He stood before her, alluring as the devil, grinning at her, putting his hands on her, eliciting a contented sigh. And she'd blink. Become aware and chase him away. Yet he'd return to the edges of her consciousness, lingering, teasing her with what might be. And what was not.
What did he do tonight? Where did he dine? Who enjoyed his company? What lady of London claimed his attentions? His smiles?
"I'm quite mad with it," she murmured as she lifted her skirts high to side-step the bigger rocks. Thank heavens, her two heavier petticoats lay abandoned on her bed in the little townhouse she'd let on the Marine Parade. With them on as well as her ridiculous corset and bustle, she would have become a puddle in this heat. Today, she craved freedom.
Fortunately she'd grabbed her straw hat with the widest brim and run out the front door to go up into the public carriage she ordered for herself today. The hackney driver had become her friend, arriving for her each weekday morning at nine. He'd arrived for her this noontime, fetching her for this special trip. He asked why she came again this afternoon. She'd told him she needed the solitude. Work on the townhouses proceeded apace, the pesky problems with the wooden staircases solved. Work on Killian's country house was on schedule, the foundation completed, the wood frame half up, the plan to join the new house to the terrace measured and plotted.
What she did not tell her coachman was her true purpose here today. Her one desire was to stand and face the sea, enjoy the wind in her hair and inhale the fragrances of the abundant wild flowers growing on the leeward side of the medieval arches. Jealously, she'd wanted time to enjoy the view alone without interruption by workmen.
As she cleared the top of the ridge, she stopped and put down her reticule. Always the view through those arches made her heart skip a beat. She pressed her palm to her chest. The sight had soothed her when she'd been a child. The blue sea through the faded ivory stone curved like repeated frames over a panorama. Killian would get to see this view each day. Morning, as the sun dawned on the crests of waters floating west from the Normandy coast of France. Afternoon, as the rays burned into the sea and turned it green or gold or grey with rain. Evening, as the moon rose to waltz on the waves as the sea met the sky in a velvet blanket of night and stars twinkled in the void.
A gust of wind lifted her hat and she reached out a hand to snatch it back.
"I've caught it. Not to worry."
She turned to the sound of Killian's assurances and she beamed at him. Loneliness fled, her sad companion since the day she'd last seen him. Good riddance.
He strode the few steps toward her, a smile wreathing his handsome face, her hat in one hand, his own straw bowler in the other. He wore tailored buff trousers, a red waistcoat and navy frockcoat. To all who would see him, he appeared the prosperous gentleman, attired for his day of leisure in the sea-side town of Brighton.
"You surprised me! Thank you." She put a hand to her brow to admire every inch of him in the sunlight. He handed over her hat and she put it down on the stone ledge. "I didn't know you were coming. I thought your note said next week?"
"It did." He examined her, leaving nothing out of his perusal and making her feel self-conscious and oh, so desired. "I decided to come early. I needed a report. My designer, you see, writes infuriatingly short letters."
"You should have told her," she said, wanting to tease him and kiss him and... No. No she didn't. "She'd be more detailed."
"I took it as a good excuse to come," he said as he walked around her right up to the opening between two of the arches. He stood a moment, hands on his hips, inhaling the salt air deeply. "My lord. I'd forgotten this."
She moved next to him. "Remarkable, isn't it?"
He only shook his head and leaned over, two hands upon the stones and surveyed one end of the beach to the other. "On a clear day, you can see for miles."
She pointed, her arm out toward the east. "In the morning, you can almost detect the roof of Osborne."
"Queen Victoria's summer house?" he asked, smiling and pleased.
"Yes." She liked him happy and tickled, marveling at the world. Like this, he was not any of those hideous names many called him. He wasn't Black-hearted Hanniford or Hanniford, the Bastard, or the rebel blockade runner.
"And west? What's to see there?"
"The shore. The cliffs."
"So white."
"Yes. Chalk. Limestone."
"But the pebbles on the beach are brown," he said. "Why?"
"I've heard our masons say they're flint, hard polished sand. If you're available tomorrow, we can ask them to describe how they came to be."
He seemed content with that, his eyes still on the coast. "Your family owned this land." It wasn't a question, but definitely an inquiry.
"My husband's family did, yes. I'm not certain the year. Although my father-in-law told me that his grandfather had purchased the land at the turn of the century when the Prince Regent was building the Pavilion. Then anyone who was society came to curry his favor, eat at his dining room table and gaze up at his enormous dragon hanging from the ceiling."
"The Prince had a dragon in his dining room?"
"He did. Made of silver. Hanging from the dome to hold a thirty-foot-long chandelier. A Chinese dragon for good luck."
"Anything money can buy, eh?"
"When some starve, it's heinous to buy frivolous things," she said on a sigh.
"I agree."
Over the years, after the catastrophe with her father and mother, she'd always ask acquaintances for details about him and his businesses. She'd learned much about the small Irish boy who'd immigrated to America with his older sister. How he'd worked the docks, learned to sail, bought a frigate for a song, then won another gambling. How as a ship owner, he'd once saved Negroes on a sinking slave ship off the coast of Florida. Set them free in Baltimore. She'd heard how he'd built a factory in Baltimore of stone and ordered windows installed for fresh air to flow in. "Is it true that you pay your factory workers well?"
"I pay them better than many a man. Yes." He frowned and faced her one hip to the stones, his arms crossed. "Do you think my house here is frivolous?"
"Let's see," she teased him. "With electricity, bathrooms with running water, efficient w.c.s and four lifts?"
He winced. "Tell me."
"Not frivolous. You've created it as a retreat. A home for entertaining. A seaside escape."
"With ten bathrooms with running water? Electric wires for lights? Four lifts? How is that different from other rich men’s new country homes?" He cocked a dark brow.
"It's not pretentious."
Now he raised both brows. "You're certain?"
"If it were, you'd have two drawing rooms, a smoking room, a library as well as an office. And you've no ballroom, either."
"And the four lifts?"
She laughed. "Two to carry hot food to the table? One to carry luggage up to the second floor? The other for furniture?"
"Yes, those."
"Well, as I read the house plans, sir, none of those are for you. But for the health and welfare of your servants."
He pursed his lips and glanced back at the sea. "The house is not a folly?"
"It is large. Huge," she said with conviction. "But the abundance of bedroom suites with plumbing declares that the house is for your family. Your ever-growing family."
Slowly, he nodded, seeming content with her answer.
She smiled at him and swept out a hand. "But the element that ensures the house will be a haven for all Hannifords is this."
"You like it?" he asked, proud but seeking her approval.
She let her expression tell him the answer. "You are so wise to preserve it, Killian. Generations will thank you."
"Will you like it?"
"Oh, yes," she said with passion borne of her weeks working on it and having been given a free hand on so much. "The stone masons have shored up the base all around. They've cleaned the stones, repaired the cracks. It is spectacular."
"I want
you to love it."
That sucked the air right out of her lungs.
He narrowed his gaze on her mouth. He parted his lips, said her name, but then he turned away.
Her hope that he'd kiss her died.
He ran a hand through his ruffled hair. "Do you have any ideas why your husband's grandfather bought this land? It's not inside Brighton proper, but nearer Hove. Brighton would have been the more fashionable site, more expensive."
She shrugged, disappointment rife in her veins. "One buys what one can afford. I think they owned a house in town, too. To keep up with society. The family hoped to build here, but never did."
"Yet you know this land. How is that?"
"My husband's family liked to pack hampers and come up here to picnic. My parents were distantly related and we lived near them in London. We were invited to come along to Brighton for a week or more. All the children clamored to come because we thought we'd find gold."
He grinned at her, his black hair glistening like ink in the sun. "I've heard this story. Templars' buried treasure, isn't it?"
"A few escaped France after King Phillip destroyed the order in the early fourteenth century. They came here and hid for many months in the abbey. The Dominicans welcomed them, or so legend says, even though there was no love between them."
"Why not?"
She took a seat on the stones of one arch. Through her thin shift, drawers and gown, they warmed her and she welcomed it. "Some thought the Templars hid the Holy Grail and refused to give it up. Other orders condemned them for it."
He turned around to gaze at the verdant green downs stretching north. "And has anyone ever found any gold coins here?"
"Not that I know."
"Good." He came away from the wall, his gaze delving into hers. "It's all mine now and I'm glad of it. What I find here is beyond price."
A frisson of joy rippled through her at what sounded like a compliment to her. Did she dare to reciprocate? "I find it beyond measure myself."
"Wonderful. Come with me down to the town. We'll have luncheon at the hotel and you'll tell me what you've been doing for these past two weeks."
She hung back. Her old fear that being seen on his arm in public would spark gossip she could not fight. The Brighton Gazette published columns called 'Arrivals and Departures'. Each week in black and white, names appeared not only of those who came to town, but also where they stayed and if they'd rented a house for the season or rooms in the local hotels. When they went home, their names appeared again including the date they left and what their destination was. If the paper also printed where these people went and with whom, Liv hadn't noticed. She'd been too horrified to read further.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I—" To hell with fear. She was with him here. Just as she'd wished. Could she not have a few minutes fun? That had been so rare in her life. "A moment's thought that I might not be attired for the dining room."
"Nonsense. To me you are lovely in anything." He offered his arm.
She looped her own through his, smiling like a girl being courted.
He took a step, then stopped and patted her hand. Turning, he leaned back and scooped up her hat from the stones. Her reticule, too, he picked up. Grinning he handed them over. "The sun can blind you."
That and the power of your smile.
Taking his arm, she strolled into the pale pink stucco tea room of the Royal Albion Hotel and one sweep of the room told her that she knew none of the twenty or more other patrons.
She could ignore them. And enjoy her escort.
What a presence he made.
Killian commanded the room. His elegant tailoring declared him a man of means. His height and his bold dark looks combined to make him a superb specimen of masculinity. He requested the far corner table, secluded by potted palms and one large statue of an artfully clothed Aphrodite. He ordered the finest champagne from the menu, the best hors d’œuvre from the tray. He asked her for her preference for soup and entrée, then ordered the next six courses himself.
"I will waddle out of here," she told him on a laugh when the waiter departed.
"You need a full meal."
She shot him a rueful look. "I've never been accused of being undernourished."
He blinked, his bright eyes twinkling, his own expression feigned laughter, as if...as if he fought with himself not to assess her form. "We have a full afternoon and evening. Appointments. One after another."
"With whom?" she chuckled, delighted, alarmed. "It's Saturday."
"A porpoise."
"I'm sorry..."
He gave a laugh. "You have not been—I take it—to the Brighton Aquarium?"
She shook her head. She passed the Brighton Aquarium each day on her way to and from the sites. Developed as amusement for those who came to Brighton to take the sea-bathing cures and simply to enjoy the air, the aquarium showed sea turtles, giant prawns and multitudes of fish of the Atlantic. At night, concerts were given on the promenade. Singers from so-called London 'opera houses' sang popular ditties. Bands played. People chimed in and enjoyed themselves. "I haven't the time."
"Today, you do. Today, you will." He sat silent as the waiter popped the cork on the champagne. "We'll see this porpoise a local fisherman caught and donated. And as we walk I want to hear you tell me about the local draper you've chosen."
"The draper. Hmmm." Surely, he was toying with her. "But I'm most certain I had written you about him."
"Tell me again. I forget."
"That, I sincerely doubt," she said with a toss of her head.
He picked up his goblet. "To my decorator."
She raised her crystal and tipped it toward him. "To my employer."
"So tell me about the draper." After a healthy drink, he put his glass down and locked his gaze on hers.
She took another sip and licked her lips, amused by the challenge. "His family has been in business here since before Prinny ordered curtains from his father to hang in his bathroom in the Pavilion."
"Prinny's bathroom. I see. The man had one?"
"He did. Needed it for his gout. A walk-in tub."
"Ah-hah. Wonderful. So the draper's ancestry shows him to be qualified to handle silk from Lyon and Nanking?"
"It does."
"Sound credentials." He took a sip, then waggled a finger at her champagne. "Keep up with me. The waiter won't come unless both our glasses need refilling."
"You're quite sure I like champagne?"
He faced her squarely. "I am."
"How?"
He smiled as he drank. "I know a lot about you."
She froze. "You've asked about me?"
"No. I'm observant, Lady Savage. I've watched you at weddings and dinners and everywhere in my daughter's house. For three weeks, to be precise. You love champagne. Drink up."
She'd been so lonely without his company and she was so charmed by his appearance to sweep her away to buy her luncheon that she couldn't argue with him. Or refuse him. "I could get drunk."
"Since you rarely have more than two glasses, my answer is that you don't."
"I must watch you more closely."
His face fell. His gaze caressed her own. "Please do."
Like his invitation to her to kiss him again, this flustered her. She’d never had a beau who attempted to seduce her and so the thrill of Killian’s attention left her as bubbly as the champagne. She searched for witty words. And couldn't find any. "What else have you observed?"
"That up on the cliff you were so happy to come with me, you nearly forgot your hat and your reticule. And now, you've not noticed that I hold your hand."
She sat bolt upright and slid her hand from under his.
"No one noticed. You're safe, Liv," he assured her.
She hadn’t been safe since the first day she laid eyes on him. "Shall we visit the porpoise?"
He studied her, inhaled, then glanced away, searching for and hailing the waiter. "Of course."
Chapter 12
&nbs
p; The horses clomped their way along the cobbles along the Marine Parade. Killian had given the cabbie her address. The driver, curse him, chose a quick route. Even the crowds conspired because everyone in Brighton seemed to have deserted the streets and returned home as the sun sank in the sky.
Killian hated to let Liv go. Their day had been perfect. She had been perfect. A companion who laughed and joked. One who forgot to look around her at every corner to see whom she might know. But he could not dismiss the questions her previous actions raised. They nagged at him. Was she afraid of who might see him? Or them together? Or who would disapprove of him?
He could think no other.
Yet, during the afternoon, she'd been on pins and needles less and less until in the pub minutes ago, she had forgotten her qualms.
At the aquarium, in front of the sea lion exhibit, she'd taken her usual cursory assessment of the crowd and discovered no one who put her on guard. Afterward, he'd led her along the walkway on the beach. No one there made her wary, either, thank god. He bought them lemon ices from a stall and, like children, they propped themselves up against a large boulder as they ate and watched the world walk by. The winds caught her glorious hair, lifting long enticing red tendrils of it from her pins and transforming her into a younger woman who laughed up at the sun and on a jolly Saturday outing, sparred with her suitor.
If she didn't yet consider him a suitor, he told himself to be patient. Today had been the launch of his plan to learn if she cared for him. He'd been lonely in London, missing her spontaneous laugh, her quick wit and those devastating moments when she sat simply caressing him with her dark enticing gaze.
He grinned to himself and forced himself to look out the window. She definitely did care for him. He noted how often and how carefully—and maddeningly—she had to pull back her hand when she reached out to touch him. Restraining herself at the last moment of realization made her eyes widen, her long red brows arch. Surprising herself, she could not stop herself from drowning in his fond regard for her. Watching him, she'd let her mouth fall open with desire, and catching herself, she'd lick her lips in need of his own. So much for today.
Sweet Siren: Those Notorious Americans, Book 3 Page 11