“I beg your pardon?” Ben cleared his throat. “To what are you referring?”
“The use of veal instead of beef in the roulade. Her Grace insisted it would make a difference.” A crease formed between the duke’s brows. “What else would I be talking about?”
“Nothing, Your Grace.” Ben felt like a fool as well as the lowliest form of life. “I misheard you. The roulade is superb.”
“I suppose that means my better half is right again,” Strathaven said with a mock sigh. “I hope it doesn’t go to her head.”
“I heard that,” Her Grace said clearly from the other end of the long table.
Strathaven raised his glass. “To my lady, whose hearing is as impeccable as her judgement.”
The guests laughed and joined in the toast to the Duchess of Strathaven, who blushed and rolled her eyes. Livy, Ben noticed, was smiling at the affectionate banter between her parents. He wondered what it would have been like to grow up with the security of a loving family. His own had maintained the appearance of harmony until the incident that had led to his sister Beatrice’s scarring. Then the familial façade of contentment had come tumbling down, and Ben’s pursuit of vengeance against the man who’d injured Bea had resulted in more tragedy and pain.
Ben knew better than to trust happiness. He was neither equipped for nor deserving of it. These days, his goals were to maintain his hard-won self-mastery and, if possible, to atone for some of his past sins. If he could achieve those two things, he would count himself content.
“What do you think of Sheffield?”
At Strathaven’s low-pitched query, Ben felt as if he’d suddenly been dropped into a jungle full of tar pits. He ventured forth warily. “In what sense?”
“In the sense of having him join my family.”
He is not good enough for Livy was Ben’s immediate thought. No one is.
He forced himself to say casually, “He is rather young, don’t you think?”
Strathaven shrugged, the gesture belied by the shrewd gaze he had trained upon the fellow in question. “Sheffield is four years older than Livy. His fortune is large, and he will inherit a marquessate.”
“But will he be a good husband to her?” Ben questioned in an undertone. “She is a rare sort of female, not cast from the usual mold.”
Strathaven gave him a wry look. “If by rare, you mean that she is as headstrong as they come, then I cannot disagree. She gets it from her mama.”
“Livy is a spirited girl who knows her own mind,” Ben replied. “Any fellow lucky enough to marry her should appreciate those fine qualities.”
He had better treat her like the queen that she is, he thought. Or he will answer to me.
Lines deepened on his host’s forehead. “You do not think Sheffield appreciates her?”
Seeing Sheffield sneak another peek at Livy’s bosom, Ben gritted his teeth.
“Sheffield is conventional,” he said flatly.
“Given Livy’s unorthodox ways, perhaps she would benefit from a strait-laced sort of husband. One who will keep her wilder impulses in check.” Strathaven sighed. “These are the concerns that keep a man awake at night. Take it from me, my friend: daughters are the antidote to sleep.”
If Strathaven knew of Ben’s improper thoughts about Livy, he might never sleep again.
Ben’s throat constricted. Bloody hell, he was behaving like a scoundrel. Strathaven and his lady had been good to Ben, welcoming him into their circle. Ben would not betray their friendship by sniffing after their daughter.
Most importantly, he could not hurt Livy. Even if he wasn’t twelve years her senior and didn’t have a past filthier than London’s streets, he had appetites that made him an unsuitable husband for any well-bred virgin.
“That is why I do not plan to have a family, Your Grace,” he said firmly. “I value my peace of mind.”
“Would you believe I once said the same thing?” Strathaven looked down the table at his wife, then at Livy and his sons, his smile rueful. “Yet I have learned that one’s sanity is a small price to pay for happiness.”
Entering the orangery, Ben told himself he was doing the right thing. What needed to be done to salvage his friendship with Livy. After supper, the ladies had departed to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars. During the feminine migration, Livy had furtively slipped him a note.
Meet me at our spot as soon as you are able.
He had waited a few minutes then made the usual excuse to leave the male group. He went to the conservatory at the back of the house. As he opened the door, the scent of blossoming citrus enveloped him, bringing back memories of the cozy hours he had spent here. The Strathavens entertained family and close friends in the elegant glass-walled room, and Ben counted himself fortunate to be included amongst them.
The conservatory had been an oasis and shelter from the turbulence of his life. A place where he did not have to explain himself or worry about the outside world. Here in the airy room lush with life, he had enjoyed simple pleasures like playing cards and anagrams with an adolescent Livy, their bantering as much fun as the game. Sometimes they did not speak at all. It was one of Livy’s many fine qualities that she was not prone to unnecessary chatter; their shared silence was as companionable as everything else they did together.
At present, the orangery no longer possessed that nostalgic innocence. Moonlight streamed through the glass, bathing all in a seductive, silvery glow. The foliage formed a fragrant maze, and as Ben followed the winding path, he felt as if he were venturing into the heart of man’s first garden.
Stick to your plan, he told himself. Mend fences with Livy. Then get the hell out of here.
He found her standing in an alcove formed by potted palms and lemon trees. With a glass wall framing the outdoor garden behind her, she looked like a princess lost in the woods. Her hair was a shining crown, her skin pearl-like in its luminosity, her figure petite and curvy perfection in her gown of light blue crepe. In the past, he never had trouble reading her, yet now, cloaked in starlight, she seemed as mysterious as womanhood itself.
“I am glad you came,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
The uncharacteristic tremor in her voice tightened his chest. He never wanted her to doubt his regard for her. The truth was he would do everything in his power to protect her…especially from himself.
He forced himself to say, “We should not be alone.”
“What utter claptrap.” Her voice regained its usual resolve, and she gave an impatient shake of her head. “We’ve been alone countless times in the past.”
“That was before…” He caught himself; referencing their kiss was a bad idea. “Things are different now. Back then, you were a child—”
“So you do agree that I am grown up,” she said doggedly.
“Devil take it.” He expelled a frustrated breath. “That is not the point.”
“It is entirely the point and why I needed to speak with you. We do not have long,” she said in a rush. “But Hadleigh, I did not want there to be any awkwardness or animosity between us. I…I have missed you.”
He had steeled himself to deal with her willful nature: the sweet yet stubborn essence of who Livy was. Yet he was wholly defenseless against the honest hurt glimmering in her eyes. He couldn’t stem the tenderness that welled inside him. The longing that he, too, felt for the easy closeness of their past.
“I have missed you too,” he said gruffly.
Hope lit her thickly lashed eyes. “You have?”
“You are my dear little friend.” Out of habit, he reached out and chucked her beneath the chin. It was the gesture of an older brother…or had been, at any rate. Now the silky glide of her skin against his finger caused a hot quickening in his blood, and there was nothing sister-like in her shiver of response.
He jerked his hand away. Fought for control.
Her gaze searched his. “Why can’t I be your friend and your petite amie?”
Her
voice had a sweetly pleading quality that tested his self-discipline. Feminine entreaty never failed to set off a dominant drumbeat in his blood. Coming from Livy, a spirited and willful creature, it was doubly alluring.
And doubly forbidden.
Are you mad? This is Livy, he berated himself. Get your mind out of the gutter.
“Last time, you said that I am too young and impetuous to know what I want,” she went on. “While I cannot deny our age difference, you know me. You cannot deny that I have always known my own mind.”
“Even clever misses can be fooled by an infatuation.” He strove for a brotherly tone. “Let it go, Livy. For the sake of our friendship.”
“It is not an infatuation. I love you,” she insisted.
Her words elicited a tingle of pleasure…which he quickly quelled.
“At your age, a lady changes her mind as frequently as she does her gloves,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. “Do not dismiss my feelings.”
“I am trying to spare your feelings, little one. To protect you.” He willed her to understand. “Livy, you deserve a better man than me. One whose honor is untarnished, whose life is not tainted by filth and darkness.”
His sins were too many to count, his hands stained with the blood of the people he’d destroyed. Redemption was beyond his reach, but through his work with Chen’s night watch, at least he was doing something good. The only area where he allowed his base nature to surface was tupping, and he always chose sophisticated partners whose carnal needs matched his own.
Livy knew nothing of this: the brutality of his past, the covert activities of his present, the depravity of his sexual tastes. She was pure and bright, and he wanted her to stay that way. To be the North Star that lit up his universe, whose shining beauty his darkness could never obscure.
“What if I do not wish to be protected?”
She tilted her chin up, and God help him, her defiance yanked at his dominant urges. That part of him that reveled in taming a lady…
“What if I want the same things that you do?” she persisted.
“You do not know what you want—”
“Dash it all! You do not get to tell me what I want.” She poked him in the chest with her index finger, her eyes flashing with challenge. “And if you will not give it to me, then I will find it elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere? What the bloody hell does that mean?”
Her lashes veiled her gaze an instant before she looked him straight in the eye. “Lord Sheffield finds me quite appealing.”
Did she think she could manipulate him? Goad him into jealousy?
Icy rage flooded Ben. For years, Arabella, an actual expert, had played him like a puppet. The idea that Livy thought she could pull on his strings with her transparent ploy made him want to laugh or snarl…he didn’t know which. Seeing that she was about to punctuate her childish threat with another poke to his chest, he captured her wrist in his hand. He backed her into the glass wall, caging her. Her awareness quivered in the sliver of air between them.
“Do not play games with me,” he said.
Arabella would have backed down at the quiet menace of his tone.
Livy, however? Her gaze sparkled with defiance.
“I am not afraid of you,” she retorted.
“You should be.”
“You are the one who is afraid.”
“And what, precisely, am I afraid of?”
“Of…of wanting me.” She wetted her lips, a provocative swipe. “As much as I want you.”
The chit wanted to play, did she?
He raised his free hand, trailing a fingertip down her throat, feeling her nervous swallow. He brushed the tiny crown before moving lower. Beneath his touch, her skin rose and fell in a silken wave. He stopped at the neckline of her gown, resting the tip of his finger on the fabric just above the crevice of her breasts.
Her eyes were glazed, her lips parting on uncontrolled breaths. Her fresh, girlish scent of peach blossoms was ripened with a woman’s sensual musk. He knew she was aroused. Knew that beneath her bodice her nipples would be stiff and aching, and in the secret cove between her thighs, she would be wet with virginal dew.
Aye, Lady Olivia McLeod had grown into a vixen who tested his restraint. She had transformed from his trusted little friend to a young woman whose innocence and boldness was an arrow headed straight for his Achilles’ heel.
She was temptation, and she was forbidden.
The recognition raged through him, yet he remained in control. As much as he craved dark games, he would never, ever allow himself to despoil his little queen. No matter how much he craved it.
“I do not play with little girls,” he said softly. “Nor do I tolerate manipulation. Try it again, Livy, and our friendship will come to an end.”
He released her. Saw the shock in her eyes and did not wait to see the pain.
Turning on his heel, he walked out.
8
Entering Lady Charlie’s Mayfair townhouse with her friends, Livy was unsurprised to find the antechamber as elegant and fashionable as its owner. The marble floors and rosewood paneling gleamed, the scent of lemon polish mingling with the perfume of roses. The man who had opened the door introduced himself as Hawker, and Livy assumed he was the butler, although his strapping build, eye patch, and rough-hewn features gave him a distinct resemblance to a pirate.
As the girls trailed Hawker to the drawing room, Fiona whispered, “Charlie has a rather unusual butler, doesn’t she?”
Livy thought everything about Charlie was uncommon, which was why the Willflowers were intrigued by her. Fiona was obsessed with the lady’s style, Glory with the promise of adventure, and Livy…
She stifled a sigh. I came because I need a distraction.
Two nights ago, Hadleigh had rejected her…again. She was stubborn, but she wasn’t stupid. He had made it abundantly clear that he was not interested in her—as a woman, at any rate. Perhaps he could only ever see her as a younger sister, she thought, the ache in her chest billowing. The wise course of action would be to cut her losses; if she persisted in trying to win his affections, she might end up losing him altogether. Where would she be then?
You have to move on, she told herself. If you love Hadleigh, then you must not destroy your friendship. You owe him your loyalty…even if he doesn’t want your heart.
She’d shed tears on the sympathetic shoulders of her friends. Fi had suggested taking a break from Hadleigh. Since it was the rare instance in Livy’s life when she did not know what else to do, she’d agreed. Allowing her mind to spin like the wheels of a stuck carriage was miring her deeper and deeper into despair. If she could not have her heart’s true desire, then she would focus on her second love: adventure.
The butler deposited the girls in the drawing room, a chamber papered in blue silk and furnished with warm woods and goldenrod velvet. Small niches throughout the room displayed alabaster statues of Greek goddesses. It was an ideal setting for their hostess, who glided over to meet them.
“Welcome, Willflowers.” Charlie greeted each girl warmly in turn. “I am delighted that you decided to join me today.”
“But not surprised,” Livy said.
Charlie smiled. “No, not surprised.”
Livy had the impression that her hostess was rarely caught off guard. Although Charlie looked every inch the society lady in her ivory walking dress embroidered with a pattern of flowering vines along the hem, pearl pins studding her honey-gold hair, there was a shrewdness to her grey gaze that hinted at experience beyond tea parties and balls.
“I hope you do not mind an informal luncheon.” Charlie waved toward the sideboard, where a petite woman dressed in a bombazine gown was arranging platters of meat, cheese, and fruit. “This is Mrs. Peabody. She keeps my house—and my life—running smoothly.”
The housekeeper dipped her knees in a curtsy. She had shiny brown hair wound in a thick coil at her nape and appeared to be of mixed race, perhaps with Asian ancest
ry.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Livy noted that Mrs. Peabody’s bun was anchored in place by two silver hair sticks. “What lovely and unusual hair ornaments.”
“Thank you, my lady.” The housekeeper’s golden gaze gleamed. “I find them quite handy.”
“That will be all for now, Mrs. Peabody,” Charlie said pleasantly. “I shall ring if we require anything else.”
Inclining her head, the housekeeper departed.
Livy cleared her throat. “We can only evade our chaperones for a limited time. As such, we would like to know the purpose of this visit. Specifically, what the Society of Angels is all about.”
“A woman who speaks her mind. I admire that.” Charlie gave a brisk nod. “Why don’t we sit and discuss my proposition?”
They arranged themselves around the coffee table, Charlie taking the wing chair in front of the tea service. While gracefully pouring the brew into Sèvres cups, she said, “My organization is an exclusive one. I am looking to expand it, and I believe the three of you fit the bill.”
“Why would you think that?” Glory asked. “You barely know us.”
Smiling, Charlie doctored the cups with sugar and cream before distributing them, and Livy felt her eyebrows rise. How did Charlie know the exact drink preference of each of the Willflowers? She had added a splash of cream to Fi’s cup and two lumps of sugar to Glory’s. When Livy sampled her own cup, the concoction was precisely how she liked it: deliciously creamy, with a sprinkle of sugar.
“I have gone to the liberty of doing some research.” Charlie sipped her tea. “I know that the three of you have been friends for years. You attended Mrs. Southbridge’s School for Young Ladies together, where you were first dubbed the ‘Willflowers’ by Lady Sally Sackville after an incident involving her and Miss Rachel Tomlinson.”
Livy blinked. The incident had happened years ago, and she didn’t think the gossip had travelled that far. How did Charlie know all this?
“Sally Sackville was picking on Rachel just because Rachel’s papa is in trade,” Glory said, her hands balling in her lap. “She and her friends made a cruel game of reducing Rachel to tears. When we asked Sally to stop, she told us to mind our own business.”
Olivia and the Masked Duke Page 7