by Julia Donner
“You may say it as often as you like. I quite agree. Merrick, have you ever handled a pistol?”
Merrick blinked her large, gray eyes and straightened her slender frame. “Why, no, ma’am. I know nothing of firearms.”
“Ah, well. It was just a thought. I’d like a few moments to myself before his lordship arrives. Please let me know the instant he comes through the door.”
After the sitting room door clicked shut, her heart began to race. Tonight she would meet famous Sir Harry. She hoped they would like each other. She missed having a brother. But that wasn’t why she needed slow breaths to calm the excitement pounding inside her chest. This always happened when she knew she’d soon be with him, the man who next week would be her husband.
Chapter 18
Asterly strode along darkened streets in scowling concentration. He’d chosen to walk the distance to Cavendish, since the rest of the evening required staying seated. He desperately needed to work off gnawing energy.
All day, he’d been plagued by an unfamiliar agitation similar to anxiety but didn’t precisely feel anxious or worried. The grip on his cane had numbed his fingers. He relaxed his hand and tried not to feel so much concern about pushing Elizabeth into too much, too fast, but he had no other choice. Others were pushing him and he feared she might back out.
There was so much about her that he admired. Prior to meeting her, his attraction had been somewhat avuncular, essentially the lonely soldier’s dream of an ideal comfort fantasy. Devon’s constant recitals told of his wife’s sly humor, her consideration of others, but when pushed, a steely resolve to follow a course to its end. Even though she’d been raised in luxury, she had a keen, quiet eye for those less fortunate.
Peregrine had a particular fascination with her knack of absorbing a problem like a thirsty sponge. He’d watched her glide over numerous social blunders her guests made, calming the waters after a disagreement. She glossed over a faux pas before the offender and the offended had the chance to comprehend the insult. She was born to politics and would make the perfect politician’s wife and a hostess to rival the late Duchess of Devonshire.
Eliza’s best weapon was her smile, one so potent in beauty and openness that it was impossible not to respond with an answering grin—an invaluable asset when it came to crusty, old ministers of Parliament. At her dinners and musical evenings, she invariably had a wake of fawning, older gentlemen following her around like clumsy puppies. They vied for her attention, or more likely, her tantalizing figure and fortune.
Recent thoughts about her were becoming more and more embellished, popping into his workaday world with persistent regularity. It usually occurred somewhere around the time when he started to think about the particular sweetness of her smile, then his thoughts digressed. His imagination would meander down a dangerous avenue and this happened so frequently it had become habit. Wandering focus—an unhealthy practice for a spy.
The fantasies started innocently enough—the memory of a droll remark or comical facial expression. He would then recall her poise in graceful movements in the stylish clothes she loved. She had a figure that any courtesan would envy but she disliked. Her clothes were cleverly designed to conceal generous curves accentuated by fragile bone structure.
How would she look if she tried the popular fashion of dampening her gown? Some fast women did so and eschewed undergarments. Elizabeth was one of the few women he knew with the figure for it but not the inclination.
He usually stopped mooning about her after the frustrating image of her in a dampened gown, which always led to what she would look like dressed only in her chestnut hair. He loved the way her eyes had gone all soft and dark after he’d vented some of his strangling desire with a harmless kiss. Either she was too stunned by his boldness to open her mouth or Devon had not been an avid lover. Recalling Devon’s blissfully simplistic personality, he suspected that was the reason for her lack of experience.
He felt a grin crease his face as he remembered her response after so little coaxing. She’d been without a husband for a long time. He sensed her sexual deprivation, even if she didn’t. At least she wasn’t a cringing virgin. He had no patience for wilting types. Or the ones that coyly protested while using their wiles to wring a begging plea from a suitor. Elizabeth would never do that. Her passion was honest. He wouldn’t have to worry about silly things like putting out the lights and wearing bedclothes. He fancied the idea of disrobing her in front of a mirror so he could watch her reactions.
The clatter of a passing carriage made him aware he’d started walking faster and the aggressive swing of his cane. He abruptly stopped walking and looked around to orient his foggy mind. Blast it! He’d been so lost in imagination that he’d turned down the wrong street. He was still some distance from Cavendish and bumbling about like a stripling with a bad case of calf love. Appalled and impatient with his lack of mental control, he hailed a hackney so he wouldn’t be late.
He waited in the foyer for Elizabeth to come down. The footman eyed him oddly when he refused to remove his cloak and paced as he waited. He dreaded the evening ahead, introducing her to Harry.
The secretive swish of expensive material made him turn and look up. He watched her descend the long staircase and exerted merciless discipline over his wayward urges. He wanted nothing more than to carry away the object of his feverish imaginings to the nearest dark corner, preferably one that contained a bed. At this point, furnishing was optional. Even superfluous. He coughed into his fist to cover a laugh. It felt wonderful to feel so youthful and foolish in her company.
Followed by a young woman he supposed must be Merrick, the dresser he’d been assured was utterly trustworthy. Pretty, prim and aloof, Merrick carried herself with an air of superiority and stern control. She certainly gave the appearance of trustworthiness.
Elizabeth greeted him with a smile. “I’ll only be a moment. The carriage is being brought to the front.”
She stood patiently still while Merrick draped a sable cloak lined with pearly white Nakara satin over her shoulders and arranged the drape, a perfect contrast against the shimmering violet of her gown. No flashy jewelry, only a silver-shot matching shawl Merrick had hooked over her elbows before covering Elizabeth with the cloak.
Merrick curtsied and moved out of the way when Asterly stepped closer to fasten the black frogs at Elizabeth’s throat. “It’s perishing cold out tonight.”
Elizabeth looked up when his gloved knuckles brushed under her chin. She shivered, more from the predatory glint in his gaze than the drafty foyer. Winter’s sharp tang came with the breeze sliding through the door the footman opened. Asterly’s size, made larger by a caped evening cloak, blocked the frigid air from reaching more than the tip of her nose. He seemed to blot out the world as he stood staring down at her, his features taut, his mouth held in a tight line. What did he look for in her?
He smiled enigmatically and turned to lead her down the short flight of steps, leaving her to wonder about the strange tension he’d brought with him. Did he worry about this evening, being seen with her in public for the first time?
Elizabeth gazed out at the night-shadowed, city streets, glad she’d followed her instincts and dressed in an understated fashion. Before Asterly refastened his cloak, she had a glimpse of what he wore—formal black coat set off by a white neckcloth tied in a conservative knot. His austere waistcoat of creamy satin was figured with thin, gold stripes, his strong legs sheathed in black breeches and white stockings. She’d noticed he wasn’t in the habit of wearing jewelry. With the exception of the signet ring, she could distinguish no rings marring the perfect fit of his white gloves. He hadn’t even deigned to wear his orders.
If she had succumbed to Merrick’s suggestions, she would have sat next to Asterly’s somber ensemble feeling and looking like a common paramour.
The silence and tension inside the carriage led her to distract herself with her curiosity about Sir Harry Collyns, a famous—or to others, infamous—membe
r of the ton. Called the handsomest Tulip to ever stroll down Bond Street, his looks were legendary and so awe-inspiring that even Brummell’s aspersions had no effect on Sir Harry’s unequaled popularity. What would Sir Harry have to say about his brother marrying into the trade?
“Asterly, you said that we’ll be using your brother’s box this evening. Will he be waiting for us there?”
“One never knows what Harry will do.”
“You haven’t told me anything about him.”
He shook his head slightly, as if annoyed. “My brother is society’s darling. He has a respectable fortune and a good mind that he refuses to put to use. Harry may be a man-milliner, but no one ever dares to insult him to his face. He maintains active memberships in all the clubs but prefers Waiters. Wastes too much time with that rowdy crew at Limmers.”
“There was a rumor some months ago that he won a fencing match at Offley’s, after which, he bandaged up his opponent and hand-fed him a beefsteak. Is that true?”
“Most likely. I try not to get involved with his lifestyle.”
Neither of them mentioned the much-talked about fact that Harry kept three mistresses. When asked about the extravagance, he replied that he required variety.
Elizabeth gazed out the window at shadowed streets. Crimm reported that Sir Harry hunted with the roughest of the Melton crowd and was invited everywhere by everyone. He always did what he pleased, when he pleased, and never cared what anyone said. The most surprising thing about Sir Harry was that with all his fast and wild ways no one had an unkind word for him. The exceptions were Mr. Brummell’s disagreement regarding Sir Harry’s manner of dress and Peregrine, who had told Elizabeth that he considered his brother to be the worst sort of fribble.
Merrick said that Sir Harry often carried a fan and the woeful explanation that it was for the females who tended to faint from his kind attentions. Unfailingly patient, he fanned afflicted creatures until a burly footman could be found to cart them away.
Elizabeth peered at Asterly’s face in the dim light of the interior lamps—not so gorgeous as to make an inexperienced chit swoon before she made it to the dance floor. But Asterly had devastating charm when he chose to exert himself and a suggestion of danger hovered around him, especially when he smiled.
Merrick also said that Asterly was considered a fine looking gentleman by all. His rugged physique and rigid control sometimes frightened girls just out of the schoolroom. Nevertheless, London’s hostesses depended on either of the twins to stand up with any poor miss clutching an empty dance card.
From the corner of her eye, Elizabeth peered at her escort’s brooding expression. Did he have concerns about how she would present herself? With that thought came the uncomfortable understanding that a great deal depended on the impression she made this first time being seen as a couple.
Elizabeth turned her attention to the congested traffic on Catherine Street, suddenly more than a little eager to meet the flamboyant creature who was about to become her brother. Merrick said Sir Harry never watched theater performances. He attended merely to present himself for the public’s edification and enjoyment, moving from box to box, spreading his beauty around like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower.
When the carriage stopped in front of the theater, she belatedly realized that she’d hardly said a word. Elizabeth bowed her head. “I apologize for being so quiet. I’ve been preoccupied with the silliest ideas.”
“Think nothing of it, m’dear. It’s refreshing not to worry about maintaining a spate of nonsensical chatter for the sake of conversation.”
She hadn’t meant for her answering chuckle to sound so secretive and intimate. His gaze sharpened for a moment before looking away at the patrons on the red-carpeted entrance.
To cover embarrassment, she babbled a reply, “We wouldn’t like to be thought of as nonsensical, especially since I am feeling gauche enough to admit that I’m excited about this evening. If I confess that I’ve never been to a play in London, will you still wish to be seen with me?”
He grinned before stepping out of the carriage, but the smile appeared forced. Waving off an undergroom, he offered his hand. “I wouldn’t hold it against you if you pronounced yourself seriously overset from the anticipation of meeting my pretty brother.”
“I promise not to faint.”
“Many have,” he grumbled.
Chapter 19
Elizabeth swallowed nervousness and fixed a pleasant expression on her face. Do not gawk and gape.
But surrounded by so much arrogance and elegance, her confidence failed. The knowledge that she must win over these people and make them believe that Asterly was so madly in love with her that he refused to wait for banns to be read, seemed more than merely unlikely. Better to encourage the idea of wedding her for financial gain and a path to the political future he desired.
She kept her attention forward, praying not to encounter a familiar face from seminary, especially Lady Gertrude Warrick’s, whose name often appeared in newsprint. She was seen and invited everywhere. Perhaps she wouldn’t be here on this most important night.
The theatre vestibule swarmed with the crush of late arrivals, all eager to be seated. Asterly directed her to follow the glittering horde slowly moving up the crowded staircase that led to the boxes above the main floor and orchestra pit.
She replaced her lack of confidence with the suppressed excitement she always felt being immersed in the theater experience, refusing to allow the haughtiness of the London patrons to dampen her anticipation. Soon, the plays would begin. Audience reaction fascinated her as much as the action on stage. No performer—no matter how famous or talented—escaped the nightly critique from a fickle and potentially explosive audience. If the work was deemed mediocre or tedious, the performers were shouted from the stage and pelted with the nearest moveable objects, which included anything from food, chairs, and their fellow patrons. A blatantly poor rendition could result in a riot. In one way or another, patrons enjoyed a performance.
Peregrine fed on Elizabeth’s excitement as he directed her up the crowded staircase. He’d never been an avid theater patron but discovered a new experience through Elizabeth’s obvious enjoyment. Her eyes sparkled from an expression she must suppose masked her titillation. He stood one step lower and behind her to shield her from the worst of the jostle and crush.
Halfway up the stairs, movement came to a complete stop. The patrons began to chat with each other, exchanging gossip and their opinions on the evening’s upcoming slate of plays.
Elizabeth became nervous from the disquieting pressure of being so closely surrounded by so many people. She shivered but not from a chill. It was warm and airless on the congested steps. Her sharpest reaction came from full contact with the man standing behind her. The hard wall of Asterly’s torso pushed into her back from the press of the crowd. He tensed, resisting the pressure of the people from behind.
When he murmured a word of assurance, his breath brushed the back of her neck. A shiver rippled up her spine and down her arms. He drew up the silk shawl from the crook of her elbows and draped the slick material around her bare shoulders. Gloved fingertips glided, turning her shiver into a sizzle. His hand lingered on the crest of her shoulder and gently squeezed.
Was he telling her that he felt similarly effected? Words had never been needed—a silent scream of physical necessity arced between them whenever they were together.
Elizabeth fervently prayed she could compel her body to act as rationally as her mind. Her skin felt on fire. The crowded stairs made it impossible to ply her fan. She tried to concentrate on the escalating buzz of conversation, but her senses remained acutely attuned to the contact of his body, the whisper of his breath against her skin that riffled the curls on her nape. Her flesh began to feel tender and achy. They’d been stopped on the steps for only a few moments, but it seemed like hours. How could he make her feel this way in the middle of a crowd? Would others notice?
Someone on t
he staircase above fainted from the oppressive crush of so many bodies and so little air. As one, the patrons pushed backwards, evoking muffled cries and protests. Asterly broke her fall by bracing his hip and leg against the banister. His hands caught her firmly above the waist. Shoved back against his chest, she felt his startled exhalation and the press of his lips against her ear.
Peregrine glanced down, meaning to ask if she were hurt. The words stopped in his throat. Even though she stood one step higher, she only came to his chin. She had turned her head slightly toward him to look backward in the direction of her fall. Under her shawl, his gloved hands had slid up the slick material of her dress, ending just under the swell of her bosom. Her heartbeat thumped under his hands.
At first, he thought that she felt much smaller than she looked. His fingers seemed to encompass her ribcage. All thought was wiped away when the tips distinguished the underside of her breast. He froze for a sweet moment and held his breath, as his fingertips tested the weight, the enticing curve.
He wished he could see her expression. A blush bloomed on her face, down her neck and across her chest. Her lowered lashes created fan-shaped shadows on her cheekbones. The telltale rapid rise and fall of her modest décolletage revealed all. The depth and rapidity of her breaths told him her excited condition had little to do with the crowd and more to do with his intimate touch hidden under the shawl.
Peregrine quickly removed his hands, tucking them under her elbows, then promised the throbbing in his body that there were only two days left to wait. But the want of his flesh had moved beyond listening to mental promises and good intentions. Pressed so close, he wondered if she could feel his natural response through the fragile layers of violet sarcenet. He might be forced to ask to carry her shawl and was grateful for the concealing press of the grumbling crowd.
A communal sigh of relief was heard when the people at the top of the steps began to move. They cheered and a scattering of applause filled the staircase when the patrons resumed the climb up the steps.