by Gina Conkle
“No, I mean after my mother resigned herself that I was head of the Greenwich seat and leading as I saw fit.” He waited on his explanation while a footman refilled his tankard with golden ale, and then raised his tankard in silent toast to his dinner companion. “Which took about a month. That’s when I made changes in here.”
“You haven’t told me much about your mother, or your family for that matter.” Her cautious knife strokes kept a careful slicing tempo on the porcelain plate.
They’d waded into new territory here, and some places, too many, made shaky ground at best and volatile terrain at worst. Edward popped a chunk of meat into his mouth to delay, a stall tactic he was sure Miss Montgomery duly noted. True, the balance of knowledge stood in his favor, but he owed her some information. Why, though, must matters go right to the touchiest spots, like probing a tender bruise?
“What’s there to know? Most of England read about the Greenwich family the past few years in the broadsheets.” He stopped for another draught of ale. “You’ll see some of the family portraits tonight. Your artist’s eye should ascertain plenty.”
Edward motioned to one of the footmen for more ale, but not before catching an all too discerning light in Miss Montgomery’s eye. Instead of pursuing that topic, she speared another bite, and her green eyes sparkled in firelight. Ale warmed him, playing with his equilibrium. Or was it his dinner companion?
He liked that what he tried to brush aside spoke volumes to her…could see it in her eyes; she’d no doubt navigated family disasters better than he. Edward dismissed the footmen and made a mental note of appreciation that Miss Montgomery was an atypical female. How satisfying to be in the company of a woman who didn’t dig for more information when a door clearly shut.
“This meat pie is delicious,” she said, her face writ with astonishment.
The hearth’s warm blaze lit her features, casting soft shadows. Miss Montgomery sat up straighter, giving him a pleasant smile now and then. Good. She’d found her sea legs and was getting used to him. Her head tilted toward her plate, and she ate with genuine enthusiasm. Nor did she ply his ear with incessant chatter; thus, Edward surprised himself when he speared a hunk of beef and decided it was time to delve into personal matters.
“Why have you never married?”
Miss Montgomery’s fork froze midair. “I could ask the same of you, my lord.”
He chewed, angling his scarred cheek at her, and swallowed.
“You know one very substantial reason. I was barely out of Cambridge when this happened, though half of London’s made sport out of their speculation about my marital concerns.” He leaned his forearms on the table. “And you’re avoiding my question.”
“Perhaps it’s as you put it last night: I’m pretty, but not that pretty.” She set the wine goblet to her lips, but mischief played about her face.
“Ah, I see the writing on the wall.” He raised his tankard. “Any rash comment I make will be used against me and require recompense.” He swallowed more ale. “Of course, I have it on best authority that discourse between a man and a woman can get heated from time to time.”
His cheeky reminder of her own words earned him throaty, joyful laughter. He liked the way her head tipped back, exposing her neck, a slim column of smooth, pale flesh.
“You are an apt pupil of women.” Miss Montgomery dabbed the napkin to her lips. “I’m curious. What did your solicitor’s report say about me?”
Right then Edward took notice, really saw Miss Montgomery in a new, fascinating light, another facet of a carefully cut gem. They ate for a time in pleasant silence. She was much more than a simple country miss thrown into an advantageous situation; her adroit sidesteps would make her a worthy ally and make for an interesting chase. A man would have to be on alert with her.
“Mr. Aaron had little time, I’m afraid, to delve deeply. His report was bare bones.” Edward leaned back, and his fingers stroked the handle of his tankard. “You’re the oldest daughter of the late Mr. Alistair Wright, steward to the Duke of Somerset, and Mrs. Abigail Montgomery, who remarried one George Montgomery, a clerk recently in my employ at Sanford Shipping. Your entire upbringing took place at the ducal seat in Somerset, where you occasionally were tutored with the duke’s children, acting as companion to their older daughter when the family was in the country. After your father’s demise, the duke allowed your family to stay in the steward’s cottage because of his high regard for the late Mr. Wright. Your sister married and moved away. An unsavory incident occurred four years ago, at which time you removed yourself to Wickersham to live with a distant family relation.” His fingers drummed his tankard. “How am I doing so far?”
“Magnificently.” She tipped her head in acknow- ledgment.
“There was no mention of you enjoying the occasional dram of scotch, or your experience as a woman.” He leaned forward, resting his forearm on the table, every muscle tensing. “Here’s where things are less clear. Little is known about you in the four years in Wickersham.”
As soon as he said that, her green eyes flickered with wariness. “And what do you know?”
“Everyone spoke highly of the young woman living with her great-aunt with rare trips to visit family in London. Neighbors waxed on about your helpfulness in times of need and your cheerful nature at the annual spring rout.” He cocked his head at the mystery. “Strangely, the report listed no close friends, save for regular correspondence with your sister, and only two short-lived male suitors. More intriguing, no one could answer the question as to why a fairly attractive woman was on the shelf at four-and-twenty.”
Lydia sat like a marble statue, a wan smile pasted to her face. “You’ve been quite thorough, or I should say your solicitor has been.”
“I needed to be. Would I invite a shrew into my ancestral home?” His fingertips stroked the tankard’s rim. “To my bed?”
Her chin raised a notch. Firelight flickered, playing over her dark glossy hair. Dense, sable lashes outlined her eyes, and curling wisps dropped from her simple coiffure, contouring high cheekbones.
“You get ahead of yourself, my lord.” Wine-red lips curved prettily. “Don’t forget your edict to wait a month.”
Every muscle in his torso tensed alert and aware to the tempting quarry across his table.
“But what about all the years beyond?”
As he said those quiet words, her lashes shuttered low, shielding her eyes from his intent stare. She brushed at the sleeve of her dress, and another wall was erected. Interesting. Miss Montgomery was the one hiding.
But what else could she possibly withhold from him? Women teetering on the verge of spinsterhood, who lived with ancient family members, did not live fast, exciting lives. What possible secret could she hold in check from him?
Edward sighed, and the chair creaked as he pressed into the back rest. “Very well, Miss Montgomery. Rome wasn’t built in a day, nor will the accord between us come quickly. Everything in its time.”
Her eyelashes fluttered upward. “You wish for accord between us? And here I thought you wished only for an heir.”
Her coy words neatly parried to his thrust. Miss Montgomery opened her mouth a fraction from that mild, teasing sarcasm she gave him. The dark, wet space in the middle of those soft lips would drive him mad, if he let this go too far. Then, as if she knew, the temptress dabbed her napkin to her lips, hiding what tempted him most. Ale and the scintillating feminine company across the table warmed his blood. He stood on the brink of something.
“I wish to know many things, Miss Montgomery.” Edward’s fingers skimmed the edge of his plate. “At present, I’ll settle for your list of atonements. You owe me a choice of three.”
Though her mouth hid behind a napkin, her whole face lit with a smile. Miss Montgomery set the napkin on the table, her fingers kneading the linen.
“I’m happy to oblige.” She stood up, and her chair scraped the floor before one of the footmen could pull it out for her.
His din
ner companion missed the footman’s approach: a future lesson for the future countess to allow people to wait on her. She turned and took note of the hovering footman.
“I messed that up, didn’t I?” She grinned at Edward. “Should’ve waited for help with my chair.”
He was too taken by the mischief in her eyes to comment.
“My lord, why don’t we take that tour of your family’s art? Then I shall present my three…ideas.”
***
At least her first dinner with a noble wasn’t a complete disaster. How was she to know one waited on a servant for chair movement?
All in all, the dinner went splendidly, save that minor misstep. Her mind focused on the vexing man across the table. She mentally cataloged yes and no topics: the reason for his scars and reclusive ways, however painful to recount, rolled off his tongue today, yet one question about his family and Lord Greenwich slammed shut. And forget trying to ascertain Miss Mayhew’s status from his lordship or the servants; the housekeeper was the most forbidden topic. Yet, everything about his demeanor this eve struck her as a clever predator dallying with its prey, and he enjoyed every minute of the game—for that is surely what kept his interest attuned. This clue to his character was the most intriguing yet.
Lord Greenwich took the candelabrum from the sideboard and offered his arm with an infectious rogue’s grin.
“I can’t remember the last time I had such enthusiasm for art.”
“Art? And here I thought you were eager to hear my offerings,” she said, slipping her hand under his elbow.
“Hmmm, there is that,” he said.
Her fingers splayed over the plush velvet covering his forearm. Oh, she had an inkling as to what his lordship anticipated her ideas to be: ideas that played to a sensual nature.
He was in for a surprise.
As they moved through the hallways, she sneaked quick side views of Lord Greenwich. His classic profile and smooth, unscarred cheek would cause hearts to flutter if he bothered with social niceties and went to Town in the light of day. The irreverent noble still wore no waistcoat or neckcloth. The exposed skin of his neck and top of his chest intrigued her. The edge of a scar showed at the open neckline, driving her mad with an itch to explore. Did Society dictate the need for neckwear solely to hide that forbidden flesh? The notion made her laugh.
“Something amusing?” Lord Greenwich questioned as he navigated Greenwich Park’s hallways. Lydia opened her mouth to answer, but right then his lordship pushed against two very grand, gilt-trimmed doors, opening the way to a long, rectangular room.
He could have been Moses parting the Red Sea, so awe inspiring the effect.
“Oh, my.”
Polished silver candelabra glowed from small tables every ten feet or so along the walls. The earl had had the servants prepare the room for them. No, for her.
Large and small paintings lined the walls, well-placed geometric puzzle pieces covering white space. Narrow windows stood between some paintings on one wall, and whenever the clouds parted, pearled moonbeams mixed with mellow candlelight. The whole place took her breath away…a sumptuous spread of fine art. Beauty, the rare and real kind, could overwhelm the senses; such was the visual feast that rooted her to the floor, until one particular gilt-framed piece beckoned.
“Is that a van Oosterwyck?” Lydia cried. Her arm slipped from his. She grabbed handfuls of her skirts for freedom of movement, taking a rapid pace toward an oil painting of flowers and a globe.
Lydia craned her neck, checking the signature. Lord Greenwich’s footsteps echoed on the parquet from behind until his silent presence warmed her. He raised the candelabrum, all the better for her to read the signature, but she already knew.
“You own the Vanitas.” She breathed the painting’s name in reverence and shook her head. “You actually own Maria van Oosterwyck’s Vanitas.”
Edward leaned in for a look at the artist’s signature. “Apparently so.”
“I thought all her pieces went to royalty,” Lydia sighed. “I’ve long admired her talent, her ability to support herself. As a woman, she was never allowed into her countrys’ painters’ guild. That’s for men only.” She pursed her lips on that pronouncement and sighed. “But the worse crime is such beauty’s hidden away in a room where only a choice few can appreciate it.”
Her voice, edged with brusque coolness at both injustices, relaxed when she leaned in to capture the details of a flower petal.
“Pity…such magnificence locked away. I had to see a copy of it in a book, a very rough block print.” She straightened and faced him. “Someday, someone will have to explain to me why one’s birth in Society dictates access and appreciation of art.”
Lydia didn’t bother to see how his lordship reacted to that. Another portrait dominated most of one wall. The giant piece lured her, as much the quality of work as the subject matter. She pulled away from Lord Greenwich, her heels rapidly clicking the polished wood floor.
Lydia clasped her hands behind her and craned her neck to absorb every detail. She pointed at the younger boy.
“That’s you,” she said with glee.
“It is I.” Lord Greenwich raised the candelabrum to give her more light. His cheerful composure was that of a man who knew he’d struck a bull’s-eye in pleasing a woman.
She squinted at the brushstrokes. Better to study this in the light of day. Lydia stepped back a few paces for perspective. A triangle of children, two boys and one girl with a golden spaniel resting at their feet, filled the portrait that was easily twenty feet tall. A large, older, dark-haired boy stood at the epicenter; no, he was the epicenter. One hand fisted at his waist, the strapping lad, barely in his teenage years, held a brass telescope against his thigh, complete with a commanding air.
The girl shared the same tawny-haired mane as the boyish Edward and was the youngest of the three. With each brushstroke, the artist had captured her spoiled nature in the pout of her mouth and willful, brown eyes, the same as both her brothers.
And then there was Lord Eddie, as Huxtable and Miss Lumley called him. Lydia wanted to hug the lad with plump childish cheeks. The handsome, pensive child gave onlookers an unrepentant glare, while one hand clutched a green book and the other curled in a fist at his side.
“You look like you want to run away. Or hit someone,” she said, laughing out loud. The sound echoed pleasantly in the room. “You were probably done with the sitting before it began.”
Lord Greenwich’s rueful smile said she made the correct assessment.
“I was ready to punch someone, anyone, for that sitting…a colossal waste of time to my young mind. I had better things to do.” He shrugged. “My father promised to take me worm hunting after that first tedious sitting, so I was appeased.”
“Worm hunting? Incredible.” She laughed again. “The very idea, your father, the great and revered Earl of Greenwich worm hunting…I can’t imagine it.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, warming to the topic. “My father knew all the best places for worming and toad hunting, too, for that matter.”
The open joy in his face as he perused the portrait took her breath away. She stared at him, couldn’t move. The topic of his family was not a closed issue after all. Lord Greenwich as an intense, arrogant man was threateningly handsome, but this peeled-back layer of happiness showed an altogether different kind of entrancing.
Smiling at the portrait, he lowered the candelabrum. “You know, I’m Greenwich Park’s foremost expert on worming—” He turned to her and stilled.
His visage morphed from cheerful childhood recollection to saturnine intensity. The moment’s levity slipped away, and they were a man and woman alone in a quiet place. Skin-tingling awareness melted her senses, as much as his smoldering stare that could burn holes through her dress. Her lashes shuttered, and she blinked. She had to look away.
“But that’s for another time,” he said. “Perhaps now you can share your three ideas.”
His voice, liquid male and smoo
th, invited intimacy. The earl set the candelabrum on the floor, and when he stood up, Lydia slid her arm through his and pulled him close, as drawn to his warmth as she suspected he was to hers.
“Let’s take a turn about the room, shall we?”
He said nothing but glanced down at her hand touching the same forearm she’d touched earlier in the day. They strolled along in silence with only the steady resonance of their footsteps sounding.
She loved surprising him. Serve the man right to keep him off-kilter. The balance of knowledge swayed too much on his side, and no woman ever served herself well by letting a man always have the upper hand. She savored his clean smell as their quiet footsteps meandered over the parquet.
The Earl of Greenwich was quite unlike any other nobleman with whom she’d ever crossed paths: intelligent, handsome in appearance—the scars aside—and not given to the ridiculous notion that his birth gave him superiority over others or every right to live an idle life of useless debauchery and dissolution. Beside her was a man of purpose.
Lydia recognized a hazardous wish growing within, the wish to make this man want her in every way. This could be a slippery slope, if she weren’t careful. She laid her other hand atop the earl’s arm in a comfortable grasp and closed the gap between them, the gesture cozy and familiar as their hips touched and their legs sometimes brushed against each other.
“You gave me much to consider this afternoon with your mandate, my lord. But truly, all I needed was that warm bath, and the ideas came quickly.”
“Go on.” Lord Greenwich’s pace matched hers.
“My first offering: I act as your valet. Your clothes are piled everywhere in your room, so I asked Miss Lumley about that. She confirmed my worst fears: you care for yourself without aid of a valet. I shouldn’t be surprised, since you’re very private, but”—her index finger traced a loosening edge of gold trim at the wrist of his jacket sleeve—“your wardrobe’s badly in need of attention. I’m good with a needle and the blade.” At this last word, her gaze slid to the small cut on his chin.