by D. M. Quincy
He thought about it. “He most likely did not have time to find it. Unless he knew exactly where Jasper kept it.”
They resumed their search, Lilliana at a chest of drawers by the front entrance while Atlas searched the shelves behind the sofa as the intruder had done. Music, high-pitched voices, and laughter filtered in from the unit next door.
Atlas looked in the direction of the noise. “It appears Jasper’s neighbor is having a party.”
“It is rather convenient, would you not say?”
“Quite. They certainly won’t hear us over their noise.”
She paused listening to the laughter and teasing. “I can hear women’s voices. I thought ladies were not allowed at the Albany.”
“Ladies are not. And that is all I will say on the matter,” he said pointedly before turning back to the shelves to continue his search. They worked quietly for almost an hour, searching everywhere they could think of, but the notebook was nowhere to be found.
“It is not here,” Lilliana said after they had finished looking.
“No,” Atlas agreed. “We have looked everywhere.”
“Maybe the intruder did find it.”
Laughter and a loud thump from the neighboring apartment quieted them for a moment.
“Either that or it was not here to begin with,” Atlas said after a moment. “We should go before somebody finds us here.”
“Atlas.” Lilliana paused. “About what you said earlier.”
“About wedding you?” He no longer felt nervous. Or unworthy. This moment was long overdue. He could feel the rightness of it deep into the marrow of his bones.
“Yes.”
“This is hardly the ideal place for this discussion.” He faced her. “I have never before wished so fervently that I had inherited just an ounce of my father’s gift with words. Alas, I have not. All I can do is speak honestly from my heart.”
Lilliana’s face paled. Atlas wondered what that portended, but he forged ahead nonetheless. “Being with you allows my heart to breathe in a way it never has before,” he began. “And it is the finest feeling I have ever known. I wonder if you would do me the great honor—”
“Stop at once!” she blurted, panic in her eyes.
“You must allow me to finish—”
“No,” she said sharply. “There is something you must know about me before you say anything more.”
She seemed extremely perturbed, but he couldn’t imagine that she carried some terrible secret. “And what is that?”
“I might prove”—she hesitated—“disappointing.”
His brows descended, hooding over his eyes. If ever there was a woman who knew her incalculably high worth, it was Lady Roslyn Lilliana Sterling. “How so?”
He couldn’t help asking. He was curious to know where, and in what way, an accomplished woman such as Lilliana, with her formidable intellect, wicked sense of humor, and sharp tongue, would find herself wanting. Especially with all of those considerable charms packaged together with a face and form that left a man unable to sleep at night for thinking of her.
“I can be a cold woman.”
Lilliana did possess a glacial manner and off-putting haughtiness. Off-putting to others, perhaps, that is, but not to him. Never to him. “I rather like that about you.”
“You do not understand.” Her eyes met his, her dark gaze steady and determined, although it was obvious that this conversation was difficult for her. “Godfrey said I was particularly cold in a certain aspect of marriage.”
Now his brows went in the opposite direction, up instead of down, as confusion gave way to comprehension. This new distance she’d recently wedged between them, her palatable discomfort whenever they were alone or in private, suddenly made sense. He laughed.
She stiffened. “Are you amused?” While she possessed an excellent sense of humor, Lilliana did not care to be the subject of mockery.
“No.” He forced a more conciliatory tone. “It is just that your late husband was an idiot.”
“That may be so.” She paused to correct herself. “That was most certainly so, but nonetheless I understand that a man such as yourself, who would be too honorable to stray, would expect to find … a certain warmth in the … er … marital bed in order for that aspect of marriage to be … satisfactory to you.”
“Lily.” He reached for her hand. “You are not a cold woman … in any respect.”
Her composure did not falter. “That is very kind of you to say, but the truth is that you cannot know for certain, whereas Godfrey was in a position to know.”
“Wrong. I am most certainly in a position to know.” He stroked the back of her hand lightly with the pad of his thumb. Her skin was pale and feather soft, and he envisioned that she would be that way all over. “I have taken certain liberties with you.”
He had held her in his arms more than once during their acquaintanceship, and she’d responded warmly, sweetly, and with delightful enthusiasm. “I have enjoyed certain intimacies with you, not as often as I would like and nowhere near as often as I plan to once you are Mrs. Atlas Catesby—”
Her lips quirked. “I presume you are trying to make some point?”
“I can assure you those intimacies were not a disappointment.” When she parted her lips to speak, possibly to contradict him, he continued before she could interrupt. “The woman with whom I took those very pleasurable liberties was anything but cold. In truth, she was very, very warm.”
“You are being gallant because you are a kind man.”
He suppressed a snort. “You overestimate my gallantry. Above all, I am still a man. And you are correct to assume that this man hopes to find that kind of warmth in his wife. Particularly a man who intends to be faithful to her until his dying day.”
Two faint lines, a tiny number eleven, appeared between her fine brows. “But what if that warmth does not extend as far as you might like?”
“Those sorts of things can be … practiced … improved upon. And I can be a very patient man, especially for something that is well worth waiting for.”
“I see.” She was quiet for a moment.
He reached for her other hand so that he now held both. “Godfrey was abominable. You did not care for him.”
“I abhorred the man.”
“Exactly. It is natural that you did not enjoy being touched by a man whose company you could barely countenance. But if you care for me just a little bit—”
“What of Mrs. Jennings?” She jutted her chin. “You certainly seemed entranced by her the other evening.”
“I was—am—and probably always will be entranced by her considerable talent. But Juliet is the past. You are my future.” He took her into his arms, and for the first time of their acquaintance, he kissed her unreservedly. She responded in kind, returning the intimacy in a heated manner, the way a man dreams of being welcomed by the woman he adores. A few minutes later, when he was out of breath, he broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. “Say yes. Tell me that you will be my wife.”
Her radiant answering smile told him everything he wanted to know, but he still needed to hear the words. “Of course the answer is yes. I have been waiting for you to ask for more than a year.”
He blinked. “Have you?”
She shook her head. “It is as Thea says. For a smart man, you can be awfully thick at times.”
“How fortunate I am that, going forward, you will be by my side to keep me from acting like an imbecile.” He cleared his throat in order to make her a proper proposal. “As I was saying, I do not have my father’s gift for words, but the truth is that being in your presence allows my heart to breathe in a way it never has before, and it is the finest feeling I have ever known—”
“You are wrong,” she interrupted.
“About what?”
“You claim not to possess your father’s talent for words, but what you have just said is possibly the most poetic thing I have ever heard.”
“All I know is that
the very first time I saw you …” He paused, reluctant to bring up the abominable afternoon that had somehow brought the greatest sweetness into his life.
“You need not spare my feelings about Godfrey selling me in the market square.” She shocked him by giving voice to the memory of her greatest humiliation, his beautiful Lily brought low by a bastard who hadn’t been fit to kiss the bottom of her slippers. “I no longer regret that afternoon.”
“How can you not?”
“Because it brought us together.” Her off-kilter smile prompted an extra, out-of-rhythm beat in his chest. “Otherwise, you might have passed through the village, and I might still be wed to Godfrey.”
He grimaced. “God forbid.”
And to banish that awful thought from both of their minds, he gently folded Lily back into his arms and kissed her again—right there in a dead man’s apartments and not caring in the least that they could be discovered at any moment.
CHAPTER 26
“I suppose I should speak to Somerville at the earliest opportunity,” Atlas said to Lilliana after they’d made their clandestine escape from the Albany and were comfortably ensconced in Somerville’s toasty carriage, with heated bricks to warm their feet.
“Surely you are not worried that he will object?” Lilliana sat across from him in the forward-facing seat, the oil lamps along the roadway occasionally spilling light into the carriage, illuminating her fine-boned features. “I do not need his consent to wed.”
“I expect His Grace will look favorably upon our union. He has told me as much.”
Lilliana stiffened. “Has he? When was this?”
“At the opera the other evening. He asked me what my intentions were.”
“How did you respond?”
“Truthfully. I told him that I am not worthy of you.”
Her lips quirked upward. “What changed your mind?”
“I realized no one is good enough for you, not the Marquess of Roxbury nor the Earl of Northampton. I guess I will just have to do.”
Her expression was serious. “If you feel that my brother forced you into this betrothal, we can end it at once. No one need know.”
“There is not a chance that I will cry off.” Abandoning all propriety, he shifted across the carriage to sit next to her. “Unless you have changed your mind.”
“Certainly not.”
He reached for her gloved hand and interlaced his fingers with hers. “Shall I come in with you to speak with His Grace this evening, if, that is, he is at home to callers?”
“This evening might be inconvenient. Somerville is ordering more pieces for his wardrobe. That tailor from Pall Mall comes to him, and their fittings take hours. At times they go so late into the evening that Mr. Nash stays overnight in a guest chamber. You remember Mr. Kirby Nash, do you not?”
Atlas remembered Somerville’s tailor all too well, but for reasons he suspected Lilliana knew nothing about. “I do.”
“Perhaps you should wait a few days before you speak to Somerville.”
“Why?” He squeezed her hand. “In case you come to your senses and realize I am far beneath your touch?”
“Because as soon as our betrothal becomes public, we shall have no peace. And that will hinder your investigation into Mrs. Pike’s death.”
“How do you mean?”
“There will naturally be a dinner to formally introduce you to my aunt and her five daughters and their families. And after that, we must plan the engagement party. In the meantime, we shall be invited everywhere, and although we do not have to accept all of the invitations, there will be some events that would be rude of us to decline.”
“Perhaps I had better give this marriage idea further thought,” he teased.
She pulled their linked hands into her lap. “Don’t you dare.”
He took the liberty of pressing his lips against the satiny warmth of her cheek. “Do you take me for a fool? I am never letting you go. As it is, I can barely tolerate the notion of allowing you out of my sight even for a few hours.”
Her soft answering sigh stirred his blood. “Then it is settled,” she murmured. “We shall remain betrothed, but it will be our secret to give you a few more weeks to focus on the investigation.”
He pressed a kiss against her neck, inhaling the scent of jasmine and cloves. “What sorts of liberties do you suppose a man can take when he has entered into a secret betrothal?”
“It appears we are about to find out,” she whispered.
“Indeed,” he agreed just before his lips locked onto hers.
* * *
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Thea asked her brother after Lilliana had relayed the details of the scuffle in Jasper’s apartments.
They were in Charlton’s upstairs sitting room, a masculine, tasteful space dominated by dark wood paneling and expensive furnishings. Atlas had asked Somerville’s coachman to drop him at Charlton’s once they’d departed the Albany. Lilliana had happily joined him after spotting Thea’s battered old coach in front of the earl’s opulent home.
“Atlas certainly did not acquire those moves at Gentleman’s Jackson’s,” Charlton put in. “Jack would frown upon jabbing opponents with one’s elbow.”
Atlas held his hands before the hearth, soaking in the fire’s heat. “Bokator is most definitely not taught at Jack’s—or any other boxing saloon for that matter.”
“What is that?” Charlton’s forehead puckered. “It sounds like one of those frighteningly exotic foods of yours.”
Clad in a puce floral dressing gown, the earl sat in a deep leather chair with his silk-slipper-clad feet propped up on a stool. Atlas was relieved to find Charlton recovering well from his wound. The threat of infection seemed to have passed, and color had returned to Charlton’s cheeks.
Atlas drained the brandy from his glass. “Bokator is an ancient method of fighting that originated in Cambodia.”
Lilliana sat up straighter. “You have been to Cambodia?”
“Where the devil is that?” Charlton asked.
“It is in Asia,” Atlas answered, “and no, I have not been there as of yet.”
Thea settled on the chintz sofa next to Lilliana. “Then however did you learn to fight in that manner?”
“When I was last in Lisbon, I studied with a Portuguese man who had mastered the art of Bokator.”
“You have lost me.” Charlton executed an exaggerated sigh. “I thought you said that sort of brawling came from that place in Asia.”
“Cambodia,” Atlas told him. “My instructor was born in Cambodia. His parents were missionaries from Portugal who spent most of their lives in Asia.”
Lilliana’s eyes sparkled. “How fascinating.” Their gazes met and held, and the warmth that engulfed Atlas had nothing to do with the fire.
Charlton grimaced. “How perfectly awful to live one’s life in a heathen country. It is bad enough that Atlas travels constantly, but at least he never forgets where he belongs and that his home is here in England.”
“The Cambodians would likely say that we are the savages.” Atlas crossed over to the sideboard to refresh his drink. “As I was saying, using your elbows to strike with maximum impact is crucial to Bokator.”
“Does your elbow hurt?” Thea asked.
“A bit,” he admitted. “But if you land the blow properly, the pain is minimal.”
“You two have certainly had an eventful evening,” Thea remarked.
A half smile curved Lilliana’s beautiful lips. “You have no idea.”
Charlton waggled his brows at Lilliana. “I see Atlas is leading you down a criminal path. What is to be next, I wonder. Perhaps bank robbery?”
Atlas failed to see the humor in his friend’s comments. “I strongly advised Lady Lilliana to stay in the carriage.”
Lilliana sipped her sherry. “What would be the fun in that?”
Thea glared at her brother. “Oh, do stop being such a fossil, Atlas. Lilliana is hardly a fragile porcelain creature who
will shatter at the first sign of any excitement.”
Atlas stiffened. “I never said that she was.” He took a seat near Charlton. “I would simply prefer for her not to be caught stealing into bachelor rooms at the Albany.”
“Think of the scandal,” Charlton said, and then more quietly, for Atlas’s ears only, he mumbled, “You might even be forced to wed her to save her reputation.”
Suppressing a smile, Atlas looked to his sister. “What are you doing here?”
“Excellent distraction tactic,” Charlton murmured under his breath.
“Is it not obvious?” Thea said. “I am here to check on Charlton. To make certain he is recovering.”
“He looks fine to me,” Atlas said.
Charlton beamed. “That is thanks to the good Mrs. Palmer’s ministrations. Her presence somehow contrives to make even beef tea palatable.”
Atlas stared at him. “Thea has somehow managed to entice you to drink beef tea?” He knew just how much Charlton detested the remedy.
Charlton smiled. “She has promised me certain favors if I am a very good boy and drink all of my beef tea.”
Atlas did not care for the sound of that. He glared at his friend. “What sort of favors?”
“If the earl continues to drink his tea,” Thea informed her brother, “then he will be ready for a turn about the garden by week’s end.”
“With Mrs. Palmer by my side of course.”
Atlas stared at his friend. The man was accustomed to sexual affairs with some of London’s most acclaimed beauties, from opera stars and actresses, to courtesans and widows, and yet he appeared enthused by the prospect of a turn about the garden with a very married woman. “What the devil is the matter with you?”
A dreamy expression came over Charlton’s aristocratic face. “Rather than settle for a bountiful tavern meal that does nothing to satisfy my appetites, a man must content himself with table scraps from the most magnificent feast.”
“What are you going on about?” Thea asked from across the room.
“Nothing of interest, my dear Mrs. Palmer.” Charlton gazed adoringly at her. “Is it time for my beef tea yet?”
* * *