Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Deb Marlowe

  She stopped abruptly, causing her mare to nose her with impatience. She ignored the animal in favor of fixing him with a piercing stare. “Safer?”

  Brodham cursed his own stupidity. The last thing he wished was to prod her into asking questions he’d no wish to answer.

  “Safe?” she asked again. “I don’t think that’s what Mr. Gardiner is thinking when he gazes at Felicity like she’s descended from the heavens on angel’s wings.” She frowned—and shocked him by taking the conversation in an entirely different direction.

  “Is that what you’ll be looking for in a bride, Lord Brodham? Someone safe?” This time she surged forward, leaving him behind and following the path into a copse of trees without waiting for his answer.

  An unexpected turn—and here he’d thought that questions about Peter were the last thing he wished to entertain. Once more Liberty Baylis proved him wrong. He was beginning to tire of it—but not of her.

  And therein lay another problem.

  He didn’t want to follow her down that particular conversational path. Yet it was safer than allowing her to think too hard about what he’d inadvertently hinted at.

  With a sigh he entered the shaded spot. Squinting, he found her waiting as her mare investigated the undergrowth. The smile on her face looked forced and unconvincing. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she looked disturbed.

  He knew a moment’s satisfaction—and that disturbed him.

  “You mock me,” he said slowly. “And perhaps safe is the wrong word. But it would be easier for you to understand if you knew the turmoil I’ve dealt with over the years.”

  “Turmoil?” She sounded skeptical.

  “Yes. I’m afraid it became my specialty. In my work I’ve been thrust into one uproar after another—and always been expected to ease it, erase it, or convince the world it never happened.” He shrugged. “It’s exhausting, really. Disheartening. It skews a man’s vision of the world and of mankind in general.” He worried that she was too young to understand, and struggled to find the right words. “I’ve had more than my fair share of excitement, Miss Baylis—and I’ve no wish for more. So if I look for someone a little . . .”

  “Safe?” she snapped. “It sounds like just another word for dull.”

  He shook his head and stepped closer. His well-trained gelding followed—and suddenly he and Liberty Baylis were too close—both dappled by sunshine sifting through the leaves above and boxed in by their two browsing mounts.

  She stared up at him, insolent and bold, and all thoughts of Peter, of his past, of some imagined future viscountess, disappeared. All the sizzling tension that had existed between them in that dance erupted again—growing, expanding to fill their small hideaway. The ton, their battle, the world outside, they all ceased to exist. There was only Liberty and her pink lips and her challenging gaze and her tempting curves—

  And he leaned in to kiss her defiant mouth. Or perhaps he threw himself over a metaphorical cliff. The soaring fall was surely the same. But instead of rocky crags he met sweet lips, soft curves and warm response.

  The impact was just as deadly. She wrapped him in jasmine and the press of her arms. It wasn’t enough. He pulled her closer and she came willingly, her body arching, her mouth giving way, her tongue dancing with his.

  He dived further, drank deeper, demanded more—and she gave it. This. Defiant smiles and raised brows and hot, eager kisses. Somehow he’d been waiting for this, since . . . forever. It was hot and wet and giving and perfect and his body wanted more. More. More. His hands roamed lower, over her back, pulling her tight. Her breasts moved against his chest and he moaned at the sheer rightness of it.

  Lower still, his hands ventured, past the curve of her back and to the swell of her bottom, luscious beneath the light wool of her gown. He pressed closer and she hit him just there, at the perfect juncture—

  And his gelding snuffed at the pocket where he carried carrots, apples, and other occasional equine treats.

  The crackling bubble burst. It all came swooping back. Where they were. What they were doing. What might happen, were they discovered. Hell and damnation. He never lost his hold on himself this way. Never.

  She sensed his withdrawal and pulled away. Not upset. Saucy. She raised a brow at him. “Was safe the word you really meant to use, Lord Brodham?”

  Oh, God. She would challenge him now? She expected him to go back to talking? His blood was running high and his mind was befuddled. He could scarcely recall what they’d been arguing about.

  “Well?” She was relentless.

  He nodded. “Yes.” It was all he could do not to reach for her again. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, instead. “I mean . . . No.” Damnation. He didn’t want to bandy words. He wanted to sear her with his kiss again. “Not safe.” He wanted to taste the magic of her response.

  She stared. Waiting. Expectant.

  He settled his hand into the curve of her waist. “Perhaps I meant . . . comfortable.”

  Her eyes widened. Her breath caught—and his heart sank.

  Damn it all. He couldn’t find his way back to his usual reliable, remote distance. He couldn’t think, let alone come up with the right response to an unanswerable question.

  She was already moving away, edging her mare forward until she had room to mount. “Well. I wish you the best of luck in your search for a safe and comfortable lady, my lord.”

  In a flurry of movement, she was up and bending about to settle her skirts. “In the meantime, I hope you’ll yield the battlefield and leave Mr. Gardiner and Miss Carmichael to find their own way forward?”

  “Miss Baylis—”

  But with a lifted chin and a scornful glance, she was gone—beyond the copse and out of sight.

  He stood there where she’d left him for several long moments.

  What now?

  By God, he should just wash his hands of the entire mess. Go on to Cateswood alone.

  But was he finished with that pair of young lovebirds? Should he be? He was beginning to think that Liberty was right—he was coddling Peter, but not in the way she’d meant. Maybe they were both tired of being careful. Maybe Peter deserved to fight for his love. Perhaps his nephew’s relationship with Miss Carmichael would be made the stronger for a bit more struggle.

  And perhaps he wasn’t quite done with Liberty Baylis.

  Yield the field to her? Oh, no.

  Leave her behind? Let her finish her stay in London and head home without another word, without another luscious, tempting, dangerous encounter?

  His entire being revolted.

  More important, he felt the overwhelming need to prove himself. To know that he could withstand the unconscious, irresistible pull she exerted over him. Maybe he should throw himself against her unfailing appeal—and show himself in control enough to walk away unharmed.

  So he did what he’d sworn never to do again. He put his skill set to work and began to scheme. Busily weighing one plot against another, he took up the reins and led the gelding from the shaded spot and back towards the north edge of the Park. By the time he’d reached the Cumberland gate, he had a plan.

  He mounted up and set out for Islington.

  From the depths of the fashionable crowd, Felicity Carmichael watched him go. She cast a glance over her shoulder at Peter and he obediently nudged forward until he was abreast with her seat in the carriage.

  “God’s teeth, my love, it’s a damned, dull job, allowing you to be the toast of the ton.”

  She laughed. “I know—and I am sorry. But I do think it will ease Mother’s objections to the match when I tell her I might have had my pick of London gentlemen.”

  He leaned on his pommel and smiled at her. “It will only be the truth.”

  “As long as it eases the sting of my rejection of Mr. Bridlaw.” She paused and cast a significant eye toward the gate. “Did you see?”

  “Indeed. Into that shaded grove together, but out separately. And Simon was looking rather grim as he l
eft, wasn’t he?” He raised his brows. “I suppose I will not tell him that we’ve found his maneuvering to be something of a blessing, then, eh?”

  “Perhaps you should not,” she agreed. Her gaze grew thoughtful. “Perhaps we should do him a favor, instead? I believe I know just the thing.”

  Chapter Six

  Hestia Wright was stunningly beautiful.

  Liberty knew this already, having met the infamous woman the first time Jane brought her to Half Moon House. But now Liberty was back, and at Hestia’s special invitation. She and Jane were settled into her cozy, private sitting room and subject to the full effect of her ethereal beauty.

  Liberty accepted a dish of tea and tried not to feel intimidated. No mean feat. She’d thought Felicity Carmichael an angelic beauty. The sweet girl possessed all the fresh, innocent prettiness of a cherub.

  Hestia Wright was an angel of another sort. Her looks, the grace with which she moved, the elegant turn of her limbs, her sheer, overwhelming presence—it all leant her an otherworldly mien—but it was her eyes that made all the difference. No question of innocence there. Out of fathomless blue looked an old soul—someone who had seen both heaven and hell—and experienced everything in between.

  Liberty shifted her gaze, looking away. The parlor, a study in understated elegance, suited their hostess. She felt at once both welcome and on edge—and more than a little grateful to be distracted from the irritation that had occupied her for the last few days.

  Irritation brought on, of course, by Lord Brodham and his latest maneuverings . . .

  “Miss Baylis?”

  Liberty started, realizing she’d begun to drift again. “Oh! Yes?”

  “I’m so glad that you accepted my invitation. Jane speaks very highly of you, and there are few higher recommendations, in my book.”

  “Thank you, but her kind words cannot compare to the praise that she earns every day.” Liberty glanced fondly at her friend. “Even in my short time here, I’ve learned how difficult it can be to be universally admired in London Society. Jane may the one person who’s managed it, but she’s certainly earned it.”

  “I agree completely, and the subject provides an admirable entrance to the reason I asked you here today. I hope you won’t mind if I broach it right away?”

  “Please do.”

  “It’s come to my attention that your mother means to set herself up as a patroness of the arts when you return home.”

  “She does, indeed.”

  “An admirable goal. Is it true that she hopes to establish a museum?”

  “It is true.” Liberty set down her cup. “Perhaps it sounds unorthodox to an English ear—”

  “Not at all,” Hestia interrupted smoothly. “I find it inspiring, in fact. I’m particularly fond of museums. But I do also have a particular reason for asking.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve not had the pleasure of an introduction to your mother, but I’ve heard that she is a charming and intelligent woman. I understand she’s convinced some of our collectors to donate objets d’art and other curiosities to help her begin.”

  “She has. Even the directors of the British Museum have searched their sheds for items she might have.”

  “She must be persuasive indeed. I am intrigued. I can also imagine that it is a bit overwhelming, maintaining the social schedule she needs to follow in order to meet the right people—and also beginning to organize her acquisitions.”

  She laughed. “So far her organization has consisted of filling an extra room in the town house.”

  “I’m not surprised. It is a large and complicated undertaking. I thought she might require an assistant. A secretary, perhaps, to see to cataloguing her donations and preparing them for shipment.”

  Liberty blinked. “That’s a wonderful idea.” Her mouth quirked. “I assume you have someone in mind?”

  A conspiratorial grin lit Hestia up. “As a matter of fact, I do. A woman of my acquaintance possesses a brilliant mind for mathematics and a gift for planning and order. I cannot imagine anyone better suited for such a job.” She hesitated. “There is one thing . . .”

  “A checkered past?” It seemed the obvious conclusion.

  “That is the polite way to phrase it, yes,” answered Hestia wryly. “Do you think your mother would consider the idea—despite such a hindrance?”

  She gave the matter serious thought. “I do. She questioned Jane closely about her work here and did not forbid me from returning. But perhaps we should think further ahead,” she mused. “Would your friend object to a longer lasting position? Perhaps even a new start to her life? A new name or even a relocation? I can see Mama becoming quickly used to such help. I know she would like a partner as she works to make her vision come to life at home.”

  Hestia regarded her with pleasure and relief. “I knew I liked this one, Jane. Yes, Miss Baylis. That was exactly what I was hoping for.”

  “If your friend was amenable, she could be introduced to our household with a new personae and she could return with us when it’s time. In America there would be no danger of someone exposing her transformation. And a new identity reduces the risk of scandal attaching to Mama while we are still here.”

  “A very sound plan. You will broach it with your mother?”

  “I will—and I suspect she will be glad to go along with it. Do you have your friend’s direction? Mama will likely wish to write to her and invite her to an interview.”

  “In my office.” Hestia stood. “I’ll write you out a copy.”

  After she’d gone, Liberty got to her feet as well. “I’m sorry, Jane. I must move about a little.” She was happy enough to help Hestia and her mother, but her own problems loomed large. She crossed the room to examine a small landscape, a lovely historical landscape in the Baroque tradition. But not even the niggling idea that it was quite a valuable original could hold her attention. She moved to the window next, and stared out, unseeing.

  Jane watched steadily. “Are you going to tell me what is wrong? Or should I ask instead—what he’s done?”

  “Is it so obvious?” She glanced over her shoulder.

  “Ah, so that’s it.” Hestia had returned, a folded paper in hand. “It is obvious that you are distracted.” She took her seat. “Come, sit. Tell me who the gentleman is, and what he’s done.”

  “There is no gentleman,” Liberty declared, folding her arms in front of her. “There is only my opponent.”

  Jane quickly sketched in the details for Hestia.

  The older woman raised a brow when she’d finished. “I like you, Miss Liberty Baylis, and I like you more upon further acquaintance. That doesn’t happen often, I promise you.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps you will help me plot, then.”

  “I’d be glad to. Safe and comfortable, he said? After kissing you? Clearly the man is deluded.”

  “Worse, he’s conniving. He’s interfered again, the lummox. I know he has. Felicity came to me directly. Her aunt has curtailed their social activities, forbidding them any but a few small gatherings. And she’s asked Felicity not to dance at all. For her mother’s benefit, she says, but the servants told the girl that Brodham visited her aunt and spent an afternoon closeted with her.” She abandoned the window to move across the room again. “The bounder!” she exclaimed on an exasperated breath.

  “Hmmm.” Hestia sat a moment. “I have not met the young man—Mr. Gardiner. But I did know his father before his unfortunate death. It does seem as if Lord Brodham would do better to encourage the young couple to spend more time together, not less.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Liberty.

  Hestia hesitated. “Only that you might think to schedule an outing outside of the usual social milieu.”

  “Oh, but we already have! Jane has convinced her friend Lord Ashburn to host a picnic at his house in Richmond.”

  “Exactly the thing. His mother’s gardens are legendary.” Hestia paused. “And is it not rumored that she has a very fine hedge m
aze?”

  “She does, indeed.” Liberty grinned. “Who knows what might happen in such a spot?”

  “Well, if your Mr. Gardiner is clever, he should have ample opportunity to declare himself.”

  “That is the hope.” She sighed. “And then I will have beaten Lord Brodham at last.”

  “Are you sure you want to beat him, my dear? Conquering him is something altogether different.”

  “No, I’m not sure.” Liberty sat again, suddenly glum. “Not at all. But I’m not to have the chance to find out, either. He wants a lady who is safe and comfortable—and I am about as far from either of those as you can get.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Jane.

  Hestia merely smiled. “Most men have no idea what they want, dear Miss Baylis, until a woman shows him.”

  She sighed. “He’s such a dense block of glorious and stubborn male—I’m afraid it will take a good deal of effort and more time than I have to conquer him.”

  “There must be something we can do,” said Jane.

  Liberty narrowed her eyes. “Yes, there is. I know how the English see me, you understand. I am a bit too loud and a deal too brash—but I am also determined. Perhaps I will not get the chance to conquer the viscount. But I vow to you both, here and now—I will be dead certain that he’ll not soon forget me.”

  Things were not going exactly as Brodham had planned.

  For one, Peter was avoiding him. They were living in the same house, for God’s sake, but they’d barely exchanged passing greetings in the hall. His nephew was scarcely home at all. He knew he wasn’t out wooing Miss Carmichael, for the girl’s social activities had been drastically cut.

  He’d expected that. The unforeseen result, however, was that Miss Baylis had reduced her social schedule as well. God’s teeth, would she ever cease to surprise him? He’d thought he’d see her about. That she would have the chance to rail prettily against him. That he would have the chance to best her, to watch her color rise and her bosom lift and her countenance sparkle as she plotted and fought against him.