by Gaelen Foley
“No.” Dev shook his head. “She serves her purpose here. Even I can see that. She takes good care of my aunt.” With this begrudging acknowledgment, he considered for a moment. “No, this is between Lizzie Carlisle and me.”
“What do you mean to do to the girl?”
Dev’s eyes gleamed in the reflection as he ran his hand over his still-damp hair, smoothing it. “She is rather a tasty little thing.”
“Sir!” Ben breathed. “You mustn’t!”
Dev turned elegantly to him, feigning innocence. “Hm?”
“Oh, no. I know that look. You leave her alone!” Ben took a step toward him. “She’s just a young lady. She meant no harm!”
“Neither do I.” Dev smiled cynically and turned back to the mirror, making a last adjustment of his cravat.
“It’s just a bit of sport, Ben. Teach the chit a lesson.” Giving his reflection a cool, final glance of approval, he ignored Ben’s protests and left his chamber. He headed down to the drawing room, where he had been instructed to meet the ladies before dinner. Hands in pockets, he was sauntering down the hallway toward the grand staircase, assuring his stung male pride that he would very soon even the score, when suddenly, he stopped in his tracks—and stared.
Coming down the hallway from the opposite direction was Miss Carlisle. For a heartbeat, he almost did not recognize her.
The floppy white house cap was gone, its owner quite transformed.
He watched her dazedly. Her silky hair shone in the candlelight, a rich and lovely shade of warm, walnut brown; it was curled and pinned in an elegant topknot that showed off the clean line of her jaw and the graceful arc of her white neck. Her frumpy beige day-dress had been replaced by a charming, high-waisted dinner gown of rose-pink satin. The low candlelight from the wall sconces played over her pearlescent complexion and the rich fabric of her dress, giving the material a liquid shimmer as she strode toward him, her ankle-length skirts belling slightly over her matching pink slippers.
His entranced stare feasted on the expanse of creamy skin that the wide-scooped neckline of her dress displayed, the tempting hint of womanly cleavage. The girl was well made, he thought in admiration as she came nearer. Beautifully well made, with soft, generous curves ripe for his skilled seduction.
He lowered his chin a bit to continue holding her gaze as she joined him at the top of the stairs. She stopped a foot or so from him, hanging back at a wary distance.
In spite of himself, he offered her a rueful half-smile; it smoldered with approval. She regarded him in trepidation, but the blush that bloomed in her cheeks was almost as pink as her gown. He thrilled to the way her dove-gray eyes darkened to a smoky deep blue as her gaze skimmed him, in turn.
His desire to get her alone quickened apace, but suddenly it was not so much for the sake of teaching her a lesson as it was for his own sensual enjoyment.
“Well,” she said, veiling the sparkle of interest in her eyes behind her demure long lashes, “I trust you are in a better humor, my lord.”
“I am now,” he agreed in a caressing tone. “You, my dear Miss Carlisle, are a very rose in this dark winter.” He stole her hand gently from her side and lifted it to his lips, bending his head to place a courtly kiss on her knuckles.
“Don’t even try,” she advised softly, and at the smile of chiding amusement she sent him, Dev felt her feminine power with every fiber of his being. Withdrawing her hand from his light grasp, she turned away, daintily lifted the hem of her skirts, and started down the staircase.
“Try what?” he countered, pouncing down a couple of steps to land in front of her.
The move allowed him to block her path and put them on eye level, since she stood two steps above him. He rested his foot on the step beside her, edging nearer. Near enough to kiss her.
Or to get slapped. She did neither, inspecting him with a skeptical stare.
“Look here,” she said briskly, taking the situation in hand with a businesslike air that he found thoroughly adorable. “We seem to have started off on the wrong foot, you and I. I think it’s safe to say we both acted badly in the parlor, but it does not signify. All that matters is your aunt.”
He gazed at her lips as she spoke. “On that, we are in perfect union.”
She blushed at the silken innuendo and pretended not to understand his meaning. “Good. Then let us both do our best to be agreeable at dinner, hm? After that, you stay out of my way and I shall stay out of yours.”
“Not a chance,” he whispered.
She gave him a look and then went around him, as steady as his weatherly little brigantine in an Atlantic gale.
Dev’s eyes flickered hungrily at the challenge as she flounced off ahead of him. His Cherokee friends had taught him that there were certain beasts in the forest from whom one must never run. Flight only triggered the predator’s instincts to chase.
Somebody should have warned Miss Carlisle.
With another pantherlike jump, he landed agilely in her path and leaned on the banister with a pleasantly flirtatious smile. “As it happens, I have a proposition for you, my dear.”
“Oh, I’m sure you have a whole repertoire of them, my lord.”
“I speak in earnest. Hear me out.”
She gave a bored sigh, but her eyes sparkled as she met his playful gaze. “Very well.”
“I propose a truce,” he said. “I shall concede that you sent your deceitful letter with admirable intentions if you admit, in turn, that I indeed care for my aunt, not just her money, as evidenced by the speed of my arrival. What say you?”
“Hmm.” She feigned indecision, holding his stare. “I suppose we ought to at least try to get along, for it would upset Her Ladyship if we were cross with each other at table.”
“Precisely.”
“But under the terms of this truce, am I still in danger of losing my job?”
He gave her a sardonic smile. “I never had any intention of getting you sacked, chérie. Pity, though, how you make me show mercy. I’m sure I could have used the threat to wrest any number of interesting favors from you.”
“Hmm, no doubt.” Gazing at him for a moment, she lifted her hand to his cheek and inspected his cut in fretful sympathy. “Your poor face. This is all my fault,” she murmured. “Does it hurt very much?”
For a moment, Dev could not breathe let alone speak, electrified by her feather-light caress. “No,” he managed to force out, his voice gone a trifle hoarse. Her innocence ravished his defenses; his whole being begged her in a silent whisper, Take me.
“I’m glad it wasn’t worse.”
He flinched at the denial when she took her touch away, lowering her hand again to her side, but the artless smile she gave him was nearly his undoing. It dimpled both her glowing cheeks and lit her gray-blue eyes like silver sun-shafts piercing through a dark cloud-lattice. He could not tear his gaze away. It was the most generous, radiant smile he’d ever seen, and the kindest. He had the strange feeling he was out of his depth as a thousand questions about her exploded through his mind, fireworks on a midsummer’s night. Who was this angel? Where had she come from? He suddenly wanted to know everything about her.
“Very well,” she resumed brightly, “I shall accept your truce, Lord Strathmore. And now we really should hurry. Your aunt will be waiting.”
“May I?” He offered her his arm.
She smiled again, flicking a cautious glance over his face as she slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. Dev sent her his own heated smile, absorbing the sheer lightning when they touched like a jolt from a Leyden jar. She seemed to feel it, too, quickly looking away with a fiery blush in her cheeks. They exchanged another guarded look full of fascination, but spoke no more as they went down together to dine.
Wistfulness—this maudlin sentimentality—was a most unaccustomed caprice for an old dragon lady who prided herself on her eccentricity and her ability to terrify rude young persons. But as Lady Strathmore gazed into the crackling fireplace, waiting for t
he others to join her, she was filled with the sense of time slipping away. And so it was. She would not live to see the spring. She could feel it in her tired old bones, no matter what that beardless whelp, Dr. Bell, had to say on the subject. Tut-tut, she scolded herself.
Death, after all, did not scare Augusta Strathmore. Any woman who had flouted the Patronesses of Almack’s could hardly tremble before the Reaper. In any case, she was not sorry to go, for there had been a woeful lack of amusing conversation for some years now, all her most interesting friends having gone senile or hopped off into the afterlife ahead of her.
What mattered was that she could look back in pride on a long life well lived. The heiress of an iron ore tycoon, she had crowned her ambitious papa’s efforts in life by snaring a penniless viscount for a husband, God rest his soul. She had never borne Jacob any children, for the odd duck had foolishly died shortly after their wedding. Ah, but she had led a merry life—had taken the Grand Tour before the war—why, once she had even danced with the now-mad old king, poor fellow. Such days! Oh, yes, she had given the ton a shock or two in her time, she mused as she toyed with her jet beads. She had countless fine memories and no regrets….
But one.
He walked in at that moment, tall, dark, and dashing in his black formal clothes—Augusta opted to ignore the earring. The white flash of his grin was as charming as ever, but she knew better than anyone that her beloved nephew was unreachable, locked within himself these twelve years behind fortress walls of pain. After all that he had been through, she shuddered to think of how he would take it when it came her time to go. She could not bear to think of leaving him so all alone.
To her surprise, however, he came in escorting Lizzie. Augusta smiled, charmed to see her shy young companion looking more her age in the pretty pink satin. Why, the child could be perfectly lovely when she wasn’t trying to blend into the wallpaper. She gave Lizzie a regal nod, discreetly acknowledging her compliance with her request; but, privately, Augusta was bemused to see the two of them together after the mysterious tiff she had overheard in the parlor.
They made a comely pair as they crossed the drawing room to her: Devlin dark and suave, Lizzie fair and sweet. They looked as natural together as if they had known each other all their lives. Soon she was surrounded by the rosy glow of their youthful vitality; Augusta, however, eagle-eyed as always, was quick to note the subtle glances that passed between them.
My, my, she mused. Now here was a curious state of affairs. Come to think of it, there was something altogether mysterious about her nephew’s unannounced visit today, bloodied and covered in mud. It was peculiar behavior, even for Dev.
Between his odd visitation and the whispered battle she had heard coming from inside the parlor earlier, Augusta was reminded again of Lizzie’s outraged reaction a few days ago to the arrival of Dev’s latest gambling IOU.
The girl apparently had some strange aversion to gambling.
When the post-boy had brought the note, the chit had grown so furious in her silent way that she had actually begun shaking. Her lips had turned white, and she’d made an excuse to leave Augusta’s side, taking a few minutes alone to becalm her rage. Augusta had marked her reaction closely because it was unlike the steady girl to lose her temper over anything.
Now she began to wonder if tranquil Lizzie had not taken matters into her own hands in bringing Augusta’s errant nephew to Bath. The girl was very loyal, after all. What had she done? the dowager wondered with rising curiosity and growing amusement.
Then she noticed Dev gazing at Lizzie with a golden luster in his eyes and a telltale softening of his aquiline features. For her part, Lizzie, the would-be spinster, returned his stare with one of her gentle smiles, blushing a little.
Good heavens! thought Augusta.
It was only a look—just a fleeting glance—ah, but one look was all that a first-rate matchmaker required.
CHAPTER
FOUR
How did he do it? Maybe by some dark magic he had learned in an exotic land? Lizzie wondered. How did Devil Strathmore fill her mind with the most improper thoughts? The wine at dinner seemed to go straight to Lizzie’s head; the evening was a swirl of sensory opulence, and she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Candlelight danced over sparkling silver and fine china plates on a field of snowy white damask; it glittered in golden spangles over crystal wine goblets and was cast back by large gilt-framed mirrors hung from plum-colored walls. The hearth fire crackled cozily beneath a white marble chimney piece, and liveried footmen manned their posts by the wall, ever ready to serve. The table was richly laid, the dining room a setting of luxurious elegance for the unspoken interplay between the two of them.
Lady Strathmore sat at the head of the table, unwittingly giving Devlin and Lizzie an unfettered view of each other through the intimate glow of the candelabra. Though they had based their truce on an agreement that what mattered most was the viscountess, Lizzie feared his aunt would soon notice they were entirely engrossed in each other.
She was stunned to find herself capable of capturing the notice of such a gorgeous specimen. Dressed to perfection and utterly dashing, he was elegant and savage with his swarthy skin and formal clothes, dangerously seductive. His coal-black hair was tamed back in a sleek queue, but his golden earring and the long, thin scratch on his cheek added to his aura of untamed male power. Every move he made mesmerized her—the slow, sensuous drumming of his fingertips at the base of his wine goblet; the way he stroked his chiseled jaw in thought; his languid pose as he leaned back in his chair, the very picture of lordly leisure, his broad shoulders slouching, his hand tucked contentedly into his waistcoat.
Watching him eat did strange things to her in some deep, primal layer of her being, but his aunt was right—the man had a lusty appetite. He had made short work of the first course of peas-soup, roasted beef, and salmon with smelts. For her part, Lizzie had such butterflies in her stomach that she could only pick at her food, though she felt half-starved. She could barely comprehend her own mood, all eager and trembly. She feared she was a trifle smitten, which she knew was absurd, because men like him flirted with everyone. It meant nothing.
And yet he was wonderful with his aunt, irresistibly charming; he was kind to the servants; and the way he looked at Lizzie made her wonder if any man had ever truly seen her until now.
If there was any doubt that he was flirting with her, he removed it the moment he stretched his long legs out under the table and slowly rested his crossed heels between her slippered feet. Her eyes widened in shock, but he gave no outward sign of his mischief, resting his chin on his hand as he listened to Lady Strathmore telling him the local gossip.
Subtly, oh so subtly, he slid Lizzie a roguish look from under his long, black lashes. She nearly moaned aloud at the banked sensuality in his glance, but she quickly smothered the sound, so all that came out was a small cough.
Though she did her best to hide her desire, she suspected he knew exactly what was going on in her mind—for he was as smooth and worldly as they came—and this thrilled her despite herself.
“I hope you do not mind our country hours, Dev, dear,” his aunt was saying. “I’m sure you do not dine till ten in Town.”
“Not to worry, ma’am, I can always eat. The question is, will you?”
The dowager pooh-poohed his pointed glance at her thin, frail figure. “What news of London, darling? Any juicy on-dits?”
“Let’s see.” With a rakish smile playing at his lips, he took a leisurely sip of his wine. “Prinny has shaved off his side-whiskers,” he declared, setting his glass down again.
“Has he, indeed?” Lady Strathmore asked with interest. “And what of Princess Charlotte? Is she breeding yet? Oh, don’t blush, Lizzie—if the princess does not bear a child, there will be chaos in the line of succession. I daresay England should get something out of that German prince the gel wed last summer, in light of all we’ve given him.”
“No word ye
t, ma’am, but I’m sure the newlyweds are doing their best. After all, they say it is a love match.” Devlin sent Lizzie a mirthful look over his wineglass.
“And what of Gloucester’s wedding to Princess Mary? I heard they held their first at home. How was it?”
“Exceeding dull, nor will I discuss the new theater season until you eat something more than a few drops of soup. Really, Aunt Augusta, a good breeze could blow you away. But enough of those royal buffoons. They’re not half so interesting as present company. Miss Carlisle, for instance. My dear, you must allow me to improve my acquaintance with your fair self. Where do hail from? Who are your people? What was your last position before you came to be in my aunt’s employ?”
“Is this an interview, my lord?”
“Yes,” he declared with a grin. “A belated one. I must make certain you are a worthy companion for my aunt.”
He sent her a playful wink while the dowager scoffed. “Oh, Devlin.”
Lizzie smiled back at him, but before she could answer, the second course arrived, slightly lighter fare of game and pastries and stewed fruits. The parade of footmen uncovered silver-domed dishes of woodcocks, hare, and scalloped oysters. There were stewed pippins, a dish of jelly, muffin pudding, and a pear tart with a fine flaky crust.
After refilling their wine from crystal decanters, the servants withdrew.
Devlin regarded her expectantly. “Well? I am all ears, Miss Carlisle.”
She set down her fork, yielding to the spirit of fun he had cast over the table. “Well, then, let’s see. I was born in Cumberland, where my father served as land steward to the Duke of Hawkscliffe, as did his father before him, and his father’s father, and so on. Unfortunately, Papa died when I was four. His heart gave out while overseeing the June haymaking. My mother had preceded him the year before, of yellow fever. But I have little memory of either one.”
“I am so sorry,” he said quickly, looking genuinely taken aback.
She merely shrugged and gave him a hapless smile.