To Lure a Proper Lady

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  “Performance?” Dysart grumbled. “Why would you think that?” He waved a hand, the gesture no doubt intended to come off as flippant, but the tension in the set of his shoulders rather spoiled the effect. “I reckoned you knew all about taking a little pleasure in out-of-the-way spots.”

  Pendleton loomed closer. “You have an infuriating habit of turning up wherever I happen to be.”

  “Oh, did I ruin a little rendezvous of yours?” Dysart nodded in Caro’s direction, several paces beyond Pendleton. “Aiming rather high these days, aren’t you?”

  “You’re one to talk, when I nearly walk into you in the midst of pawing—”

  “That will do.” Lizzie stepped between the two men before they could take up their earlier fight. “If you cannot behave in a civilized manner, I shall be obliged to ask you to leave this party.”

  “Dysart, you mean. He’s the one who’s forgotten how to behave in polite society.”

  Forgotten. What an interesting word choice, but Lizzie refused to let that thought distract her. “I mean either of you. If I hear any more tales of fighting, I will not hesitate. In case it’s slipped your mind, let me remind you his grace is not well. I refuse to have him upset should such goings-on reach his ears. Do I make myself clear?”

  She turned her glare on Dysart for good measure, even if her admonishments were mainly directed at Pendleton.

  Pendleton regarded her from the top of his nose. “You can be certain I will not leave these premises until I get what is mine.”

  Caro gasped.

  Dysart edged closer, not going so far as to touch Lizzie, but she felt his presence at her back all the same. “That sounded rather like a threat.”

  “Make of it what you will.” And with that, Pendleton pivoted on his heel and strode off down the path. The shadows of the maze soon swallowed him.

  Lizzie turned on her sister. “Good heavens, what were you thinking, letting him follow you in here like this?”

  “He was asking after my horse, as you no doubt heard. I wasn’t ever in any danger. Clearly.” Caro nodded at Dysart. “You both had matters well in hand, even if you did allow yourselves to become distracted. And now perhaps you’d rather I left you to get on with…things.”

  “You can’t just go off and leave us here.” Heaven forbid. Dysart could try to kiss her again, and this time she might forget herself for good and all.

  Caro placed her hands on her hips and squared herself to face Lizzie. “Why can’t I? It seems this is just what Great-aunt Matilda had in mind when she concocted this game.”

  “But…” Lizzie could hardly begin to protest against the impropriety. Not after the events of the previous evening.

  “Please don’t start imitating Lady Whitby. Though, if you insist, we can call the game over.”

  But the game wasn’t over. Not when she desperately needed a private word with Dysart. Except she needed to choose an even more secluded venue.

  —

  They left Lady Caroline behind at the entrance to the maze, where presumably she would rejoin the rest of the party. Stiff-backed, Lady Elizabeth led Dysart to the rear of the manor with crisp strides that would put a drill sergeant to shame. She entered through an almost hidden door that must normally be reserved for servants and marched down a darkened corridor to a small sitting room.

  A swift glance about proved the passage deserted, but she still swung the door nearly closed before facing him, arms crossed. “I should like an explanation.”

  Bloody hell.

  “Is this about the maze?” If she was going to slap him for his transgression, Dysart reckoned she might as well get it over with. Thank God she’d waited until they were out of the sight of others. The last thing he needed was for Pendleton to witness his humiliation.

  Not only that, no woman wanted to hear she’d just received a kiss as part of an act. All the worse for her if she had to listen to his admission before an audience. She didn’t know he’d risk a second slap to try again. The minor discomfort of a stinging cheek would be well worth the reward of her response.

  “Yes.” That single word hit him like a sudden, ice-cold downpour.

  If her carriage had been a clue to her mood, her reply to him now only proved it. She wasn’t happy with him. Far from it. Before Pendleton and on the way in from the gardens, she’d held a tight rein on her temper. Now she was about to turn it on him.

  A highly dangerous prospect even if she maintained her control. Especially if she maintained it. That tight grip she kept on her irritation posed a mighty temptation. Something perverse inside him longed to chip away at her restraint until she unleashed herself.

  If he couldn’t enjoy her kisses, he’d free her passions another way—or he’d long to. He couldn’t afford to act on the impulse.

  “Pendleton had the right of it.” As much as that admission pained him, he forced the statement out. “If I took a liberty, it was for the purpose of—”

  A wave of her hand cut him off. “Not that.”

  Part of him bristled. Could she really wave off his kiss so easily?

  Not so easily. She responded. She’d melted. Just like candle wax set near a flame, she’d turned all liquid. Those lovely breasts had pushed into his chest. She’d matched him stroke for stroke. What he wouldn’t give for an uninterrupted hour or two—or, hell, an entire night—to test her depths.

  “I want to know about you and Pendleton.”

  God, he’d rather explain the kiss. Then he might get a chance to demonstrate he’d gladly kiss her and not just for show. “What is it you want to know?”

  “Why have I heard reports of you brawling in the stables? Why just now in the maze did I feel like you’d have started in on each other again? This isn’t some matter of justice.”

  He studied her from the corner of his eye. She stood a foot or so away, hands folded in front of her, every bit the proper miss making simple conversation over tea. Yet he saw beyond the façade. She’d retreated behind a shield of manners, perhaps, but she could not mask the tension about her lips or the subtle force driving her speech.

  “Oh, you’re wrong there.” He fought for a low, even tone, but he suspected she heard the tension behind his words every bit as much. “It has everything to do with justice—or rather, the lack of it.” Beyond all reason, Dysart had made the episode with Pendleton his personal affair. “I told you to watch yourself around him. Did it ever occur to you to ask how I know about him? I walked in on him.”

  He paused and searched for the words to adequately express what he’d seen that day. More than a decade had passed, but time had done nothing to soften the memory of what he’d seen. With precise clarity, he still saw Pendleton grunting over Sally.

  But Dysart was damned if he’d describe that image to Lady Elizabeth. The polite sort of terms he ought to use with a lady of her station were insufficient to depict Pendleton’s brutality. Dysart couldn’t bring himself to be frank. He’d seen enough ugliness in his life, but that was no reason to inflict it on Elizabeth.

  So he simply added, “I caught him in the act.”

  “Was she your sister?” No need to clarify whom Elizabeth meant. The victim. But that, too, was stripping Sally’s identity away, the same as Pendleton had done in referring to her as that slut.

  “Her name was Sally, and no, she was not my sister.” Their relationship had become more complicated than that of simple siblings.

  “Oh.” The remaining irritation drained away from her voice in that one soft syllable. “Your sweetheart, then?”

  He knew what she was imagining—a romance between equals, where he was a stable boy or footman stealing kisses with one of the chambermaids on their half day. Such a naive little scenario.

  Could Elizabeth really be so innocent? Hell, she didn’t kiss like an innocent. Someone had taught her how to respond with fire and zest, just the way Dysart liked it. Bloody rotter.

  He brushed those inappropriate thoughts aside. “I didn’t even know Sally’s name
when I discovered them.” He’d only learned it at their second encounter. “But what sort of man would I be to turn a blind eye when she was sobbing and begging the heartless bastard to stop?”

  She rolled her lips between her teeth, to stop them from trembling, he suspected. To the devil with it, he’d forgotten himself. And now all he wanted to do was go to her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, or better yet, pull her into an embrace. But he couldn’t permit that. Not after he’d tasted her.

  “Your pardon,” he said. “I was trying to take care not to plant those details in your mind and I failed.”

  She looked him straight in the eye, as penetrating a regard as he’d ever experienced. In fact, he’d turned just such looks on suspected criminals, trying to see through the veneer to the person beneath. “You don’t need to protect me.”

  “I think I do.” Indeed, it was his duty. He felt as much deep in his gut. And more than that, he wanted to shield her from the harshness of the world.

  “Just because of my social position you’ve no reason—”

  “I do have reason.” He didn’t mean to raise his voice, didn’t meant to cut her off, but the words erupted from the depths of his chest before he could stop them.

  “Who are you?”

  The question struck him out of the blue. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, blast it.”

  Despite her vehemence, he stood firm. “I just told you what sort of man I am. Would a name change anything?”

  “It would give me your connections.”

  Bloody damned connections. That was all that mattered to someone of her position. “What makes you think I have any?”

  “That’s what you want me to think. Isn’t it?” She stepped closer, gaze penetrating, stripping off clothes and flesh and muscle, searching for his naked soul.

  He ought to retreat. Hell, he ought to run. But part of him wanted her to see. Damn it.

  “You want me to think you have no connections. That you were a servant in the Pendleton household. That you came to the rescue of another servant. That you lost your position because of it. But that’s not how it happened, is it?”

  “Why couldn’t it happen that way?” Quite another part was enjoying rousing her passions, in a sense, even if that deep emotion was annoyance and frustration. It was the closest society would allow him to come to stirring something far more satisfying for them both.

  “Because you’re one of us. Your manners in front of the other guests prove as much. Someone who grew up as a servant would hesitate and watch the others before deciding which fork to use, but you don’t. You know. And you can slip into the proper accent without a hitch.”

  “Pendleton said I was performing. How do you know he didn’t have the right of it?”

  “That was too convincing to be a performance.” Not is but was. Was she referring to his ongoing act or something far more specific? Something that happened not half an hour ago in the maze. “You are one of us.”

  “Get one thing straight. I’m not.” He refused to be part of society if society required him to pass over the behavior of men like Pendleton with no more than a wink and a nod, and just because he took out his baser urges on someone lower down the social scale.

  “Then it’s by choice because you walked away.”

  Damn her, she saw too much. “You’re welcome to scour Debrett’s for the next year. You’ll not find the name Dysart listed.”

  “Will I find an Angus Alistair there? Or perhaps some other form of Gus affixed to a different family name?”

  To the devil with Pendleton for that slip, but no doubt he’d done it on purpose. “Go on and look, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t wait around while you do.”

  “To think Snowley was wrong about you. I’m more convinced with every passing moment.”

  “Snowley? What does he have to do with it?”

  “He wanted me to ask you to leave when he heard about your fight with Pendleton.” She crossed her arms. “But I refused to do that.”

  “Maybe your cousin had the right of it.” He strode for the door. Air had suddenly become a priority, preferably taken in a cool, calming place where he might indulge in a cheroot. “I should leave if the condition on my remaining has to do with my social rank.”

  Elizabeth put out a hand, but stopped short of touching him. Thank God. “You’re here to do a job.”

  Christ, she would have to remind him of that little fact now. “Yes, you’re right. Next time we end up in a maze together, we’d better keep that in mind.”

  He yanked the door open and pulled up short when he came face- to-face with Great-aunt Matilda. He swallowed back a few more choice words.

  “Ah, there you are.” The old lady beamed. “Lizzie, my dear, we’ve been looking all over for you. It appears you’ve won the game, which means Lord Dysart owes a forfeit. Perhaps you’d like to decide his fate.”

  Chapter 11

  Lizzie stared at Great-aunt Matilda. The old lady was practically bubbling over with glee at having caught her and Dysart alone.

  Dysart, on the other hand, stood rigid, shoulders stiff beneath his topcoat. Tension seemed to flow from him in waves like a shimmer of heat on a dusty road beneath the summer sun. Slowly he swung about to await her pronouncement. A muscle rippled in his cheek.

  “I believe I’ll save my forfeit for later,” Lizzie said. “I’d like to think up something really good.”

  Great-aunt Matilda clapped her hands. “Capital idea. I always said you were the clever one. Although I must say your choice of hiding spot disappoints me. I expected the winner would find somewhere more creative.”

  “I still won, didn’t I?” Lizzie crossed to her aunt and took a bony arm in hand, the better to steer her away from Dysart. “Why don’t we join the others?”

  “Yes, let’s. I can tell everyone I’ve found you.” Great-aunt Matilda yielded to the slight pressure Lizzie exerted and began to toddle away from the sitting room. “You’ve already missed the greatest fun. Lady Whitby’s daughter was the first young lady to let herself be found, but Lord Allerdale didn’t spot her, as I intended. That was your cousin Snowley, and…”

  She turned to gaze over her shoulder. “Are you attending, Lord Dysart?”

  Lizzie cast her own glance backward. Dysart had emerged from the sitting room, but to judge by his expression, the last thing he wanted to do was join the company and discuss frivolous party games. “Let him be. He’s had a trying morning.”

  With a final glare in her direction, Dysart headed the opposite way down the corridor, toward the back of the house and a handy escape. Lizzie waited for him to disappear before addressing Great-aunt Matilda. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Who? Lord Dysart?”

  “You know as well as I do there’s no such title.” Although the subject of their discussion was long out of earshot, Lizzie still felt obligated to keep her voice down. It was almost as if the portraits lining the corridor might listen in.

  Great-aunt Matilda touched her forefinger to each of the digits of her other hand, like she was ticking names off a list. “I suppose there isn’t. And how would someone like that manage an invitation? You did invite him here, didn’t you? Who introduced you?”

  Lizzie could hardly answer that question with the truth, but neither was she blessed with the talent of inventing a plausible story on the spot. The explanation she’d fed Snowley seemed awfully thin for Great-aunt Matilda to buy. “Papa knows him. He’s here by Papa’s permission.”

  Her aunt’s look was fit to peel off the wallpaper. “Then ask your papa.”

  “If Papa wished me to have the details, wouldn’t he have told me? At any rate, I prefer not to disturb him after last night. But think back. You must have heard something. Do you recall a family whose son may have left them?”

  Great-aunt Matilda waved a hand. “I’ve heard so much gossip over the years, I can no longer sift the truth from the embellishment. The only stories I’m certain of are the o
nes I was involved in. But come.” She took Lizzie’s elbow and began to steer her toward the front of the house. “You want gossip, you’d best ask Lady Whitby.”

  No doubt, but did Lizzie wish to condemn Dysart to Lady Whitby’s relentless scrutiny? “If she knew something, wouldn’t she have recognized him by now?”

  “That all depends on how long ago the events in question took place. Alas, but none of us looks exactly as we did years and years ago.”

  “I’ve no idea how long it’s been.” But it had to have been before her debut or she wouldn’t have to ask. She’d have heard the story herself. “A decade? Even more?”

  “A man doesn’t show his face in society for a decade or more and some people might not know him. Or wish to know him. Not speaking of a man’s true friends, of course, only the Lady Whitbys of the world.”

  —

  A thick layer of bracken muffled Dysart’s footfalls, as he wound his way through the woodland—as far from the manor as possible. As far from Pendleton and Lady Elizabeth and her great-aunt—dicked in the nob, that one was—and all the rest of them. Some jobs simply weren’t worth the blunt, and this one was fast entering that category.

  He stopped for a long pull on his cheroot, letting the heat and smoke fill him. The combination ought to soothe; it was doing anything but.

  By the time he retraced his steps and reassumed his role, she’d know. He sensed it in the way he could sense the various clues in a complicated case coming together to reveal a culprit. She’d quiz that great-aunt of hers and trip the old lady’s memory. She’d have his name and his entire sordid history.

  You could have told her yourself and saved her the embellishment gossip would add.

  “It’s none of her affair.” He cast the words to the wind, receiving nothing but the rustle of leaves in reply. “Bloody hell, of what importance is it, either way? I’m here to do a job. Nothing else matters.”

  But somehow Lady Elizabeth’s good opinion of him mattered—and once she learned the entire story, she’d turn her back. Just as the rest of his family had.