by Jenn LeBlanc
“Oh.”
She looked at him quizzically. “My lord, I wanted to thank ye, eh-hem, you. Again.”
He shifted his stance as she approached and shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry. Quite, quite dry. He tried to clear his throat, but words weren’t finding their way out.
She rounded his desk and reached up to his face. Her fragrance assailed him, mixing with his, a feminine twist to his own familiar scent.
He cleared his throat again. “What are you—”
She touched his forehead with her gloved hand and pulled back, showing him her blue thumb. “Milord...my lord…you seem to have some ink,” she said with a hint of concentration to the set of her jaw.
He gazed at her thumb, taking her hand in his and stroking her fingers. He then realized what she was saying and turned, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.
“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Her speech was slow as she enunciated each word. “I did not mean to offend.”
He shook his head. “And none is taken, sweet. Your speech is lovely,” he added, trying to change the subject.
“The clothes, they seem to require it of me.” She gave him another smile.
He watched her intently, saw how her face grew more serious with every word, then broke with a flashing smile at the end of the sentence. He couldn’t help but to laugh and take her in his arms.
She seemed to melt against him, and he soaked in her warmth as her hands slipped around his waist to find the muscles of his back. His abdomen tightened as he stared down upon her. “You are simply amazing,” he said, his hands moving to frame her face. He took her mouth then, capturing her sweet lips with his, driving yet holding, forcing while yielding, controlled yet wild.
Her hands smoothed across his muscles as they rolled and tensed under her touch. He slid his hands into her hair and held her, pulling her away from him slowly. He needed to harness his demons. His hands dropped to her shoulders and he set her back from him, though her arms still stretched toward him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then looked on her and smiled.
“I beg your pardon, sweet, I seem to have gotten away with myself.”
She shook her head. “No, my lord, do not.” She smiled. “I am fond of your, uh, well, this, as it is all we have.” A blush raced across her face, and she turned, putting the desk between them.
Her words struck him then. The realization that all they had was this electric fire between them—this inimitable and intangible force of attraction that seemed to belong to them and no one else. It couldn’t be the end, the all, the total sum of their experience.
“Sweet, if you will allow me a bit of time to finish here,” he said quietly, “I would greatly appreciate it if you would accompany me on a drive in my curricle.”
She nodded with a bright grin. “Oh yes, my lord, I’d very much like tha’.” She curtseyed deeply then turned and left him there, staring after her.
He finally took a decent lungful of air, filling and expanding his chest, then deflating in a great shudder of breath. He leaned over the desk, resting heavily on his hands as his body calmed. His smile, however, refused to fade.
Once outside the study, Lilly didn’t know what to do with herself. What did ladies do when they had naught to do? She felt like polishing something. She stood in the entryway, looking around to the multitude of closed doors, and wondered where they all went. She knew there was a parlor, a study, and a dining room, and she imagined there was a library. There must also be a ballroom somewhere.
“Miss Lilly,” Harper said from the back of the entry, making her jump.
“Oh, Mr. Harper, I didn’t see you there.”
“Perhaps you would like to wait in the library?”
“Would I?”
Harper gave her an easy smile.
“Well then, yes, sir, I believe I would.”
Harper showed her to a door across the hall and handed her into the library.
“I shall inform Lord Trumbull of your whereabouts.” He shut the door.
Lilly stared at the back of that solid door, the echo of that click resonating in her mind. She was completely alone in this room. She turned to see the shelves full of beautifully bound volumes. She had never actually appreciated a library, as she’d never been taught to read or write. She had only ever dusted and cleaned the most beautiful of libraries. Every one of them impressed her. Books drew her, their mysteries locked away from her so easily.
Not for the first time, she wished she knew how to read, if only to pass the time. She pulled down a large leather volume in deepest green with gilt edges. Her fingers played over the supple cover, then leafed through the pages. It was naught but a series of jumbled strokes of ink.
Her skin prickled, and she steeled herself. His deep voice came from just over her shoulder.
“The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence, but in the mastery, of his passions.”
She shivered.
“And have you mastered your passions, Lord Trumbull?”
“With every breath I take, I make an effort to master passion.”
There it was again, that fine shiver that coursed her spine. He was very close behind her, the warmth of his body bringing her blood to the surface.
“That would be a first edition of Alfred Tennyson’s Poems.” His arm came around her and moved the pages, the fabric of his sleeve caressing her bare arm. She could feel the fine hairs stand on end as though they too wanted to be much closer to him.
“You can see here, on the flyleaf where it was inscribed to my mother, Melisande, the duchess.” He said that almost as an afterthought, almost as a reminder that he was the son of a duke. A duke. But who was he trying to remind, himself? She was all too aware of his status, not to mention her own—which, previously, had never mattered in the least.
“They met at Buckingham, when Her Royal Highness was attempting to convince Tennyson to accept a baronetcy. He never has, of course.” His laughter settled into her, and she shifted away from him suddenly.
“It is a beautiful book.” She held it out, but he raised his hand.
“Please, if you would like to read it, you may keep it with you.”
She shook her head, a certain sadness sinking in. “It must mean a great deal to you, if only for the remembrance of your mother.”
“Yes, it does in fact have a distinct sentimental value for me, but idle pages are a devastating transgression, according to her, and as such she would have been overjoyed to have this book well read.”
“I simply canna, I—” She turned away from him, holding the book reverently, trying to discern a solution. Her fingers played over the ridges and valleys of the intricate cover.
He took advantage of her distraction and wrapped his arms around her from behind, enclosing her in a solid embrace. “Merely one more lesson,” he said against her ear.
She sighed then shuddered, a small tear escaping.
He kissed it away before it fell.
She leaned into his strong, secure form. “You—” She stopped herself. “My lord, you make me—”
“What is it, sweet?”
“I feel safe, I— I simply feel so very safe. It should not be like this between us. You, a chosen son, and I…”
His arms steeled around her, enveloping her. “You will always be safe with me.” He allowed the words to lie between them, felt her realization settle in, felt a peace come over her. He began in that moment to figure out how he could ensure his words to be true.
They stood together until the long case clock in the entry rang, and he turned her toward him. He took her hands, kissed the tip of every finger, then the backs of her hands. Turning them over, he kissed her palms, shifting the book from one hand to the other before kissing the insides of her wrists.
“What is it?” she asked when she felt a smile against her wrist.
“You have it wrong. My brother is the chosen son, I’m merely the spare.”
“You are also
a rake, not nearly as safe as you profess to be.”
His smile faded.
“I— Would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a ride through London?”
“I would very much appreciate a tour.” Her smile broke the distinct concentration in her features as she endeavored to enunciate every word properly.
“Bring the book, perhaps we can stop at a park to read.” He turned and pulled her hand to the crook of his elbow, holding it in place. His curricle was ready at the base of the town house stairs, behind a pair of matched greys. While his brother was enamored with his Friesians, Perry favored the large hunters he stabled.
He handed her up to the sporting carriage, then climbed to the seat next to her.
“Would you like to see the Palace and the Tower?”
She turned to him with wide eyes and a vibrant smile. “Oh yes, please.”
He laughed and tickled his leader’s ears, and they went bowling through the streets of London.
“My lord,” she said slowly, turning the book in her hands.
“Yes, my sweet.”
“I can never repay your favor. Though ‘tis my greatest wish to do so,” she rushed, slipping the moors from her newfound accent.
“Lilly, you have no need to repay anything. I do nothing I do not wish to do.” He gave her a sideways glance, his primary attention still on the greys. “You should know this as well as you know my reputation.”
Perry smiled and concentrated on steering his leader through a busy section toward the Thames. He enjoyed this. He had become so engrossed in his brother’s new life and recent disregard for propriety, coupled with his own newfound responsibilities to his charges, that he had lost sight of what he always considered to be the crux of happiness.
Love—albeit a temporary and easily swayed feeling, in his experience. He believed the pursuit of love, the toe-tripping, mouth-watering, stomach-clenching wonderment of passion, was the noblest pursuit of all.
Love meant pure enjoyment, pure happiness; a feeling of freedom and possibility. He endeavored to find it with as many women as he could muster to his cause. Newfound love, precious and unknown, begging to be discovered and investigated, was a heady mix he found himself addicted to. And this with Lilly was no different, except that he was only feeling more and more passionate.
His smile faded as he considered this. In general his love waned with first completion. He frowned and snuck another sidelong glance at her. This was different. He could feel it burgeoning, increasing exponentially inside him. Begging to be released and set free.
He couldn’t breathe. He pulled the carriage aside and jumped free, tying the ribbons and handing a coin to a boy who ran up to hold the harness. He turned back to Lilly, palm out, eyes pleading with her to wait. She nodded and he walked toward the bridge over the Thames, knowing her gaze was on him.
What is this? He looked back at her again, then stared into the depths of the ruddy watercourse. He turned, leaning his hips on the short balustrade bordering the bridge, and tried to catch his breath. Did he love her? He rubbed his thumb the length of his chin.
The need to protect Lilly had far outweighed any other thought he had concerning her. Perhaps that was all it was, this need. It was reasonable to believe that was the extent of it, but the fact was that he was drawn to more than just her vulnerable nature. Buying her dresses and doing his best to hear her laugh and see her smile had nothing to do with her safety.
The more he considered it, the more he realized he had been drawn to her from the beginning, but her injuries had hindered his progress. Any other woman would have been between his sheets that first night, particularly after she had begged him to have her. But he had refused, and that was difficult.
“My Lord Trumbull, have I somehow offended you?”
His stomach curled. He’d known she wasn’t going to stay in the carriage, but her patience had been commendable. He didn’t look at her, but all the same he could feel her reaching out to touch him. His muscles tightened across his back in preparation. She was gentle, timid, cautious. He straightened suddenly, coming to his full commanding height.
Lilly startled and attempted to back away but he caught up her shoulders, pulling her against him—neck to knee—his eyes searching. She felt him looking beyond her surface, sharing her breath, taking it and giving it back. Then he stole it, his lips sealing over hers. His hands moved; one at her nape—holding—the other at her waist—trapping.
Her arms, anchored by his at her sides, wiggled, attempting freedom. He shifted slightly and they wrapped about him beneath his coat, clutching at his back, her fingers stroking his spine. He shuddered and released her on a gasp, brought to reality in the space of a heartbeat.
“Peregrine.”
His eyes widened. “Lilly, I—”
A shocked mother steered her children back from whence they came, and a group of gentlemen scowled, staring from the base of the bridge. He released her reluctantly, smoothing her dress and straightening her short mantelet.
“I beg your pardon,” he said breathlessly, “I don’t know what has come over me. I— there is no recompense for my untoward behavior.”
“My lord, I must beg pardon of you, for I see no issue with your passion, though I know for you there is. I understand the restrictions of propriety, but have never had need to hold to them in the same manner as you. Perhaps it’s a freedom of my class you cannot enjoy.”
Perry glanced around again, for the first time seeing the people his vision was more accustomed to glazing over: the other couples on a lovers’ walk along the Thames. The lower class didn’t have as much use for the strictures of the peerage. He looked back to Lilly, then took her arm and placed it on his sleeve, guiding her back to his carriage.
“Say it again,” he said quietly.
“Pardon.”
“Say my name, Lilly.”
She stopped and looked up at him as they stood beside his curricle. “Peregrine,” she whispered, turning toward him.
His hand rose to her cheek and he framed her jaw, running his thumb from her ear to her chin. Without looking to see who watched, he lowered his mouth again, closing his eyes and absorbing all the sensation his mind could accept.
She acceded to his touch, her lips parting, allowing his tongue entrance. He smiled against her and she giggled. Then he heard a clicking behind him.
He turned to see the boy who held his harness kicking the cobbles at his feet, avoiding the ire of the well-born gentleman who had no idea how to behave. He handed Lilly up to the carriage then turned to the boy, giving him several coins from his purse. The boy smiled brightly, transgressions forgotten, then released the harness and ran off.
Perry laughed and vaulted to the box seat next to Lilly, grasping the ribbons. So this was what his brother had run into headlong. Funny, his own situation carried much the same impediments as they feared Gideon’s had. At least he knew who his beloved was, and where she hailed from. The only difficulty now was in figuring out how to get past that within the constraints of his position.
He groaned, remembering his stiff admonishments to his brother. He supposed this was his reward. He turned the curricle back to the street, intending to show Lilly the Tower then Buckingham Palace on the way back to Grosvenor, just as he’d said he would.
They bowled on along the Thames as Lilly watched the buildings. They were beautiful and intricate, but every once in a while she would look down a long street and catch the sight of the destitute, wandering aimlessly, spilling into the road where they pandered for coin. It saddened her. She caught sight of one girl about her age who looked like she had a scar tracing her jaw, and it stilled her to think of where she could have ended up had it not been for her family. She was compelled to reach out to Perry, her hand lightly grazing his knee.
Hepplewort entered his town house on Talbot Square under the cover of darkness. No need to tempt fate and draw unnecessary attention to his arrival.
“My lord, there is a gentleman in
the parlor,” his butler said stiffly. “He refused to leave, and it has been most inconvenient.”
“Who is it?”
“He refused me his name, my lord, as he refused to leave until you arrived, without explanation.”
“I see, and you didn’t feel the need to contact the constabulary?”
“He inferred that would be a misstep on your behalf, my lord, and with your previous admonishment to tell no one of your arrival, we had no choice but to acquiesce.”
Hepplewort grunted and walked to the parlor door as his butler moved ahead of him. He waited for it to open, then stood outside, wary, the words of the Duke of Roxleigh booming in his head.
I know you, I know the things you have done, and if you think for one minute that you can continue, you are sorely mistaken. Consider yourself a recluse, never to be heard from again, by anyone, anywhere. Is that perfectly clear?
Hepplewort shivered, then shook it off; there was no way they could know he was here.
“Hepplewort!” It was a voice that shook him to his toes, but it wasn’t the one that scared him to death. He moved into the room and looked around. The man who belonged to the voice stood and turned on him.
“You have me at a disadvantage, sir, for I know not who you are.”
“Who I am is not as important as who I work for.” The large man stretched to his full height and towered menacingly over Hepplewort.
“Well, then, pray tell whom that may be,” he said nervously.
“I think you know. I also think you know you should not have returned.” Hepplewort kept the large chaise between them as he moved. “The men who set me on you don’t appreciate being ignored.” The stranger was tracking him.
“I imagine, seeing as how they have employed the likes of you. However, that still leaves me at a loss as to who they may be.”