Before she could reply to this, Rosamund’s clear voice called down the table. “What do you say, Cyprian? Will you write us a play?”
“Saints preserve us,” muttered Xavier.
Until that moment, Cyprian had been staring into space, ignored by those surrounding him and no doubt content to be so. His mind was far away, wandering in sylvan glades, no doubt.
He did not, at first, answer Rosamund’s plea.
Xavier ground his teeth. When he’d commanded Cyprian’s attendance at dinner, he ought to have stipulated that he needed to be mentally as well as physically present.
Hilary, who sat next to the poet, unceremoniously poked him in the ribs with her fork.
He gave a violent start and peered around him, to see everyone’s attention upon him. “So sorry. I was woolgathering.”
“A play, Cyprian,” said Rosamund. “Do pay attention, dear boy. I wish you to write one for us. Just one act.”
Rosamund’s husband, Griffin, who had stomped into the dining room too late to be properly introduced to the newcomers, threw down his napkin. “I knew it! Can’t a fellow get some peace? What the Devil do we want with a play?”
“My dearest bear, do try to be civil. We have guests.” Rosamund smiled serenely, quite unconcerned by his outburst.
Beckenham intervened. “Why don’t you ladies amuse yourselves to that end? We gentlemen will be your audience.”
A general murmur of agreement from the men around the table indicated Rosamund would get no masculine support for the scheme.
“Well, pooh to you, then!” said Georgie. “I, for one, don’t mind playing a breeches part.”
That statement seemed to silence the general muttering. Then Beckenham said very softly, “Oh, no, you won’t.”
Georgie sent him a sidelong smile. “Why not? I’m as tall as any lady here. Except perhaps Miss Allbright.”
Lizzie chuckled. “Capital! Can I be a highwayman?”
A sudden image of Lizzie in breeches and an open-necked man’s shirt, her fair hair tied in a queue and a tricorne upon her head met Xavier’s imagination. A loo mask leaving only that delectable mouth and sweetly determined chin visible. Top boots emphasizing the length of her legs …
“I’ll be an Arabian princess,” said Hilary, drawing her silk shawl across her face and batting her eyelashes at her husband.
Davenport’s mouth formed a slow, self-satisfied grin. “Perhaps later,” he said softly, making her blush.
“And I’ll be a pirate,” said Georgie.
Georgie’s spouse contemplated the coffered ceiling in an attitude of patient suffering, but the corners of his stern mouth twitched.
“What about you, Clare?” said Tom in a rallying tone. “Who will you be? The pirate’s parrot?”
Clare pointedly ignored that sally. “I shall be the highwayman’s sweetheart.” She winked at Lizzie.
Cyprian frowned. “I do not see how I can write a play about a highwayman and a pirate.”
“Not to mention an Arabian princess,” murmured Xavier.
“I do not like to boast,” said Mr. Huntley, entering the lists, “but I am something of a thespian myself.”
The company stared at him as if he’d told them he was an accomplished snake charmer.
He smiled benignly. “My rendition of Hamlet’s famous monologue draws much admiration among the denizens of Little Thurston. I wonder if I might beg a part in this little play.” He put a hand over his breast. “To be, or not to be—”
“The more the merrier, sir,” said Rosamund stemming the flow of Mr. Huntley’s oratory with a slight quiver to her lips. “Which part shall you play?”
Xavier, whose imagination had played out various scenes between himself and a certain breeches-clad lady, came out of his reverie. He said, “Isn’t it obvious? If the ladies are taking breeches parts—”
“Then Mr. Huntley must wear petticoats!” finished Clare with a gurgle of delight.
* * *
Lizzie had half a mind—three quarters of a mind, actually—to disregard Xavier’s order that she meet him alone tonight.
He’d vowed to seduce her. She would have to be extremely naïve not to expect he’d do his utmost to persuade her into bed tonight.
Meeting him would be dangerous. But how would she ever come to know the real man if she never took the risk to be alone with him? He did not show his true self when his family was around.
He seemed to withdraw from the rest of the company. Oh, not in the way Cyprian allowed his mind to wander from the present. Xavier paid attention to everything that went on around him. He simply did not participate in it.
He made of himself an outsider. But why? With such a lively, interesting family who obviously cared about him, why should he be so remote?
She recalled sensing this wall surrounding him when he first came to her bedchamber on their wedding night. What would it take to break that down? Something cataclysmic. Something quite beyond the ken of Lizzie Allbright.
When the time came to excuse herself from the drawing room, Lizzie pleaded a headache.
When Aunt Sadie expressed dismay and Clare offered to go up with her, Lizzie refused them with thanks. “A good night’s sleep is all I need. I shall be right as a trivet in the morning.”
The second she reached the gallery, a strong hand gripped her wrist and pulled her into the shadows.
With a startled yelp, she fetched up against Xavier’s chest. They stood in a deep window bay, and without letting go of her, Xavier yanked the tie of the heavy curtain so that the velvet drapes swung shut behind them.
She could scarcely make out his features in the darkness of the window embrasure.
Excitement beat in her veins, but she managed to say, “You said you wished to speak with me. What is it you wanted to say?”
“This.”
His mouth took hers as his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. This was no gentle initiation, but a passionate, knowing embrace.
He framed her face with his hands and held her steady and thrust his tongue into her mouth. The experience was hot and carnal and wild. One hand moved to her shoulder … and down …
Unapologetic, blatantly provocative, his fingertips trailed over her breast; then his hand molded it boldly, his thumb flicking at the nipple, producing a kind of pleasure Lizzie had never even dreamed existed.
He dragged his lips from hers, and his hot, harsh breath flooded her ear. “Do you remember having me inside you, Lizzie?”
She didn’t reply. The manipulation of his thumb and fingers on her breast made her weak.
“Answer me,” he said, then gently nipped her earlobe with his teeth.
“Y-yes.” How could she forget?
“It will be different this time,” he said. “There’s so much more I can show you, Lizzie. So much more to feel, so much more to do.”
“You mustn’t.” What about Huntley? What about her plan to make Xavier love her?
She put up her hands to push him away, but he’d begun nuzzling at her throat, pressing and nibbling and licking while his hands moved over her breasts, stroking and tantalizing her with gentle plucks at her nipples.
Even through layers of fabric, the sensation made her nearly jump out of her skin. It made her want him to rip her clothes off and use his mouth in ways that were wicked and shameful to contemplate.
He knew how to make a woman want him, that was certain. He desired her; that she did not doubt. But she needed him to care. And this wasn’t the way to go about forging that particular bond.
Finally, she gathered sufficient strength of will to stop him. She gripped his strong wrists and pulled them away from her sensitive, yearning flesh, holding him at bay.
With a soft groan that turned into a long, drawn-out sigh, he raised his head. “Lizzie, do not be tiresome.”
“I am not being tiresome. I simply object to your manhandling me every time we are alone.”
His voice was low, a trifle husky. “Strange. Y
ou seem to enjoy a little judicious manhandling.”
She was too honest to deny it. “That’s beside the point. You will ruin my reputation if you keep this up.”
He gave an ironic huff of laughter at that, but she felt his resistance cease and she let go of his wrists.
“We know we are married, but they don’t,” she said. “Until we are man and wife in the eyes of the world, I will not do this with you.”
He dragged his palm over his chin as if feeling for stubble. But he was clean-shaven—she’d discovered that well enough when he kissed her.
“You are being unreasonable, Lizzie. A mere matter of timing—”
He didn’t understand. “I hardly know you. What if you turn capricious and decide not to go through with the charade of becoming engaged and marrying? Where does that leave me? You said yourself that no one is here to bear witness to our marriage. I certainly do not have the marriage lines. I ran away, remember? I’m reasonably certain you could expunge any records if you wished to. If I let you ruin me as Lizzie Allbright and cast me aside, what am I to do then, Xavier?”
He’d been hot before. Now he was utterly cool. “You impugn my honor, Lizzie. I find that difficult to forgive.”
“What do I know of your honor?” she flung back. Something toward the back of her mouth seemed to close up and she added more quietly, “I only know your reputation is a dreadful one. Why should I risk so much on a whim?”
His eyes seemed to glitter in the dim light. “A whim, you say. No, my dear, bedding you is not something I do on a whim.”
The strange remoteness in his tone alarmed her. “You promised to at least appear to court me.”
“And you promised to receive my attentions with the semblance of pleasure. Distasteful though they might be.”
The tension in the silence made her heart ache. She went to him and reached up to touch his cheek. “They are not distasteful. Quite the reverse. An experienced rake such as yourself ought to know that.”
Before he could reply, she turned, found the gap in the drapes, and slipped away.
Chapter Fifteen
Lizzie opened her eyes to a morning that was bright, cool, and clear. She threw back the covers and rose to greet the day. From her window, she saw formal Italian gardens laid out in geometric shapes, fountains playing. Some sort of Grecian temple stood on a gentle rise to the east, its cupola glinting in the sun.
The hour was later than her usual waking time, but she was not obliged to be anywhere or do any chores today. It was an odd feeling for one whose schedule had been busy for the past eight years—positively overflowing since Mrs. Allbright passed away.
She had done her best to arrange matters so that her duties were filled by goodhearted ladies in the district, for it was not her place to direct the efforts of Mr. Allbright’s sister.
No doubt they would all work it out among themselves. She did worry for the Minchins, though, and that the less palatable among her self-imposed duties might be allowed to lapse. Most gently born ladies extended charity only so far.
But the vicar would make sure everyone in his parish was cared for, wouldn’t he? She took comfort from that.
Lizzie sighed. She missed everyone in Little Thurston already. She might even grow to regret leaving Mr. Taft.
She rang for Beth, who brought her a cup of tea.
“I am riding with Miss Beauchamp this morning,” said Lizzie. “Will you lay out my riding habit, Beth?” The jacket was ever so slightly too large, but not enough to signify.
Beth’s brow puckered a little when she’d helped her dress. “The coat’s not sitting quite as I should wish across the back, miss.”
“It will do for the duration of my stay,” said Lizzie, looking over her shoulder at her reflection in the looking glass. She’d need a tailor to fix the problem. Beth might be a talented needlewoman, but tailoring was a specialized skill.
“Yes, miss,” said Beth. “I’ve made those other alterations you wanted.”
“What, already?” Lizzie was startled. “You must have been up all night.”
“Happy to do it, miss. If you don’t mind my saying, it does me credit to have you looking just the thing.”
“That’s all very well, but you must not work yourself to the bone on that account,” said Lizzie. Rather touched and admiring of the girl’s dedication, she silently resolved to dismiss her early that evening.
Beth frowned again at the set of the habit across Lizzie’s shoulders. Truly, only the keenest eye would detect the problem. And she would be riding, would she not? It wasn’t as if she’d wear the costume to a ball.
As Lizzie escaped her maid’s scrutiny, she wondered with a grin if Beth wouldn’t turn out to be something of a martinet, after all.
Since their arrival at Harcourt, Lizzie had largely managed to avoid Mr. Huntley, but she found him in the breakfast parlor holding forth on the duke’s collections to a very bored-looking Georgie.
Feeling in some sort responsible for inflicting her suitor upon the company, Lizzie drew his fire by sitting down beside him and asking after his mama.
“I was so glad to see Mrs. Huntley at dinner last night,” she said. “The journey did not wholly overset her, then?”
“No, indeed,” said Mr. Huntley. “I took every precaution, you know. I do not mind saying this to you, Miss Allbright, for you know it is not generally my habit to boast. But had I not been fortunate enough to be born into a comfortable existence, I think I should have done exceedingly well as a physician. Indeed, I understand my dear mama’s constitution better than any member of that profession she has employed.”
“Mrs. Huntley is very fortunate to have you,” said Lizzie warmly.
She sent a quick glance around the table. Seeing everyone occupied, she murmured, “Mr. Huntley, I fear there has been a dreadful misunderstanding between us, which I would like to rectify as soon as may be.”
“Oh?” Mr. Huntley vigorously buttered some toast with short stabbing motions. “A misunderstanding, you say? I should not like to think it.”
“Yes,” said Lizzie. “If you will but give me a private audience, I think I can make you understand.” At least I pray you will understand, she thought. Knowing Huntley’s thick skin, she wasn’t as confident as she might be on that point.
She licked her lips. “I am going riding with Miss Beauchamp shortly. Will you join us?”
“I am not fond of equestrianism,” said Huntley. “But might I beg that you spend time with my mama today, Miss Allbright? She is quite knocked up from the journey and the dinner last night, but I daresay she would be glad of your company this afternoon.”
“Of course,” said Lizzie at once, even though her heart sank. How could Huntley not see that his mama hated her? If only he would knuckle under about the betrothal the way he obeyed her on every other score.…
No, Lizzie must find a way to make it utterly plain to Mr. Huntley that she would never marry him. She needed to do this before Xavier went ahead and announced their false betrothal.
Lizzie sighed. In the meantime, she would have to endure some distinctly uncomfortable visits with Mrs. Huntley.
* * *
“What a glorious day,” said Clare, linking her arm with Lizzie’s and swishing her riding crop to and fro as she walked. She looked fetching as ever in a navy blue habit with brown velvet lapels and a mannish brown beaver hat.
“Isn’t it?” said Lizzie. “I’d be prepared to wager the sun always smiles on Harcourt house parties.”
Clare rolled her eyes. “Oh, not you as well. Everyone around here seems to believe the Duke of Montford is a cross between a wizard and the Lord Almighty. I doubt even His Grace can control the weather.”
Lizzie said, “Of course not. But don’t you think that’s the way it happens in life? That there are some people the sun always shines upon?”
While for others, life was nothing but a grim struggle. She thought of the more indigent of Mr. Allbright’s parishioners and resolved that
when she stepped into the role of marchioness, she would dedicate time and money to helping people, just as Xavier had suggested.
“It might seem that way,” said Clare. “But underneath all the trappings, even the duke is but a man. He must have his travails and sorrows like everyone else.”
“Just none that involve struggling to put food on the table,” murmured Lizzie.
She shook herself. “But yes, you are right. Wealth and position do not guarantee happiness.” And certainly not salvation.
They continued to chatter about lighter subjects, but all the while, Lizzie thought of Xavier. No, she would not describe him as happy, and certainly not content. There was a darkness in him, an old, deep pain that she couldn’t even begin to guess at.
A sudden, fierce need to know, to soothe and heal that wound struck her with the force of a blow.
She wanted to make Xavier Westruther, Marquis of Steyne, happy.
The realization seemed to knock the breath out of her. She halted, staring blindly at the vista of woodland and fields before her.
“Lizzie?” At the same moment, Clare turned and said her name, a masculine voice called from behind them. Clare shaded her eyes to look beyond Lizzie and waved. Lizzie followed suit more slowly.
Tom strolled down the hill toward them, calling something to Clare with his customary grin. Clare said something back to him, but their exchange was muted by the rushing in Lizzie’s ears. As she and Clare waited for Tom to join them, she struggled to reason with her stupid heart.
It was no use. She was hopelessly in love with the Marquis of Steyne.
“Lizzie,” said Tom, tipping his hat to her. “Going for a ride? Mind if I join you?”
“If you must,” said Clare, tucking her hand in his crooked arm.
He offered his other arm to Lizzie. She took it, wishing for somewhere to hide away where she might have leisure to examine and test this new and astonishing revelation. Somewhere to plan.
However, her two companions were not in a bickering mood today, it seemed, and therefore did not mean to let her off the conversational hook.
When they entered the handsome stable block—which itself was like a small palace—Lizzie found that Steyne had already chosen for her a pretty chestnut mare with a white blaze on her forehead. The mare’s coat gleamed with health and vitality, and her brown eyes regarded Lizzie softly.
The Wickedest Lord Alive Page 17