by Beverley, Jo
In his eyes she glimpsed something. Surely a longing as powerful as hers.
She pressed her lips to his—more than a peck, but trying not to reveal too much. But then, with a sigh, she lingered, softening at the sweet intimacy and warm desire, moving closer.
He pulled her hard against him, and when her lips parted in a gasp, said against them, “Perilous Aphrodite.”
“Am I?”
“Your kisses are. Be warned.”
His lips crushed onto hers, compelling her to open fully to him, to capture him, to belong to him. She gripped his jacket, his hair, pressing to him even more than he pulled her into him, moving a leg, turning . . .
Wanting!
She thrust backward and he let her go, but then grasped her arms to steady her. She might well have tumbled.
Down on the grass.
A green girl in the greenwood . . .
“That was . . .” She didn’t know what.
“Payment for the whole fortnight.”
He wanted to escape their commitment. She could understand why, but she couldn’t allow it. This was all dangerous and beyond sanity, and they came from different worlds, each disliking the other’s. But she couldn’t set him free.
“The nature of the kisses is mine to decide,” she reminded him, as steadily as she could. “I’ll be at Lady Ludlow’s ball tonight. Don’t fail me. I will have my eight days.”
“Shouldn’t you play Portia rather than Shylock?”
“Surely I’m the merchant in that play.”
“Bassanio. The one whose ship was lost?”
“But which came safely into port in the end.”
“You expect a happy ending from this?”
She couldn’t answer, for the only honest one would be the one written on his face. No. They lusted, perhaps they loved, but their worlds could be too different for them to join together.
“I expect my eight days,” she said, and headed for open ground and sanity, pulling her glove back on. Once she was in sunshine again, she sought something to say. Something safe.
He got there first. “As we’re to endure the full eight days, shouldn’t we progress to Christian names? You are Lucinda.”
“Lucy. To my family and friends.”
“Your aunt and cousin are family,” he pointed out.
“Not in the same way.”
“Poor Lucinda.”
“She is. Quite paltry.”
“Your wilting alter ego.”
“Even Lucinda doesn’t wilt.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t. I’m David.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Your friend, Mr. Delaney, mentioned it.”
“Ah.”
“Do you, too, have an alter ego?” she asked. It was merely an attempt to keep the conversation going, but she saw a reaction.
“Davy,” he said at last. “I’m not a lad anymore, but some of the family still use it.”
A mere baby name hadn’t caused the reaction. “By family, you mean your sister, Lady Amleigh?”
“No, she calls me David. I mean my aunt and uncle and some cousins.” Perhaps she looked puzzled, for he added, “Uncle Nathaniel and Aunt Miriam raised Susan and me.”
She noticed his tone. “You love them.”
“Of course. They’re good people. The sort that glue families and communities together with generosity and kind hearts. The world would fall apart without them.”
“That’s lovely.”
“You seem surprised,” he said.
“Perhaps I don’t think of you as coming from a comfortable home.”
“Why not?”
“I must have read too many novels. What of your mother? What does she call you?”
“If she called me anything, it was David.”
“If . . . ?”
“We were never on close terms.”
Lady Belle, who’d taken up with a smuggling tavern keeper, abandoning her children to relatives.
“That must have been hard.”
“Abandon conventional thinking. Aunt Miriam was my mother from the moment of birth. If anything distressed my childhood, it was the fear that Lady Belle would take the whim to claim us back.”
She wanted to hold him, to comfort that child. All she could do was drag the conversation into safer waters.
“And now you’re the Peasant Earl. Such a shame that Lord Stevenhope has stolen sweet Iphigenia from you.”
“A match made in heaven. He can struggle for a rhyme for Iphigenia, and she will enjoy being enversed in any way at all.”
“And I am free of him, thank heavens.”
“Perhaps as your favored suitor, I should compose verses about you.”
She turned on him. “Don’t you dare!”
“Unwise, unwise,” he said. “I shall attempt a sonnet.”
“I’ll fine you a kiss for every line.” Then she realized how that sounded. “Damnation.”
“Lucy!” But he was laughing now.
It felt like a triumph to make him laugh.
“I’ve spent much time in the world of rough men. Sometimes my tongue slips.”
“Delightful.”
She frowned at him. “I meant that I will reduce the kisses I owe you, one for each line.”
“You’re a harsh woman, Lucy Potter.”
“Best you know that, David. . . . What’s your surname?”
He shrugged. “Wyvern, in proper usage. But I was David Kerslake for most of my life. David Somerford now, but I refused to deny Uncle Nathaniel and Aunt Miriam, so I’m Kerslake-Somerford.”
“How very complicated your situation is.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
There was meaning in that wry comment but she sensed that pursuing it would take them into deeper waters.
By accident or purpose they’d walked away from where Hannah sat patiently waiting, representing normality and sanity—safe harbor. Lucy knew she should go there, but continued to move away. If she were to get anywhere with this man, she must untangle some of his mysteries.
That thought reminded her of the straightforward puzzle her father had pointed to. “Did your aunt and uncle not know that you were the earl’s legitimate son?”
“No one did.”
“Except your mother and the earl.”
“So it would seem. It’s not so unusual.”
“For a titled father to ignore his son and heir, no matter how estranged from his wife?”
“What are you probing for? All the sordid details?”
Shields had raised, and horns blared a warning. Very interesting.
“My father remarked on how odd your situation is, that’s all.”
“So I have him poking around in my affairs, too. Does he have spies watching you?”
“Of course not,” Lucy said, but she suddenly wanted to look around, to see if anyone was observing them. It was just the sort of thing her father might do if he had any suspicion that she was being foolish. She didn’t see anyone suspicious now, but she’d be alert, and if she discovered such a thing, she’d put a stop to it.
“He’s always kept track of events at all levels,” she said. “One never knows when something will turn the world upside down. Yet vigilance,” she added with a sigh, “didn’t prevent my mother’s death. That changed everything.”
She wondered if she’d regret revealing that.
“As my life changed when I became earl.”
“You’d rather it not have happened?”
She expected a quick yes or no, but he turned them back toward Hannah, pondering it.
“New states become normal in time. Like shoes. They can feel odd when new, and perhaps even pinch a little, but then we no longer notice them. There are aspects to being earl that still pinch, but others that I’ve come to accept. I can’t imagine returning to the way things were. Which is just as well as it’s impossible.”
“No other heir to emerge from the woodwork?”
“Not unless there�
��s an even weirder twist than the one that brought me here.”
They walked on and she thought about his words.
“I found coming to the west end odd, but now it’s become normal. When I was back in the City some aspects pinched a little. Some people get to wear comfortable shoes all their lives.”
“Very few, I suspect. And some poor souls never walk in comfort at all.”
They were close to Hannah now, though the sensible maid was staring at the Serpentine as if it were fascinating.
“You deserve comfort all your life,” he said.
“So do you. Anyone can try for a comfortable future,” she said, silently urging him to take her lead, to talk about their futures. Their future, together.
“Perhaps it’s simply a matter of choosing the wise path,” he said, raising her hand to kiss it. Anyone watching would see it as a courting gesture, but it seemed like farewell.
She tightened her fingers on his. “Will we meet here tomorrow?”
“I come from a land of cliffs and mists, far from your familiar territory. Are you sure you want to risk living there? Be honest.”
Lucy wanted to say yes, but above all they must be honest. “I don’t know. But I don’t release you from our bargain.”
“So be it.” He bowed and walked away.
Lucy joined Hannah and they set off back to Lanchester Street.
Why hadn’t she said yes? That had been close to the proposal she wanted. Why had she hesitated?
Perhaps she was afraid of such a drastic change. Perhaps a woman could love a man to desperation but still not be able to face moving to his world.
* * *
David returned to Susan’s house, hoping to avoid his perceptive sister, but she must have been watching for him.
“Where have you been?”
“Do I have to account to you for all my movements?”
“David.”
“Very well. I was keeping to our agreement. I had a tryst with Miss Potter in Hyde Park.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Only to an extent. Can you truly imagine her in Crag Wyvern?”
“I find it hard to imagine any sane person in Crag Wyvern.”
“Precisely.”
“But you have to marry someone, and you should marry someone you love.”
There was a question in that. “Yes, I love her, but perhaps that’s why I shouldn’t marry her. Should I carry Persephone off into the underworld?”
“When you talk like that, I know you’re demented.”
“Very well, look at it this way. I’m sure Mel wanted to raise us as his children. He was a kind and loving man. Our mother wouldn’t have ruled him on that. He gave us up so we’d have a better life. That’s what love does. Can you deny it was for the best?”
“No,” she said, frowning. “But . . .”
“Can you see Miss Potter in Crag Wyvern?” he asked again.
She sighed. “No. In the manor house, perhaps, but not in the Crag. What are you going to do?”
“I made a commitment to her and to you, and I’ll keep to it. I can’t resist a few more days with her. But unless I can truly persuade myself she can be happy in my life, I’ll set her free.”
“And if she doesn’t want to be free?”
“I’ll turn ruthless. I believe I’ve learned how.”
Chapter 19
Lady Ludlow’s ball was a crush, but to an unpleasant degree. It was packed because the house was too small and it presented no opportunity for secret trysts. Wyvern—David—was present and they danced, but Lucy longed for another private moment. She was sure if they could talk more about their situation, they could find a way.
The supper room was disastrously crowded, and Lucy found herself with Wyvern, the Amleighs, and some others out in the small garden, sitting on the grass on sheets commandeered from harried servants, enjoying a miscellany of food and drink foraged by the gentlemen.
The Balls were there, and Lucy was surprised to see Sir Stephen at ease on the ground. So, too, urbane Lord Charrington and the noble Marquess of Arden, though both their wives seemed more suited to the simple setting, even in silk and jewels. The other couples were the Delaneys, and an Irish couple, the Cavanaghs.
It was an odd collection of people and yet the talk flowed easily and they seemed old friends, and at least Lucy was seated at David’s side, as if by right.
She leaned close to David. “What’s the connection here?”
“Guess.”
Sipping wine, she considered. “Ducal and commoner. English and Irish. Politics and horse breeding. Laura Ball was a widow, and so was Lady Charrington, but surely Mrs. Cavanagh is too young.”
“You’re looking like a hawk with prey in sight,” he said.
“I like to solve puzzles.”
“Like your father.”
“It’s part of clever business.”
“But sometimes better avoided.”
She frowned at him. “There’s a dangerous secret here?” But then she remembered that he was full of them. “Tell me a secret,” she said.
“They’re all members of the Company of Rogues.”
The words made no sense. “I mean one of your secrets.”
“What point to a secret once it’s revealed?”
“You don’t believe in honesty in marriage?”
“We’re not married.”
She was glad lamplight hid her blush. “I asked a theoretical question.”
“Then, theoretically, honesty is desirable. But trust and kindness are more important.”
“How can there be trust without honesty?”
“The trust to accept that the other keeps secrets for a good reason?”
What secrets did he have that must be hidden, even from a wife?
“As for the Company of Rogues . . .” he said.
The gentleman on her other side turned and answered. “Schoolboy nonsense,” Lord Charrington said, “but the bonds still hold, and prove useful at times. As in arranging this alfresco alternative to the deadly crush inside.”
Lucy turned to David. “You’re a Rogue, too?”
“Too young, and I didn’t attend Harrow as they all did. Amleigh is, however.”
The men began to tell schoolboy tales, but their wives must have heard them too many times, for Lady Arden moved the discussion on to principles of education.
Lucy considered friendship. How would it be if a group of the girls she’d grown up with had formed so close a bond? Wonderful, especially if it lasted all life long, despite distance, changes, and marriage, but she only had Betty, and now that Betty was married, it would never be the same.
She’d never realized until now how much she’d lost in a year.
Her mother had been a dear companion, and her father stimulating company. At his side she’d met a wide range of City men. She’d had Betty as a close friend, and so many other, more casual ones, all close at hand. She’d generally been so busy that finding time alone to catch up on her reading had been a challenge.
These days she exerted herself to avoid uncongenial company, and the only company she truly enjoyed was David’s. But could he be considered a true friend if he kept secrets? Add to that, he made no secret of thinking she’d be miserable in his home area, and she feared he might be right!
As the group rose to return to the ball, Mrs. Delaney came over.
“Are you quite well, Miss Potter?”
Lucy supposed she had been silent for a while. “Perfectly,” she said with a smile.
Mrs. Delaney smiled back, but seemed unconvinced. “I gather Maria Vandeimen is an old family friend, but we can never have too many allies. We’re at Lauriston Street, number eighteen. If you need a friendly ear, or any other assistance, please visit. We’re not gadabouts, even in Town.”
Lucy thanked her and escaped, disturbed that her anxieties had been so apparent, and by the word “allies.” A different concept to friends, and one that implied contests, even wars.
&n
bsp; She remembered how perceptive Mr. Delaney had seemed and decided to keep her distance from that couple.
* * *
The next morning she tried to make sense of everything in her journal, but ended up drawing hearts and flowers. An artist, now, was she? Love seemed to turn the most rational person into a pigeon brain!
She forced herself to write.
I love him.
I believe he loves me.
I’m accustomed to London.
He lives in a distant place
Of cliffs and mists.
Can love survive
Such rude transplantation?
However, can a plant survive
Without love?
There she had it. Love was a tyrant. It allowed no liberty. Now, she had to make him see that.
She was desperate to meet him and talk about all this, but the next night would be Clara’s ball and there were many minor tasks to be done. Aunt Mary protested at one point that Lucy shouldn’t feel obliged to help, but Lucy hardly felt she could flit off and leave her aunt and cousin in such a fret. She pinned her hopes to the evening, when they were to go to the theater.
They did leave the house at one point, but only to the shops in search of some particular flowers that might suit Clara as a headdress.
When Aunt Mary suddenly decided a string of artificial pearls would do, Lucy felt that was a better idea, but they returned home without a Wyvern encounter. Just as well, really, for it was hard to imagine how even the most ingenious gentleman could have wooed her in the busy shops and streets, and to pay him there would have shocked the ton.
She must wait for the theater. They would meet there.
As soon as she entered the box, she saw him across the auditorium. His eyes met hers, unreadable at that distance, but he inclined his head. It made her think of two opponents acknowledging their upcoming battle, but she still couldn’t suppress a smile before looking away.
Stevenhope was in the Galloway box, seeming completely satisfied with Lady Iphigenia. Clara was right. The girl managed to look as if she hadn’t a firm bone in her slender body. That first ball seemed so long ago. Outram and Stevenhope had almost come to pistol point over her in another world. Now she was in a new world, a new magical circle, and it was one that completely absorbed her.
The play was some vaguely medieval piece, but Lucy hardly paid attention. She was waiting for the first intermission. She left the box with her relations to stroll in the corridor, but Wyvern didn’t come to her. She didn’t even see him.