Elise

by Jackie Ivie

“Answer me, woman! Are you the wench known as—?”

  “I heard you the first time,” she answered, interrupting him.

  “Well?”

  He had a becoming flush to his face, and if she hadn’t been overawed by the size of him the previous evening, she would have noticed the square jaw, Roman nose, and very brown eyes, bordered by very dark brown lashes. This MacGowan didn’t look a thing like his older brother Evan MacGowan, she decided.

  “Well, what?” she asked sweetly.

  The six attendants he’d been out riding with formed a perfectly executed V behind him, with Colin at the tip. They all had their mounts’ heads at an exact angle, their black ensembles perfectly matched, and not one moved by as much as a twitch of his horse’s tail. Elise didn’t let how awe-inspiring she found it show anywhere on her.

  “Explain this.”

  He was shoving the paper toward her, and Elise sat immobile. Then she was motioning for her groom to go and fetch it. The young man’s fright was apparent, and it helped to temper her own. It was obvious Colin MacGowan had every bit of the Scottish uncivilized arrogance, and then more as well. She patted her mare’s neck and waited.

  The crumpled piece of paper was a freshly printed cartoon. It was fairly amusing, too. She was depicted, shaped like a very slender icicle, while a mammoth-sized man was pointing down at her and shouting something about meat. Her lips twitched.

  “Explain that,” he demanded.

  “Everyone at the Royal Palace must have been busy,” she answered, flattening out the paper on one of her blue-clothed thighs.

  “What?”

  “The Royal Palace. The family. You know. Prince Albert. Crown Prince Edward. Queen Victoria. Surely you’ve heard of them.”

  “I know who the Royal family is. What the devil does it have to do with me? And you?”

  “I do believe someone found that what happened last evening between us was more amusing than the Royal house. They’ve decided to spare Queen Victoria. She’s their usual target, you understand.”

  “Some wretch handed this to me on my own front steps! Right in front of my home!”

  Elise shrugged. “It’s a cartoon. We’ve been lampooned. Welcome to London, Your Grace.”

  “Well, I dinna’ like it. Destroy it and stop any others from being distributed.”

  “You’re speaking to the wrong person. Now, if you’d excuse me.”

  “You’re to cease this immediately.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Are you denying this is you?”

  “Oh, it’s definitely a depiction of me, Your Grace, and that’s a very good likeness of you. Obviously the cartoonists have decided that I... make that we, are good fodder for their ink. It means nothing, really. They’ll have another victim by noon. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Don’t turn your back on me, woman.”

  Elise hadn’t turned yet. She looked over and across at him. “I have a name, Your Grace. And I don’t take orders, I give them. Now, once again. Good day.”

  She had exactly six seconds to enjoy his discomfiture before she heard his horse again. The mare was trembling as that chestnut stallion bore down on their right and slammed them to a halt, which Colin then guaranteed by reaching across for her mare’s bridle. Elise narrowed her eyes to look over at him.

  The mass in his jacket probably was his shoulders, she decided, since it looked like the size of his thigh was equivalent to her hips. She eyed him uneasily. It was dawn, there were street vendors out, and this was London. He couldn’t do anything to her. At least, she told herself he couldn’t and hoped it worked.

  “No woman turns away from me.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Elise answered in the same even tone.

  “You heard me. I was na’ finished, and you’re na’ dismissed until I am.”

  “If you don’t wish to have your name connected to mine, Your Grace, this is not a very good way to manage that.”

  “What?”

  “Chasing me down, preventing me from leaving, calling me names like wench, being seen with me. All told, I would hazard a guess you’re going to see another cartoon about it.”

  “What are you talking of now?”

  “Eyes.”

  “What?”

  He really was fairly handsome, Elise decided, as his eyebrows rose and he puzzled that out.

  “People have eyes, Your Grace. Especially the lower classes. It’s what they do to even the field, I suspect. Everywhere you look these cartoonists get their scenes. Then they draw them, and then they print them, and then they pass them out. It’s called socialism. The new order. If I’m not mistaken, that’s a press chap right over there.”

  Elise pointed at a dark-clothed individual, who took off running the moment she did. She hadn’t even seen him move, but one of Colin’s guards was giving chase.

  She watched him reach the street and turn back, empty-handed, before realizing she’d been holding her breath.

  “Blast this nonsense! And you—”

  He had a gloved finger pointing at her. Elise looked over at him.

  “I had nothing to do with any of this, Your Grace, although I’m going to reap the results once again, no doubt. You shouldn’t let it bother you so. I don’t.”

  “You’ve been in these before?” he asked.

  “Weekly, I’m afraid.” She sighed. “It’s the price of notoriety.”

  “Well, I have na’. I’ve na’ wish to, either.”

  “There’s not much way to correct that, I’m afraid.”

  “What?”

  “Freedom, Your Grace. They can print what they like. You can let it bother you, or you can ignore it. I prefer to ignore it, which is a perfect lead-in for my adieu. It was ever so unpleasant meeting with you this morning. If you’d be so good as to release my mount, so I can proceed?”

  “Is there nae way to stop this?”

  “I’m afraid not. My mount?”

  “If I’m seen in your company, enjoying your company, will that work?”

  “Afraid not. I’m scandalous to be near. And you’ll probably look like a barbarian again, but at least he’ll have to invent the words to use.”

  “I’m nae barbarian.”

  Elise couldn’t answer that, at first. She was afraid of the mirth bubbling just below the surface. She looked at him as levelly as possible until she got it under control. “I’ll have to take your word on that, I’m afraid. Now, please release my mount and allow me to escape. I no longer feel any need for fresh air, or another moment of your company.”

  “I’ll be escorting you to the Countess of Ipswich’s dinner this eve. I’ll call for you at eight. Be ready.”

  Elise’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?” she finally managed to say again.

  “The Countess of Ipswich’s dinner. I’ll call for you at eight.”

  “You’re woefully out of your element, aren’t you?” Elise asked. “And I’m afraid this isn’t Scotland.”

  “I’ve na’ been in Scotland for some years, my lady.”

  “Oh dear. I’ve advanced past wench. I hope that doesn’t signify anything I don’t want it to,” she replied.

  “You speak with riddles.”

  “And you don’t speak, you shout. What I meant was, this is London, and here a lady is asked to be escorted, not told she will be.”

  He stuck his tongue in one cheek and looked down at her while his lips quirked. Elise’s eyes widened slightly before she could help it as the strangest tingle ran up and down her spine. She told herself she was being ridiculous, and a moment later, she knew she was.

  “Nonsense. I’ll call at eight. We’ll stop this at the source. If you’re seen enjoying my company, they’ll find someone else to draw.”

  “You seem to have forgotten something,” Elise said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t enjoy your company.”

  To her surprise, he tossed back his head and laughed, and he wasn’t a quiet
person when it came to laughter. As the sound died, she wondered if he did anything quietly.

  “Eight. Be ready. I doona’ like waiting.”

  “You don’t know where I live,” she answered.

  “Yonder. Pinkish house. Frilly decor all about.” He pointed. She didn’t look. He had the Wynd town-home pegged perfectly.

  “If you’re speaking of my Italian, iron-work balconies, I’m fairly insulted, I think. Then again, they are rather frilly.”

  “Be ready. Eight.”

  “I’ve not said I’ll go with you.”

  “Doona’ make me chase you down.”

  “You’d do such a thing?” Elise asked.

  “You doubt it?”

  He released her horse with the question and turned, walking away while the six men on horseback filed behind him. Elise didn’t move.

  ~ ~ ~

  She’d never enjoyed getting ready for an evening more in her life. Daisy helped. There was only one gown that would do justice to an evening of thwarting the Duke of MacGowan, and that was her white, pin-tucked satin, with the light blue gauze overlay. Elise watched the transformation taking place in the mirror as Daisy coiled her ash-blond hair atop her head and entwined silver filigree through the tresses.

  There was some consternation about the heels. Daisy didn’t think heels would be necessary and would end up doing more harm than good to Elise’s legs. Elise, on the other hand, knew that without some height, she was going to be dwarfed.

  She was ready promptly at seven, and in her own coach at seven-thirty. She couldn’t wait to see the Duke of MacGowan’s face at the Countess of Ipswich’s soiree. She wasn’t accompanying a MacGowan anywhere. Elise Wyndham didn’t want, or need, any escort, for any reason, especially not someone from the same family that had helped ruin hers.

  She hadn’t counted on Sir Roald.

  Sophie, the Countess of Ipswich, had a table set up and arranged for her guests. Elise was in her assigned seat, with Sir Roald slated to be at her side, when the Duke of MacGowan was announced. She forced herself to sit stone-still and ignore all else about her as his presence filled the room. Despite everything she was trying, Elise felt him. She felt him! The hairs on the back of her neck were whispering where he was, and the shivers up her spine were confirming it.

  She had her eyes open on the elegance of a swan formed from butter that sat in the center of the table, when she watched him pull out a chair opposite her. She blinked. He wasn’t supposed to be near. She knew it. Everyone else knew it. The whispers started again as he seated himself, filling her vision with perfectly groomed and tailored maleness.

  Colin MacGowan had found someone, somewhere, with fashion expertise, who could fit those broad shoulders and that torso with a starched white shirt and cravat, black jacket with tails, and a pleated, white silk, waist wrap. He had his wavy hair pulled back severely into a queue that met his jacket at his back.

  She blinked. She swallowed. She adjusted the garland at her wrist. She turned to visit with the man at her other side.

  Brown eyes watched every move.

  Their hostess, Sophie Ipswich, took her seat at the head of the table, signaling the start of the dinner presentation. Her husband wasn’t at the other end, nor was he anywhere near. Sophie’s husband never left their country estate. She wasn’t alone, however. She was gazing adoringly into the eyes of the man paying for all of this, the young Viscount of Beckon.

  Elise had heard the gossip over his parent’s reaction. She’d found it amusing. His mother was reportedly prostrate over his fascination with a strumpet, even if she was a lady of quality. Elise guessed it wasn’t the fascination that bothered anyone as much as it was the funds the Viscount was expending on his pursuit of the Incomparable Countess Sophie Ipswich.

  Elise didn’t know where Roald had gone to, nor did she care. Brown eyes were watching her, and they were cold brown eyes. Elise’s thoughts hammered at her, not bothered by the size of the crowd about her. The size was intentional. Sophie preferred large gatherings. That way, she could show off her latest gown, jewels, or simply a large feast that would set her beau back a tidy sum. Elise suspected Sophie calculated her worth on the amount of gold her paramours were willing to spend on her. It was something Elise didn’t bother with. Her self-worth didn’t need to be measured by gowns or baubles. She knew exactly what she was worth. The amount the Duke of Wynd had paid for her.

  Everything was crystal clear, and every sound was finite and too loud. Elise listened to silverware on porcelain, crystal tapping, and the conversation as it grew loud, then softened. There came sounds of liquid being poured and more than one exclamation of interest at the presentation of the main course; she thought it was roast boar, but didn’t move her eyes to verify it, and swore she could even hear the butter of the swan when it was being carved on.

  Through it all, brown eyes watched her.

  Elise was trapped between Sir Roald’s empty chair, a minor baron named Hampton and enduring a full frontal assault by The MacGowan. She told herself it couldn’t get worse, and then it did.

  “I’m prostrate at what you did to me, Elise.”

  Roald’s voice preceded him as he pulled out the chair. She suspected he’d been gaming and drinking, or just drinking. Either one was bad. She didn’t move her head as he seated himself, although her eyes widened before she could help it

  “And without one word of explanation. How could you?”

  He dropped a folded square of rag paper next to one of her spoons. Elise closed her eyes, then opened them. Nothing had changed. She picked it up and unfolded it. The crude drawing was of the Duke of MacGowan, hoisting her atop his shoulders and riding off with her, dragging a chain of men who were each holding the preceding one’s legs, starting with the man holding to the ends of her skirts. She recognized Roald, since he was the closest, and therefore the largest.

  “Well?”

  “It’s not a very good depiction,” Elise whispered. “And certainly not very accurate.”

  “You’re denying this happened?”

  “It’s not worth the amount of time it would take to do so.” Elise refolded the paper and put it back on the table next to Roald’s unused silverware.

  “May I?”

  It was totally against protocol to reach across a table, but Colin’s hand didn’t disappear just because it shouldn’t be there. Elise watched as Colin picked up the newest lampoon. She didn’t look anywhere near his eyes; instead, she watched his lips tighten as he looked it over.

  “Past paramours, I take it?” he asked finally, to no one in particular. Then he handed the page to the woman on his left.

  Elise shut her eyes again as the cartoon went from hand to hand down the table, causing more than a few gasps and a chuckle or two. She looked down at the red spot her lip rouge had made on the napkin, before folding it quickly. A proper lady wouldn’t resort to cosmetics, she reminded herself, then wondered why she cared.

  “If you’re trying to upset me, Elise, you’re succeeding,” Roald said.

  “And if you’re trying to ruin me, Roald, it’s too late,” she replied.

  “I haven’t tried that yet, although I’m definitely considering it.”

  ‘The cartoon means nothing. Nothing. I rode in the park. His Grace was there. We spoke, nothing more.”

  “I thought you said it didn’t merit the time to explain,” Roald said snidely.

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Last eve you didn’t even know him.”

  “You’re boring me,” she answered, drawing out each word.

  “And you’re lying to me!”

  He hissed the reply between his teeth. Elise had to consciously stop wringing her napkin between her hands.

  “Don’t play me for a fool, Elise. You won’t like it.”

  “And if you say much more, you’ll not like it. Or have you forgotten our little arrangement?” she asked. She turned to the drunkard at her left. He simply grinned and raised his goblet in a toast.r />
  “Forgive me, Elise. I find all manner of emotion when I behold your face. The thought of you drives me mad. I must be mad to anger you. Pray, forgive me?”

  “If you’ll not wax poetic toward me, I’ll gladly forgive anything.”

  Elise turned back to him and was startled by the look on his face. His eyes glittered strangely, and his brows met at the bridge of his nose as he frowned.

  “Elise, you and I...we’ve much to remember.”

  “Yes, Roald,” she replied automatically.

  “I want more.”

  “You know I can’t give more.” Elise placed a hand on his arm and hoped it wouldn’t be noticed. He reached his other arm across his chest and trapped her hand with his. She hadn’t counted on that.

  “You’ve put me off for two seasons, my fine lady.” His hand gripped her wrist and squeezed until her hand was bloodless. Elise winced, yet he ignored it.

  “I’ve endured countless times of talk, talk, talk. I’ve taken you to Piccadilly, to Dover, why once we even went to the crossroads to see the hanged highwaymen, yet not once have you given me the slightest encouragement. Never once have you even given me a kiss! A small thing like a kiss! Never once have you given me one. Have you thought over what that does to a man? Any man? All I envision is you enwrapped in another’s arms, and I go mad. I swear it!”

  His whispered words weren’t going unnoticed by anyone, especially the man across the table from them. Elise swallowed. Roald had held her gaze throughout the impassioned speech. She didn’t dare look away. He might make an even bigger scene.

  “You’re hurting me,” she whispered finally.

  “Beware the singed pigeon,” he replied. Then he rose from the table, releasing her as he did so. Elise hid her bruised arm beneath the table linen. She hadn’t known he felt that way, and she had no idea what she was supposed to do about it.

  And brown eyes were watching the entire thing.

  Chapter 3

  The best course to put rumors to rest was to escape London for a weekend and take as few with you as possible. The next best course was to be accompanied while you did so. Elise had an invitation to a hunting party at Barrigan’s, which took care of the first part. She was planning to use the time to relax, recuperate, and figure out another tactic to get released from her secret, without further attaching her name to the Scottish barbarian’s. The second part wasn’t so easy.