by Lily Maxton
“If you can even call him a gentleman,” Anne said. “He should have come back as soon as he inherited.”
Olivia’s eyes brightened as she let her imagination run wild. “What if he’s become a complete rake who’s been scouring the world looking for women to ruin?”
Their mother’s mouth pinched to a thin line. “I swear you two have aged me ten years with your contrariness. Lord Thornhill is not a rake. He does not scour. He’s a perfect gentleman, and that is the end of that!” She swept away through the crowd in very dramatic style.
Elizabeth and her sisters breathed a little easier.
“How much do you want to wager she left to seek him out?” Anne asked, her nondescript eyes glittering.
Of the three siblings, Elizabeth was the only one who had their father’s fair complexion. Anne and Olivia had inherited the light brown hair and gray eyes of their mother.
“Nothing,” Elizabeth responded. “I have a feeling you’d win.”
“We could wager the time it takes for her to drag him over here,” she suggested. Anne had recently taken to making small wagers, insisting a woman could place a bet as well as any man could.
“Five minutes,” Olivia said.
“Under five,” Elizabeth responded.
“I’ll say over five then. She’ll be distracted by gossip along the way.” Anne glanced around for a clock.
“But that’s not fair,” Olivia pointed out. “My time is the most precise.”
Anne nodded. “Yes, that’s a bit of a coil. Very well—three minutes or under for Elizabeth, four-to-six minutes for you, and seven to nine minutes for me? One shilling.”
“Oh, drat,” Elizabeth said, as she spotted their mother through the crush. “She was just stopped by Mrs. Merrick.” The elderly woman spoke to Lady Middleton with a great flurry of her hands, obviously settling in for a chat.
But after a few minutes, she surprised all of them by tearing herself away from whatever juicy gossip she was hearing and making a beeline across the waxed floor in the direction of the hostess of the ball, Lady Fairchild.
“Olivia is going to win,” Elizabeth said.
“Not quite yet,” Anne insisted. “It depends on how long it takes them to find Lord Thornhill. He might be dancing.”
He wasn’t dancing.
The sisters watched as the two women cornered the man like lionesses scenting prey. Elizabeth didn’t know anything about lions, but Olivia, a voracious reader, had told them all about the creatures. If the females of the species actually hunted in groups as Olivia claimed they did, it was an apt description.
Lady Fairchild cut him off from the front. Their mother sidled up from the right. The wall of the ballroom blocked a retreat.
“Captured,” Elizabeth muttered.
Across shifting bodies and beneath glittering chandeliers, she watched the women lead the new earl to them. The cousin who held her husband’s title didn’t look much like Charles; he was taller and thinner where Charles had been stockier and dark-haired instead of golden. It was a relief, that.
Anne kept her eyes glued to the floor clock on the other side of the room.
“Oh, damnation,” she bit out when Thornhill stopped directly in front of them and bowed. It had taken just under the seven minutes she needed to win.
Unfortunately, Anne didn’t swear quietly. Everyone heard. And everyone turned to stare, one by one. A long, blue vein in their mother’s forehead gave an alarming twitch. The glare she shot her middle child promised a slow, painful death.
Lord Thornhill calmly turned his attention to Elizabeth. “Would you like to dance?” he asked her after the pleasantries were taken care of.
She glanced at her dance card. “Yes, I would like that very much.”
The next dance was a waltz. That would make it easier to talk.
She let him lead her to the dance floor. He touched her gloved hand and her waist, then swept her with ease into the rhythm of the dance.
“You look well, my lady,” he said.
She smiled. She hadn’t known him long before he’d left on his travels, but she’d always liked him. There was kindness in the depths of his green eyes—something that had been absent in her husband’s. Five years ago, she hadn’t known to look for it. “When did you arrive?”
“Just this afternoon. I was planning to rest and call on you in the morning, but one of my friends stumbled across me and insisted on dragging me here.”
“Well, it is supposed to be the ball of the season, my lord,” she pointed out teasingly.
“It is quite the crush,” he said with a smile.
“What made you come back to England?” She hadn’t expected him to. They hadn’t heard any news of him since he’d inherited.
“My responsibilities,” he said. “I couldn’t outrun them any longer. Charles was bred to be an earl. I was…frightened, perhaps, of my new role. But the longer I was away the more I began to think of the tenants and servants whose livelihoods were in my hands. I thought of you, as well. I made a small fortune in India. I’ll use it to help the estate thrive again. If all goes as planned, you should still receive the settlement you should have had upon Charles’s death. I hope you will forgive me for being a coward and not returning sooner.”
She could imagine how daunting it might be, suddenly to inherit an earldom when one had never expected to. “There is nothing to forgive, my lord. I understand the weight of responsibilities. What matters is that you are here now.”
He smiled, but she saw something rueful in his expression. “Charles was lucky to have you.”
She nearly missed a step and glanced at her feet. One, two, three; one, two, three. She fell back into the rhythm.
He thought they’d had a love match. Her lips twisted in a smile that felt more like a grimace. She’d hoped for love when she’d married Charles; now it seemed a distant, muted dream.
“May I call on you? I would like to renew our acquaintance.”
She looked up at him. Her mother would be thrilled if he courted her. Nothing would make her happier than having her daughter remain the Countess of Thornhill instead of being reduced to dowager status.
But why would any man want to marry her now?
She was barren. She hadn’t produced an heir for Charles. It was unlikely she’d produce an heir for anyone else, either.
The knowledge gnawed at her—an incessant, hidden pain—but when she met Lord Thornhill’s eyes, she only saw the same kindness she’d always seen in him.
She nodded. “Yes, I would like that, as well.”
And she thought she actually meant it.
…
Cale Cameron didn’t like the looks of the nob Elizabeth—or Lady Thornhill, as he’d learned from one of his patrons shortly after she’d rushed away from him—was waltzing with.
Now that he knew her identity, he wished rather fervently that he hadn’t mentioned the duchess. Hellfire, they probably knew each other. All of the upper peerage knew each other. At least he hadn’t been foolish enough to give a name.
Cale stood against the wall. He didn’t know how to dance. He’d never wanted to know until this moment. Absurdly, he imagined himself in the nob’s place, holding Elizabeth in his arms. But the man she danced with was refined, elegant; he had the looks of an aristocrat. Probably a lord.
But his nose was long. Too long to be called handsome, Cale thought with petty satisfaction.
The dance ended, and the man left Elizabeth by the refreshment table before leading someone else onto the dance floor. Cale watched as an older woman spoke to Elizabeth, her head bent low, her lips moving frantically.
Elizabeth nodded. When someone else caught the woman’s attention, Elizabeth drifted away.
Alone.
Finally.
…
Elizabeth strolled through the formal rooms until the music from the orchestra was but a faint melody. She stopped in front of a marble bust that decorated the hall. She thought it might be Caesar, but all
of the Roman emperors looked the same to her.
“Lady Thornhill.”
The voice sounded familiar. She turned.
Her jaw nearly unhinged as her mouth fell open, and she gazed upon the man she’d been trying to forget. He wore an elegant black tailcoat and cream waistcoat, appearing perfectly at ease in his surroundings. She clasped her hands together tightly. All she could think about was the warmth of his skin against her arm. The place where he had touched her tingled. If she looked down, she wondered if she would see the imprint of his fingers, visible for the whole world.
“Mr. Cameron,” she managed. “This is unexpected. I was not aware you were acquainted with Lord and Lady Fairchild.”
“I’m not. But I managed to secure an invitation with the help of one of my business connections.”
Suspicion flitted through her mind. “To what end?”
“Do you even need to ask, Elizabeth?”
A little thrill shot down her spine at the intimacy of her name so casually on his lips…along with a sense of foreboding. She knew she should reprimand him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“No, I suppose I don’t,” she admitted. “I should tell you, Mr. Cameron, I am not like your duchess. I do not engage in affairs, discreet or otherwise. You have wasted your time by seeking me out.”
“She wasn’t mine,” he said, as if that was the only part of her statement that mattered.
“Regardless,” she responded firmly, “I’m not interested in whatever it is you wish to offer.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “A walk?”
She stared at him; his eyes glittered in the shifting candlelight, appearing more gold than green. “A walk?” she echoed. “It’s nighttime.”
“But a warm night. A good time for a walk.”
“I cannot simply leave.”
“You’ve already left the ballroom. You can claim you had a headache and went outside for fresh air. And you can stop staring at me like that,” he added drily. “I won’t try anything untoward. You have my word as a gentleman.”
Her lips quirked.
“Fine. You have my word as a bookseller,” he amended.
She laughed. She glanced down the hallway, feeling restless.
Nothing could come from a friendship between them.
Nothing.
And yet, she wanted to walk with him. She wanted to escape the townhouse and the ballroom and her mother’s suffocating demands. A few minutes of freedom wouldn’t hurt anything. She could retrieve her bonnet; if they passed anyone, it would hide her face.
She looked at the marble floor. And back up. She trusted him. She barely knew him, but she trusted him. An odd thing. “Yes, I’ll walk with you.”
He grinned and held out his crooked arm. “My lady?”
…
“Did you love your husband?” was the first thing Cale asked Elizabeth as they stepped out into mild springtime air and followed the footpath that edged along the street in front of a row of townhouses. The path was illuminated by the hazy glow of gas lamps. Cale walked slowly, his long strides covering nearly two of hers.
“I see you haven’t learned the art of easing into a conversation,” she remarked.
His teeth flashed white in the dim light. She could smell him—a clean scent that reminded her of pine needles in the snow. The soap he used, perhaps?
“Never saw the point of it, really. Did you? Love him?”
No one had ever asked her before. In the ton, it wasn’t important if one loved one’s spouse. “No. But he was dashing, and I had no real experience with men, and he was my best offer. My parents wouldn’t have let me turn him down, anyway. But at the time I didn’t want to.”
“And after you were married?”
“He changed.” She laughed hollowly. “No, he didn’t change. He revealed who he truly was.”
Cale’s arm flexed with sudden tension. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“Physically, you mean? No. But he wasn’t very kind.” She hesitated. How could she open her private life to a stranger like this? But Cale didn’t feel like a stranger. And he was looking at her as if he wanted her to continue. As though he actually cared about how she felt. She forged ahead. “The longer I went without conceiving, the worse it became. He grew bitter. He asked me what use I was if I couldn’t even breed for him.”
“So he did hurt you,” Cale said in a low voice.
Her vision blurred for a second before she blinked back the tears. “I was relieved when he died,” she said, revealing the terrible secret she harbored deep in her heart. “I was relieved I hadn’t borne his children. I didn’t shed one single tear for him.” She took a steadying breath. “You must think me a horrible person.”
“No. He doesn’t sound like a man worth crying over.” He said it simply, matter-of-factly. He made it easy to believe she didn’t have anything to feel guilty about. “And he was a fool if he didn’t realize what he had.”
She cast a sidelong glance at Cale. “You have a way with flattery, Mr. Cameron.”
His gaze met hers. “Who were you dancing with before you left the ballroom?”
“The new Earl of Thornhill, my husband’s cousin.”
“I see.”
Her back stiffened. She turned to gaze in front of her. “I can already tell he’s much kinder than my husband. And I’m not young and foolish anymore.”
“Your parents would be in favor of the match, I assume.” The careful neutrality of his voice made her feel like she was being accused of something.
“Yes.”
“But what do you want?”
“I want to please my parents and further my sisters’ chances at good marriages,” she said. As an aristocratic daughter, her duty in life was to marry well. Useless desires didn’t signify; it was who she was.
“You never wish for something different?”
“Such as a bookseller?” she asked lightly.
She saw his smile in the dim light. “Contrary to common perception, booksellers are rather exciting people.”
“I have no doubt of it.” At least when it came to one very specific bookseller. She was sure she could walk with him until the sun crested the horizon without experiencing a second of boredom.
“You never told me what poets you like.”
She was startled he remembered. “Oh, I don’t know. You probably have much more knowledge on the topic.”
“But I want to know what you like,” he said, as though her opinion mattered to him. It was a heady, dangerous thing. Elizabeth had never felt her opinion mattered to anyone—not her parents, especially not her husband. It was something one could get used to all too easily.
“I like Shakespeare and Marlowe. I read…” She paused.
He was silent, waiting for her to continue. Another man might have leaped in to smooth over her lapse.
“Poems by John Keats. His first book of poetry, I think. Have you heard of him?”
“Yes. We have a copy at Cameron’s. What did you think?”
“I enjoyed it,” she admitted. “I know most people didn’t.”
He smiled at her. Another flash in the dark. “I liked it, as well. I heard he changed publishers after the release. I should have liked to have him.”
She glanced at him in surprise. “You didn’t tell me you were a publisher.”
“I bought a printing press, at any rate. I’ve only published a few things, but I’m hoping to expand. I’ll need to hire more people first, of course.”
“And add more to your banner,” she teased. “Do you think ‘Cameron’s Lending Library, Booksellers, and Publisher’ will fit?”
“I’ll have to buy a bigger one. Or just paint the name across the outer wall.” He glanced at her, and his strides slowed. Finally he stopped, turning toward her. Her hand slipped from his arm, but he caught it and held it. She felt disturbingly exposed. A shaft of light fell from a gas lamp onto her face, but his expression remained hidden in shadow. “I’m hosting a dinner
party next week, for some authors I hope to acquire, and the ones I’ve already published. You could attend, if you’d like.”
For a moment she couldn’t find her tongue. “People would think I was your…”
“Paramour?” he finished for her, his voice sounding wryly amused.
“Yes, your paramour,” she said. She was blushing like mad but hoped he couldn’t see it.
“These authors move in different circles than your acquaintances. I doubt anyone of import would find out you’d attended. But if you were worried, we wouldn’t have to say who you actually are.”
She studied him. “Why would you want me there?”
“Two reasons. First, I think you’re restless. I think you want something more than what you try to convince yourself of. I think you never would have agreed to walk with me if you didn’t.”
Her lips parted on a startled breath.
“The second reason? I want you in my bed.”
Her mouth went dry. “I already told you it won’t happen.”
“What was it like with your husband?”
Her cheeks burned. “You shouldn’t ask me that.”
“But I am asking you. Damnation, Elizabeth, you’re a grown woman. You’re an intelligent woman; you’re a desirable woman. It’s not wrong to acknowledge that you have sexual needs.”
She swallowed and shocked herself by answering. “It was pleasant, at first,” she bit out, almost challengingly. “But it soon became rather perfunctory. I viewed it as an obligation to get through as quickly as possible.”
“If your husband wasn’t dead I would strangle him,” Cale said in a mild tone, which was clearly deceptive. “So you think there is no pleasure in the act?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Perhaps for others. Not for me.”
“What about the first few times? Why was it better then?”
Her face and chest were on fire. She tugged her hand away from his, belatedly realizing it was still captured in his grasp. “It doesn’t signify. I simply wasn’t very good at it, and Charles lost interest in me.”
“He blamed you for that, too,” Cale said flatly. “Did you ever stop to think it was something he did or didn’t do that caused your encounters to be less than satisfactory?”