The Wickedest Lord Alive (11 page)

She reminded herself that he was old and ill and no one had ever taught him to show ladies respect. She bent over a small silver tray that held Mr. Taft’s medicines, trying to disregard his mutterings as she checked the labels on the bottles against the doctors’ written instructions.

Carefully, she poured a measure of the draft and proffered the dose. “Here we are.”

“I won’t have it, I tell you!” The old man’s hand lashed out and knocked the glass from her grasp. Dark liquid splashed over her bodice as the tumbler flew from her hand to shatter on the floor.

“Oh, Mr. Taft!” she cried angrily, stooping to clean the mess.

Lizzie pricked her finger on a sharp needle of glass, then proceeded more carefully. After a cursory search, she found a copy of an old
London Gazette
and deposited each sparkling shard onto it.

After ringing for the housekeeper to remove the mess, Lizzie turned back to the medicines. Feeling upset far beyond the impact of the incident, she had to blink back a tear while she doggedly measured out another dose.

Unrepentant, the old man snarled, “Are you deaf, girl? I said I don’t want it!” On the final word, he went off into a paroxysm of coughing, gradually turning purple in the face.

Lizzie couldn’t press him when he was in this state. She exchanged the measure of medicine for another tumbler. “Take some water instead, then.”

“Brandy,” he panted, his shoulders hunched.

“Water,” said Lizzie firmly, and held the water glass to his lips.

He drank, but only because he was in dire need of something to soothe his throat. She thought he’d dearly like to hurl the tumbler of water at her, too.

She would calm him and then try the medicine again later. Poor Miss Joan, having to deal with this every day. No wonder she was so grateful to Lizzie for the weekly respite.

“Why don’t we leave the medicine for the moment?” said Lizzie, her voice determinedly bright. “Now, what shall it be, sir? Chess or a hand of piquet?”

*   *   *

Xavier kept his own counsel on the drive to the picnic, refusing to divulge to his nosy cousin what had passed between him and his wife the night before.

Lydgate, to do him credit, took his refusal in good part, but complained, “I cannot conceive why you will not hire a gig or some such. I wanted to have Miss Beauchamp to myself today.”

Xavier eyed him. “Might I remind you that this is my curricle we’re driving? And no one, but
no one
drives these horses but me.”

“It’s dashed unsporting of you,” said Lydgate. “I would have thought you’d wish to take Miss Allbright up with you.”

She would never consent to that, so Xavier didn’t mean to make the attempt.

If he’d harbored any doubts about his wife’s feelings toward him, last night had erased them. She held him in not the least amount of awe. His wealth and status did not impress her one iota. Certainly, she did not mean to make it easy for him to carry out his plans for her.

But he knew the telltale signs when a woman found him attractive. And he knew precisely how to turn that to his advantage.

“If you want to have Miss Beauchamp to yourself, why don’t
you
hire the damned gig?” said Xavier now.

“Drive a gig?” Lydgate demanded, blue eyes wide.
“Me?”

“For someone who is pockets-to-let most of the time, you have a skewed sense of what is owed to your dignity, Lydgate,” Xavier observed. “Do these schemes of yours never bear fruit?”

“Oh, yes. They are quite profitable.” His irritating relative sighed. “The trouble is that I’m so damnably expensive, you see.”

They arrived at Raleigh Hall, where the party would gather before setting off for the picnic.

Several open carriages congregated on the drive. A stream of footmen carried hampers and enormous umbrellas and blankets out to a heavily laden wagon.

“By Jupiter,” said Lydgate. “Are we embarking on an alpine expedition and someone failed to inform me?”

Miss Beauchamp emerged from the house to greet them. She smiled sunnily up at Lydgate. “I do apologize for the fuss. It’s my aunt, you see. I’d be happy with an apple and a blanket to sit on, but nothing must do for Aunt Sadie but to bring the good china.”

A deathly sensation of boredom flowed over Xavier. Where was Lizzie?

He looked down at Miss Beauchamp. “Is Miss Allbright here yet?”

“Oh, no. Miss Allbright was called away.” She tilted her head to regard him curiously. “Did you wish for her particularly, Lord Steyne?”

She appeared puzzled, which meant that Lizzie hadn’t regaled her friend with their history yet. Interesting. He’d rarely met a female who could keep her own counsel on matters of such grave importance.

He said, “Do you know where Miss Allbright is?”

Miss Beauchamp was positively agog, but she was too well bred to express it.

“I believe she will be at the Grange, with Mr. Taft,” she said. “But be warned if you mean to find her there, my lord. Mr. Taft is as crusty and bad-tempered an old gentleman as you’ll come across.”

Miss Beauchamp’s attention was caught by a scuffle at the front door, where a pair of footmen were juggling what looked like some style of marquee between them.

“Pray, excuse me,” she said with a chuckle. “I must find my aunt and make sure she doesn’t try to bring her favorite armchair into the bargain.”

“You have your wish, Lydgate,” said Steyne when Miss Beauchamp had hurried off. “I must leave you here.”

“What?” said Lydgate. “You’re not going to the picnic?”

He regarded his cousin with ill-concealed impatience. “What do you think? That I desire the fresh air?”

“Right, then,” said Lydgate, tipping his hat. “I’ll beg a seat in Miss Beauchamp’s carriage. Good notion, that. Much obliged.”

Xavier sighed. “Do rid yourself of the idea that I am doing this for you, Lydgate.”

“Wait a moment. What if the lady’s carriage is full?” said Lydgate, his mind still stuck on his own transportation.

“Sit on the box with the coachman,” was Xavier’s unfeeling reply.

He gave his grays the office and shot past Lydgate, making his cousin’s guinea gold hair lift in the breeze of his wake.

Damn Lizzie Allbright and her good works. Xavier had hoped to maneuver her into a pleasant walk alone with him in the wilderness today. Now he had to go chasing after her to some irascible old gentleman’s house.

He found the Grange with little difficulty. With some misgivings, he handed the care of his precious grays to a groom who came to attend them.

Mr. Taft did not appear indigent, as Xavier had suspected he might be. From Lizzie’s conversation with Lady Chard the afternoon before, he’d gathered she was dedicated to charitable works. Yet it seemed her good deeds extended beyond helping the poor.

Very proper behavior for a vicar’s daughter. A marchioness, however, needed to learn to keep the proper distance. One took care of one’s tenants by giving them the opportunity to take care of themselves. One did not sweep and scrub floors for them. From a vicar’s daughter, such assistance might be acceptable. From a marchioness, it would be taken as patronizing.

He rapped on the door with the head of his cane, and his knock was answered by a housekeeper who gave a faint shriek of dismay when she saw him on the threshold.

Acidly, Xavier inquired after the proprietor of the establishment. He added, “I understand Miss Allbright is here. It is she I’ve come to see.”

“Oh, dear. Oh, bless me, the master is in a fit of temper with the poor lady, and no mistake,” said the housekeeper, wringing her hands on her apron.

“Then take me to them,” ordered Xavier, removing his gloves and hat.

“Oh, dear,” muttered the plump housekeeper again as she took his accoutrements and led him to a parlor off the hall.

She turned abruptly to ask, “Who shall I say is calling?”

“Steyne.”

In fact, he didn’t need the nervous housekeeper to guide him to her master. The shouting was loud enough to wake the dead.

He quickened his pace, overtaking Taft’s servant. He was brought up short on the threshold by the sound of Lizzie’s voice.

“Come now, Mr. Taft.” Her voice held a note of rather determined good cheer. “What a lot of fuss about a tiny draft of medicine. Why, you make more to-do about it than a child.”

“I told you I don’t want you here,” growled a hoarse masculine voice. “It’s a fine thing when a man can’t say who may cross his threshold. Damned officious little doxy.”

Lizzie stiffened at the man’s language.

This was not to be borne. Steyne strode into the room. “Sir, might I remind you that you are speaking to a lady?” He spoke with a freezing hauteur that made the old fellow’s fuzzed eyebrows slam together.

Mr. Taft turned his head sharply to face him. “Eh? And who the Devil are you?”

Lizzie whirled around, consternation written large over her features. She had a careworn crease on her brow and a dark stain down her bodice.

Now his annoyance turned to fury. He gestured to her soiled gown. “What is the meaning of this?”

He had a very good idea what that stain meant. The old goat had either thrown his medicine at her or he’d struggled and caused her to spill it on herself.

Either was unacceptable.

“My lord!” said Lizzie. “What can you mean by barging in here?”

“You weren’t at the picnic,” he said. “So I came to find you.” He eyed the old gentleman with dislike. “Your years and infirmity do not excuse your boorish behavior, sir. Apologize to Miss Allbright, take your infernal medicine, and let us hear no more about it.”

The man’s jaw dropped open slightly. Then he rallied. “No, that I won’t. The gel knows—”

“Do not,” said Xavier with ominous quiet, “let me hear you address Miss Allbright by anything but her name.” He crossed the room and took the draft from Lizzie’s unresisting fingers. He leaned in to the old man and held it out.
“Drink.”
He invested the word with menace.

The old gentleman hesitated, then with utmost reluctance, took the glass and tilted the noxious liquid down his throat. “Pah!” Taft wiped his thin lips with the back of his hand, screwing up his face. “Brandy, now, and be quick about it.”

“No, he mustn’t,” said Lizzie, starting forward when Xavier, having looked around and spied a decanter on an occasional table, crossed to it.

“It won’t hurt him.” He poured a finger of brandy and took it to Mr. Taft. Gently, he said, “Apologize to Miss Allbright.”

Xavier was gratified to see the old man’s cheeks redden a little.

Lizzie looked from Xavier to Taft. “Oh, pray, there is no need,” said Lizzie.

Xavier ignored her. “Well?”

Taft hunched a shoulder. “Beg pardon, Miss Allbright.”

The apology was muttered and grudging. Xavier was tempted to force a more abject expression of remorse from the fellow, but he held his peace.

“Shall we?” he said to Lizzie, indicating the door with a sweep of his hand.

She hesitated. “Oh, but—”

“The housekeeper will do for Mr. Taft,” he said. “I need you now.”

Lizzie’s gaze shot to his, her face flaming. He wondered, with a tinge of amusement, what she thought he intended to do with her once he had her to himself.

Taft must not have been quite as self-absorbed as he seemed, for his beetling brows lowered again and he fixed Xavier with narrowed eyes. “She ain’t going anywhere with you if she don’t care to,” he said pugnaciously. “She might be a damned—dashed—meddlesome female, but she’s a good girl and not to be ruined by the likes of you.”

What did the old man know about “the likes of him?” he wondered. But Taft was fired up now, one liver-spotted hand gripping the arm of his chair as he struggled to rise to his feet.

With a little cry of protest, Lizzie gently pressed him back into his seat. “It is quite all right, Mr. Taft. Indeed, I must go now. Lord Steyne will see me safely home. There, let me put this rug across your knees and you will be comfortable.”

“Oh,
Lord
Steyne, is it?” grumbled the old man. “I don’t hold no truck with lords.”

“I can’t say I blame you,” said Xavier. “However, if you want any more, er,
truck
with Miss Allbright, I suggest you mend your manners, sir. Good day to you.”

He held out his arm to Lizzie. After a marked hesitation, she took it and accompanied him out of the house.

Chapter Nine

Lizzie fumed all the way to Lord Steyne’s carriage. “You needn’t have been so brutal.”

She wished she did not require his assistance to climb into the curricle. If only the confident clasp of his hand and the easy strength with which he handed her into the carriage didn’t make her body tremble and heat.

She had to remind herself she was cross with him. “You bullied poor Mr. Taft mercilessly.”

“He was rude to you,” said Steyne with a dismissive note in his voice, as if there were nothing more to be said.

“He is old and he’s in pain. That makes him irritable,” said Lizzie. “You see, his digestion—”

“I cannot conceive what interest you think I have in the medical woes of a complete stranger,” returned Steyne in a tone that made her want to kick him in the shins. “My only concern is his behavior toward my wife. It was unacceptable.”

“I daresay if he knew I was a marchioness, he would be more civil,” she said with a trace of bitterness.

He glanced at her. “I wasn’t thinking of your rank.” But before she digested this, he turned the subject. “I’ve come to have your answer to my proposition last night. By now, you must have had the opportunity to reflect a little and to discuss the matter with Mr. Allbright.”

“You must own that my position has become a trifle more precarious since last we met,” she said, still stewing about his interference at Mr. Taft’s. He’d made her look weak and unable to manage the elderly gentleman. She’d always considered herself so capable and persuasive. Ordinarily, she did not let Mr. Taft get the better of her, but today she had not been at her best.

For which she held Lord Steyne responsible.

“More precarious?” he said, as if bewildered.

“My betrothal to Mr. Huntley, of course!” she snapped.