The Scandalous, Dissolute, No-Good Mr. Wright

by Tessa Dare

  With his free hand, he reached just behind her earlobe--like a cheap conjurer who meant to pull a sixpence from her ear. But he came away with nothing more magical than a hairpin.

  "There's one."

  He circled her, pulling them free one at a time. Eliza stood still, feeling her neat coiffure--the work of an hour that morning--disintegrate into a confusion of haphazard locks and curls.

  At last, he had them all freed.

  "I don't know how I'll fix it again," she said.

  "That's easy. You won't." He tossed her hairpins into the bushes. Then he combed through her hair with this fingers, separating and arranging the heavy locks. "Do you plait it at night?"

  She didn't know how to react to his question--whether to receive it as innocuous or lascivious. So she simply answered it honestly.

  "No."

  "But you should. All proper ladies plait their hair at night."

  "I know, but I . . ."

  "But you don't. Because you like it down, and why wouldn't you?" His voice grew low, thoughtful. Entrancing. "To think, all this glorious golden hair, confined in pins or plaits every hour of the day? Unconscionable. It's beautiful down. You haven't a lover to tell you so, but you know it just the same. It's the color of raw honey, the texture of silk. You like to brush it and twist it in the mirror, even after your maid has left you for the night. You like the feel of it gliding across the cool pillow."

  His words--so near, so intimate--tormented her. Did he mean to touch her or not? Eliza thought she'd go mad, wondering. Waiting. Fearing. Thrilling.

  "You asked what I want of you, Miss Eliza. It's just this." He came to stand before her. "I want you to know that there's someone who sees you. The real you. The girl who can't bring herself to plait her hair at night, because it pains her vanity. The girl who'd marry her sisters to tinkers and tailors, if it meant she could finally have a chance. The girl who longs to drive fast and free--to feel the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. The girl who's clever enough to recognize a dangerous man when she sees one--but desperately wants him to kiss her anyway."

  She closed her eyes tight.

  No, she wanted to protest. You have it all wrong. I'm not that girl at all.

  But she was that girl. At least part of the time. She wasn't as selfish and vain as he made her out to be, but she wasn't exactly good, either.

  "You're interesting. I want you to know that there's someone who sees all this, Eliza. And likes you for it."

  She opened her eyes.

  His words . . . they were presumptuous. Infuriating. And also the very thing she'd been yearning to hear for years. Her impetuous nature was the cause of all the unhappiness in her life. She'd spent years trying to deny or overcome that part of herself--all in vain. This man saw it anyway.

  And, devil take him, he liked her for it.

  Perhaps her father was right about her. Perhaps men like this were her destiny. Wicked, dissolute scoundrels.

  He held out the nectarine, turning the uneaten half to her lips. His smile was subtle but teasing. "Go on. I know you want it."

  She did want it.

  She opened her mouth for a hesitant bite. He pushed the fruit forward, forcing her to take more. As her teeth sank through the ripe flesh, the tart-sweet flavor and heady fragrance of nectarine flooded her senses. The experience was succulent, sensual. And the way he watched her intently as she licked the sticky juice from her lips . . . it made her feel wanton.

  "Delicious," he whispered.

  She nodded, dabbing her mouth with the heel of her hand.

  They stared at one another. The buzzing of a nearby bumblebee droned in her ear.

  He had her alone. Alone, with her hair unbound and her inhibitions destroyed. She'd given him leave to touch her however he wished.

  He could do with her whatever he pleased. They both knew it.

  "Now," he said, clearing his throat. "I'm going to catch up to Brentley and your sister and have a look at the ruins. Is your ankle healed enough? Will you join me?"

  She nodded, twisting her hair into a loose knot before accepting his arm.

  Once again, he'd refused to ruin her. But she sensed from the tense energy in his arm and the unevenness of his breath . . . walking away hadn't been so easy for him this time.

  Interesting.

  If she were wise, Eliza told herself--if she had one shred of sense in her entire being--she would make certain of one thing, from this day forward.

  She would never again be alone with Mr. Wright.

  AN INVITATION TO A PARTY

  My dear Brentley,

  Won't you and your visitor join us Thursday next at Alderfield Lodge, for dinner and cards? Several other good families from the neighborhood have promised to attend. We shall be quite the merry group.

  Yours, etc.

  Lady Alderfield

  "Mr. Wright."

  Harry drew to a halt, turning abruptly toward a shadowy row of hedges. Hedges that seemed to be calling his name. He couldn't be that drunk.

  A moonlit face emerged above the boxy wall of green. "Mr. Wright. I must speak to you. Alone."

  "Miss Eliza Cade." He bowed. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

  In that moment, he regretted ever teasing her, because he meant every one of those five simple words. Sincerely. To see her was a true pleasure, and the degree to which he felt that pleasure was most unexpected. A bit alarming, if he were honest with himself.

  With a darting glance toward the house and a frantic wave of her arm, she beckoned him toward her side of the hedges. "This way."

  Well, well. The unexpected pleasures continued.

  "I can't be out here long. I'm supposed to be upstairs, visiting with Lady Alderfield's niece Fiona."

  "But you're not. You're here with me."

  "I'm leaving Norfolk Monday next," she said. "Philippa will remain here a few more weeks, then travel to Brighton with Miss Farnsworth."

  "You're not going with them?"

  She shook her head. "I'm not allowed."

  "Why not?" He scanned her face. She must be nearing twenty by now, easily. Certainly old enough for a holiday in boring Brighton. Not for the first time, he wondered at this strange policy of her father's--refusing to let his youngest daughter come out until all the others were settled? He hadn't spent much time puzzling over it in the past, because it hadn't affected him in the least.

  He was puzzling over it now. And puzzling over his puzzling.

  "It doesn't matter. My point is this--after tonight, we may not meet again for months. Even years."

  Harry winced at the sharp twinge in his chest. Under the guise of scratching, he rubbed the spot, just to the left of his sternum. Deuced odd, that. Her news should not have hit him so forcefully, and not in that particular place.

  He ought to be glad that she was leaving. He was growing much too fond of provoking her. Much too fond of her in general.

  "Did you come out here to kiss me good-bye?" he teased.

  "Of course not, you wicked man. I--" She turned and stared at the ground. She was silent for several moments, and Harry began to grow concerned.

  "What is it, sweetling? Are you ill?"

  "No. I'm endeavoring to keep my temper. Someone advised that it helps to pause, draw a deep breath, and count to three."

  "Ah," he said. "And how is this strategy working?"

  "It's not working at all." She lifted her head, and her blue eyes burned with reflected torchlight. "I'm up to twenty-seven now and still infuriated."

  He smiled. "Well, consider who you're dealing with. I expect you'd need to count into the thousands for me. You might as well let me have your anger. Don't worry, I can take it."

  She paced the small clearing, all shimmering silk and gleaming skin. The ribbon ties at the back of her gown swished and floated in her wake. Adding in the brandy's blurring effect on his brain and the torchlight's gifts to her delicate features . . . she could have been a sprite or a nymph. A creature of ether and quicksilver,

swimming through the murk of night.

  Whatever this creature before him might be, one thing was certain. She wasn't a girl anymore. She was grown, and come into her full, bewitching power.

  He watched her, a man bespelled.

  "You don't know." Her voice boiled with emotion as she walked and talked. "You pretend to know everything about me, but you don't. You have no idea. You tell me I'm selfish and cunning and only concerned for my own prospects."

  She burst out with a wild, almost drunken laugh. "My prospects," she repeated, as if the word itself were a hilarious joke. "I have no prospects. None. I was ruined at the age of fourteen."

  Fourteen?

  "Now wait. Come here." He caught her by the shoulders and brought her close. Into the torchlight, where he could scan her expression with fresh concern.

  Misused at fourteen? Surely not. The curiosity in her manner, the innocence in her responses to him . . . He would know if some bastard had tampered with Eliza Cade. She was like champagne--tart, sweet, intoxicating, and ready to explode with joy and passion for life. If some villain had taken her sparkle, Harry would be able to tell. A swelling of murderous rage in his breast would be his first clue.

  But just in case she needed to hear it . . .

  He gripped her shoulders and made his voice firm. "Know this. Whatever you've done, or whatever's been done to you . . ." He waited for her to meet his gaze. "You are not ruined. Not ruined, soiled, cheapened, or made less in any way. If any man dares to tell you different, you point out the blackguard to me. I will ruin his evening and his face--in that order."

  That last promise of violence earned Harry a weak smile. But he still caught a self-conscious glimmer in her eye.

  "What happened?" He guided her to sit under a nearby trellis, where a marble bench was wreathed and arched with vines. The cold, unyielding stone helped sober him. "You can tell me everything."

  She blinked hard and looked skyward. "It will sound so absurd when told aloud."

  "I have a particular fondness for absurdities." He gave her hand a brief, reassuring squeeze.

  "I was fourteen. And the vicar's son--"

  "The vicar's son?" Harry's stomach roiled.

  "Yes. Timothy, he was called. A nice boy. Quite handsome. He had the most flawless skin. I envied it. Never a single freckle or spot."

  Harry pushed a hand through his hair. "God Almighty. It gets worse."

  "We'd grown up together, being of an age. We were friends, I thought. Then one day, I was called down to the library. This wasn't unusual. I was always in one scrape or another. But on this day, I arrived to find my father and the vicar, both stern as anything. And there was poor Timothy, looking as though he'd lose his breakfast on the carpet. My father said . . ." She cleared her throat and mimicked a gruff voice. " 'Eliza, young Timothy here has been spreading a tale about you. I want to know if it's the truth.' "

  "He was spreading tales? This whey-faced vicar's son?"

  "Yes." She sighed. "He'd been passing time with the grooms in our stables, and trying to impress them, I think. I imagine they all had their stories of groping farm girls in the haylofts, and he didn't want to feel left out. Of course, I didn't know at the time what sort of tale he'd been telling. I just knew that he was in trouble, and he was my friend. Whatever mischief he'd wrought, he would only catch more punishment if he'd lied. So I made a very sad, contrite face, and I told my father yes. Whatever Timothy said, it's all true. And moreover, it was my idea."

  He chuckled. "No."

  "Oh, yes." She buried her face in her hands.

  "You let your father believe this Timothy twit had been groping you in the hayloft?"

  "I believe it was the vestry, supposedly." She dropped her hands to her lap and made a face. "Of all places. I'd never let a boy grope me in the vestry. That room always smelled of beef barley soup."

  Harry couldn't hold back anymore. He laughed.

  Oh, to imagine her at fourteen. So determined to be a loyal friend that she would unwittingly confess ruin at the hands of a cherub-faced vicar's boy. He could imagine why her father would be angered and her sisters scandalized--but Harry wasn't either of those things. He was amused. And rather proud.

  "What a remarkable story." He gazed at her with open admiration--until he caught himself counting her eyelashes and gave himself a little shake.

  "You can't tell anyone."

  He pressed a hand to his heart. "On my honor."

  She gave him a skeptical look. "What honor?"

  "I may not have much, but I have more than this mealy-mouthed Timothy did. Didn't he ever own up to his lies?"

  "He tried. And once I understood everything, I tried to recant my confession. But the damage was done. The tale was out, and the truth didn't matter anymore. Something had to be done. Fortunately, we were far too young to be forced into marriage."

  "Fortunate indeed." Eliza Cade, a vicar's daughter-in-law? That would be a travesty. Perhaps even a sacrilege.

  "My father sponsored the entire family as missionaries to Ceylon. They're still there, I believe. Five years and counting. And as for me . . ." She shrugged. "My father said it didn't matter whether I'd allowed the boy liberties or merely lied about it. I'd shown poor judgment and a complete disregard for propriety. He believed I'd surely ruin myself at the first opportunity, but he wouldn't allow me to drag my sisters through the muck. So that's why I have to wait until all three of them are settled before I can have my debut."

  Harry raised a brow. "Even now, years later? That's unduly harsh."

  "Is it?" She glanced at their surroundings. "Perhaps my father was right. Look at me now. I'm here in a darkened garden, alone with an infamous rake."

  "Yes. You are."

  He let his arm brush hers, not quite by accident. Her lashes fluttered, and she dropped her gaze to her lap.

  In an effort to calm himself, Harry drew a deep, slow breath. It turned out to be a mistake. Her honeysuckle scent flooded his senses, and he felt himself lured like a bee. His whole body buzzed with hunger.

  She fidgeted with the ribbon trim of her gown. "I've spent years dreaming of my debut. You cannot imagine. I've filled whole folios with sketches of silk gowns, and I've scribbled fanciful invitations on countless scraps of paper. I plan to drink champagne and dance every set with a different gentleman. And yes, to spin and twirl"--she smiled charmingly--"until I'm dizzied. It will be my night. My triumph, after years of watching life pass me by.

  "But if I valued that dream above my sisters' happiness, why would I be here right now? You're more dangerous to me than nightshade, Mr. Wright. The worst sort of man. Scandalous, immoral. Utterly without conscience or scruples."

  "Don't forget ancient," he said wryly. "And penniless. We all know poverty's my worst failing in most ladies' eyes."

  "Not in my view."

  "No?"

  She shook her head. "No. It's your presumption I can't bear. The way you look at me, the way you tease me. The way you touch me."

  "The way you enjoy it."

  He wanted to touch her at that moment. Very, very badly. His hand actually trembled with the force of his wanting. He made a fist at his side.

  Not now. Not yet.

  "Do you understand?" Her voice was just a whisper now. Intimate. "I'm risking my dreams, every moment I spend with you."

  She had no idea. No idea the danger he could pose to her right now. Right here on this bench, thorny hedges and frigid stone be damned.

  "So you see, it's not self-interest. I truly care for Philippa. She cares for Lord Brentley. If he returns her affections, there's no reason they shouldn't be together."

  Philippa and Brentley? Not those two poetic fools again.

  He shook his head, staring rapt at her soft, pink lips. "You're still telling yourself you came out here to help Philippa?"

  "Why else would I come find you?"

  "For this, Eliza." He cupped her face in one hand and caressed her cheek. "Just this."

  She slid sideways, putting a space between them on the bench.

  He closed the gap. "You spent years dreaming of that perfect debut. It's time to wake up. Be honest with yourself. You don't want twelve toadying gentlemen with perfect cravats queuing up for the pleasure of a dance. You want one man. A man who knows you, challenges you. A man who goes after what he wants, even when it's not proper or right."

  "There you go again, presuming to know everything about me. It makes me so . . ." She made a growl of frustration.

  A slow grin curved his lips. "There's my tigress."

  This woman didn't know what she wanted from life. She couldn't possibly. She'd been prowling that cage for so long, her greatest dream was a romp in the tiny garden she could glimpse through the bars. But beyond it, there were adventures she'd never known to imagine. Vast rivers and mountains and jungles she was born to explore.

  When he looked at her, Harry saw a brave, beautiful, passionate woman in the making. Even if she didn't yet see herself.

  He rubbed his thumb over her lips. Pink as petals, and just as soft as he remembered. God, he wanted to taste her.

  But he didn't want to steal that taste. He wanted an invitation.

  He watched for the slightest signal of assent. If she only moistened her lips, or swayed toward him a fraction . . . He would even accept a gentle tilt of the head.

  She touched his lapel.

  Hallelujah. That would do.

  His pounding blood rejoiced as he drew her close. He forced himself to go slowly despite the mad, juvenile frolic in his loins. He'd waited too long to rush this now.

  "Mr. Wright, I . . ." Her brows pulled together in a slight frown, and he found it adorable. "I can't call you Mr. Wright. Everything about you--everything about this--is so very wrong."

  "Then call me Harry," he suggested, tilting her face to receive his kiss. "Like my lovers do."

  "Harry!"

  Harry froze, his lips mere inches from pink-petal paradise. Eliza went rigid in his arms.

  From some distance away, the female voice floated over the garden hedges. "Harry, are you out here?"

  Damn.

  Damn and deuce and blast.

  "Again?" Eliza pushed out of his embrace, her eyes narrowing to slits. "You scoundrel. What's the matter? Doesn't Alderfield Lodge have a morning room? You've expanded to trysts in the garden now?"

  "It's not like that," he told her, inwardly cursing. "Not this time. I swear it."

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