She appeared puzzled, which meant that Lizzie hadn’t regaled her friend with their history yet. Interesting. He’d rarely met a female who could keep her own counsel on matters of such grave importance.
He said, “Do you know where Miss Allbright is?”
Miss Beauchamp was positively agog, but she was too well bred to express it.
“I believe she will be at the Grange, with Mr. Taft,” she said. “But be warned if you mean to find her there, my lord. Mr. Taft is as crusty and bad-tempered an old gentleman as you’ll come across.”
Miss Beauchamp’s attention was caught by a scuffle at the front door, where a pair of footmen were juggling what looked like some style of marquee between them.
“Pray, excuse me,” she said with a chuckle. “I must find my aunt and make sure she doesn’t try to bring her favorite armchair into the bargain.”
“You have your wish, Lydgate,” said Steyne when Miss Beauchamp had hurried off. “I must leave you here.”
“What?” said Lydgate. “You’re not going to the picnic?”
He regarded his cousin with ill-concealed impatience. “What do you think? That I desire the fresh air?”
“Right, then,” said Lydgate, tipping his hat. “I’ll beg a seat in Miss Beauchamp’s carriage. Good notion, that. Much obliged.”
Xavier sighed. “Do rid yourself of the idea that I am doing this for you, Lydgate.”
“Wait a moment. What if the lady’s carriage is full?” said Lydgate, his mind still stuck on his own transportation.
“Sit on the box with the coachman,” was Xavier’s unfeeling reply.
He gave his grays the office and shot past Lydgate, making his cousin’s guinea gold hair lift in the breeze of his wake.
Damn Lizzie Allbright and her good works. Xavier had hoped to maneuver her into a pleasant walk alone with him in the wilderness today. Now he had to go chasing after her to some irascible old gentleman’s house.
He found the Grange with little difficulty. With some misgivings, he handed the care of his precious grays to a groom who came to attend them.
Mr. Taft did not appear indigent, as Xavier had suspected he might be. From Lizzie’s conversation with Lady Chard the afternoon before, he’d gathered she was dedicated to charitable works. Yet it seemed her good deeds extended beyond helping the poor.
Very proper behavior for a vicar’s daughter. A marchioness, however, needed to learn to keep the proper distance. One took care of one’s tenants by giving them the opportunity to take care of themselves. One did not sweep and scrub floors for them. From a vicar’s daughter, such assistance might be acceptable. From a marchioness, it would be taken as patronizing.
He rapped on the door with the head of his cane, and his knock was answered by a housekeeper who gave a faint shriek of dismay when she saw him on the threshold.
Acidly, Xavier inquired after the proprietor of the establishment. He added, “I understand Miss Allbright is here. It is she I’ve come to see.”
“Oh, dear. Oh, bless me, the master is in a fit of temper with the poor lady, and no mistake,” said the housekeeper, wringing her hands on her apron.
“Then take me to them,” ordered Xavier, removing his gloves and hat.
“Oh, dear,” muttered the plump housekeeper again as she took his accoutrements and led him to a parlor off the hall.
She turned abruptly to ask, “Who shall I say is calling?”
“Steyne.”
In fact, he didn’t need the nervous housekeeper to guide him to her master. The shouting was loud enough to wake the dead.
He quickened his pace, overtaking Taft’s servant. He was brought up short on the threshold by the sound of Lizzie’s voice.
“Come now, Mr. Taft.” Her voice held a note of rather determined good cheer. “What a lot of fuss about a tiny draft of medicine. Why, you make more to-do about it than a child.”
“I told you I don’t want you here,” growled a hoarse masculine voice. “It’s a fine thing when a man can’t say who may cross his threshold. Damned officious little doxy.”
Lizzie stiffened at the man’s language.
This was not to be borne. Steyne strode into the room. “Sir, might I remind you that you are speaking to a lady?” He spoke with a freezing hauteur that made the old fellow’s fuzzed eyebrows slam together.
Mr. Taft turned his head sharply to face him. “Eh? And who the Devil are you?”
Lizzie whirled around, consternation written large over her features. She had a careworn crease on her brow and a dark stain down her bodice.
Now his annoyance turned to fury. He gestured to her soiled gown. “What is the meaning of this?”
He had a very good idea what that stain meant. The old goat had either thrown his medicine at her or he’d struggled and caused her to spill it on herself.
Either was unacceptable.
“My lord!” said Lizzie. “What can you mean by barging in here?”
“You weren’t at the picnic,” he said. “So I came to find you.” He eyed the old gentleman with dislike. “Your years and infirmity do not excuse your boorish behavior, sir. Apologize to Miss Allbright, take your infernal medicine, and let us hear no more about it.”
The man’s jaw dropped open slightly. Then he rallied. “No, that I won’t. The gel knows—”
“Do not,” said Xavier with ominous quiet, “let me hear you address Miss Allbright by anything but her name.” He crossed the room and took the draft from Lizzie’s unresisting fingers. He leaned in to the old man and held it out. “Drink.” He invested the word with menace.
The old gentleman hesitated, then with utmost reluctance, took the glass and tilted the noxious liquid down his throat. “Pah!” Taft wiped his thin lips with the back of his hand, screwing up his face. “Brandy, now, and be quick about it.”
“No, he mustn’t,” said Lizzie, starting forward when Xavier, having looked around and spied a decanter on an occasional table, crossed to it.
“It won’t hurt him.” He poured a finger of brandy and took it to Mr. Taft. Gently, he said, “Apologize to Miss Allbright.”
Xavier was gratified to see the old man’s cheeks redden a little.
Lizzie looked from Xavier to Taft. “Oh, pray, there is no need,” said Lizzie.
Xavier ignored her. “Well?”
Taft hunched a shoulder. “Beg pardon, Miss Allbright.”
The apology was muttered and grudging. Xavier was tempted to force a more abject expression of remorse from the fellow, but he held his peace.
“Shall we?” he said to Lizzie, indicating the door with a sweep of his hand.
She hesitated. “Oh, but—”
“The housekeeper will do for Mr. Taft,” he said. “I need you now.”
Lizzie’s gaze shot to his, her face flaming. He wondered, with a tinge of amusement, what she thought he intended to do with her once he had her to himself.
Taft must not have been quite as self-absorbed as he seemed, for his beetling brows lowered again and he fixed Xavier with narrowed eyes. “She ain’t going anywhere with you if she don’t care to,” he said pugnaciously. “She might be a damned—dashed—meddlesome female, but she’s a good girl and not to be ruined by the likes of you.”
What did the old man know about “the likes of him?” he wondered. But Taft was fired up now, one liver-spotted hand gripping the arm of his chair as he struggled to rise to his feet.
With a little cry of protest, Lizzie gently pressed him back into his seat. “It is quite all right, Mr. Taft. Indeed, I must go now. Lord Steyne will see me safely home. There, let me put this rug across your knees and you will be comfortable.”
“Oh, Lord Steyne, is it?” grumbled the old man. “I don’t hold no truck with lords.”
“I can’t say I blame you,” said Xavier. “However, if you want any more, er, truck with Miss Allbright, I suggest you mend your manners, sir. Good day to you.”
He held out his arm to Lizzie. After a marked hesitation, sh
e took it and accompanied him out of the house.
Chapter Nine
Lizzie fumed all the way to Lord Steyne’s carriage. “You needn’t have been so brutal.”
She wished she did not require his assistance to climb into the curricle. If only the confident clasp of his hand and the easy strength with which he handed her into the carriage didn’t make her body tremble and heat.
She had to remind herself she was cross with him. “You bullied poor Mr. Taft mercilessly.”
“He was rude to you,” said Steyne with a dismissive note in his voice, as if there were nothing more to be said.
“He is old and he’s in pain. That makes him irritable,” said Lizzie. “You see, his digestion—”
“I cannot conceive what interest you think I have in the medical woes of a complete stranger,” returned Steyne in a tone that made her want to kick him in the shins. “My only concern is his behavior toward my wife. It was unacceptable.”
“I daresay if he knew I was a marchioness, he would be more civil,” she said with a trace of bitterness.
He glanced at her. “I wasn’t thinking of your rank.” But before she digested this, he turned the subject. “I’ve come to have your answer to my proposition last night. By now, you must have had the opportunity to reflect a little and to discuss the matter with Mr. Allbright.”
“You must own that my position has become a trifle more precarious since last we met,” she said, still stewing about his interference at Mr. Taft’s. He’d made her look weak and unable to manage the elderly gentleman. She’d always considered herself so capable and persuasive. Ordinarily, she did not let Mr. Taft get the better of her, but today she had not been at her best.
For which she held Lord Steyne responsible.
“More precarious?” he said, as if bewildered.
“My betrothal to Mr. Huntley, of course!” she snapped.
“Are you betrothed?” he asked, letting his horses slow to a gentle walk. “I distinctly heard you refuse him.”
“I did, but—” She bit her lip. “—Miss Worthington and Mrs. Huntley saw me in his embrace and now I am in a dreadful pickle.” She fired up. “Yes, and I think it abominable of you to simply stand there and let it happen.”
“What did you expect me to do? Strike an attitude and shout, “No! She is mine!” That would have set the cat amongst the pigeons.” He eyed her. “A broken engagement to some country squire would be nothing compared with the scandal of our prior marriage.”
“I know that. But I believe you could have stopped him. Why, when you saw me struggling, you could have stepped in.”
“That would have been a chivalrous act,” he agreed. “Had I known the fellow’s attentions were unacceptable to you, undoubtedly I would have intervened.” He paused. “As it was, I did not know.”
Lizzie was left to make of that statement what she might. On balance, she rather thought Steyne’s pride would not allow him to make a disturbance at a public assembly. Then, too, his every move was calculated, precise.
She found herself wishing that she might upset the ordered applecart of Lord Steyne’s life. Just once, she would like to see him lose command of himself.
But she would be deluding herself to imagine she would ever be the cause.
“Miss Allbright?” prompted Steyne as she continued to maintain her seething silence. “You still have not replied to my earlier question: Will you agree to my plan? That you come to Harcourt as Miss Allbright, where I woo you and marry you as if we had never met before now?”
“I cannot imagine why you trouble yourself to ask for my answer,” she said, trying to match him for sangfroid. “You give me no choice. You will expose me as a liar to my friends and neighbors if I don’t comply with your wishes. And the eventual outcome would be the same anyway. You’re my husband. I have no power to stand against you.”
“What, craven, Miss Allbright?” he mocked. “I thought perhaps you might run away.”
“I am not so stupid,” she said. “You would find me, just as you did last time.”
“I am gratified to see you are coming to know me so well.”
“Besides,” she said, “There will be compensations. I have always wanted children.” Someone who was hers to love.
“Indeed?” He seemed to withdraw a little, the easy atmosphere shattered by her tentative confession. After a moment, he seemed to recollect himself. “Then we must attend to the begetting of these infants without delay.”
“But I can’t! Not until I have dealt with Mr. Huntley.” How she would do so, she wasn’t certain. She had considered asking Mr. Allbright to forbid the match, but without giving the true reason, that would be to insult a man who was a close neighbor as well as influential in the district. She must attend to it herself.
“If I undertake to assist you with the problem of Mr. Huntley, how soon can you be ready to leave Little Thurston?”
She swallowed. “I don’t know. I—I need to prepare. I need gowns. I am not sure how long it will take—”
“There is no need to concern yourself with gowns,” he said.
“Trust a man to say such a thing,” she said, thinking of her meager wardrobe and of the stain on her bodice that might well prove impossible to remove. “You cannot wish your future wife to shame you by looking shabby.”
His lips twitched. “How shallow and unworthy you must think me. Besides, you never look shabby to me, Miss Allbright.”
He truly meant her to attend a house party at the Duke of Montford’s estate with only a handful of outmoded gowns to her name. She simply could not.
Steyne still watched her with a great deal of understanding in his eyes. The realization that she was the one who was shallow hit her hard.
Had she learned nothing while living at the parsonage? Her limited wardrobe had never troubled her before. Or not terribly much, she amended, remembering Miss Worthington’s needling remarks.
But now that she was supposed to hold her own as the daughter of Lord Bute in a household full of nobility, now that no less than the Marquis of Steyne would court her, she became fully alive to her lack of worldly goods.
“Do not look so stricken, dear Miss Allbright,” said Steyne. “I have taken the liberty of arranging a wardrobe for you.”
“You … did what?” She was scandalized. There were so many things wrong with the idea, she couldn’t decide which one to voice first.
“As I said, I see nothing wrong with your attire,” said Steyne smoothly. “The gowns and so forth are yours should you wish to wear them. It is entirely up to you.”
“But—but how did you do it?” she demanded.
He smiled a rather grim smile. “For my sins, I am well versed in ladies’ fashion, my dear. Everything—and I do mean everything—you require will be provided for you.”
By “everything,” he meant petticoats and shifts, stockings and garters and stays, and … Her face grew hot.
She was mortified at the thought of him choosing her clothing, particularly since he must have gained his experience and expertise by outfitting his mistresses. But even disregarding that fact, there was something so intimate and intrusive about the idea. That he had expended so much attention and thought upon her before even meeting her again sat oddly with her, too.
He’d entertained not the slightest doubt that she’d fall in with his scheme, had he?
The parson’s daughter inside her urged her to reject his offering, to refuse to alter her ways simply because she would go amongst people who would judge her for her attire.
But the insidious, powerful, feminine part of her longed to see, to touch, to try.
The Marquis of Steyne was renowned for his exquisite taste. Would he know what might suit her? “How did you guess my measurements?”
His gaze traveled over her body, making her shiver. Then he met her eyes. “The vicar helped with that.”
“Mr. Allbright?” she said, startled and not at all pleased to think of the vicar hearing about Steyne’s
plans, much less conspiring in them.
“I believe he quizzed your maid,” said Steyne blandly. “No doubt alterations will be needed, but there will be a seamstress on hand to assist with that.”
She marveled at Mr. Allbright’s powers of dissimulation. The vicar’s deception—over the marquis, over the clothes, even over his plan to invite his sister to live with him—made her uneasy, unsure of her footing. The solid foundation of eight years seemed to shift and crack beneath her feet.
But gowns … If the vicar thought it proper for Steyne to dress her, was she ridiculously pedantic to balk at the idea? After all, Steyne was her husband. As such, his gesture was an entirely appropriate one. A simple matter of timing that he gave her these gowns before anyone knew about their union.
The disquiet she felt about accepting such largesse didn’t make much logical sense. The fact that Mr. Allbright had approved the scheme finally decided her. She would not create a fuss over it.
“Thank you, my lord.” Her tone was stifled, and she knew he’d guess how much his high-handedness rankled.
“You’re welcome.” He said the words gravely, but she had the impression he was amused about something. “So, the question remains,” he said eventually. “When will you be ready to leave?”
When, indeed? Practically speaking, it would be the matter of moments to pack her worldly goods. But feeling ready was another matter.
“Would a week suffice?” said Steyne. “I confess I’m impatient to see you at Harcourt.”
One week, she thought. One week to prepare herself for the terrors and uncertainties that lay ahead. One week to farewell the only true home she’d ever known.
While she’d considered Steyne’s intention to appear to court her at Harcourt somewhat of a hopeful interlude during which something might occur to save her, the reality was that her acquiescence to Steyne’s plan was a foregone conclusion.
Mr. Allbright’s words came back to her, that it might well be her calling to redeem the marquis. She slid a look at the man beside her and tried unsuccessfully to imagine him as someone in need of her help.
The Wickedest Lord Alive Page 9