by Stacy Reid
He smiled, indulgently, and she sighed at the hollow feeling that rose inside. This was how her last two courtships had unfolded. She had been placed inside a box, where every natural passion and seemingly normal topic of conversations had been suppressed because it was ostensibly unladylike, and she had allowed it. The vicar’s constant disparaging words had been wearying. Lily didn’t believe all men were that awful, but most did believe that women were to always be proper and that any hint of passion from those gently bred souls indicated a weak and lustful character such as those of loose, immoral leanings possessed.
Mr. Crauford clearly possessed the same sanctimonious attitude. She wasn’t certain how to extricate herself from the situation without dissolving into unladylike behavior. No more. She was five and twenty, not a wilting flower. “Mr. Crauford…I believe I will continue alone from here.”
“No, my dear, there is something I wish to speak of you with,” he said with all the importance of a puffed peacock. “I’d thought to take the opportunity while we strolled.”
She glanced back, gratified to see the marquess too far back on the beaten path to overhear their conversation. “I truly cannot imagine you have anything to say that I would wish to hear, Mr. Crauford.”
His eyes widened. “I do beg your pardon. I believe I misheard.”
She shook her head decisively. “I assure you, sir, you did not.”
He halted, staring at her as if he had never seen her before. “You have no notion of what I wish to say.”
Lily waited with patience she did not feel. Curse this need to always be careful with another’s tender feelings. She knew only too well how easy it was to feel injured from a cutting and dismissive tongue. “Forgive me. You are correct.”
He nodded, evidently pleased. “I would like to make an offer to your father for your hand in marriage.”
She jerked, quite shocked at his pronouncement. “Sir…I…we do not know each other.” She had truly thought he would suggest courtship.
“I need a wife, and I’ve decided you will do. I understand you do not have a dowry, and I am willing to overlook that and your family’s lack of connections. I understand there is a second cousin who is a baronet? Lady Ambrose speaks very favorably of you and your family.”
“I am thankful for her ladyship’s kind sentiments. But I am not interested in remarrying at this time, and even if I were, I would not consent to marry a man who clearly believes it unimportant to get to know the manner of the woman he would take to be his wife. Your cavalier attitude to such a sacred union tells me you do not care about my likes or desires, sir.”
For several moments tension crackled in the air. Mr. Crauford drew himself up, ire blasting from his eyes. “Lady Ambrose led me to believe it would be beneficial to marry a woman like you. I can see she was decidedly mistaken. You are too bold with your tongue, which informs me of your clear lack of breeding and of ladylike qualities.”
He spun around and froze. Lily glanced back and bit off her cry of dismay. The marquess was right there, and from his cool, watchful gaze, she surmised he had overheard. A mortified flush climbed up her neck.
“A gentleman should never act like a dishonorable buffoon if he is rejected. You bow away with grace,” Lord Ambrose clipped icily. “You will apologize to Mrs. Layton.”
Mr. Crauford’s face went mottled, but he turned to her. “I sincerely apologize, Mrs. Layton.”
She nodded, and after a stiff bow in both her and the marquess’s direction, Mr. Crauford stormed back toward the manor.
“Thank you,” she said, thoroughly shocked he had defended her.
“Think nothing of it. He was unforgivably rude.” He looked off into the distance before shifting his piercing regard to her. “If you would allow me to continue as your escort?”
Her eyes widened. “My lord, that is not necessary.”
“I do not mind. I was riding to clear my head of thoughts that had been haunting me. Walking with you will do the same, perhaps even more pleasantly.”
“I’d planned to venture into the village. If we cut across the field down there,” she said, pointing to the track behind the large willow trees, “we would be there in a matter of fifteen minutes.”
His head canted left as he considered her.
“It would be my pleasure to escort you, Mrs. Layton,” he said.
“Lily,” she said, surprising them both. “Please, call me Lily.”
“And you must call me Oliver.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
The charming rogue smiled. “Oliver.”
She dipped her head in acquiescence, a grin tugging at her lips. They sauntered toward the village in companionable silence. She was so aware of him her skin felt sensitive, and she was striving hard not to show how nervous she was to be alone with him.
Is it you? Were you inside my body last night, making me wicked with want? The words begged to tumble from her lips, but Lily remained silent. She was silly in her musings; a man of his stature would never make love with a stranger, a woman who for all he knew could be a chambermaid in a secret passageway.
When they came upon a log, he held her elbow and assisted her over, and then resumed, clasping his hands behind him as they continued. Every time she snuck a peek at him, he seemed to be enjoying the peace of their jaunt as much as she was.
They made it to the village without incident but garnered a few curious glances from the villagers. The baker, Mrs. Burke, waved, and Lily returned her greeting. This happened several times before they made it to the small haberdashers at the end of the road. He opened the door for her, and she offered him a quick smile of thanks for his graciousness.
At the threshold, she paused. “I cannot thank you enough for your amiable company, my lord.”
“That sounded as if you are about to dismiss me,” he drawled, humor dancing in his beautiful eyes.
“I would never be so rude! I simply thought you would like a reprieve. I do have several shops to visit.”
“Then lead the way, Lily.”
Her heart lurched at the sensual way his voice stroked her name. Lily flushed and hurried into the shop before she said or did something unforgivable.
Chapter Five
Almost two hours after his first encounter with Mrs. Layton—no, Lily, Oliver reminded himself—he was still by her side and content to remain there. He had woken up with the need to spend the day with his guests to see if he could unearth any clues to his lover’s identity. Breakfast had been a farce, and a peculiar worry had slithered through him. Of the dozen ladies that had been present, none had pulled at him. It was insupportable any present could have been the woman in the secret passageway. Oliver had then decided to take a long ride to clear his head and had been quite pleased to encounter the alluring Mrs. Lily Layton.
She was different from the ladies at breakfast, in a manner that seemed elusive. Her cultured tones spoke of a fine education, her manners were exemplary, ladylike most certainty, but she seemed sturdier. And he did not refer to her mouthwateringly sensual curves. Her grace as she dealt with Mr. Crauford’s sanctimonious attitude was admirable and hinted of a backbone. It was entirely strange that Oliver liked her warm company so much.
He’d ignored her puzzled mien as he escorted her from shop to shop, as she bought lengths of calico and laces, some meat pies, knitted stockings for her father, a shawl for her mother, and fruit cake for her nieces. She was too polite to ask why he was accompanying her, perhaps, and she had been scandalized and amused when he took up and carried her basket of assorted goods for her family, who resided nearby. He’d learned her family was made up of her parents and her sister’s family, which was comprised of two darling children and an astonishingly wonderful husband, who was the local doctor.
Everywhere she went, someone greeted her and paused to exchange some pleasantries. Some recognized him and hadn’t been able to stop staring, and a few had been aghast upon introduction and had scurried away to impart the gossip.
“You are well loved,” he murmured, as the current vicar’s wife, Mrs. Bainsmith, ended their conversation with several curtsies in his direction before hurrying toward the small bookshop at the corner of the street.
Lily shot him a side-eyed glance. “I was born and raised in this village. The only time I left was right after the vicar died. I resided with one of my cousins in Lambeth for eleven months before I returned.”
“You’ve never explored London?”
“Certainly not to its full potential,” she said with a light laugh. “The few times I visited my aunt in Cheapside, I snuck away to visit the shops on High Holborn and Bond Street, where the best dressmakers, tailors, and haberdashers are. I quite scandalized my aunt when I ventured to the fashionable area on my own.”
He lifted his chin to the sketchbook clutched in her arms. “For that?”
“Yes.”
Several shops past, she had removed her sketchbook to make space for her items and had been quite reluctant for him to carry it for her. He hadn’t insisted, not that he thought she would have caved. Lily seemed like the sort of woman to know herself, considering her refusal of Mr. Crauford’s marriage proposal. A strange thing, that. In his experience, a woman of her modest means would have eagerly consented to be the man’s wife.
“May I see?”
Vulnerability flashed in her eyes. “My drawings?”
“Only if you are inclined to share.”
After a slight hesitation, she held the book out to him. Oliver traded her the basket for it and flipped it open. There were several sketches of dresses, a few he had seen women of high society wearing and others that clearly were not in existence. The lines and style were elegant and creative. “These are very good.”
“You know of women’s fashion?”
“Enough to know these are exquisite.”
A smile lit her entire face, and her unique prettiness stuck him. Christ. Her hair gleamed like copper under the sun, and stubborn tendrils had managed to escape her chignon and curl around her cheeks most becomingly. The jolt he felt through his heart was quite unexpected, the twitch in his cock appalling. She had finely arched brows, high cheekbones, and wide and sensual lips.
He wanted to kiss her without consequence.
Wicked images flicked through his mind at the speed of a runaway carriage. Mrs. Layton’s lips around his cock, how they would glisten when he kissed and nibbled on them.
Good God, what was wrong with him?
“I believe so, too. The dress your mother wore to last night’s supper—I created it,” she murmured, pride and satisfaction evident in her tone. “The countess had been reluctant to wear it until she saw my creation.”
He recalled the dark green beauty his mother had worn with such grace. “You are incredibly talented.”
Lily beamed. “Thank you. I am hoping your mother will be kind enough to recommend me to her set. I am determined to become a sought-after modiste.”
He handed her back the drawings and collected the basket once more. “It must have cost you a lot of money to make a dress my mother approved of.”
“Almost a year’s savings,” she replied with a light laugh, walking ahead once more. “But that is the cost of doing business.”
“Did my mother compensate you for your creation?”
Her head turned, and startled eyes met his. “It was a gift. I did not expect to be paid.”
But his mother should have known what it would have cost a woman of Lily’s means to create such a rich garment worthy of a marchioness. Lily was kind and very caring, qualities he deeply admired. It did not escape him that it was her wages she had been using to buy gifts for her family. He admired that she pursued her passion so ardently and wasn’t content to accept the life handed to her. It was a pity she wasn’t of a different class, for he could see himself wooing a woman like her.
“Ah…here we are,” she said with a nervous laugh, waving toward a cottage nestled charmingly off the beaten path. “This is my parents’ home, and I…I’m decidedly unsure what is the proper etiquette here. I had no notion the Marquess of Ambrose would spend the day with me in such a menial manner. Not that I imagined you being with me in any other manner,” she hurriedly assured him.
A blush pinkened her cheeks, and the most befuddling sensation filled his chest and arrowed down to his cock, hardening it. Shock froze him, and with a will he’d never thought himself capable of, he suppressed the sneaking desire worming through his body for a bloody servant within his household. Wresting his gaze from her beguiling eyes, he scanned the yard. Several chickens clucked, and a young lady was hanging billowing white sheets on a line. As if she sensed his regard, she looked up.
“Lily!” she cried, abandoning her laundry, running over to clasp her in an embrace.
“Mary Rose,” Lily scolded. “We’ve company.” She took a steadying breath. “May I present Lord Ambrose. My lord, this is my sister, Mrs. Mary Rose Evans.”
“Lord Ambrose!”
His lips twitched as he caught the pinch Lily placed behind her sister’s elbow as she gawked. Mary Rose possessed the same dark red hair and brown eyes as Lily and was just as pretty. She quickly curtsied and stammered a greeting. Oliver did his best to put her at ease. He bowed. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Evans.”
“Mamma and Papa have gone to call on Miss Shelby. She’s not feeling too well, you see,” she said to Lily. Though Mary Rose spoke to her sister, her widened eyes were pinned on him.
What was he doing there with her sister was the clear question. And the answer eluded him, to his great annoyance. “I spy the most charming garden westward,” he said abruptly. “I’ll leave you to see the arrangements.”
“They are my father’s pride and joy,” replied Lily with a wide smile, and he did his best to not lower his regard to those sweet, pouty lips.
“You’ll not find better, my lord.”
“If you ladies will excuse me,” he said, offering a courteous bow before handing Lily the basket.
They dipped into curtsies, and Oliver walked away, inhaling the mix of fragrances redolent on the air. Life had turned rather strange ever since meeting Mrs. Layton this morning. He had never spent a day so simply but so pleasantly. He hadn’t once thought about his estates or burying himself in his darkroom to paint his erotic murals. He hadn’t even thought about the young ladies back at Belgrave Manor, all of whom were apparently eminently suited to be his wife. He’d enjoyed Lily’s company, and most befuddling, Oliver could not recall having a more amiable time.
…
The Marquess of Ambrose had spent the day with her. The very notion still confounded Lily. Even more disturbing, she very much liked his splendid and good-natured company. She had never thought it possible to be at ease with someone so far above her in, well, everything, but not once had he made her feel as if she were inferior.
Her parents had returned home only a few minutes after Lily’s arrival. They’d had a pleasant afternoon chat with tea and sandwiches before she had departed. She visited her family weekly, and so enjoyed spending time with them. Their three-bedroom cottage was fully occupied, since it was also her sister and her husband’s abode. Her brother-in-law did not make enough of a living to fully support his family. He was terribly kindhearted and did not charge many of his patients who could ill afford medical care. Lily dearly wished to someday earn enough to hire a kitchen maid to help them with the chores.
She had been indecisive about presenting the marquess to her parents, so she’d been relieved to find he had wandered off to the far fields when she finally drummed up the courage to venture outside to offer him refreshment. Lily still couldn’t fathom why she had felt so discomfited at the thought of Lord Ambrose in her humble and sparsely furnished home.
Now they were walking at a far brisker pace back to Belgrave Manor. Thunder rumbled, and she glared at the sky. “I believe it is about to rain.” She hurried her steps, almost running. “There is a hunting lodge not t
oo far from here. We could wait out the rain there.”
A low curse sounded from the marquess. Lily peered back at him. “What is it?”
There was a dangerous warning in the gaze that stared at her, and she gasped at the dart of heat that quivered to her core. Dear God. Her desires were ungovernable. A drop of rain landed on her cheek, and not wasting time to examine the unexpected tension, she ran ahead, uncaring if he followed. Arriving at the hunting cabin, she clambered up the small steps, wrenched open the door, and spilled inside.
“What is this?” The marquess’s voice came from behind her.
Lily flushed under his gaze. The hunting lodge was clean, with a fresh bedspread and a curtain by the small window. There was even wood stacked by the fireplace and a few books neatly packed by the small table. She cleared her throat delicately. “The lodge is always empty. I frequently visit here on my off days.”
He shot her a considering glance but refrained from commenting.
A burst of raindrops spattered against the glass panes of the window. Several seconds later, it started to storm in earnest. Lily strolled to the lone chair by the window and sat, a trembling breath escaping her when the marquess lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. Why hadn’t she ever tried to get another chair for the cabin?
He was a handsome rogue who was a threat to any woman’s virtue, even if she were only a paid companion. “Everyone will wonder where we are. I am certain Mr. Crauford relayed to them that we are together.”
“It will be evident our delay is because of the inclement weather.”
“Our being alone will be seen as scandalous.”
One of his eyebrows arched in apparent incredulity. “I doubt it,” he said drily.
Lily flushed. Of course, no one would think it odd a man and his servant had been alone for several minutes. Clearly, it did not even occur to him that people might wonder if they had been improper. “People may still comment,” she warned.
“I do not dally with workers in my household.”