He had no idea what had upset her so, but if there was one thing he could not abide, it was a woman’s tears. Not that he had ever really seen them, except on Eloise, the French whore who had fallen in love with him after a particularly memorable night. He hadn’t liked it then, and he didn’t like it now. Gently but firmly he rolled Lilliana onto her back and came over her, kissing one eye, then the other. “Don’t cry, Lillie,” he whispered. “Please don’t cry.” Her tears began to flow then, and he quietly kissed them away while his hands provocatively roamed her body, seducing her to his throbbing arousal. She took several sharp breaths as she fought her tears, and almost reluctantly, he thought, she put her hands on his shoulders, then swept them down his chest, fingering his hardened nippies. With his mouth he teased hers open, then plunged into her warmth, savoring the taste of mint on her breath. His hands roamed wildly now, his senses inflamed by the satin feel of her skin. Her hands, too, ran across his shoulders, his back, and down his torso. And then she reached between his legs, lifted him in her hand, feeling the weight of him.
And pushing him past the point of all reason.
He groaned her name as he entered her; her body tensed at the sudden invasion … “Lillie,” he whispered, “hold me.” She shook her head and tried to resist him. But his knowledge of the female body was the one thing he knew about women with all certainty, and within the space of a heartbeat she was panting and stroking the corded muscles of his back and buttocks, demanding with her hips that he fill her completely.
When they had both found their release in another explosive climax, Adrian rolled to his side, taking her with him. She made a ragged sound of distress, and confused by it, he held her close. “What has upset you?” he asked softly. He heard her breath catch in her throat, felt her stiffen in his arms. “Lilliana?”
“I … I want to be a good wife,” she began in a whisper.
“You are a good wife,” he said quickly, relieved that was all there was to this show of tears.
“No, I mean a wife you can be proud of.”
Honestly, he didn’t mean to hesitate. But it was enough for her to pull from his arms and roll away, and for him to feel like a cad. “You are,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “a wife any man would be proud of.” Her body shuddered as if he had jabbed her in the back. What a miserable liar he was! He racked his brain for something to say, but with no sense of what had caused this misery, his mind reverted to ingrained, reflexive habits learned in notorious boudoirs. Flattery.
He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned over her, nuzzling her ear. “There are many admirable qualities about you, don’t you know? You are kind, and … thoughtful. And you have beautiful flaxen hair,” he said, grabbing a fistful of her silken mane. It wasn’t a lie—she did have beautiful hair. She stirred beside him, turning her face farther into the pillows. “I would imagine that others are quite envious of it.”
“Thank you,” she muttered.
Satisfied that he had at least gotten a response, he rolled away from her. Whatever was bothering her would seem much better by morning’s light, he was certain. Lilliana did not seem the maudlin sort. But she kept her back to him as he got out of bed and slipped into his dressing gown. He leaned over and pulled the counterpane over her shoulder, then kissed her temple. “Sweet dreams, Lilliana,” he murmured, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, and left her room, his appetite sated and his conscience at least appeased.
When the door closed, Lilliana slowly pushed herself up and glared at it, her brows knit into a deep vee. “He adores my hair,” she muttered to herself. “My hair!”
Humiliated by her inability to resist him, fury rifled through her. Damn it, but he had come to her at Blackfield Grange and offered her a life as his companion! The memory of his blithe conviction that they would suit made her ill—that man had shown her nothing but polite indifference since the moment they had said their vows. His only concession was to stoke her passion under the veil of night, making her believe he desired her with his hands and his mouth but never putting a voice to his desires. Well, perhaps that was because the only thing he could find to admire about her was her bloody hair.
She hated him.
She threw the linens back and leapt from her bed. Marching to the hearth, she lit a candelabrum, turned on her heel, and marched to a scattering of chairs. Retrieving a sewing basket, she continued her march to her vanity and sat heavily on the little bench. She stared at her reflection a long moment before fishing a pair of shears from the basket. He adored her hair, did he? Well then, he could bloody well have it! Lilliana grabbed a handful of the heavy blond locks and snipped.
Her hand slowly came down, and horrified, she gaped at the tress in her hand. Her hair! Yes, and what difference did it make? Other than it was one of the few “admirable qualities” about her! With a gleam of fury in her eye, she grabbed another handful.
Polly Dismuke thought Lady Albright had lost her mind. She had arrived later than usual this morning, having quite a head on her after one too many pints at the Dog and Duck on her weekly holiday. And Lord, this time it was a whopper—she blinked several times as she entered her mistress’s rooms, quite certain she was seeing things.
But there was no mistaking the clumps of blond hair strewn about the little bench at the vanity—big, thick clumps of her lady’s glorious hair. Polly cried out as she rushed into the room and picked up a handful of the shorn tresses, prompting Lady Albright to emerge from her dressing room. Without the weight of a lifetime in her locks, the shoulder-length tresses bounced into a riot of curl. The darker shades of gold, long since covered by the heavier flaxen tresses on top, peeked through, revealing several different shades of blond.
“What have you done, milady?”
“I have cut my hair,” her ladyship responded matter-of-factly.
“Buttery?”
Lady Albright smiled cheerfully. “I thought it would be a nice change. I’ve had that hair all my life, you know.”
Polly’s jaw dropped. And then she noticed what her mistress was wearing and actually stumbled backward, quite certain she was apoplectic. “Trousers?” she gasped.
Lady Albright nodded. “They are perfect for riding.”
“You intend to wear them?”
Another smiling nod. “I am quite determined to ride, actually. It’s a glorious day and I haven’t been on the back of a horse in over a month, I’d wager. Do you like to ride, Polly?”
No, she did not. And if she did, she most certainly would not like it in trousers! She shook her head, afraid to speak.
“Really? I adore it!” Lady Albright said in a singsong voice, and disappeared into the dressing room again. When her ladyship came strolling out a few moments later, Polly felt the apoplexy coming on. Her mistress still wore the trousers that fit her too snugly, and had added a man’s waistcoat over the lawn shirt she had gotten from God knew where. Polly, who had served the daughters of the late Lord Albright, was certain about one thing: It was the height of impropriety for her mistress to wear those clothes. She was also certain it was her duty to warn her ladyship of the error in her decision.
Squaring her broad shoulders, she planted her hands on her hips. “Lady Albright, I would be remiss in my service to you if I did not point out that it is not quite seemly for women to be seen running about in”—she could hardly spit out the word—“trousers.”
Lady Albright blinked her big green eyes. “No?”
Polly fiercely shook her head.
“I see,” her ladyship mused, tapping a finger against her cheek. “Well then, I suppose I shouldn’t leave the estate,” she said, and with a grin, walked to the corridor door.
Polly took several frantic steps after her. “B-but the estate is rather large, milady. What about the tenants!” she cried as Lady Albright walked out of the room.
Lady Albright paused in the corridor, pondering that. “You are absolutely right!” she said after a moment. Polly’s shoulders sagged with relief
. “I should have introduced myself to them long ago. Thank you for that kind reminder; I shall meet every last one of them today, you have my word,” she said, and with a jaunty wave disappeared from view, leaving Polly gaping at the open door.
Polly wasn’t the only one who thought the mistress had lost her mind. Max came flying across the marble foyer, stumbling to a halt next to Polly, who was peering out the front door and wringing her big hands. “Disaster!” he whispered frantically.
“I’ll say,” Polly muttered, her gaze riveted on something outside.
“I might very well lose my post!” Max whispered, and looked furtively over his shoulder as he grasped Polly’s arm.
Polly snorted and shook him off. “What are you rattling about?” she muttered angrily.
“Early this morning her ladyship said she intended to cut a pattern for a gown, and I thought nothing of it, but why should I? She is the mistress of this house, is she not? Oh Lord, oh Lord, I saw her enter the library, and I thought to say something, but I didn’t! It’s not my place, do you hear me? And … and I saw no harm in it, truly I did not! Yet I can scarcely believe it, even though I saw it with my own eyes!” he continued madly.
With an impatient roll of her eyes, Polly huffed, “I’ve no idea what you are going on about, but—”
“She moved his papers!”
Polly stopped and looked fully at the little man. “Papers! What papers?” she snapped.
“All of them!” Max squeaked, sounding as if he might weep at any moment. “He had the accounts all there on the table, spread out, arranged by date. They go back years, I tell you! And she … she moved them!”
“So she moved them!” Polly said, and jerked her gaze outside once again.
“No, no, you don’t understand. She not only moved them, she rearranged them! His lordship had … had sorted them and very carefully arranged them so that he might follow the income against expenditures!” Max wailed, his hands waving furiously as he tried to depict just how carefully they had been arranged. “God help us all, because she took papers out of their leather bindings, she stacked them willy-nilly on chairs and the floor! She even”—his voice dropped so that it was almost inaudible—“she even used the back of one page to mark some figures! Heaven help me, he will have my head, I am quite certain!”
“No,” said Polly, solemnly shaking her head. She stepped aside so that Max could see what attracted her attention. “He will have her head, and I am quite fearful for her!” Max turned to see what Polly was watching. To his utter amazement, Lady Albright rode by. Astride. Wearing trousers.
Atop Thunder.
No one, not even the stable master was allowed to ride Thunder. That stallion was the earl’s pride and joy, and there was not a person in his employ who did not know the horse was almost sacred.
Max groaned. “Oh dear. And I really thought so very highly of her,” he said sadly, and he and Polly stood side by side, watching her until she had disappeared over a crest, shaking their heads in unison.
Nine
WHAT IN THE hell was the matter with everyone?
Adrian glanced irritably at a footman who was trying very hard to blend into the wall as he passed him in the expansive foyer. He wouldn’t have thought much of it, except that Mrs. Dismuke had quickly disappeared into Lilliana’s room when she had seen him in the corridor, and Max had definitely changed course and ducked into a seldom-used parlor when he had rounded the corner on his way to the library.
The servants were acting as if he had suddenly sprouted horns, and he’d be damned if he knew what had brought that on. Never mind that now, he thought testily as he walked to the library. He had work to do—an idea had come to him this morning. Archie was exceedingly proud of the gazebo he had built at Kealing Park, but it was rather small. He would build a larger one, a monument to the beauty of Longbridge. And he had a brilliant idea how to pay for it. Adrian walked across the library threshold and glanced at the table where the account books for the last ten years had been carefully laid out.
He could not believe what he was seeing.
He shook his head, then stared at the table, trying to fathom it. The account books, so painstakingly arranged so that he could follow expenditures, investments, and revenues through the years, were strewn over two chairs, an ottoman, and the floor. They were stacked haphazardly, papers sticking out of the leather bindings every which way. His pulse began to beat at a clip and he walked to the bellpull, yanking so hard that he almost ripped it from its fastenings. Then he waited, glaring at the table, until Max appeared, looking quite pale.
“Max, do come inside,” Adrian said evenly, and strolled toward the table where he had made extensive notes on the accounts. “Do you notice anything unusual in this room?” he asked in a deceptively calm voice.
“Ah. Well. Yes, my lord,” Max mumbled.
Adrian turned halfway to look at him over his shoulder. “Really? And what would that be?”
Max’s thin face took on an almost purple caste. “The … the account books, my lord. It would appear they have been … ah, moved.”
“Yes, it would seem so,” Adrian said amicably. “And why is that?”
“I … I don’t know, my lord,” Max squeaked.
“Don’t you? As you are charged with the task of keeping my house in a reasonable semblance of order, might you offer any explanation?” Adrian asked, turning to face his suddenly meek butler.
“Umm … No,” Max muttered, clearing his throat, and shifting his gaze to the hearth.
Adrian shoved an impatient hand through his hair. “Max, what in God’s name would possess you—”
“Not me, my lord! I beg you do not force me to say more,” he said, and clasped his hands together so tightly that it looked as if they might explode.
“Not you? Then who in the hell would you suggest? That timid little maid who is almost too frightened to touch anything?”
“I am begging you, my lord—”
“What in the hell is the matter with you?” Adrian angrily demanded.
“It was Lady Albright!” Max cried, and immediately winced, dropping his head in shame.
Thunderstruck, Adrian gaped at him. “Who?”
“On my honor, I have no idea why, except that she said they seemed like a lot of musty old books, and she needed the table to cut a pattern for a new gown—”
“A gown?” he all but bellowed.
Max nodded his head furiously and gulped a deep breath. “It was a pattern her mother sent all the way from Bath! And she, ah, she needed a large table, and, well, it is a large table. But I never thought she would touch them, no, no, I never thought that! And then, I thought surely she would ask if she couldn’t find paper, but she is obviously the industrious sort, because she used … she used …” Max paused and stuck a finger under his collar and tugged anxiously.
“Go on,” Adrian said flatly, his pulse now pounding soundly at his neck and temples.
“She … she used a page from the account books to write some figures. Year 1829, I believe,” he muttered miserably.
Adrian glared at him for a long moment before turning and walking slowly to the window. He took several steadying breaths. Deep breaths. All right, all right, the Princess of the Grange obviously did not know what she was doing. It wasn’t as if he had explained to her the work he was doing here. It was an honest mistake. He and Max would simply put them back together. How long could it possibly take? A few hours? A bloody week? Damnation! “Have Lady Albright sent in,” he ground out.
“Um, I beg your pardon, my lord, but she has gone out.”
Gone out. Well, then, he would wait until she returned. In the meantime he would leave things as they were and use her carelessness to make a point. “Leave things as they are,” he said gruffly, and pivoting on his heel, quit the library, striding past his butler without looking at him.
A ride. A nice long ride to calm him down a bit, he decided, and walked swiftly to the foyer, gesturing to the footman for h
is coat and gloves. The footman eyed him warily as he timidly handed him his gloves. With an impatient roll of his eyes, Adrian stalked out of the house, bound for the stables.
As he stepped into the paddock, he noticed two young grooms suddenly scamper around the corner of the stable, disappearing from view. Dear God, what did they think, that he would beat her for moving some account books? What sort of man did they take him for? Irritated, he marched into the stable, spying Mr. Bottoms before the stable master saw him. The moment he caught sight of his employer, he nervously dropped the bucket he held.
“Saddle Thunder,” Adrian barked, and began walking toward the largest stall at the very end of the row. Mr. Bottoms did not move, and seemed paralyzed. “Well? What are you waiting for?” Adrian snapped, his patience wearing very thin, and glanced at Thunder’s stall.
His horse had been stolen!
A rush of panic gripped him, and he jerked around toward Bottoms, who was trembling so badly that the bucket he had just retrieved was about to shake loose from his hands again. “What has happened? Where is Thunder?” he exploded.
“Ah … Lady Albright, my lord,” the stable master gasped.
Speechless. He was totally, utterly speechless. “Lady Albright?” he roared.
“She said you gave her leave!” he cried, and dropped the bucket. “I thought … I mean, I suggested she take the mare, but she was rather insistent, my lord. She promised me!” he frantically added, and quickly bent to retrieve the bucket.
“Promised you?” Adrian choked out. “Promised you what?”
“That you said she may have whatever she fancied,” he said, and nervously swiped his arm across his forehead. “Including Thunder,” he mumbled miserably.
Deep breaths, he reminded himself. She was on Thunder. Good God, that foolish little idiot could get herself killed! “Did it occur to you that she might not be able to handle Thunder?” he ground out.
Bottoms paled. “Aye, my lord. But she had begun to saddle him herself, and what was I to do? She … she seemed all right, on my honor she did,” he said, his voice pleading.
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