Duel of Hearts

by Farr, Diane

  Lilah felt a flash of triumph followed by a pang of guilt. What was there about this man that brought out the worst in her? She could not understand it. On the other hand, it would be absurd to apologize for her attitude. Her antagonism was probably good for him, she told herself firmly. It was obvious he seldom encountered any opposition to his autocratic ways.

  Feigning indifference, she covertly watched him as he paid their shot, ordered up the carriage and supervised the last-minute preparations for their departure. He did everything with a careless ease that both attracted and annoyed her. This was a man so accustomed to command that he took slavish obedience for granted. He expected it. Well! He had a thing or two to learn about Delilah Chadwick. She was no simpering lackey. He would receive her cooperation when he respected her as an equal, and not a moment sooner.

  In less time than she would have thought possible, everything was ready and Drake was offering his arm to lead her to the coach. As she took it, she glanced up at him. They were standing in sunlight and he was hatless. Lilah’s eyes widened. “Your hair is not brown,” she blurted.

  “Of course it is brown.” He looked down at her, half-amused, half-exasperated. “What a personal remark, Miss Chadwick. I hope you are ashamed of yourself.”

  She felt herself blushing. “I don’t mean to make personal remarks,” she said. “It’s just that it startled me.”

  “What startled you? No, never mind,” he amended hastily. “I think I’d rather not know.”

  He held the door for her. She lifted her skirts daintily, but paused on the step. She studied him again, amusement bubbling through her. It was absurd to call his hair brown. Brown was ordinary. Drake’s dark hair glinted beautifully in the sun, auburn and sorrel, cinnamon and honey, autumn leaves. Anything but ordinary.

  “I had a chestnut mare once upon a time,” she remarked. “You put me in mind of her. In more ways than one, I might add.” She bit back a laugh. “Coleur de diable! You redheads are all alike.” And she ducked into the coach before he could wreak vengeance.

  She soon had to admit that the coach he had hired far surpassed yesterday’s conveyance. It was spacious, comfortable and so well-sprung that imperfections in the roadway could barely be felt. It was also drawn by a fast team handled by a skilled driver. Really, it was amazing what a difference rank and fortune made to the little things in life. Lilah was painfully aware that, left to her own devices, a mere Miss Chadwick would not be traveling with so much speed and comfort.

  Still, by the time they reached London she was exhausted. They had been rocking along in silence for a while and Miss Pickens was nodding, dozing, beside her. It was well past lamp-lighting time and the interior of the coach was dark, but now that they had reached the outskirts of town an occasional flash of light through the windows illuminated Drake’s face opposite her. He seemed to be studying her, his eyes hooded and opaque.

  She was intensely aware of him. The darker it grew and the less she could see, the more her other senses pricked awake, feeling the pull of attraction like invisible wires humming between them. The air seemed thick with electricity. Since she could neither ignore it nor acknowledge it, whatever strange bond existed between them was nothing but a nuisance. Lilah felt herself growing crankier by the minute.

  Drake suddenly leaned forward, causing her breath to catch. For a crazy second she thought he would touch her—but he only spoke, his voice lowered in deference to Miss Pickens’s slumber. “The address you had me give the driver. It is in Kensington?”

  “Yes.” Whispering to him in the darkness felt so…intimate. She shivered. “It was originally my grandmother’s house,” she went on. She feared she was babbling, but she feared the charged silence more. “My parents met and married in France, you see. And when Papa brought his bride home to England, her mother came along to see her daughter’s new home. And then Mama was expecting me, so Grandmama stayed a bit longer, and after I was born the troubles started, back in France, and Grandpere was…arrested. So Grandmama bought a house in London and never saw Paris again. And this is the house she bought.”

  She thought she saw Drake’s eyebrows lift. “So you are the granddaughter of a French seigneur. I should have guessed,” he said dryly. “At any rate, we will reach Kensington shortly. I think I should come in with you, if your father is at home this evening.”

  “You—you do?” Lilah wasn’t sure why the mental picture of Drake crossing the threshold of her home made her heart beat faster. Drake. In Grandmama’s home. Meeting her father. Drake, surrounded by furniture and rooms familiar to Lilah since childhood. Drake, invading Lilah’s private world. A thrill of terrified excitement shot through her.

  Drake seemed unaware that anything was amiss. “Yes,” he said. “The element of surprise is essential to our attack. Your father will be surprised to see you, will he not? That gives you an advantage. Your advantage will be doubled if I arrive simultaneously, since he certainly will not expect to see me.”

  “Oh.” Lilah cleared her throat. “Yes. I suppose that’s true.”

  “Between the two of us, presenting a united front, I daresay this ill-advised engagement will not last another hour. We could be done with this entire business tonight.”

  The unspoken words and never see each other again hung in the air. Lilah took a deep breath. “You may be right,” she said composedly, although there was a strange tightness in her throat. “Especially if you make it clear to Papa that you stand ready to offer for Miss Mayhew. He may feel reluctant, you know, to cry off—if he has actually proposed marriage to her. But if we can convince him that the lady will suffer no disgrace, I think we can persuade him. You can easily make the case that Miss Mayhew will be better off as Lady Drakesley than Lady Chadwick.”

  It seemed to Lilah that the silence lasted a heartbeat longer than it should have. A slight frown creased her forehead. “You did say you wanted to marry Miss Mayhew. Didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said shortly. “I did. I mean, I do.”

  “Well, then,” said Lilah, relieved. “Papa need have no scruples. He can break the engagement without a backward glance.” She managed a smile. “I think you are right. We will speak to my father immediately.”

  But when they reached her family’s town house, they were met with the news that Sir Horace was not at home. In fact (the butler regretfully informed them), Sir Horace was not expected home for some several days yet. He had joined a party at Wexbridge Abbey and would return no sooner than Tuesday next.

  Perhaps Drake was not destined to cross her threshold after all. At least not tonight. Lilah stood on the low steps of the town house, clutching her cloak round her, and tried to think what they should do. She was so tired. Beside her, servants ran to and fro, busily unloading her baggage from the coach. Miss Pickens bade a grateful farewell to Drake and ducked into the house, eager to reach any piece of furniture that wasn’t moving. Her father’s butler, Hodge, hovered respectfully and awaited Lilah’s instructions. With an effort, she turned to address Drake.

  “Do you still wish to come in, my lord? I could offer you some refreshment.”

  “No, thank you,” he replied shortly. He was frowning in an abstracted way. “They will take excellent care of me at the Pulteney. I need a word with you, however.”

  He seized her elbow in a peremptory fashion and led her a few steps down the street, away from Hodge’s listening ears. “This looks serious,” he told her grimly. “Wexbridge Abbey is barely outside of London. There’s no reason for your father to remove there unless it’s to increase his intimacy with the Abbey’s occupants.”

  Lilah was puzzled. “Why is that so serious?”

  His jaw tightened. “Wexbridge Abbey belongs to my great-uncle. Eugenia is spending the Season there, under the aegis of my great-aunt.”

  “Oh. Oh, dear.”

  “If your father remains under that roof for several days, it’s a safe bet that matters have progressed to a formal engagement. Or soon will.”

 
“I see.” Lilah’s heart sank for a moment, but she rallied. “On the other hand, Hodge said it was a party, not a private visit. Perhaps my father is only one among a large group. That wouldn’t be so very bad.”

  “Perhaps.” He did not look hopeful. “At any rate, we should ride out tomorrow and see for ourselves. Will you come with me?”

  “Certainly.” She sternly repressed the flutter of excitement she felt at the idea of accompanying Drake to Wexbridge Abbey. What was the matter with her? This was business, not pleasure. “The sooner, the better, I suppose.”

  They agreed that Drake would call for her in the morning, but he arrived before she expected him. Lilah was still breakfasting. Hoping that his early arrival did not bode ill, she set down her cup with a clatter and hurried to the library to greet him.

  It was odd, as she had anticipated, to see Drake standing in the familiar room. He seemed to fill it, his head nearly touching the low ceiling. He was standing near the fireplace but turned as she entered, nodding a curt good-morning to her.

  For half a heartbeat, Lilah could not find her voice. Her hand traveled involuntarily to her throat. She had not seen Drake dressed for London before. In fact, she realized, she had not seen him dressed for anything but arduous travel—and since his man had been left in Bytheway with the broken curricle, she had not seen what the assistance of a valet could do for a man of Drake’s stamp. She had fallen into the error of thinking that he must always have that careless, thrown-together look. Now she saw that a London valet easily counterbalanced whatever impatience, or lack of personal vanity, might bedevil his master.

  Drake’s morning coat of dark green superfine had obviously been molded to his form by the hands of an expert tailor. In the clear morning light streaming through the front windows, his hair was definitely a rich, dark chestnut, gleaming and beautifully arranged. His unusual coloring was wonderfully complemented by the green of his coat. Immaculate linen gleamed at his neck and wrists, and his buff-colored breeches clung fashionably to the muscles in his legs. There was nothing ornate or fussy about his appearance; there was a no-nonsense plainness in his lack of jewelry and the brisk tie of his cravat. He was still, in other words, Drake. But, she had to admit, the overall effect of town polish was…powerful.

  All trace of the highwayman had vanished. The man in her grandmother’s library was definitely an earl.

  “Good morning,” she said, thankful that her voice did not crack. “You are early.”

  His gaze flicked over her appreciatively. She was wearing her favorite morning dress and was glad, now, that she had donned it. Unmarried girls were supposed to deck themselves in pastels, which rarely became her, but the deep rose of this particular frock made her skin glow pink and white. She would never be the Beauty her mother had been—her face was too expressive, lacking the bland sweetness necessary to attract men—but in this dress she felt almost pretty.

  “I have news,” said Drake, with his usual brusqueness. “My great-aunt Polly is hosting one of her masquerades this evening. I think we should abandon our plans to ride out to the Abbey this morning, and attend the masquerade instead.”

  Lilah was a little taken aback by this abrupt change of plan. “That’s odd,” she remarked. “Did your family know you were coming to London?”

  He looked surprised. “No. I took off on the spur of the moment, just as you did. The party has nothing to do with me or my arrival. Aunt Polly gives these masquerade balls every year. She’s famous for them.”

  “I see. But—how did the invitation reach you?”

  “It didn’t,” he said patiently. “I heard about it from an acquaintance of mine who happened to be at the Pulteney.”

  Lilah blinked at him. “You heard about it. Is that all? Surely your great-aunt’s ball is not open to the public. How can you and I attend it?”

  He stared at her as if she were mad. “Why, we ride over there this evening and walk through the door, of course. It’s perfect. Remember, we’ll be in disguise. We can observe your father and Eugenia unawares. They won’t even know we are there. Since they aren’t expecting it, I daresay they wouldn’t recognize us even if they looked directly at us.”

  She must have been staring at him with a very queer expression on her face, for he crossed to her impatiently. “It’s perfect, I tell you. Talk about the element of surprise! Why, we can hardly fail. We’ll get them both together—you handle your father, and I will tackle Eugenia.”

  Lilah pressed one hand to her forehead. “Drake. Are you suggesting we attend a private ball to which we have not been invited?”

  “Now, don’t turn missish,” he warned. “We haven’t time to indulge any idiotic scruples.”

  Lilah sank into a chair, unnerved, and listened in horrified fascination as Drake outlined the scheme. “This situation couldn’t be better if we invented it ourselves,” he told her, pacing vigorously to and fro in his enthusiasm. “I know it’s irregular to show up uninvited, but Aunt Polly won’t care a rap. She’s not one of your high sticklers—in fact, she’s probably the least stuffy woman in England. Perfectly respectable and all that, but she’s never been one to stand on ceremony. Besides, I’ve run tame at Wexbridge Abbey all my life. I would have received an invitation, sure as check, if they’d known I could attend.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t receive an invitation,” objected Lilah. “And I wouldn’t have received one in any event! Your family has never even met me.”

  Drake waved this off impatiently. “Aunt Polly’s got your father stashed in one of her guest rooms, hasn’t she? That’s introduction enough. Will you be able to put a costume together on such short notice?”

  Lilah gave a faint moan and covered her eyes with her hand. Drake dropped to a squat beside her chair and pulled the hand away. “Buck up, Miss Chadwick. It’ll be fun.” A rare grin flashed across his features, lit with boyish mischief.

  Lilah eyed him doubtfully. “Fun,” she repeated.

  “Fun,” he said firmly. He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

  Lilah felt herself weakening. She bit her lip and looked away, afraid he would see, at such close quarters, the wicked sparkle beginning to rise in her. It would be fun. Did she dare? She was certainly tempted. Lilah had only been to one fancy-dress ball in her life—a woefully tame affair. Everyone in her small circle had attended it, including the vicar. Something told her that the local vicar would not be present at a masquerade ball held at the height of the London Season…and hosted by the least stuffy woman in England.

  She stiffened her spine and tried to look prim. “Very well,” she said demurely. “Since it is, after all, your family’s ball, I will bow to your superior knowledge of what they would find acceptable. If you see nothing amiss in our attending the masquerade, I suppose it would be silly for me to quibble.”

  “That’s the dandy!” exclaimed Drake, rising to his feet. “I’ll call for you at half past seven or thereabouts. We don’t want to be the first to arrive, but it won’t do to crash the gates too late, either. We’ll do nothing to draw attention to ourselves.”

  Lilah choked back a laugh. “Nothing, except show up without an invitation. Heaven help us if they check them at the door.”

  “I’ll tip the butler a yellow boy. Fimber knows me, too; if I lift my mask he’ll let us in.”

  “But won’t he think it strange?”

  “Fimber? He’ll think nothing of it. He’s known me all my life.” The brief grin lit Drake’s features again. “You see,” he explained, “people expect this sort of behavior from me.”

  “I see,” said Lilah politely. “You have a reputation to uphold.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’ll try to bear it in mind. I did not know you had gone out of your way to cultivate rudeness. Silly of me! I should have realized that such spectacular boorishness as yours is only achieved after years of careful practice.”

  Chapter 6

  Lilah pointed her toe. The tip of her shoe, a neat triangle of embroidere
d satin, peeped from beneath her skirts. The close-fitting, high-heeled slippers felt strange to her feet, since ladies nowadays rarely wore rigid footwear—but they did look perfect with the wide-hooped gown. Watching her reflection in the pier glass in her bed chamber, she fluttered her fan, turned this way and that, and finally swept into a curtsey. Excitement bubbled through her. She looked nothing like herself.

  Miss Pickens, behind her, clapped her hands and beamed. “Lovely! You look like a queen. My dear Lilah, you were born too late. With your graceful carriage and tiny waist, you were made to wear stomachers and hoops.”

  “I cannot put my hands at my sides,” Lilah complained, but the compliment pleased her all the same. “I wish these dratted hoops were an inch higher. I might rest my elbows on them.”

  Miss Pickens looked shocked. “Promise me you will do nothing so gauche,” she begged. “Snap your fan closed with your left hand—so—and rest the fingers of your right hand against the sticks. Oh, that is elegant!”

  Lilah studied the effect of this pose in the mirror. It felt awkward, but looked graceful. The gown had tight sleeves that encased her arms from shoulder to elbow, then abruptly ended in a foaming fall of lace. With her hands held thus before her, the lace fell prettily against the flat front of her wide skirts.

  “No wonder there was a revolution,” Lilah remarked. “My grandmother’s life must have been unbearable. It will be great sport to wear such an outfit for an evening, but what a punishment it would be to wear it every day! The costume alters everything—the way one moves, and breathes, and stands and sits. One must be conscious every moment of how one looks. Life at Versailles must have been horrid.”

  “Very true, my love. Although it wasn’t the aristocracy who revolted, you know, but the peasants.”

  Lilah chuckled and turned sideways, peering once again at the mirror. She was fascinated by the peculiar shape her figure had taken, forced by the old-fashioned bodice to conform to the mode of a bygone era. Pressed by the wooden stomacher and tightly-laced stays, her breasts were mashed absolutely flat, allowing the front of the gown to assume a smooth taper from neckline to waist. The style was oddly dainty and feminine—odd because there was nothing remotely womanly about the resulting cone of tight satin. On the other hand, she mused, the rigidity of the cone-shaped bodice contrasted dramatically with the soft flesh it forced to mound high above the neckline. Perhaps it was the impression of femininity bursting from its confines that made the gown so alluring. For alluring it definitely was.