by Julia Quinn
And so would hers, Tillie thought giddily, provided he married her. Not that she wanted to trap him into matrimony, but still, it was impossible not to think of it, not to fantasize right here in the middle of the ball about standing beside him at the front of a church, all her friends behind her, listening as she spoke her vows.
“No one will see,” she said, pulling his arm as best as she could without attracting attention. “Besides, look, the party has moved out to the garden. We shan’t be the least bit alone.”
Peter followed her gaze toward the French doors. Sure enough, there were several couples milling about, enough so that no one’s reputation would suffer stain. “Very well,” he said, “if you insist.”
She smiled winningly. “Oh, I do.”
The night air was cool but welcome after the humid crush in the ballroom. Peter tried to keep them in full view of the doors, but Tillie kept tugging toward the shadows, and though he should have stood his ground and rooted her to the spot, he found he couldn’t.
She led, and he followed, and he knew it was wrong, but there was nothing he could make himself do about it.
“Do you really think someone stole the bracelet?” Tillie asked once they were leaning against the balustrade, staring out at the torchlit garden.
“I don’t want to talk about the bracelet.”
“Very well,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about Harry.”
He smiled. There was something in her tone that struck him as funny, and she must have heard it, too, because she was grinning at him.
“Have we anything left about which to converse?” she asked.
“The weather?”
She gave him a vaguely scolding expression.
“I know you don’t want to discuss politics or religion.”
“Quite,” she said pertly. “Not now, at any rate.”
“Very well, then,” he said. “It’s your turn to suggest a topic.”
“All right,” she said. “I’m game. Tell me about your wife.”
He choked on what had to be the largest speck of dust in creation. “My wife?” he echoed.
“The one you claim you’re looking for,” she explained. “You might as well tell me just what it is you’re seeking, since clearly I will have to aid you in the search.”
“Will you?”
“Indeed. You said I do nothing but make you appear a fortune hunter, and we’ve just spent the last thirty minutes in each other’s company, several of them in full view of the worst gossips in London. According to your arguments, I have set you back a full month.” She shrugged, although the motion was obscured by the soft blue wrap she’d pulled tightly around her shoulders. “It’s the very least I can do.”
He regarded her for a long moment, then lost his inner battle and gave in. “Very well. What do you want to know?”
She smiled with delight at her victory. “Is she intelligent?”
“Of course.”
“Very good answer, Mr. Thompson.”
He nodded graciously, wishing he was strong enough not to enjoy the moment. But there was no hope for him; he couldn’t resist her.
She tapped her index finger against her cheek as she pondered her questions. “Is she compassionate?” she asked.
“I would hope so.”
“Kind to animals and small children?”
“Kind to me,” he said, smiling lazily. “Isn’t that all that matters?”
She shot him a peevish expression and he chuckled, leaning a bit more heavily against the balustrade. A strange, sensual lethargy was stealing over him, and he was losing himself in the moment. They might have been guests at a grand London ball, but at that moment, nothing existed but Tillie and her teasing words.
“You may find,” Tillie said, glancing down her nose at him in a most superior fashion, “that if she is intelligent—and I do believe you stated that as a requirement?”
He nodded, graciously granting her the point.
“—that her kindness depends upon your own. Do unto others, and all that.”
“You may be assured,” he murmured, “that I will be very kind to my wife.”
“You will?” she whispered. And he realized that she was near. He didn’t know how it had happened, if it had been him or her, but the distance between them had been halved.
She was standing close, too close. He could see every freckle on her nose, catch every glint of the flickering torch-lights in her hair. The fiery tresses had been pulled back into an elegant chignon, but a few strands had pulled free of the coiffure and were curling around her face.
Her hair was curly, he realized. He’d not known that. It seemed inconceivable that he wouldn’t have known something so basic, but he’d never seen her thus. Her hair was always pulled back to perfection, every strand in its place.
Until now. And he couldn’t help but feel fanciful and think that somehow this was for him.
“What does she look like?”
“Who?” he asked distractedly, wondering what would happen if he tugged on one of those curls. It looked like a corkscrew, springy and soft.
“Your wife,” she replied, amusement making her voice like music.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I haven’t met her yet.”
“You haven’t?”
He shook his head. He was nearly beyond words.
“But what do you wish for?” Her voice was soft now, and she touched his sleeve with her index finger, ran it along the fabric of his coat from his elbow to his wrist. “Surely you carry some image in your mind.”
“Tillie,” he said hoarsely, looking about to see if anyone had seen. He had felt her touch through the fabric of his coat. There was no one left on the patio, but that did not mean that they would remain without interruption.
“Dark hair?” she murmured. “Light?”
“Tillie…”
“Red?”
And then he could take it no longer. He was a hero of the war, had fought and slain countless French soldiers, risked his life more than once to pull an injured compatriot from the line of fire, and yet he was not proof against this slip of a girl, with her melodious voice and flirtatious words. He had been pushed to his limit and had found no ramparts or walls, no last-ditch defense against his own desire.
He pulled her to him and then in a circle around him, moving until they were obscured by a pillar. “You shouldn’t push me, Tillie.”
“I can’t help it,” she said.
Neither could he. His lips found hers, and he kissed her.
He kissed her even though it would never be enough. He kissed her even though he could never have more.
And he kissed her to spoil her for all other men, to leave his mark so that when her father finally married her off to someone else, she’d have the memory of this, and it would haunt her to her dying day.
It was cruel and it was selfish, but he couldn’t help himself. Somewhere, deep within him, he knew that she was his, and it was a knife in his gut to know that his primitive awareness amounted to nothing in the world of the ton.
She sighed against his mouth, a soft mewling sound that moved through him like flame. “Tillie, Tillie,” he murmured, sliding his hands to the curve of her bottom. He cupped her, then pressed her against him, hard and tight, branding her through their clothing.
“Peter!” she gasped, but he silenced her with another kiss. She squirmed in his arms, her body responding to his onslaught. With every motion, her body rubbed against his, and his desire grew harder, hotter, more intense, until he was quite certain he would explode.
He should stop. He had to stop. And yet he couldn’t.
Somewhere within him, he knew that this might be his only chance, the one kiss he’d ever play across her lips. And he wasn’t ready to end it. Not yet, not until he’d had more. Not until she knew more of his touch.
“I want you,” he said, his voice husky with need. “Never doubt that, Tillie. I want you like I want water, like I want air. I want you more than
all that, and…”
His voice failed him. There were no words left. All he could do was look at her, stare deeply into her eyes and shudder when he saw the echo of his own desire. Her breath was passing over her lips in short gasps, and then she touched one finger to his lips and whispered, “What have you done?”
He felt his brows rise up in question.
“To me,” she clarified. “What have you done to me?”
He couldn’t answer. To do so would be to give voice to all of his frustrated dreams. “Tillie,” he managed to say, but that was all.
“Don’t tell me this shouldn’t have happened,” she whispered.
He didn’t. He couldn’t. He knew it was true, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret the kiss. He might later, when he was lying in bed, burning with unfulfilled need, but not now, not when she was so close, her scent on the wind, her heat pulling him near.
“Tillie,” he said again, since it seemed to be the only word his lips could form.
She opened her mouth to speak, but then they both heard the sound of someone else approaching, and they realized they were no longer alone on the patio. Peter’s protective instincts took over, and he pulled her farther behind the pillar, pressing one finger to his lips to signal for quiet.
It was Lord Easterly, he realized, arguing in hushed voices with his wife, whom, if Peter had the story correctly, he’d abandoned under mysterious circumstances some twelve years earlier. They were quite involved in their own drama, and Peter was optimistic that they would never notice they had company. He stepped back, trying to cloak himself more deeply in the shadows, but then—
“Ow!”
Tillie’s foot. Damn.
The viscount and viscountess turned sharply, their eyes widening when they realized they were not alone.
“Good evening,” Peter said gamely, since he seemed to have no other choice but to brazen it out.
“Er, fine weather,” Easterly said.
“Indeed,” Peter replied, at much the same time as Tillie’s chirpy, “Oh, yes!”
“Lady Mathilda,” Easterly’s wife said. She was a tall, blond woman, the sort who looked always elegant, but tonight she appeared nervous.
“Lady Easterly,” Tillie returned. “How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“Just fine, thank you. I was just, er, a little overheated.” Tillie waved her hand about as if to indicate the cool night air. “I thought a spot of fresh air might revive me.”
“Quite,” Lady Easterly said. “We felt the exact same way.”
Her husband grunted his agreement.
“Er, Easterly,” Peter said, finally sparing the two ladies their uncomfortable small talk, “I should warn you of something.”
Easterly inclined his head in question.
“Lady Neeley has been publicly accusing you of the theft.”
“What?” Lady Easterly demanded.
“Publicly?” Lord Easterly queried, cutting off any further exclamations from his wife.
Peter nodded curtly. “In no uncertain terms, I’m afraid.”
“Mr. Thompson defended you,” Tillie put in, her eyes alight. “He was magnificent.”
“Tillie,” Peter muttered, trying to get her to be quiet.
“Thank you for your defense,” Lord Easterly said, after a polite nod to Tillie. “I knew that she suspected me. She has made that much abundantly clear. But she had not yet gone so far as to accuse me publicly.”
“She has now,” Peter said grimly.
Beside him, Tillie nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said. She turned to Lady Easterly and added, “She’s rather horrid.”
Lady Easterly nodded in return. “I would never have accepted her invitation had I not heard so much about the chef.”
But her husband was clearly uninterested in the chef’s renown. “Thank you for the warning,” he said to Peter.
Peter acknowledged the thanks with a single nod, then said, “I must return Lady Mathilda to the party.”
“Perhaps my wife would be a better escort,” Lord Easterly said, and Peter realized that he was returning the favor. The Easterlys would never mention that they’d found Peter and Tillie quite alone, and furthermore, Lady Easterly’s impeccable reputation would ensure that Tillie was not the subject of scurrilous gossip.
“You are more than correct, my lord,” Peter said, pulling gently on Tillie’s arm and steering her toward Lady Easterly. “I will see you tomorrow,” he said to Tillie.
“Will you?” she asked, and he could see in her eyes that she wasn’t being coy.
“Yes,” he said, and much to his surprise, he realized he meant it.
Chapter 5
As there are no new developments to report in the Mystery of the Disappeared Bracelet, This Author must content herself with her more ordinary subject matter, namely the day-to-day foibles of the ton, as they proceed in their quest for wealth, prestige, and the perfect spouse.
Chief among This Author’s topics is Mr. Peter Thompson, who, as anyone with an observant eye will have noted, has been most assiduously courting Lady Mathilda Howard, only daughter of the Earl of Canby, for more than a week. The pair were quite inseparable at the Hargreaves’ Grand Ball, and in the week since, Mr. Thompson has been known to call upon Canby House nearly every single morning.
Such activities can only attract attention. Mr. Thompson is known to be a fortune hunter, although to his credit, it must be noted that until Lady Mathilda, his monetary aspirations had been modest and, by the standards of society, unworthy of reproach.
Lady Mathilda’s fortune, however, is quite a prize, and it has long been accepted by society that she would marry none less than an earl. Indeed, This Author has it on the highest authority that the betting book at White’s predicts that she will pledge her troth to the Duke of Ashbourne, who, as all know, is the last remaining eligible duke in Britain.
Poor Mr. Thompson.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 10 JUNE 1816
Poor Mr. Thompson, indeed.
Peter had spent the past week alternating between misery and bliss, his mood entirely dependent upon whether he was able to forget that Tillie was one of the richest people in Britain and he was, to be quite blunt about it, not.
Her parents had to know of his interest in her. He’d called at Canby House nearly every day since the Hargreaves ball, and neither had sought to dissuade him, but they also knew of his friendship with Harry. The Canbys would never turn away a friend of their son, and Lady Canby in particular seemed to enjoy his presence. She liked talking to him about Harry, hearing stories of his final days, especially when Peter told her how Harry could make anyone laugh, even while surrounded by the worst degradations of war.
In fact, Peter was quite certain that Lady Canby liked hearing about Harry so much that she would allow him to dangle hopelessly after Tillie, even though he was, as was patently obvious, a most unsuitable prospect for marriage.
Eventually the time would come when the Canbys sat him down and had a little chat, and Peter would be told in no uncertain terms that while he was an admirable, upstanding fellow, and certainly a fine friend for their son, it was quite another thing altogether to make a match with their daughter.
But that time had not yet arrived, and so Peter had decided to make the best of his situation and enjoy what time he was allowed. To that end, he and Tillie had arranged to meet this morning in Hyde Park. They were both avid riders, and as the day was sporting the first patch of sun in a week, they could not resist an outing.
The sentiment appeared to be shared by the rest of the ton. The park was a crush, with riders slowed to the most sedate of trots to avoid entanglements, and as Peter waited patiently for Tillie near the Serpentine, he idly watched the crowds, wondering if there were any other lovesick fools in their ranks.
Maybe. But probably none quite as lovesick—or as foolish—as he.
“Mr. Thompson! Mr. Thompson!”
He smiled at the
sound of Tillie’s voice. She was always careful not to address him by his given name in public, but when they were alone, and especially when he was stealing a kiss, he was always Peter.
He had never before given a thought to his parents’ choice of names, but since Tillie had taken to whispering it in the heat of passion, he had come to adore the sound of it, and he’d decided that Peter was a splendid choice, indeed.
He was surprised to see that Tillie was on foot, moving along the path with two servants, one male and one female, following.
Peter immediately dismounted. “Lady Mathilda,” he said with a formal nod. There were a great many people nearby, and it was difficult to tell who was within earshot. For all he knew, that wretched Lady Whistledown herself could be lurking behind a tree.
Tillie grimaced. “My mare is favoring a leg,” she explained. “I didn’t want to take her out. Do you mind if we walk? I brought my groom to tend to your horse.”
Peter handed the reins over as Tillie assured him, “John is very good with horses. Roscoe will be more than safe with him. And besides,” she added with a whisper, once they’d moved a few yards away from the servants, “he and my maid are quite sweet on each other. I was hoping they might be easily distracted.”
Peter turned to her with an amused smile. “Mathilda Howard, did you plan this?”
She drew back as if affronted, but her lips were twitching. “I wouldn’t dream of lying about my mare’s injury.”
He chuckled.
“She really was favoring a leg,” Tillie said.
“Right,” he said.
“She was!” she protested. “Truly. I merely decided to take advantage of the situation. You wouldn’t have wanted me to cancel our outing, would you?” She glanced over her shoulder, back at her maid and groom, who were standing side by side near a small cluster of trees, chattering happily.
“I don’t think they’ll notice if we disappear,” Tillie said, “provided we don’t go far.”
Peter quirked a brow. “Disappeared is disappeared. If we’re out of their sight, does it really matter how far we venture?”