With a shake of his head, he said, “That’s not at all what I meant.” He cupped her cheek in his palm. “God, you’re wonderful,” he marveled, his stare fixed on her.
Before she could process his words, he released his hold on her and propped himself against the railing.
“I ought not to have acted or spoken with such presumption. Such behavior was inappropriate and reckless,” he mumbled, his eyes downcast.
“No, I’m pleased you did. I—I value your candidness, and I want to know you better, to—to be closer to you.” Biting her lower lip, she stepped forward and rested her hand on his upper arm, tempted but not brave enough to reenact the embrace by twining her arms around him.
He raised his eyes to hers, half-lidded.
“I’ll have you know that my cousin thinks I’m foolish to devote so much time and money to a legend, but in my darkest hour, it anchored me, gave me something to live for, a guiding light, if you will.” He shrugged, making light of the words. “And I know it sounds absurd but learning about the king helped me define the kind of man I wanted to be. Do you think me a fool?” He beseeched.
“For what? Believing in legends?” she asked, her tongue heavy and her mouth dry. Her whole body still tingled from his touch.
“No.” His eyes reflected the moonlight, feline and carnivorous. “For thinking you a liar.”
“I don’t think you’re a fool, Lord Roddam. And I don’t think you ever believed I lied.”
He tilted his head. “No?”
“No. You wouldn’t be standing here if you believed that. I think you were afraid of someone getting too close, of meeting a kindred spirit. I think you saw someone with whom you could be yourself, and it scared you. Tell me I’m wrong,” she challenged.
“You seem to have me figured out.” A roguish smile teased the corners of his lips. “So, tell me, what am I thinking now?”
She could feel his body heat through her dress as he took a step closer, widening his stance to straddle either side of her, nestling her legs between his own.
Rubbing a smooth cheek against hers, he purred into her ear. Lizbeth tried to inhale fresh air to calm her nerves, but she smelled only him. Through a haze of desire, she wondered if he flirted because she said the right words or if he flirted to distract her as another defense because her words hit too close to home.
With a breathy laugh, she answered, “You’re thinking, my lord, that my words are too brazen, and I’m too outspoken for my own good.”
“Sebastian,” he replied. “My name is Sebastian. And that wasn’t at all what I was thinking.”
“Oh.” She stuttered. “We’re using our given names already? You know, the most respectable members of the ton rarely even refer to their spouses by first names.”
“I thought we were kindred spirits.” Sebastian stared at her from beneath heavy lids and rubbed his nose against hers.
“You’re the devil incarnate, Sebastian. Lizbeth, by the by. You may call me Lizbeth.”
“Lizbeth.” He rolled the name over his tongue, trying it on, tasting it. “A more beautiful name, I have never heard. Mmm. Lizbeth,” he repeated.
She angled her head, not sure what to expect from him. Was he going to kiss her after all? Did she want him to kiss her?
How foolish to want to be kissed by him. She had spent a week fretting about him; he was practically a stranger; and he struggled with verbal intimacy. By his own confession, he could offer her nothing but friendship, so what would a kiss accomplish other than to complicate matters?
Kissing him meant freely giving her lips to a man not affianced to her, plunging herself into an affection that wouldn’t be returned. And if he then felt obligated to offer for her after kissing her, she doubted she could live with him, not unless he tore down his defenses, not unless he returned the affection beyond obligation, not unless they came to some agreement that ensured she maintained a level of independence.
To top off the absurdity of the moment, they stood on her aunt’s veranda mere feet from the party inside, never mind that the guests were distracted and couldn’t see them from the gaming tables at the other end of the room. If so much as one guest wandered over, Liz would be compromised. Was this worth such a risk? He could refuse to offer for her, leaving her ruined, or he could offer for her, trapping her for life with a man she barely knew, a man she didn’t want to forgive less than an hour ago.
Oh, it felt worth the risk in this moment. Nothing else mattered but this moment. Nothing was more important than discovering the feel of his lips against hers, the taste of him, consequences be dashed. She wanted to be his, even if only for a moment.
He inclined his head and drew closer, his lips hesitating inches from hers.
His breath tickling her cheeks, he whispered hoarsely, “Have you ever tried Wensleydale cheese?”
Startled, she leaned away and wheezed a laugh. “Not that I’m aware of.”
Releasing her from his grasp so unexpectedly that she faltered, he took a full step back. Cool air rushed between them. She shivered and took her own dizzying step away.
“There is Wensleydale cheese in the drawing room that I think you should try. It’s a Yorkshire cheese. One of my favorites.” He crossed the veranda in quick strides before turning back to face her. “Lizbeth,” he said in hushed tones. “I want nothing more than to stay here with you, but tongues could already be wagging at our disappearance. Shall we stealthily make our way to the cheese?”
Steadying herself on the railing and breathing in the fresh air unperfumed by his masculinity, she nodded, trying not to feel disappointed.
With a flourished wave of his hand, he bowed. “After you, my queen.”
Resigned to rejoin the party, she sighed and moved towards the door. They returned to the drawing room, no one the wiser of their whispered discussions, a hardy game of cribbage underway in one corner and a game of loo in the other. Several guests circled Charlotte and Annick, animated in conversation. Not a soul turned their direction or paid them any heed. For a heartbeat, she wanted to push him back outside and finish what he started.
When she glanced towards Sebastian to see if the same temptation etched his features, Lizbeth felt a shift in her life. A shift that would change the course of her future.
Chapter 8
The first of the three banns were read in church on Sunday.
In three weeks, Annick and Charlotte would be united in matrimony at St. George’s in Hanover Square. Lizbeth offered to accompany Charlotte on her honeymoon, as was customary among the families she knew back home, but Charlotte whined they were to return immediately to his principal seat in Northumberland after the wedding, thus no need for Lizbeth to accompany.
Not that she’d admit to Charlotte, but she was relieved. Without a second thought, she would move heaven and earth for her family, even if it meant following her sister and the duke around the continent for post-nuptial travels. That said, she had already seen the duke more than she ever wanted.
More than that, she would be eager to return home once the Season ended. The London noise, soot, and crowds wore on her nerves. She missed her walks to the seaside, the mornings with the miners, and evenings with Papa. During the busiest days in town, when she most longed for quiet, she swore she could hear the headland calling to her from Cornwall.
The space between now and the return home stretched into eternity, a wide unknown that would determine her future. Now more than ever, she missed her mother. She wished she could confide in her mother the emotional maelstrom raging in her over the man she was falling hopelessly in love with, the man who swore only to offer friendship.
But what if he changed his tune and offered for her? Oh, he was irresistibly almost perfect, but if she were going to throw away all chances for an independent life, he needed to be perfect, or else give some indication that he was willing to drop his guard with her.
Ambling alongside the river in Hyde Park, her lady’s maid trailing behind her, Lizbeth relished in the serenity. All of London was abed except for a handful of early risers strolling through the park wishing to be undisturbed, including a few lovers meeting behind trees for secret trysts. Only during her morning walk was she able to find peace in the city. The hustle of business and the bustle of fashion didn’t stir for several more hours, leaving sidewalks empty and parks abandoned.
The evening loomed, full of both promise and disquiet. For a week, nearly every evening had been spent in the company of the two cousins. She wouldn’t trade the time with Sebastian for the world, but a week of the constant presence of Charlotte and her betrothed was more than enough to last her a lifetime. What made the evenings that much more trying was the growing tension between her and Sebastian as the affianced couple nattered endlessly about their wedding and beyond.
At least from her perspective. She wasn’t sure at all what he thought.
This evening, the cousins were to escort the sisters to Vauxhall Gardens for an evening of dining and entertainment. Liz wanted to see the statue of Milton and admire the lush gardens. Charlotte was most looking forward to being seen, a perfect opportunity to be ogled by crowds as she wined and dined with a duke on her arm.
As much as she loved her sister, Liz could hardly wait for more time alone. Since the betrothal, every morning had been devoted to shopping with Charlotte and Aunt Hazel, for their aunt insisted on a new wedding dress for a duchess-to-be. Every afternoon had been sacrificed to the endless stream of visitors eager to take tea with Annick’s intended, visitors who hadn’t given them the time of day before the engagement. Every evening had been shared with her family and the two cousins.
While Charlotte drew her energy from the excitement of friend and family togetherness, Liz did not. The more time Liz spent in the company of others, the further into herself she withdrew, feeling fatigued with each expenditure of polite smiles and genteel conversation. She couldn’t be any more different from Charlotte if she tried, and if Sebastian ever had any inkling the sisters shared similarities, his observations of them this past week should have dashed such suspicions, for better or worse.
Their differences stemmed from birth. Their mother, Mrs. Elizabeth Trethow, had lavished Lizbeth with attention for the seven years before her death during childbirth. Liz grew up romping the fields of Trevena with her mother by her side, bringing pasties to the miners as a mother-daughter duo, and sharing dreams while they guessed cloud shapes in the sky. In the evenings, she curled in her father’s lap as he read her stories. Papa Cuthbert was an ardent reader and scholar, Mama Elizabeth a nymph of nature, and Lizbeth their lovechild.
Life changed when Charlotte was born. In place of a mother, Lizbeth had a squirmy, smelly sister who followed her everywhere but would sneeze in the meadows and cry if her feet touched the ocean tide. Even their personalities couldn’t be more different, Lizbeth always preferring disorder, spontaneity, the wildness of wilderness, the beauty of a naturally growing meadow, while Charlotte needed order, routine, perfection, the symmetry of a stately knot garden with measured proportions.
As time passed, the gap between them widened, one sister eager to escape the peacefulness of Trevena to be part of the social whirl in the big city, the other desiring a quiet life of nature walks, estate ledgers, and scholarly pursuits.
Lizbeth had dreaded her come-out when the time came, preferring time with her father and the company of local villagers to any promise Society might offer. Charlotte, on the other hand, spent years preparing for her debut. With her aunt’s guidance, Charlotte prepared herself for the life she wanted, remaining indoors to maintain her milky complexion, learning the pianoforte, taking dance lessons, studying languages, painting, and mastering all other attributes expected of a young lady.
Everyone loved Charlotte. She had her mother’s beauty and an inviting personality, making love to everyone with demure smiles, batting eyelashes, and innocent optimism.
No one loved Lizbeth. Few even knew her.
She withdrew from crowds and was, in this way, rarely seen to be neither liked nor disliked. She knew how to behave when she had to be seen, but in truth, she was still far too blunt, level headed, and critical of thought to be favored in polite conversation. She shared her father’s radical political views and her mother’s sarcastic humor, neither of which aided her tact in conversation.
This year, Charlotte’s dream came true, a dream Liz couldn’t understand. She could understand if her sister wanted to marry for love, but she couldn’t understand marrying a pompous rake because Society expected a woman of beauty and wealth to do just that. Liz’s happiness for the engagement was bittersweet. She only hoped her sister could remain content with the dream she had seen to fruition.
Then, she shouldn’t be so quick to judge her sister’s circumstances considering her own current straits—falling for a stranger with a veiled past.
But who could blame her when a relationship with a man had never felt so comfortable, so right, despite his idiosyncrasies? She had not lived her life a complete recluse, for she did have her share of former suitors, but they were all of one type or the other, namely widows or cits.
The widows saw her as a safe match, a sensible and tender woman who could raise their children. The cits valued her intelligence and sizable dowry, seeing her as a prime catch to live the merchant life and financially back their growing business, not to mention the distant hope of possibly inheriting her father’s mine by way of marriage.
Never had a man wooed her. Never had a man physically attracted her. Never had a man earned her respect. Never had a man made love to her with his words, wit, or eyes.
Until now.
The past week only softened her heart more for him. Private conversations were in short order given they had only shared company within the presence of their families and friends, but she didn’t need private conversations to enjoy his companionship or the admiring glances he flashed her direction.
During the first evening after the betrothal, Sebastian and Annick visited for dinner and charades. With the family focused on the newly engaged couple, they ignored the shared conversations between Liz and Sebastian. The next evening, the entire Trethow and Collingwood clan ventured to the ducal townhome for a soirée, complete with card games and a performance on the pianoforte by Charlotte with Annick turning the pages.
Two evenings later, they all attended a crowded rout at a ton member’s home, a squeeze of epic proportions. Eyes had focused on Charlotte and the bridegroom, never regarding the two forgotten figures in the back of the room with heads bowed in conspiratorial conversation.
Sebastian claimed to admire her intellect and value her thoughts. Did he really think her wonderful, despite her manly exploits into philosophy and literature, regardless of her bold outspokenness, even with her advancing age and humble appearance?
He claimed to admire her because of those traits. She certainly felt comfortable with him. More than comfortable. She felt at home with him. More than that even. She was physically attracted to him, desperate for his embrace once again, wistful to finish the kiss they almost shared. She shamelessly appreciated his somber elegance at every opportunity.
Throughout the burgeoning friendship, however, their conversation from the betrothal party still echoed in her mind.
Why did he believe he didn’t deserve love? Who had he loved and hurt—a former lover, perhaps? She wished she could learn more about his past, but she worried about ruffling his feathers. And that was the very sticking point. If he were her perfect man, she shouldn’t have to worry about ruffling feathers.
Perhaps she was deluding herself in believing she understood him more with each passing day. The fact remained, he still held a superior coolness, enshrouding himself in secrecy, never mentioning his past nor his family.
Considering herself a pat
ient listener, she suspected all he needed was time and space to form his thoughts without feeling forced into unveiling his fears. If true, then she could help him exorcise whatever demons he claimed to have. But she didn’t yet trust him enough not to push her away if she pressed a sensitive topic. As undeniably attracted to him as she was, she was apprehensive, as well. What if she underestimated his needs and overestimated her ability to help him? She couldn’t live in a shadow.
She had declined the suits in the past because they only wanted her as a convenient spouse. What of her desires? She wasn’t a convenient spouse to be tucked in a cupboard.
Much of her childhood had been spent in a similar fashion after Mama died. Papa withdrew into himself the years immediately following her death, leaving Lizbeth to run the household, a seven-year-old girl deciding the menu for meals, leading her father to bed when he couldn’t move from the fireside so lost in a trance of mourning, caring for an infant who needed a parent, not a sister. Liz learned through the long recovery how and when to communicate with Papa, how to draw him out of his shell.
Choosing to live the rest of her life in a similar situation would be murder to her soul. Spinsterhood was a far more attractive choice than running a household from the shadows or loving an uncommunicative man lost to grief. Was Sebastian any different from her former suitors, any less forbidding than her father in mourning for his beloved?
The physical attraction between her and Sebastian left her breathless. And she couldn’t deny the emotional connection between them. But given his brooding moods, his saturnine expressions, his sensitive temper, what would happen over another trifle misunderstanding—would he shut her out completely?
She didn’t fancy walking on eggshells the rest of her life. His eyes revealed a good man who had been deeply hurt by something or someone, leaving a possibly irreparable wound. She wanted to believe that with someone to care for him, his defenses would melt. If only he knew tenderness and the loving arms of a woman. But oh, what a risk. She would be putting her happiness on the line, pitting her sympathy against his demons.
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