by Gaelen Foley
“I’ve told you how stylish he is.”
A hint of temper flashed across her brow. “It’s not the Regent come, my lady.”
“Headstrong gel. Take that awful thing off, at least.” Lady Strathmore pointed to her head.
Lizzie frowned, touching her white muslin house cap. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It makes you look old.”
“I am old,” she insisted.
“Child, I have gowns in my closet that are older than you. Well, suit yourself, stubborn creature. You always do. But don’t blame me if Devlin teases you about your dress. He is always teasing,” she added with lavish doting.
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh-ho, dear miss, there is little my nephew would not dare. I cannot wait for you to meet him at last!”
“My lady, I pray you, do not set your hopes too high,” Lizzie warned with an earnest shake of her head. “I doubt His Lordship will be able to stay long.”
Especially when he realized the truth of her deception.
“Of course he won’t stay long, silly chit. One can hardly expect a Corinthian of Devlin’s mettle to spend his days squiring his old dragon aunt around Bath. Now, do hurry, Miss Carlisle. It is a grand occasion!” Lady Strathmore gripped the wheels of her Bath chair and rolled herself out of the ground-floor parlor and toward the entrance hall.
Change my gown, indeed. For what? Lizzie scoffed. Glamorous, highborn rakes did not even see plain, sensible women like her, she knew from experience. Besides, she had too much self-respect to go prancing about in finery merely to attract the notice of a loose-living scoundrel whose character she doubted and whose manner of living she disparaged.
But despite her employer’s urge to hurry, she lingered in the parlor a moment longer, a trifle apprehensive to learn what manner of man she had deceived. Hearing his horse’s hoofbeats approaching even now, she sidled over to the window, nudged one of the lace curtains aside, and stole a discreet peek out.
Instantly, her eyes flared with alarm—and a certain measure of confusion.
There must be some mistake. The man she saw did not match her expectations one iota—not a pampered prince, but a fierce-eyed, black-haired warrior-hellion, who yanked his snorting horse to a clattering halt and flung down from the saddle, his sodden greatcoat whirling around his massive frame with the motion. A brooding scowl hardened the ruthless planes and angles of his fiendishly handsome face, sun-coppered, she realized, by his adventures in more sultry climes.
Stalking swiftly toward the house, he was wild and wind tousled, dripping with the elements, his chiseled face flecked with mud and cold with hellbent will. He paid no mind to the groom who dashed out to meet him and captured the pawing horse’s bridle. His battle stare was fixed on the front door.
Lizzie’s heart stopped for a second in sheer disbelief as she stared at him, fascinated and appalled. It was all too easy, in a flash, to imagine him in flowing desert garb, strapped with a huge, curved sword; too easy to picture him roaring orders at his crew from the storm-lashed rigging of his gun-ship.
Good heavenly Lord. She gulped.
Surely this ruthless-looking giant was not the man she had crossed. Not the decadent London rake she had planned to take to task like a truant schoolboy.
Devil Strathmore could not have been more intimidating if he were clad in black chain mail with a broadsword in his leather-gauntleted hands.
His jet-black mane was a wild tangle that flowed over his shoulders. Her eyes widened to spy the small gold hoop that glinted in his left earlobe, paganlike.
Then he cast a glance over his shoulder at his horse—perhaps making sure he had not killed the animal in his haste—and it was then that Lizzie spotted the scarlet streak of blood that marred his right cheek, beneath the spatters of mud and grime from the road.
With a gasp, she clapped her hand to her mouth. He was bleeding! But why? What had happened? He marched on, and she leaned forward so fast to keep watching him that she bumped her forehead on the wavy glass, but he exited her line of vision, disappearing into the house.
Oh, dear. She winced and rubbed her brow in dazed dismay as she withdrew from the window. Oh, dear, oh, dear. For the first time, the possibility occurred to her that she might have made a…serious miscalculation. She heard the front door open from a distance through the house, but suddenly did not know what to think. Until this moment, the main evidence on which she had based her admittedly low opinion of the dowager’s nephew was the steady stream of his bills that arrived each month on Her Ladyship’s desk.
Lizzie knew she knew she had no business peeking at her employer’s correspondence, but once she had begun to suspect how Darling Dev was taking advantage of his aunt’s blind love, she had made it her business to keep an eye on those despicable endless bills. Each one had made her a little more resentful than the last, but his gambling debt that had come last week had been the last straw, pushing her past the point of fury into brazen action. For reasons she did not care to examine, Lizzie had been so outraged by his insolent assumption that his rich aunt would pay his gambling debts, no questions asked, that she had dashed out her letter with shaking hands and had sent it to London by the express messenger, bent on teaching the cad a lesson.
If he came every now and then—if he cared—it would be different, but the blackguard could not even be bothered to write his aunt the occasional letter, never mind the old woman thought the sun shone for him and paid all his bills, placing no restraints on him whatsoever. Lady Strathmore might never complain, but as Her Ladyship’s caretaker, Lizzie was fed up with it. She could not bear another day of watching the lonely old woman staring out the window for endless hours with her heart slowly breaking, thinking she had been forgotten by her only living kin.
Coldly satisfied with her dispatch, she had thought herself fully prepared for Lord Strathmore’s reaction when he arrived. She had imagined a pampered rogue sulking and huffing and stomping about in his overpriced boots, fretting over the fact that he would miss a few nights’ revels all for naught, but his ire would not ruffle her calm nature, and her ruse had at least a chance, she had hoped, of teaching him to appreciate his aunt’s love.
It had seemed a perfect plan. From the moment she had penned her angry letter, there had been no doubt in her mind that she had done the right thing.
But now the thought of that hard-eyed giant’s wrath made her heart pump with trepidation, while guilt begin poking at her overactive conscience. Why was he bleeding?
It was unlike her to lie under any circumstances: she had certainly not intended for the man to suffer physical injury because of her deception. Had he taken a spill on the road? Well, it was no wonder, given the weather last night, she mused, then shook her head to herself uneasily. Riding all night through blizzardlike conditions was hardly the sign of a man who did not care.
Normally rock-sure of her judgment, she felt thrown off balance and glanced toward the parlor door, wondering how to proceed. A disturbing suspicion was forming at the back of her mind that she had somehow confused Devil Strathmore with someone else. Some other London rake. Someone whose name had been struck from the book of her mind with a great, black X and who, henceforth, would only be referred to as A Certain Person.
And then another thought struck her, one so dire that the color drained from her face. Lady Strathmore was going to be furious.
Good God, it was bad enough that she had dared to deceive a man so far above her station, even if her intentions had been the very best. But if Darling Dev had been injured because of her meddling, why, that could be grounds for dismissal! This might well cost her her job.
A wave of faint nausea washed over her as she remembered anew of the bitter reality of her station. Would she never learn? She was not part of the family. The dowager’s villa had begun to feel like home, but it was not really her home, and if she displeased, she could be sent packing, like any other employee. Truly scared now, her mouth going dry, Lizzie bunched her
fists at her sides, gathered her courage, and forced herself out of the parlor to meet her fate.
Instead of going directly to the entrance hall, however, she glided down the hallway to the closet tucked beneath the stairs, reached in, and took out a nice, clean, folded, white towel. She shut the closet silently, then turned and squared her shoulders. Holding the towel against her chest, she did her best to school her expression into one that she hoped resembled her usual serenity and marched resolutely toward the entrance hall, fairly certain she was about to get the sack. What then? she thought. Where will I go? She had no home of her own. She never had. All her life she had lived on the fringes of other people’s families.
Dragging her feet down the corridor to the entrance hall, Lizzie heard Lady Strathmore’s regal voice lifted in joy to greet her nephew while the staff made much of him.
The man, no doubt, was baffled.
She could hear a deep, gentle baritone voice anxiously questioning Her Ladyship. She closed her eyes at the bewildered anguish in his tone. He sounded thoroughly shaken.
“What’s happened, Aunt Augusta? Tell me everything at once. Why are you out of bed? Shouldn’t you be lying down?”
“Lying down? Devlin, it is the middle of the day.”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?” The dowager sounded bemused.
A pause.
“I thought—That is to say—Do you mean you’re…all right?”
“Of course, I’m all right.” The dowager laughed unconcernedly. “Darling, what in the world?”
Lizzie arrived at the far end of the entrance hall and stopped, her presence yet unnoticed. Seeing them, her heart clenched at the unexpected tableau before her: Lady Strathmore was an aged queen on her throne, her nephew on one knee before her like her most devoted knight, mud streaked and bloodied from battle. Dripping with cold and shivering a little, he searched her face with an earnest, upward gaze, the shadow of frantic fear in his light eyes.
“You’re sure—there’s nothing wrong? You would not lie to me, Aunt Augusta? You are feeling well?”
“I’m fine, Devlin!” The dowager chuckled. “Dear boy, did you come all this way to ask me that?”
“Yes,” he whispered, and stared at her for a long moment, comprehending at last that she was telling the truth. Then he closed his eyes with a look of utter relief and slowly laid his forehead on her knee.
“Darling, what is the matter?” Lady Strathmore rested her hand on his tousled hair. “You’re beginning to scare me, Devlin. Where is your carriage? You’re a mess.”
“I know. Sorry.” He did not lift his head.
“My God, Devlin, is that blood on your cheek? What’s happened?” the dowager cried.
“Mishap on the road. It’s nothing,” he said, quickly ending her fright.
“What is going on? I demand that you tell me right now—”
“I missed you,” he whispered. “That’s all.”
Staring at him with deepening wonder, thoroughly mystified, Lizzie shivered with some strange, vaguely frightening emotion. Why did he not speak out? He could have exposed her, could have mentioned her letter, but he had not. At least not yet.
“There, there, my sweet boy,” his aunt chided, petting his sleek raven hair for a moment. “You know I’m always here for you. Tell me what’s the matter, Devlin. I shall fret with worry till you do.”
“I…had a dream you were sick.”
“Well, I daresay I’m in better shape than you. Put your mind at ease. Dr. Bell was here a short while ago and said I’m as right as rain. Didn’t he, Lizzie?”
At the mention of her name, his head snapped up. His eyes narrowed.
Lizzie tensed, awkwardly holding the towel. His gaze fixed on her, and the coldness that came into his pale, glittering eyes made her gulp.
Oh, yes, it seemed he had figured it out.
Lady Strathmore did not appear to notice the sudden hostile tension that crackled in the air. “Dev, dear, you have not met my young companion. Allow me to present Miss Elizabeth Carlisle.”
Rising with a smooth motion, he stared at her, for all the world like a big, bristling wolf.
“Lizzie, this is my Devlin.” Beaming, the old lady clung to his gauntleted hand.
He moved in front of his aunt slightly—as if to protect the dowager from Lizzie!
“My lord.” Her heart thumping, she managed a stilted curtsy.
“Miss…Carlisle.” The way he held her in an arctic stare, it seemed she was not so invisible, after all; all things considered, she rather wished at the moment that she were. His sea-bright eyes brimmed with dangerous fury and a rich promise that she was in for it.
Still waiting on the very knife edge for him to expose her lie, she swallowed hard and ventured forward with her peace offering. “Um, towel?”
CHAPTER
THREE
What the hell was going on? Raw nerved and jittery with exhaustion, his heart pounding, head reeling with the aftermath of shock and fear, Dev took the towel warily but kept his outraged glare pinned on her as he ran it over his damp hair. His relief upon finding his aunt well was so complete, he could have wept, but his fury grew as the evidence of how he had been duped sank in. A trick! But how? And for God’s sake, why? He did not know this chit. He had never wronged her. Why would she torture him like this?
“Shall we repair to the parlor, children? I’ll have the servants draw you a bath, Dev, dear. It will be but a moment.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he growled, his gaze still fixed on the young deceiver—this “Lizzie” person—this stranger who had invaded the only home he’d known in years and seemed to have taken it over.
She dropped her gaze, all cool serenity, turning away from his fiery glower. Veiling her dove-gray eyes beneath the sweep of her dusky lashes, she grasped the handles of his aunt’s Bath chair and assisted her without a word, wheeling the dowager into the parlor.
Dev tracked them slowly, keeping a guarded distance. He was ravenously hungry, soaked to the skin, and did not own a muscle that did not ache, but the day would never come when he was too hungry or fatigued to notice a shapely young female in his sights, especially one that he knew now to be dangerously clever.
Good God, the chit had played him like a harpsichord.
He was in no mood to admire the sheer brazenness of it. At the moment, her mysterious allure only added insult to injury. Inspecting her rudely from behind, he hoped that she could feel his stare and that it unnerved her. Her prim, beige gown, high-necked and long-sleeved, was sprigged with small white flowers, but Dev’s practiced eye took in the way the soft, light muslin draped her round bottom and flowed against her hips with her gliding walk. The floppy white house cap that hid her hair was better suited to a spinster twice her age, but a few soft-brown curls escaped the ugly thing to play at her nape, as though beckoning him to tear it off and loose the rest of her tightly suppressed locks.
Upon reaching the parlor, she maneuvered the Bath chair around so that his aunt could face him, then went to the table and brought the old woman her tea. Dev watched her every move. For a moment, he did not hear a word his aunt was saying. Time seemed to slow in his fascination as his gaze drifted down to the young woman’s gentle, white hands.
Steady and soft, unerringly capable, they fluffed the pillow behind his aunt’s back, then snugged the old woman’s shawl more closely around her bony shoulders. The demure simplicity of those hands, and the tiny lace ruffle at her dainty wrists, did something strange to his insides.
His hungry stare traveled up her slender arms until it came to her breasts, round and smooth and tantalizing. Between them dangled a small, plain crucifix on a gold strand. No sign of vanity, this. Not like the glittering whores he slept with in Town.
This was something altogether new…and very, very dangerous.
As she bent down to pick up the handkerchief his aunt dropped and handed it back to her with a smile, there was such tender sweetness in her eyes, such dign
ity and quiet strength in her manner that Dev, exhausted, felt something in him break.
He was so tired and hungry and cold.
Bleary-eyed, he stared at Miss Carlisle as if she might know better what to do with him than he knew what to do with himself.
Slowly, she looked over and met his gaze in guarded uncertainty.
Their eyes locked, and Dev forgot all about her drab clothes.
Elizabeth Carlisle had the flawless complexion of a woman whose daily habits were beyond reproach. Only plenty of sleep, wholesome food, fresh country air, and a stainless conscience could have produced such creamy perfection, naught but a tinge of roses in her cheeks. She had a high forehead, a prominent nose that thrust forth at a decisive angle, straight and true, and finely shaped eyebrows of walnut brown. The left curved slightly higher than the right, giving her a quizzical expression, as though she were perpetually mulling over some intriguing notion. But her mouth was soft and sensitive, her lips plump, silky pink, and Dev had to jerk himself roughly out of her spell.
On your guard, man. The lying little baggage was a menace. His scowl returned just as the sound of clip-clopping hoofbeats approached, grinding carriage wheels clattering up the drive.
“Who can that be?” Aunt Augusta murmured, turning toward the window.
Through the lace curtain, Dev saw his shiny black traveling-coach roll up in front of the house, Ben peering out the carriage window.
He shook his head to himself in disgust. So much for his haste. The luxurious traveling coach was a larger, slower vehicle, but obviously whatever time Dev had gained by taking his fast, ill-fated curricle had been lost again in sorting out the accident. He wished he had saved himself the trouble and had traveled in comfort, when a familiar voice from the doorway broke into his churning thoughts.
“Excuse me, my lady?” Mrs. Rowland, the housekeeper who had served his aunt for thirty years, popped her head in the doorway with a questioning look. She was a short, stout, ruddy-cheeked woman of sixty in a white house cap and apron. “Might I trouble you for a moment, ma’am?”