Touch of a Lady

by Mia Marlowe

  Lady Bettendorf stood tapping her toe and making tsking noises. “Honestly, Lady Florence, we expected better of you. And so did His Grace.” She cast a gimlet eye at Lord Edmondstone. “The duke will be mightily disappointed in you, my lord. Mightily.”

  Florence wished he’d say something. Anything. Her nerves were stretched taut as a portrait canvas. Then he said the last thing she expected.

  “Lady Florence is without blame for this incident. I take full responsibility.”

  Florence’s gaze cut to him sharply. The voice didn’t belong to Edmondstone.

  “Sanders,” she whispered in disbelief.

  “If you ladies will excuse us for a moment, I believe Lady Florence and I have a matter of some importance to discuss,” Sanders said with a beautiful bow. He took control of the situation and, as adroitly as a blue heeler shepherding a stubborn flock of ewes, he steered the women back out of the parlour. “After all, as you will no doubt attest, provided you can summon the courage to disparage His Grace’s daughter, no further damage can be done if we are left alone for a few more minutes.”

  This earned him a few giggles from the younger members of the group and a raised brow from Lady Bettendorf. The veiled message was received. Even the scandalous truth about someone as wellborn as Florence was not something to be bandied about without fear of retribution. Rumors of this exploit were going to be held close to their collective bosoms. Sanders closed the door behind them with a loud snick of the latch.

  Then he turned back to face Florence, his confidence sagging a bit along with his shoulders. “Do you hate me?”

  She flew across the room and into his arms. “Hate you? Not for worlds.” She kissed his neck. “I wanted it to be you. Oh, if only you knew how desperately I wanted it.”

  He found her mouth and they wasted several of their precious stolen minutes kissing as if they hadn’t just swived each other to exhaustion. Finally, Florence pulled back, gulping air.

  “How did you arrange this?”

  “Simple,” Sanders said. “Tristan and I have been friends since we went off to Oxford together. That loathsome toad Sir Rupert came to me with word that Tris and his lady love were planning to meet here tonight and arrange to be caught to insure they had to wed. But if Rupert knew about it, chances were good that someone else might, too. So the plans had to change and I directed you to the parlour. It was an easy thing for Tristan and me to agree that I’d take his place here. He’s known how I feel about you for some time now and—”

  “And how is that exactly?”

  “You are the star in my heavens, the crème in my brûlée, the starch in my neck cloth—”

  She gave him a playful swat on the shoulder. “Now you’re just being silly.”

  “I do that sometimes, when I’m trying to keep people from realizing I’m being serious. It takes the sting out of rejection you see, and you did reject me, my lady,” Sanders said. “Several times.”

  She bit her lower lip. “I didn’t want to.”

  “Then I’ll never bring it up again, so long as you don’t reject me now.” His expression sobered and he dropped to one knee. “I love you, Florence. And I couldn’t bear to see you go to anyone else, not even my friend. So I tricked you. It was unconscionable, but I couldn’t help myself. Will you put me out of my misery and be my wife?”

  “After this evening, I haven’t much choice.”

  “That’s true. Society demands we wed. But if you say yes, I promise you’ll never regret not having a choice.”

  Florence knelt down beside him and bracketed his perfectly ordinary face in her hands. He loved her. Just her. Sanders’s soul was the most handsome in the world. “I don’t regret it already.”

  Chapter 12

  After the man pulled Delphinia through the open window, he propped her over his shoulder and carried her off like a sack of potatoes. “Hush, now,” her captor ordered as he strode toward a waiting coach. “Or you’ll bring the whole household down on us.”

  “Tristan?” she said, surprise nearly sucking all the breath from her lungs.

  “Who else?” Tristan threw open the coach’s door and shoved her through without ceremony. He climbed in after her and rapped on the ceiling to signal the driver that they were ready to depart. Once the coach rumbled forward, he pulled Del into his arms and kissed her soundly.

  She wanted to lose herself in his mouth, to dissolve into his embrace. She wanted to keep riding this coach to wherever they were bound and never return to the real world. But that wasn’t how things worked. Tristan had compromised the daughter of a duke. He would not be allowed to pretend it hadn’t happened.

  Delphinia pushed against his chest. “What are we doing running off like this? The duke will come after you and his wrath will be terrible.”

  “No, he won’t.” Even in the dim interior of the coach, Tristan’s smile was luminous. “His Grace will be far too upset with Sanders to worry about me abducting one of his house guests.”

  “Sanders? Why?”

  “Because he was the one who was discovered with Lady Florence in the second floor parlour by your friend Harmony and Lady Bettendorf this evening.” He took both her hands in his. “You see, our plans were found out somehow by Sir Rupert Digby.”

  “I might have known.”

  “Ah, yes, the bourrée that lasted a lifetime. That was my idea, I fear. We had to keep both you and Digby away from the parlour so Sanders convinced him that he was playing an important part in helping Lady Florence by dancing with you.”

  A frisson of anger sizzled through her. “So you let me believe everything was lost.”

  “I didn’t want to. There wasn’t time to tell you about the change in plans. Rupert didn’t approach Sanders with the information till the ball was well underway. I looked for you everywhere but I couldn’t find you.”

  The headache had made her absent herself from the ballroom at a crucial time.

  “Don’t be cross, Del,” he said. “Not when everything is turning out the way we hoped. Better than we hoped, actually.”

  “But I’m still a dowerless commoner. Won’t your family still resent your choice?”

  “After the duke has to deal with his daughter’s scandal, our running off to Gretna Green will seem perfectly correct by comparison.” He stroked her forearm and sent little thrills spilling over her skin. “Of course, we’ll be living on love, but I’m fully prepared to become skinny as a snake. A thoroughly happy skinny snake.”

  Delphinia smiled. She still had the good news about that vein of silver to share with him. Of course, he’d put her through torments this evening. It wouldn’t hurt him to stew about the family fortunes a bit longer. At least until after they said the words that would make them man and wife over an anvil in Scotland.

  “You never know. Life is full of surprises.” He’d certainly surprised her this evening. Since she ought to have had warning of it through her ‘gift of touch,’ that was an accomplishment. “Something may turn up where you least expect it.”

  He reached over and pulled her onto his lap. “You certainly turned up where I least expected you. I was all set to do my duty, but you and your ‘love-at-first-sight’ experiment changed all that.” Tristan nuzzled her neck. “Of course, Sanders says you’ve witched me.” He stopped kissing along her jawline long enough to give her earlobe a little nip. “Have you?”

  “Do you care if I have?”

  “Not a whit. I love you with my whole heart.” He raised his head and grinned down at her. “And now, if you’re not put off by a bouncing coach, I plan to love you with my whole body too.”

  “It’s a long way to Scotland.” Del kissed him deeply. “What else do we have to do?”

  THE END

  And now, a peek into the life of Delphinia and Tristan’s great-grandson, Griffin Titus Preston Nash, Lord Devonwood, the hero in

  TOUCH OF A SCOUNDREL

  London, 1860

  Chapter 2

  Lord Devonwood halted beside t
he hydrangea to take a longer look at the fetching young woman seated on the stone bench. It’s not every day a man finds a nymph in his garden before breakfast.

  His full given name was Griffin Titus Preston Nash, but no one had called him by anything but his title, or its diminutive “Devon” since his father had died. He’d even ceased to think of himself by any other name. However, the young woman in his garden was comely beyond the common. His blood quickened as if he were still young Griffin, as if he were not weighed down with the responsibilities of a vast estate and all the lives dependent upon him for every morsel in their mouths and each coin in their pockets.

  Women usually preened like peahens when presented to Devon since he was judged to be eminently “eligible” by the matrons of the ton. This lady was preoccupied with a sketchbook and completely unaware of his presence. He could indulge in looking his fill at her unassuming beauty without concern over whether someone would take note, calculate his interest, and hope to capitalize on it.

  A bachelor who wanted to remain in that happy state couldn’t be too careful.

  The lovely woman in his garden was an unexpected windfall of distraction from the pounding in his temples. Devon almost blessed the grinding headache that had made him decide to take a turn in the fresh morning air before he sought his bed. He’d expected to be soothed by the scent of sweet lavender, the drowsy hum of bees in the St. John’s Wort, and the patter of the fountain. The shaded alcoves of the garden behind his London town house eased his light-sensitive eyes. His quiet little Eden often relieved his suffering when he overused his “gift.”

  The alternative was turning to hard drink, which muddled his thinking, or opiates, which obliterated thought entirely. Devon was determined to resist those remedies as long as possible.

  Fortune had been kind through the long night of gambling at his club. While he frequently lost money in the stock market, a deck of cards never lied to him. His gift of touch allowed him to make up shortfalls in the estate’s balance sheet over a game of whist or poque.

  Devon moved further along the path and peered at the girl from behind the topiary. Instead of admiring the flora his gardener spent so much time pruning and fussing over, she focused on the statue of an inebriated Dionysus. Head bent, pointed pink tongue clamped between her teeth in concentration, she labored over her drawing.

  Ever since it had been noised about that Queen Victoria was a dab hand at sketches and water colors, every woman in England fancied herself an amateur artist.

  But that still didn’t explain the young lady’s presence in his garden.

  Devon moved around behind her, brushing past the roses to get a better angle from which to view her unobserved. A thorn nicked the back of his hand. He gave it a shake and brought it reflexively to his mouth to suck at the small wound while he eyed the supple line of the woman’s spine. Her spreading skirts emphasized a narrow waist.

  A single auburn curl had escaped her bonnet and trailed damply on her nape. Her tender skin appeared dewy and pink in the warm morning sun. He was surprised by the urge to plant a kiss on that spot, but tamped down the inclination at once.

  Not that Devon was a monk. He was simply careful not to involve himself with the sort of woman who looked as if she might require a trip to the parson should a man take liberties. With her buttoned-down collar and crisply starched sleeves, this woman seemed that sort, even though the tight bodice displayed a full bosom.

  But what man didn’t prefer taking liberties when he could?

  He moved closer so he could peer over her shoulder to see her artwork. She’d neatly captured Dionysus in every detail, even down to the arc of water spewing from the god’s flaccid member into the basin of the stone fountain. Judging from the accurate rendering on the page, the lady possessed more than passing talent with a pencil.

  And more than adequate understanding of male anatomy.

  “You’re blocking my light,” she said without looking up.

  Devon stepped aside so his shadow wouldn’t continue to darken her page. He was treated to a clear view of her delicate profile. The slight upturn of her nose pleased him. It meant that while she was spectacularly pretty, she wasn’t perfect.

  Perfection was boring. And often demanding.

  “The sketch doesn’t seem to have suffered for my intrusion,” he said. “You have an excellent drafting hand, if I may say so.”

  “You may.” Her lips curved upward in a satisfied, feline smile over his compliment. “No harm done. I’m nearly finished as it is.”

  No harm done? Did she expect an apology when she was the one trespassing in his garden? Her flat accent and brazen self-possession betrayed her as a Yank.

  “American, are you?”

  She flicked her gaze at him and rolled her large brown eyes at his grasp of the obvious. “Born and bred.”

  An Englishwoman would require a formal introduction before starting a conversation with a total stranger. Yanks were incredibly lax about that sort of thing. Devon settled beside her on the bench. It was his garden, after all, and his head still throbbed in time with the blood pounding through it. He ought not to stand on ceremony, especially when the lady didn’t seem to mind informality.

  “It’s not only the accent that gives you away, you know.”

  “Really?” Her attention was riveted back to the page, where she added some crosshatched shading to the god’s musculature. “What else makes you assume I’m an American?”

  English women of his acquaintance tended to have more angular features, even bordering on coltish. The apples of this lady’s cheeks were sweetly rounded, and she had that snub-nosed pertness so often found in those from across the Atlantic. With wide-set eyes, full lips, and a delicate chin, hers was a thoroughly charming, almost pixyish face, but he decided it wouldn’t be politic for him to say so.

  Women were unpredictable when it came to masculine opinions on their appearance. Honestly, why would his sister ask if a particular pattern in the fabric of a frock made her look plump unless she wanted an honest answer?

  Devon decided to settle for something safer.

  “Your choice of subject declares your nationality, for one thing. An English miss would sketch the tea roses, not a nude statue,” Devon explained as he studied her work. If the image was any guide, her knowledge of the male species was detailed and unflinchingly accurate. Perhaps he’d misjudged her on the basis of her severe wardrobe. This American miss might be entirely open to his taking a few liberties.

  She fixed him with a direct gaze, her widening pupils darkening her eyes to the color of rich coffee. The effect was hypnotic.

  A man might lose his way in those Stygian depths.

  “Choosing to draw flowers instead of this magnificent statue speaks volumes about the insipid nature of the English miss,” she said with conviction.

  Devon stifled a chuckle. Even though he agreed with her assessment, someone had to stand up for English womanhood. “And yet tea roses are highly regarded on this little isle.”

  “No doubt, but lovely as it may be, a tea rose does nothing to engage the emotions, has no intensity of feeling. There’s simply no potential for the drama necessary to true art.”

  “No? Suppose the flowers were presented to a lady who refused them and tossed them onto the garden path,” he suggested, not that he put much stock in anything as ephemeral as a feeling. “Wouldn’t that mean someone’s emotions were engaged?”

  “Point taken, but mere flora still can’t compare to the seething possibilities in that statue. I mean, just look at him.” She waved a slim hand toward Dionysus. An ink smudge and a slight callus marked the longest finger of her right hand. Evidently she was as well acquainted with a writing pen as a drawing pencil. “Dionysus is a study in contrasts, sublime and corrupt, physically strong and morally weak.”

  Not to mention that he was completely naked. “His state of undress doesn’t distress you?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of fitting him with a fig leaf,” she sai
d without a trace of heightened color in her cheeks. “The beauties of the human form are not the least prurient.”

  Devon smiled. A woman who wasn’t silly enough to be undone by the sight of a naked man. He’d lay odds she didn’t feel the need to call a piano leg a ‘limb’ either. She was a refreshing oddity. “Ah, but this Dionysus fellow isn’t meant to be human, you know.”

  “No, but the Olympians were simply humanity writ large,” she said, swiping at the deep auburn curl that had escaped her bonnet and fallen across her forehead. A few strands glinted copper amid the darker tresses. “Unless I’m mistaken, this statue is a replica of an ancient one, circa first century, judging from the attention to realism. It would be sacrilege to alter it. If the ancients had no compunction about portraying their deity in such a state, who are we to demur?”

  A replica? Devon had paid the earth for the damned thing. The gong of pain sounding in his head grew louder. “What makes you think it’s not an original?”

  She slanted a look at him. “The marble has been distressed to give the appearance of extreme age, but I’ll warrant it’s not more than two or three hundred years old. Don’t be dismayed. It’s an excellent copy. Quite subtle. No doubt it would fool most.”

  It had fooled him. “So you’re an expert in ancient art?”

  “Hardly, but I know one who is,” she said crisply, drawing her spine straight and lifting her chin. “My father is Dr. Montague Farnsworth, one of the world’s foremost Egyptologists, though his knowledge of Roman and Greek cultures is extensive as well. If I know something about those subjects, it is because I have the honor of assisting him in his work.”

  Devon had never heard of Dr. Farnsworth, but then, his interests didn’t lie in antiquities. He’d bought the statue to satisfy his mother’s whim to have a classically-themed garden. The countess had hoped for something like Lady Hepplewhite’s collection of marble dryads.