the rule.” She finally looked up. “Most people would say it’s my behavior that is unforgivable. I’ve acted like a shameless hussy, a wanton jade.”
He started to protest but she cut him off. “And you know something—I don’t care!” She tilted her face to the sun. “I don’t care that my face has unfashionable spots, or that I dance barefoot in gypsy trousers, or that I’ve stolen scandalous kisses with a notorious rogue. It makes me feel happy.”
Gryff felt a smile bloom on his lips. “I am glad. You have nothing to be ashamed of, Lady Brentford.”
“Ah, well, a Hellhound would say that.”
“That wasn’t a Hellhound speaking,” he replied softly. “It was simply…” Who was he? “…an old dog who would like to think he can learn new tricks.”
Eliza blinked, as if trying to bring him into sharper focus. “I should put these lovely flowers in water,” she said abruptly. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” Turning in a blur of jewel-tone colors, she hurried for the back door of the cottage.
Still smiling, Gryff shucked off his hat and coat, wanting to feel the perfumed air tease through his hair and the sunbeams suffuse his skin. All of his senses suddenly fel
t heightened—he was intimately aware of the colors, the smells, the textures, the sounds.
Drawn to the buzzing of a honeybee close by, he crouched down to study the artful array of border plantings. The garden had been planned with a masterful eye for detail. The effect was enchanting.
Rising, Gryff wandered along the pathway, drinking it all in. In the far corner of the wall was a stone bench, and on it was a sketchpad and wooden paintbox. Recalling her remark about having no artistic talent, he couldn’t help but be curious. Quickening his steps, he decided to steal a quick peek before she returned.
Alas, there was nothing on the page but a flat background wash of light blue.
“Lord Haddan!”
He set the pad down. “Your secrets are still safe, Lady Brentford. There’s naught here to betray your talents.” He chuckled. “Or lack of them.”
Chapter Sixteen
That may be so.” Eliza sought to still the pounding of her heart. There was no reason to be alarmed. Even if Lord Haddan saw a finished sketch, it would mean nothing to him. “However, you have no right to look through my private things without permission.”
He acknowledged the scold with a solemn nod. “You are right, of course. Having recently chastised a friend for doing much the same thing, I should be sensitive to such transgressions.”
“No harm done,” she murmured. It was strange how the enclosed space of the garden, which seemed quite large when she was alone, suddenly felt crowded with his presence. The stretch of his shoulders blocked all but the tips of the tallest bushes and the light citrus scent of his cologne overwhelmed all of the floral perfumes. “I would offer you some refreshments, but I’m afraid I have nothing but a jug of water and a bowl of walnuts.”
“Thank you, but I am happy just to linger here for a bit and feast on the marvelous sights and smells you have created.” His gaze circled the space and came back to her. “I take it you designed all this.”
“The basic plantings have been here for ages. I just added a few embellishments.”
“You are far too modest, Lady Brentford.” Gryff took another leisurely look around. “It takes a true artist to make such imaginative use of colors, shapes, and texture. Clearly you have an eye for creating beauty.”