Lillian took a deep breath, then she reached for her gloves. “Quite ready. Tell him I shall be with him in an instant.”
“Yes, my lady.” With a last worried look, the butler left.
Lillian stood. “Quite ready,” she whispered. “Quite, quite ready.” Then she straightened and walked out of the room.
~*~
Troy liked to spend the mornings at his club, which at that time of day was wonderfully quiet and almost deserted. He would lounge in one of the comfortable armchairs, just like a young buck new to town, and would smoke one expensive cheroot after the other until he felt quite dizzy with all the smoke.
Quite sick, in fact. Troy coughed and coughed until his eyes watered. Dear God, how long had he been sitting here, staring into empty space like a bacon-brained dimwit? Too long, surely, too—
“Ah, good, here you are.” Drake Bainbridge erupted into the room in a whirlwind of silver-gray dogflesh and excited barks. “Quiet, girls. Sit! Sit! Oh, never mind.” He strode forward, only to stop and be seized by a coughing fit. “By Gad, Troy, what are you planning? Turning this room into a smokehouse with you as the salmon?” He hurried to one of the tall, white-framed windows and fumbled with the latch.
“And a good morning to you, too,” Troy said dryly. “Where’s Justin?”
“Jus?” Drake finally managed to lift the latch. With a relieved sigh he flung the window open and thrust his head outside. “God, this is better.” After taking several audible gulps of air, he turned. “He had some business to attend to, Jus had.”
Troy lifted a brow. “Is this the reason why you’re up so early? I thought the two of you preferred a nice, long sleep-in.”
“Sleep-in?” His friend grinned, mischief making his eyes sparkle. “I like the sound of that.” Yet abruptly, his expression turned serious. “Really, Troy, what are you thinking of, whiling your time away and smoking yourself to death?”
At these words, irritation flared up in Troy. “Don’t lecture me,” he warned. “I don’t need this.”
“No, you need a good thump on your thick head, that’s what you need. And that’s what I told your wife. Yes, your wife—and don’t make such a grumpy face, it doesn’t become you.” Drake glowered at him. Mischief had fled from his eyes; instead, they now glittered with what looked like very real anger.
Troy reared back in his seat.
Whenever had he last seen Drake glowering?
“Have you seen that cousin of yours lately?” his friend asked in clipped tones.
“Alex?”
“Heavens, don’t be so dense! Of course, Alex. Have you got any other pea-brained cousin hidden in a closet somewhere or what?” The glower intensified. “Well, have you seen him?”
“Not since I’ve come to London, no.”
Drake rolled his eyes. “But you’ve heard that he has gained a certain reputation over the last few months, haven’t you?”
The old feeling of responsibility reared its head, making Troy spring readily to his cousin’s defense. “It surely must have been a shock for him. After all, he considered himself in love—”
“In love!” Drake snorted. “The only person Alexander Markham is damn well in love with is his bloody self! Good God, Troy, open your eyes to the facts: He’s known to gamble excessively, to drink excessively, to run through the filles of Covent Garden. A bit of a rough sport, is oh-so-wonderful, lovely Alexander Markham, Viscount Perrin.”
“He’s still young!” Troy protested.
Shaking his head, Drake came over and perched on the arm of the chair nearest to Troy. “He is older than you were when you went to war. Don’t you think it’s time he shows a bit of responsibility and maturity instead of sulking around like a spoilt brat? He bloody is a spoilt brat! Do you know that he runs around dragging your name through the mud? Claiming you’re a bit soft in the head, to put it nicely?”
Wearily, Troy rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Well… I…” He looked up. “Can’t you let this drop, Drake?” he pleaded.
For a moment, his friend’s expression softened. “I know you don’t feel like yourself these days. I cannot even start to imagine what you’ve been through, and I know all this is difficult for you. But, Troy, you cannot walk around wearing blinders for the rest of your life.” Drake’s face hardened once more. “Your precious cousin is an impertinent little sod, my boy, who’s trying his best to sully your name. Do you know that he called on your wife yesterday?”
“Yes. Finney told me.”
“Do you know that he’s been seen sporting a couple of nice, bloody scratches on his cheek?”
Troy sighed. “What are you getting at, Drake?”
“He did not have the scratches when he came to your house yesterday.”
“So?” Impatient and more than slightly irritated, Troy fidgeted on his seat. Really, he loved his friends, but sometimes they could be a real pain in the neck.
Drake leaned forward, gazing at him intently. “But he had the scratches when he left your house,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word.
Troy stilled. “What exactly do you want to say?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you, then?” Drake gave a long-suffering sigh. “Our precious, precious boy was apparently a bit peeved that his big cousin went and snatched his toy from underneath his nose. Especially since, back in spring, said toy gracefully declined the honor to become the possession of the wonderful Viscount Perrin.”
“What?” Troy’s heart constricted. “What do you mean?” he spluttered.
His friend raised his brows. “Are you acting this dim on purpose? What do you think I mean? He offered for her hand, of course—”
“He did not!”
“—and she declined.”
“The hell she did!”
“Shows her good taste, if you ask me.” Drake positively smirked.
Feeling as if he might burst at any moment, Troy jumped to his feet. “You stupid bastard, Drake! Alex did not offer for her. I prevented it, do you hear me? I prevented it!” he shouted.
“Dearie me.” Drake wiggled a finger in his ear. “Caught a sore spot, didn’t we?” But then the smirk vanished, and something like compassion showed in his eyes. “He offered for her, Troy. He must have offered for her before you did.”
“No!” Troy turned away from him, ran his fingers through his hair. “No, I cannot believe this. She would have—”
“Would she?” his friend interrupted gently. “Apparently she did not. It’s not something a fellow admits to easily, making a very generous offer, casting himself in the role of the knight in shining armor and all that, and being jilted. But since our precious boy here gets somewhat talkative when in his cups…” Drake raised his shoulders in an eloquent shrug.
Dazed, Troy fell back into his chair. “But I thought…” He shook his head. “Why did she not accept him?” Feeling suddenly utterly lost, he raised his eyes to Drake, who just shrugged once more.
“This, my friend, is something you should ask your wife. To come back to the matter at hand…” Drake squatted down so his face was level with Troy’s. “Fact is, your lovely cousin went into your house with his cheeks unblemished and went out of your house with a few bloody scratches. Ask Finney. Ask him about that rude attitude your cousin displayed toward your wife.”
“So…?”
“So, we believe that our chap Alex Markham accosted your wife. Thankfully, he got more on his plate than he could swallow. In a manner of speaking.” Drake’s smile was tight and unpleasant.
Troy digested this for a moment, until a new thought occurred to him. He frowned. “And how do you know all this?”
“Oh. I was wondering when you would catch up with that.” Drake stood, hands clasped behind his back. “According to your cousin, I’m having an affair with your wife.”
Troy’s mouth went slack. “You’re fibbing.”
“I’m afraid not, my friend. It’s all about town.” Looking at him expectantly, Drake bobbed up and down on his
feet.
Troy shook his head in a vain attempt to clear the haze that seemed to have befallen his brain. The world at large appeared to have turned into a madhouse. “And what do you suggest I should do now? Call you out?”
“I wouldn’t advise it, Troy, my boy,” Drake said, his usual cheerfulness returning with full force. “For one thing, if you so much as harm a single hair on my head, Jus would happily run you through with whatever pointy thing he comes across first.”
“Yes, let’s not forget Justin,” Troy muttered and started when his friend gave an unexpected laugh.
“He would, you know,” Drake said brightly. “Run you through.” He grinned. “Why don’t you just silence all these gossipmongers instead? Take your wife and go out, let them see you in public. Together.” He raised his brows in silent question.
“Charming.”
Drake chuckled. “I knew you’d like that. Here.” He took an envelope out of his breast pocket and threw it into Troy’s lap.
Troy cast a suspicious look at the piece of paper. “What’s that?”
“An invitation, of course.” Drake gave him his most charming smile. “To Lady Holland’s dinner party on Saturday.”
“Lady Holland?” Troy groaned. “You can’t be serious!”
“She squeezed you in at my special request, so don’t you dare to wriggle out of this!”
“But…” At a loss for words, Troy shook his head.
Drake’s lips twitched betrayingly. “Just look at it like this: If we have to attend one of these boring, boring dinner parties, we can at least go to the best London has to offer. And now…” He glanced around the room, obviously trying to locate his dogs. “I should bring the girls home. And don’t forget: We are counting on you.” With a wave and a smile and three bundles of joyfully quivering dogflesh, Lord Allenbright swept out of the room.
~*~
That evening, when Lillian by chance met her husband on the stairs, he said, “I have heard that my cousin called yesterday morning.”
“Yes.”
“I see.” Cornflower-blue eyes searched her face. It surprised her that he did not show any signs of anger.
“He will not come again,” she said.
“I have heard that he has turned worse for the drink.” Now his eyes scanned her body before they rose to her face once more. “Are you quite all right?”
Lillian smiled airily. “Is there not a saying, ‘right as a trivet’…”
“I see,” her husband said once more, and started to walk down the stairs. “I am glad,” he threw over his shoulder.
Lillian stared after him. She remembered how the skin of his back had gleamed in the candlelight. Now his jacket fit snugly, and she realized how much his shoulders and back had filled out in the last few months. What she now beheld was a man back in his full power.
“I am glad, too,” she whispered.
He halted at the foot of the stairs and turned. “By the way… we will be attending a dinner party on Saturday night. Just so you know.”
Lillian blinked. “Yes, my lord.”
He nodded and bowed. “Then I wish you a good evening, my lady.” One last time his blue eyes flashed up at her before he veered and slipped out of her sight. All that remained was a hint of sandalwood and oakmoss lingering in the air.
Chapter 13
The carriage rumbled along the road for quite some time, but it finally turned and passed beneath a high iron arch between two solemn stone pillars and open gates. Flickering torches showed the way up the avenue of elm trees, which stretched to form a natural dome of greenery, creating a false sense of countryside peace and quietness. In truth, the big gray beast—the city—was waiting just beyond.
Lillian would have liked to draw her velvet pelisse tighter around herself, but instead, she forced herself to remain sitting straight and unmoving. After all, her husband lounged in the opposite corner of the dim-lit coach, a dark, silent presence. In his formal evening wear he blended into the shadows until he seemed to become part of them; a creature of the darkness, of the night, unfathomable.
A shiver slithered down Lillian’s spine.
She concentrated on looking out of the carriage windows, on the glimpses of Holland House that the foliage now and then revealed. Dusk-darkened greenery framed the red-brick walls, cloisters and balconies. All the windows blazed with light, a cheerful, twinkling welcome.
Lillian did not feel cheerful.
She did not know why Ravenhurst had insisted on this outing. It worried her. A change in attitude, she had learned at high cost, did not necessarily bode well.
However, when the carriage came to a crunching halt on the gravel, she plastered a smile on her face. The door was opened; a footman in dark livery helped her out. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at the famed house, at the turrets and oriels, at the weathervanes high above. “The north wind doth blow,” she whispered and, once again, suppressed a shiver.
“Ho there!” The cheery call from behind snatched her out of her reveries. She started and turned around, just in time to see Justin de la Mere alighting from the Allenbright coach.
Lord Allenbright, already standing on the gravel, waved his gloves through the air in blithe disregard of social etiquette. “Hello, Troy, my boy. And Lady Ravenhurst.” He bowed, nearly losing his shiny black hat in the process. “Drat,” he muttered.
Mr. de la Mere tsked and pointedly wiped non-existent specks of dust from the sleeves of his coat.
Lillian felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. When she glanced at her husband to gauge his reaction, she was surprised to see his lips curl upward. All at once, the sternness vanished from his face, the hard lines around his mouth disappeared to make way for a boyish grin and mischievous twinkle in his eyes. The transformation was so startling, so breathtaking, that for a moment all Lillian could do was stand and stare, hardly able to believe her eyes.
Never before had she seen Ravenhurst smile, really smile; never before had she seen the burden of the past lifted off his shoulders, if only for a few moments. She let out her breath in a deep sigh. When she went toward her husband’s friends she did not have to fake the smile that bloomed on her face. “Lord Allenbright, Mr. de la Mere. A pleasure to meet you here.”
“Indeed, my lady, indeed. The pleasure is all ours.” Lord Allenbright beamed at her, his eyes all sparkling green. “May I offer you my arm up the stairs to the entrance? Troy, my boy, you might want to talk to Jus about that new pistol of his.” He fought with his gloves, trying to wriggle his fingers into them. Noisily exhaling, he looked up. “Do I have to wear these?”
Ravenhurst barked a laugh, a deep sound that rumbled in his broad chest, and slapped his friend’s shoulder. “And you accuse me of being a recluse? In all that Cornish wilderness you’ve grown into a perfect barbarian.”
“Civilization would be much better off without these ridiculous things. White silk gloves? Please!” Lord Allenbright rolled his eyes in a rather dramatic fashion.
A giggle escaped Lillian’s lips. Quickly, she tried to stifle the sound with her hand, yet Ravenhurst heard her nonetheless. Frowning, he turned and looked her up and down.
She felt a blush creeping into her cheeks, not used to such scrutiny.
“Ha!” Lord Allenbright exclaimed, triumphantly holding up his gloved hands and thereby diverting her husband’s attention. “I won!”
Mr. de la Mere only shook his head. “I blame it on all that Cornish brigand blood that runs through his veins.” Tolerant amusement laced his light drawl, and for a short moment his love for Drake Bainbridge lit up his eyes as he exchanged a look with his friend.
Ravenhurst cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose we should go, else our hostess shall assume we got lost in her Dutch gardens.”
De la Mere raised one perfectly trimmed brow. “And heaven forbid that Lady Bess’s wrath descend upon our heads.”
“We would get rapped with fans,” Lord Allenbright muttered darkly.
De la M
ere’s other brow shot up. “We will get rapped with fans anyway,” he complained. He made a sweeping movement with his hand. “Shall we?”
“Oh yes, yes. Let’s.” Lord Allenbright hurried toward the flight of stairs to the entrance of the house. Then he seemed to remember that earlier he had offered to escort Lillian inside, for he stopped and turned back. “My lady.” Gallantly, he held out one arm. “You wanted to talk to Jus about that pistol, didn’t you, Troy?”
Ravenhurst shrugged, amusement written on his face. “If you say so.” With a courteous wave of his hand, he let Lillian pass by to take Lord Allenbright’s arm.
They proceeded up the stairs, Lillian’s hand securely tucked into the crook of Allenbright’s arm. Behind them she heard de la Mere enthusing over his new pocket pistol—four barrels, two shots. “So small that it would fit nicely in your wife’s reticule,” he said.
Her husband’s voice was dry when he answered. “I do not think my wife is in need of a pocket pistol. Or any other weapon, come to that.”
Lillian gulped. The skin on the back of her neck tingled, and it seemed to her that she could feel his eyes burning into her. She recalled the feeling of the riding crop in her hand, the wooden handle slick with sweat, the scents of an overgrown garden…
Her steps faltered.
“Are you all right, my lady?” Lord Allenbright inquired worriedly.
“I am fine,” she murmured. “Just fine.”
The front door was opened wide, and a butler in stately black greeted them. “Good evening, my lady, my lords.”
A round-faced, middle-aged man peered around his shoulder. “Whom have we here?” His lips shone like the skin of a polished red apple. “Lord Allenbright!” His shaggy black brows lifted in recognition. “Good evening, good evening.”
Allenbright bowed. “Lord Holland, may I introduce Lady Ravenhurst.”
The clear, intelligent eyes fastened on Lillian. “Delighted, my lady.” He bowed.
Lillian curtsied. “Thank you for the invitation, my lord.”
Yet he waved all thanks aside. “Oh, do not thank me. It is my wife who is mistress of our guest lists. Or rather, John and my wife.” He winked. “She worries that should she give me free rein, I would go and invite everybody I meet in the course of the day.”
The Lily Brand Page 17