The strain in his expression held, not in the least relieved by her suggestion. His lip even curled a bit, as though she had irked him. At last, he asked, “Do you truly believe that is possible?”
He gave her one final hard stare, then slipped out of the room without waiting for her to answer.
She stood watching as the door closed behind him.
No, to tell the truth, she didn’t believe so at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tristan awoke gazing up into darkness, his mind as shadowy as the ceiling above him. Believing he lay in his bed in London, he reached for his pocket watch on the nightstand.
His hand swiped through empty air. The nightstand wasn’t there...nor London, he realized. He was in France.
With Leah.
And he had kissed her.
A gust of awareness swept away the fog in his brain. He had actually tasted her lips, the way he had dreamed of doing since...well, since the first time he had seen her, to be honest. And now that he had indulged that fantasy, he only wanted her more. How could he have been so foolish, so impudent? What had happened to his scruples?
She had kissed him back.
Her mouth had been warm and wonderful, and as many times as he had imagined the moment, he had not foreseen her response. Her usual air of reason had fallen away to passion, another aspect of the reckless streak in her that drove him mad. Now, it drove him mad in a different way, tempting him, infecting him, leading him to abandon his own discretion.
In the bluish glow of early dawn, he could make out the door between their rooms. Her bed, a big four-poster with an inviting feather mattress, stood only a few feet beyond. She hadn’t even latched the lock. He knew because he had lain listening to her movements, envisioning her progress in tantalizing detail as she readied herself for sleep. Amidst the rustling of fabric and creaks of the floorboards, he had waited for the sound of the lock clicking into place. He hadn’t heard it.
The oversight bothered him, another case of her not being as wary as she ought. After all, had he not proven he could not be trusted? Obviously, she did not take their kiss as seriously as he did, did not feel everything he did for her. She had made that clear when she suggested they forget the incident.
Forget it? He stared at the door to her chamber. How could he forget the longing she sparked in him? From the moment he had met her, she had intrigued him, drawn him into her sphere like the earth held the moon in thrall—maybe even more powerfully, since the moon never succumbed to earth’s pull, while he, last night, had plummeted into her. The collision had thrown him clear off course.
But not her.
Hot annoyance crept up his neck, combining with the bedclothes to stifle him. He flung the counterpane down to bare his chest to the chill of morning. Damn her indifference. Damn her recklessness. She had claimed half the fault for their kiss, and in truth she deserved more than half the blame. She was the one who had led him to make this impossibly intimate journey. She was the one who had crept up beside his bed on the first night. How would she react if he stole up to her bed and lurked beside her, as though awaiting an invitation?
He thought of the unsecured lock again and could almost picture going to her. The intrusion would set any other woman off screaming, but she was like no other woman. Not that she would welcome him into her bed. No, instead, she would explain in a maddeningly rational tone why her principles precluded her from doing so. He suspected she wouldn’t even be offended at his attempt, as long as he accepted her cool ethics over the heat her kisses had ignited.
Senseless thoughts! He kicked off the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and made for the washstand. For the next half-hour, he focused his attention on grooming, using the routine actions to compose himself inwardly as well as outwardly.
When he had dressed, he decided to wake Lila, despite the intimacy of the task. Today they had no time to waste on oversleeping. Come hell or high water, he intended to usher her into Paris by evening.
He stepped to the connecting door and rapped briskly, the knocks dissonant against the backdrop of birdsong drifting through the window.
A crash shattered out on the other side.
“Lila?” Irritation on hold, he pressed an ear against the wood. “Lila, are you all right?”
The door flung open with a force that nearly sucked him into her room. She stood glaring at him, two pink patches on her cheekbones, foiled by the green of her spencer. Except for lack of a hat, she appeared completely dressed for travel.
“Blast it, Tristan, your pounding made me upset the bud vase! This isn’t the gate to a fortress, you know. Don’t you have any sense of how to approach a woman’s bedchamber?”
The words hung heavy between them, and he let a slow smirk serve as his answer. He watched while the pink cast spread through her face, overtaking the faint circles below her eyes.
So she hadn’t slept well, either. Ironically, the way her eyes glittered with emotion made her look more beautiful than ever. The thought rekindled his annoyance.
Despite her glowing complexion, she matched his gaze. “Pray excuse me while I clean up this mess.” She gestured toward the smattering of glass on the floor. “I shall be ready to leave in a minute.”
“Good,” he spat out, sounding petty to his own ears. Half angry, half embarrassed himself, he turned and left her to clear up the glass alone. He yanked the door shut and spent the next quarter-hour hauling his luggage downstairs and retrieving the coach from the stables.
When he guided the horses around to the front of the inn, Lila already stood outside, her luggage stacked beside her. Before he could jump down from the box, she had the door to the barouche open and most of her things inside.
“I shall ride in the carriage today,” she said, her voice tight and her gaze averted. “The air is a bit too chilly for me this morning.”
A sense of insult stung him, but he swatted it aside. He had wanted her to keep a barrier between them, had he not?
“Suit yourself.”
They contrived to finish loading within a few minutes and took their separate places on the gig. As he directed the team to pull away, he saw the proprietress and her daughter waving from the kitchen window, grins spreading across their faces. Thankful to have avoided a lengthier adieu from them, he mustered up a wave.
For several hours, he drove hard without stopping, his mind a chaos of replayed scenes and emotions. But as the sun rose higher, both the horses and his thoughts slowed, and he began to notice the landscape. Quaint cottages and an occasional chateau punctuated the greenery, and he wondered if Lila noticed each of them. He wanted to point them out to her, to speculate on the building’s identity, to try to recall its history and to dream of visiting the site.
He had to remind himself he was better off separated from her. This way he didn’t have to endure the tumult her presence caused—not that he felt much less tumult with her inside the carriage. But at least he didn’t have to face her. He would have some peace for this last day of their journey.
The last day. After this, they would likely never see each other again.
Funny, when one took in that consideration, harboring anger toward her seemed harsh. Why was he angry anyway? She had done no worse than he. What vexed him most had been her suggesting they pretend the kiss had not happened. In truth, his annoyance stemmed in her being less affected than he.
Within another mile, he began to think he had been hasty in rejecting her proposal. He should have at least agreed to attempt normal manners.
A country inn came into view, and he pulled over into the yard. He jumped down from the box, walking around to the side of the barouche.
She peered out the carriage window, her expression bland. “Is there a problem?
Now that he stood before her, he didn’t quite know how to start. “I thought we might stop for a hot luncheon.”
“Are we not too rushed for that? If we want to reach my cousin’s house at a decent hour, we don’t have
a great deal of time to spare.”
He couldn’t bear the lack of warmth in her eyes. “Lila, I am trying to admit that I was wrong, that you were right about attempting to regain the equanimity we had before...before last night. This journey has, for the most part, been a pleasant one, uncommonly pleasant. I don’t want to end our time together in bad graces. And we have only some six hours left until we part for good.”
“For good,” she repeated, looking down into her lap. The phrase hadn’t sounded like a question, but she said nothing more.
“Yes.” He felt a pang of sharp regret, something almost like panic. “You don’t think we might meet sometime in—no. I doubt we shall see each other again.”
She gave her nose a nudge. Finally, she looked up at him with a weak smile. “We have had an uncommonly pleasant journey, haven’t we? And we have so little time left together. Why should we ruin it with this tension? Really, what is the harm in what we...why, we are both rational adults, and—” She gave an abrupt laugh. “What I mean to say is that I accept your invitation to luncheon.”
His heart jumped—not a good sign, but he would have plenty of time later to regret letting himself grow so attached to her. For now, he would focus on enjoying her company.
They ended up having a lovely meal. His gladness in being with her eclipsed the awkwardness he should have felt over the kissing incident. She thawed quickly as well, and before long they were chatting with their usual rapport.
No, this level of rapport could hardly be called usual. Extraordinary described it better. Every time he looked her in the eye, their gazes held, but instead of forcing himself to look away, he smiled. And she smiled back. They both knew they had a unique bond, and they had both accepted it.
When they started out on the road again, she joined him up on the box. They talked throughout the ride—about France, about England, about his family and hers, about their pursuits and goals—and the conversation never lagged. The relationship they had cultivated exhilarated him. Never before had he achieved this sort of affinity with a woman.
This is the sort of connection to aspire to in a marriage, he thought. He looked at her, and she turned to him and smiled.
This time, he couldn’t return her smile.
Around dusk, the horses began to slow again, but by then the carriage had reached the outskirts of Paris. Neither he nor Lila commented as they passed street vendors packing up their wares or caught the aroma of cooking beef drifting out of open windows, along with the clattering of crockery. He could feel her watching him instead of the scenery, but he didn’t want to meet her gaze. His exhilaration had fermented into something sour, and he feared the change would show in his countenance.
She shifted on the bench, and he felt her arm graze his. Then she settled, so near that he could feel the warmth of her thigh beside his. She had closed the space between them—purposely, he felt sure. Startled, he looked at her.
Her eyes loomed round, nervous. “For the last few miles?”
He glanced downward to where their legs met and saw her hand resting in her lap. Gathering the reins in one hand, he took up hers with the other. Her fingers felt slender and warm, and they tightened around his for an instant before relaxing. He turned back to the road, surprised how natural this intimacy felt...like the most natural thing in the world.
As the carriage moved deeper into the city, he stared ahead, agonized by her touch. He wanted so much more from her, but what could he have? The thought of marriage stayed with him. It was insane, after only a few weeks of acquaintance. He told himself he only thought of it because he knew she would never agree. Had she been any other woman, he could have tested his feelings with a courtship. But because of her convictions, there was no point in testing them. And, unfortunately, they felt achingly real.
“Here is Rue Larchmont,” she said, breaking a long silence. “The next crossroad is Beauchard–where Felicity resides.”
Only then did he notice how far into the city they had traveled. Townhouses lined the street, with a boulangerie or brasserie at every corner. The traffic hadn’t seemed to increase in the last few miles, but the hour had grown late, perhaps past ten.
The sign marked “RUE BEAUCHARD” hung before him, and he turned onto the narrow street without comment.
“Number sixteen,” she said, her voice quiet. “We are nearly there. It must be that one, the brick-faced house.”
He pulled up in front of the building, vaguely relieved to see how extensive and well maintained the facade was. Felicity appeared to be better off than Lila had reported. She would be well cared for here.
“Will you come in with me to meet my cousin?” Her throat suddenly sounded hoarse.
He shook his head. Declining was rude, but he couldn’t bear to draw out their parting. “I will start unloading your belongings while you fetch a footman.”
“Very well, but I would like to say good-bye now, before I go up to the house.”
He met her gaze, steeling his jaw to try to mask what might be showing in his face. Her eyes had grown big—but likely only with fear over starting a new life. He clenched his jaw tighter. “You will do well here.”
“I know.”
Her eyes, however, still looked lost and, for the first time, he felt worse for her than for himself.
“If you want me to come in with you, I will.”
She shook her head. “‘Tis better this way. But I do want you to kiss me good-bye.”
He started. She wanted him to kiss her again! So her emotional state—or at least some of it—did have to do with him, after all.
The kissing was not a good idea, of course.
And not one he could turn down.
He cupped the side of her head in one hand and bent to her lips, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Her mouth, if possible, was even more luscious than he remembered, and her response just as intoxicating. At first, he kept his kisses nibbling and controlled, but they gradually grew deeper, fired by all the yearning he felt for her.
She matched his urgency at each degree, sliding her arms around his back. He pulled her to his body, her breasts warm and soft against his chest. Clothing suddenly became an intolerable restriction, but he remembered they sat in full public view—in front of her cousin’s home. With tapering baby kisses, he pulled away from her mouth, their faces still close.
“In another world...” she whispered. “Or another time...”
He didn’t dare answer. At this moment, anything he could say would not be wise.
She broke away from him and leapt down from the box before he knew what she was about. The night air chilled the side of his body that had been flush with hers. As she ran up the steps and sounded the door knocker, he wanted to yell to her to stop.
Of course, he didn’t. Nor did he get out and unload her luggage. He sat and watched while she waited, a selfish demon within him willing that no one answer.
Seconds added up to minutes, and he began to wonder if his wish might be granted. But she knocked again, and this time the door opened.
Instead of the liveried butler he anticipated, a middle-aged woman stepped into the frame. She wore a plain brown dress rather than a uniform, and her brow furrowed while Lila spoke. He wondered who she could be—apparently not a servant but not Felicity, either. And the scowl she wore as she listened to Lila lacked any sign of hospitality.
He shifted on the box to get a better view. Was the woman a housekeeper who refused to accept Lila’s identity–or perhaps could not understand her accent? But Lila spoke French rather well. Uncertain whether or not to intercede, he climbed down to the street and stood back, observing from beside the horses.
As the discussion continued, the woman in the door got more animated, gesturing with her hands as she spoke. Her tone rose into a scold, though he could not quite piece together the scattered French that reached his ears. He had just made up his mind to go forward when the woman slammed the door shut, leaving Lila alone on the step.
He hur
ried up the walk and took her by the arm. “What on earth is the matter? Who was that harridan?”
She skimmed his gaze, her face devoid of emotion, then looked down at her feet. “The landlady.”
“The landlady? Your cousin’s landlady?” He glanced up at the building facade, and comprehension broke on him. “This is a boarding house.” So much for Felicity’s being well able to accommodate a houseguest.
“Actually, she is my cousin’s former landlady.” Lila’s voice was quiet, flat. “Felicity has moved.”
A burning sensation erupted in his stomach. He looked back at her, but she still didn’t lift her gaze. “How can that be? Your cousin relocated without informing you?”
“Not purposely, to be sure! You and I left London earlier than I had planned, if you recall—likely before a letter telling me of her move could reach me.” At last she looked at him, biting her lip. “She may have left before my last correspondence as well.”
“Good Lord! Then she doesn’t know to expect you!”
“May not know,” she corrected.
He answered the daft distinction with a mute stare. Then another horror occurred to him. “She is still residing in Paris, is she not?”
He thought he detected a quiver in her lip, barely perceptible, before she twisted her mouth into a grimace. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Did the landlady refuse to give you a forwarding address?”
“She claims Felicity did not leave one. Apparently, the two parted on ill terms.”
The burning in his gut flared. “What was the problem—a financial dispute?”
“I don’t know. I had trouble understanding that woman’s shrieking.” She drew in a deep breath and sighed. “There is no need to worry. I shall make inquiries among the neighbors. Someone will know where Felicity’s gone. I will have to wait until morning, of course. I am afraid I shall have to trouble you to help me find a hotel.”
“Yes.” The realization gave him a certain sense of relief. Now he would have another night with her, perhaps more if they couldn’t locate her cousin—or, better yet, if he could convince her to return to England instead of staying with a relative in the midst of some sort of difficulty. But how would they retain their anonymity in Paris? Thinking aloud, he said, “I always stay at D’Anjou–but we cannot appear there together, since the staff know me, and sometimes my associates call. In fact, we may have trouble going unnoticed at any decent hotel. Paris is a common destination for British travelers.”
For the Love of Lila Page 8