by Julia London
Tobin was older and had found her games rather tedious at times. He recalled her ceaseless chatter and how he’d generally spent his time with her engaged in his own idle pursuits. Whittling, throwing rocks at various targets, reading.
On that particular afternoon, Lily had fancied herself a warrior princess and, if memory served, marauding Vikings had beset her. It was a warm spring day, and she’d discarded her cloak and bonnet so that she might dash around and jab at the invisible Vikings with the sword she’d fashioned from a stick. Tobin had positioned himself on a rock, where he’d worked on the horse he’d been carving while keeping a watchful eye on the little hellion. However, he’d managed to lose track of her and had been startled when she’d called out, her voice coming from somewhere above him. Tobin had looked up to see her straddling a tree limb high above him, her booted feet dangling and her so-called sword stuffed into the sash of her frock.
“Bloody hell,” Tobin had muttered. “What are you doing up there? You could fall and break your neck!”
“I won’t fall.”
“Come down,” he’d said sternly, pointing to the ground. “Come down at once.”
“Why?” she’d demanded, as if it were perfectly reasonable to have climbed so high.
“You are too high. Come down!”
“It’s not so very high,” she’d argued from her perch. “I can climb much higher.”
“Then your fall will be even greater, and you will break your neck and your arms and your legs, and I shall be punished for it! Come down at once, Miss Boudine. I command you to come down!”
She’d laughed at him. “You cannot command me. I am allowed to do as I please, and you may not tell me how high I may go.”
“Then I will not help you if you are stuck,” he’d said angrily.
“Then I shall rescue myself. I am a princess warrior and I could jump if I wanted to.”
“God help me, don’t jump,” Tobin had said nervously, positioning himself beneath the tree just in case she’d tried it. But Lily had started to slowly inch her way back on the limb. He’d cringed when she’d faltered and almost lost her balance. He’d groaned beneath his breath as he’d watched her stockings catch on the tree bark and tear. And he’d felt his heart skip a beat when she’d paused with a soft cry to study what Tobin had presumed was a cut in the palm of her hand.
By the time she’d shimmied down to where he’d been able to reach her and haul her to the ground, her frock had been soiled and torn, her hair had come undone from its braids, and her hand had been bleeding.
He’d clucked at her as he’d wrapped his handkerchief around her hand. “You’ve gone and done it now, haven’t you?”
“Done what?” she’d asked, blinking up at him with big green eyes.
“For heaven’s sake, Lily, do you understand anything at all? I’m to look after you.”
“Why?”
“Because girls need looking after.”
She’d seemed completely baffled by that. “I don’t need looking after.”
He’d scoffed at that. “You more than anyone. Most girls are not so foolish as to climb to the highest part of the tree.”
“You may not look after me, Tobin Scott! I shall look after myself!” she’d stubbornly insisted.
“Well, her ladyship and my father do not agree that you may look after yourself.”
He recalled the surprise in her expression, as if it had been the first time she’d realized he’d not accompanied her merely because he’d enjoyed her company. She’d yanked her hand from his and said, “I don’t need looking after. I’m an orphan, and orphans look after themselves!” She’d run from him then, and with a sigh of exasperation, Tobin had gone after her.
She had seemed to believe that the rules did not apply to her, and apparently she still believed it. For no woman in her sound mind would have agreed to his outrageous proposition.
Lily was sorely mistaken if she thought she could sway him, or worse, trick him somehow. She would come to rue her decision—for there was nothing that would stop him from having his revenge now.
SEVEN
Lily had a collapse of confidence that afternoon in the privacy of her rooms. She berated herself for having been so foolish as to believe she could best Tobin. With scarcely a touch from him, she had felt herself begin to weaken. If he kissed her, truly kissed her, would she swoon? Abandon all her defenses? She had to keep him at arm’s length, but how would she do that?
“Flirt, muirnín.”
She heard Keira’s voice as clearly as if her cousin was standing beside her. She was suddenly reminded of an afternoon in Ireland several years ago, when Keira had blithely advised her about a gentleman whom Lily had found attractive. “Give him a promise,” Keira had said as she’d lain on Lily’s bed, her hands folded behind her head. “Gentlemen like the chase.”
“And how do you know this?” Lily had asked dubiously.
Keira had shrugged. “I just do.”
Perhaps Tobin enjoyed the chase. If he did, then Lily could still direct the dangerous game she was playing. She was quite accomplished at flirting, was she not? She convinced herself she was . . . until the middle of the night, when she awoke in a panic at what she’d done.
But if she needed any more convincing that she had to flirt and tease her way out of this predicament, Mr. Fish unwittingly provided the reason.
After he and Lily reviewed the sad state of the estate finances the following day, he glanced sidelong at Lily. “I hope you will forgive me, madam, but I have done a bit of inquiring on your behalf.”
“Regarding?”
“Titled men,” Mr. Fish said stiffly. “It occurred to me that there is a titled man in our midst, and as it turns out, he will inherit quite a lot. Lord Horncastle is—”
“Never!” Lily cried, surging to her feet. She couldn’t imagine anything worse than facing that idiotic young man every day.
“All right, I understand,” Mr. Fish said, sounding a bit impatient.
“Mr. Fish, how long have you been married?”
He looked confused by her question. “Nineteen years, mu’um.”
“Children?”
“Five.”
Lily nodded. “And how did you make Mrs. Fish’s acquaintance?”
Mr. Fish blinked. “The usual way, I suppose. We were introduced by mutual friends.”
“You have what I want, sir. You have a wife whom you love, who has borne you five children. I should like to find a husband in a similar fashion, with similar feelings.”
Mr. Fish smiled sadly. “I beg your pardon, Lady Ashwood, but that is not your luxury. Women in your position must marry to maintain their position. It is not a love match, it is a match of fortune and standing—for the sake of your holdings.”
“But I do not want to marry for the sake of my holdings.”
“Many have before you. Kings and queens, and they’ve managed to find some happiness. And I fear that you really must be quick about it. We’ve not much time before Eberlin manages to do more harm.”
“Sir.” Lily put her hand on his arm. “I value your advice more than I can express. But in this, you must trust that I know what I am doing.” That was a lie, of course.
But not entirely. She could not sit idly by while Tobin tried to spread rumors that her cattle were diseased, and God knew what else. So early on Friday evening, while Lucy played dress-up in one of Lily’s older gowns and a bonnet, Lily dressed for supper at Tiber Park.
She held out two gowns to Lucy—one a forest green organdy over velvet; the other a pale gold brocade. “Which do you prefer?” she asked the girl.
Lucy stopped in her examination of Lily’s jewelry box and eyed the two gowns critically. “This one,” she said, pointing to the green.
“Excellent choice,” Lily agreed, and with the help of her maid, Ann, she dressed. The gown was quite tight; Lily had to take a breath so that Ann could fasten the last button. Her breasts were barely contained within the low bodice.
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br /> “Quite stunning, mu’um,” Ann remarked.
Lily wondered how she could think so with her décolletage so prominently displayed. “It is very tight,” she complained.
“The pretend countess wore her gowns quite tight because she said gentlemen prefer to see a lady’s figure at its best advantage,” Lucy said. “She very much liked to present her figure.”
Lily snorted. “Darling, I think you will discover that Lady Donnelly enjoys presenting herself in any number of ways.”
Behind Lily, Ann giggled.
“I didn’t recall this gown being quite so tight,” Lily said again, tugging at the bodice a little as she observed herself in the mirror. But then again, the last time she’d worn it had been in Italy, and she certainly had not lacked for gentlemen’s attention. “There is an emerald pendant in the box,” she said, gesturing to her jewelry box. “And some tipped hairpins. Lucy, darling, will you fetch them for me?”
When she’d finished dressing, Lily wore a pearldrop emerald that sparkled at the hollow of her throat, emeralds that dangled from her ears, and green crystal hairpins seeded throughout her hair. She ran her hands down her sides, nervous.
When the footman announced a coach had arrived for her, Lily realized there was no avoiding the wheels she’d set in motion and hoped she was not churned to bits by them. She said goodnight to Lucy and Ann, donned her cloak, and went off to wage her private war.
EIGHT
Early Friday evening, Tobin studied his reflection in the long mirror. He wore formal clothing this evening—black superfine, long tails, a white silk waistcoat and black silk neckcloth. It was the sort of garb one might wear to a foreign palace or a London ball, not to an intimate supper party with one guest.
Tobin did not care. He would have Lily know that he was a man of extraordinary means. He would draw her in, entice her with shiny things and formalities and seduce her slowly into his bed. He intended to possess her completely, and just thinking about how he might do that made his blood rush hot.
He smoothed his hair back from his forehead. It was the color of dark honey, not pale blonde, like Charity’s and Catherine’s. His skin had been darkened by the years spent on various ship decks. He was not quite thirty, but he looked weathered, as if he’d been reared in the Leeward Islands instead of tranquil England.
There were faint nicks and scars in his skin, small testaments to the hardship of his life. Just below his right ear was a small, thin white line from a knife during a particularly memorable brawl in Portugal. It matched a longer scar on his back. On his finger were tiny faint marks, from the nasty bite of a volatile Italian beauty a year or so ago. She had not approved of his leaving port without her and had tried to keep his finger as a souvenir of their heated affair.
Even with the nicks of his life marking his skin, Tobin supposed he was as presentable as any dandy in Paris and London—at least as presentable as the sort of bland fop Lily undoubtedly was on course to marry one day. But even bland fops would not forgive her ruination. How ironic, that Lily would be left with nothing but an empty title when he was through with her, while his title was as meaningless as the paper it was written upon.
Tobin stared coldly at his reflection. Rise up. Press on. That was his mantra, which he’d begun to chant to himself when he’d found himself fatherless. Rise up, press on. Don’t think overmuch. Don’t feel. Rise up, press on. Harder, stronger than before.
“My lord . . . your handkerchief,” his valet said, presenting him with a freshly ironed linen.
Tobin turned away from the mirror, took it from the valet’s hand, and wordlessly left his suite of rooms.
He went directly to the yellow salon, where he would receive his guest. It was small in comparison to others, and it was here he would share an intimate meal with Lily. A table for two had been set near the hearth. Thanks to Carlson’s attentions, the room was in pristine condition. The flowers had been brought up from the hothouse and arranged in large bouquets that dripped blooms of red, pink, and yellow. The furnishings, recently arrived from Italy, were set upon his new, Belgian wool rug. The draperies, delivered last week, had been hung, and heavy gold rope sashes held them back so that the view of the courtyard, already ablaze with torchlights, could be viewed.
The Louis IV table was covered in Swedish linen. The place settings of fine bone china shimmered in the low candlelight, as did the silver, which was polished to such a degree that Tobin could see his reflection in the wide soupspoon.
Pleased with the setting, he signaled at a footman standing at attention near the door to pour him a tot of whiskey. He tossed that down in the way he’d learned to do as a boy on his first voyage. The sailors made a devilish concoction from stuff scraped from the bottom of barrels and brewed on the ship’s deck. Tossing it quickly down one’s throat reduced the burn. These days, the whiskey Tobin drank from crystal tots was the finest Scotch whiskey available. It didn’t burn, but old habits died hard.
The warmth of the whiskey had just begun to seep into his veins when Carlson entered and bowed. “The Lady Ashwood has arrived.”
Tobin felt a tiny twinge in his chest, and, for a moment, he feared the fever would spread into his bones and his body would betray him. But it passed as quickly as it had come. “Bring her.”
He walked to the hearth where a fire blazed, then stood with his legs braced apart and his hands behind his back. He was uncommonly restless, which he found mildly surprising, since he was no stranger to women. Yet he’d never felt quite like this—
She swept in behind Carlson on a cloud of rich, forest green velvet and organza, and Tobin had to remind himself to breathe. Lily had grown into a stunning woman; the rowdy little girl she’d once been was now a woman of exceptional poise. He’d never expected to find such an alluring woman when he’d come here. Quite the opposite.
The color in her cheeks was high and her pale green eyes were glittering. She regarded him with the cool confidence of a woman who knew she was admired.
Tobin bowed. “Welcome to Tiber Park.”
She said nothing.
Tobin walked forward, took her hand, and bowed over it, kissing her knuckles. “May I say that you look beautiful this evening.”
The color in her cheeks deepened. She glanced sidelong at Carlson.
“You may leave us for now,” Tobin said, and Carlson walked obediently from the room, leaving a single footman standing attentively near the door.
“Please do come in,” Tobin said, sweeping his hand toward a pair of chairs before the hearth. “This is the yellow salon, so named because one can see yellow roses in bloom from the windows.”
Still, Lily did not move or speak. Her gaze was wandering the room, taking in the furnishings. To a casual observer she looked serene, perfectly at ease, yet her gloved hands were tightly clasped before her.
“I have some very fine French wine that I brought to England before the French blockade,” he said. “Perhaps you would like a taste of it to calm your nerves.”
She affixed him with a prim look. “What makes you believe I need to be calmed?”
“Aha . . . so you do speak after all.” He smiled and nodded at the footman. “Then a glass of wine to warm you.”
“Nor do I need to be warmed. Your coachman was most attentive and your coach very nicely heated.”
“I am happy to hear it,” he said with an incline of his head.
The footman delivered a glass of wine to Lily on a silver tray. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“Please be seated,” Tobin invited her, gesturing again to the two winged-back chairs before the hearth.
Lily hesitated, then moved around one chair and perched delicately on the edge of it. She planted both feet firmly on the ground, her back as straight as a ruler. She looked positioned to dart to the door should the need arise.
But Tobin was not an animal, and he would not take his revenge by force. He much preferred to see her crawling to him, begging for his attention.
H
e flipped his tails and sat on the other chair, sinking back and making himself comfortable.
Lily glanced up, staring curiously at the painting above the mantel. It was a courtly scene in which a young king was the center of attention in a sea of people.
“Is that a Van Dyke?” she asked.
Tobin had no idea who the artist was—he’d bought the painting from a failing estate in England. That was the trouble with being a self-made man—he’d missed instruction in the finer aspects of life, such as the names of renowned artists. He could well imagine that Lily had studied art in some tranquil setting at an age when Charity had been emptying chamber pots. “Are you a connoisseur of art?” he asked.
“Very superficially,” she said. “But my uncle has a pair of Van Dykes, and I thought I recognized the style.” Her shoulders lifted and fell with a small sigh and she looked down at her glass of wine.
“Do you find the wine to your liking?” Tobin asked wryly.
She smiled. “Does it matter?”
“Pardon?”
Lily put the glass aside and shifted that smile to him. “Forgive me for being frank, but it seems to me, since you have tossed down a gauntlet and I have picked it up, that trivial talk is rather pointless.”
Surprised by that, Tobin gave her a wry smile. “I would agree. What would you like to discuss that is less trivial?”
“Actually,” she said, sitting a little straighter if that were even possible, “if you wouldn’t mind terribly, I am brimming with questions.”
Tobin cocked his head to one side. “About?”
“About . . . everything. You, of course,” she said and leaned slightly forward.
Her demeanor reminded him of the girl she’d been, always quite earnest. You must be the king, Tobin. Queens have kings, and you may sit there on the rock if you like. That will be your throne. Your throne is not as big as my throne, but you don’t need a very big one, do you?