The Wickedest Lord Alive (12 page)

“
Are
you betrothed?” he asked, letting his horses slow to a gentle walk. “I distinctly heard you refuse him.”

“I did, but—” She bit her lip. “—Miss Worthington and Mrs. Huntley saw me in his embrace and now I am in a dreadful pickle.” She fired up. “Yes, and I think it abominable of you to simply stand there and let it happen.”

“What did you expect me to do? Strike an attitude and shout, “No! She is mine!” That would have set the cat amongst the pigeons.” He eyed her. “A broken engagement to some country squire would be nothing compared with the scandal of our prior marriage.”

“I know that. But I believe you could have stopped him. Why, when you saw me struggling, you could have stepped in.”

“That would have been a chivalrous act,” he agreed. “Had I known the fellow’s attentions were unacceptable to you, undoubtedly I would have intervened.” He paused. “As it was, I did not know.”

Lizzie was left to make of that statement what she might. On balance, she rather thought Steyne’s pride would not allow him to make a disturbance at a public assembly. Then, too, his every move was calculated, precise.

She found herself wishing that she might upset the ordered applecart of Lord Steyne’s life. Just once, she would like to see him lose command of himself.

But she would be deluding herself to imagine she would ever be the cause.

“Miss Allbright?” prompted Steyne as she continued to maintain her seething silence. “You still have not replied to my earlier question: Will you agree to my plan? That you come to Harcourt as Miss Allbright, where I woo you and marry you as if we had never met before now?”

“I cannot imagine why you trouble yourself to ask for my answer,” she said, trying to match him for sangfroid. “You give me no choice. You will expose me as a liar to my friends and neighbors if I don’t comply with your wishes. And the eventual outcome would be the same anyway. You’re my husband. I have no power to stand against you.”

“What, craven, Miss Allbright?” he mocked. “I thought perhaps you might run away.”

“I am not so stupid,” she said. “You would find me, just as you did last time.”

“I am gratified to see you are coming to know me so well.”

“Besides,” she said, “There will be compensations. I have always wanted children.” Someone who was hers to love.

“Indeed?” He seemed to withdraw a little, the easy atmosphere shattered by her tentative confession. After a moment, he seemed to recollect himself. “Then we must attend to the begetting of these infants without delay.”

“But I can’t! Not until I have dealt with Mr. Huntley.” How she would do so, she wasn’t certain. She had considered asking Mr. Allbright to forbid the match, but without giving the true reason, that would be to insult a man who was a close neighbor as well as influential in the district. She must attend to it herself.

“If I undertake to assist you with the problem of Mr. Huntley, how soon can you be ready to leave Little Thurston?”

She swallowed. “I don’t know. I—I need to prepare. I need gowns. I am not sure how long it will take—”

“There is no need to concern yourself with gowns,” he said.

“Trust a man to say such a thing,” she said, thinking of her meager wardrobe and of the stain on her bodice that might well prove impossible to remove. “You cannot wish your future wife to shame you by looking shabby.”

His lips twitched. “How shallow and unworthy you must think me. Besides, you never look shabby to me, Miss Allbright.”

He truly meant her to attend a house party at the Duke of Montford’s estate with only a handful of outmoded gowns to her name. She simply could not.

Steyne still watched her with a great deal of understanding in his eyes. The realization that
she
was the one who was shallow hit her hard.

Had she learned nothing while living at the parsonage? Her limited wardrobe had never troubled her before. Or not terribly much, she amended, remembering Miss Worthington’s needling remarks.

But now that she was supposed to hold her own as the daughter of Lord Bute in a household full of nobility, now that no less than the Marquis of Steyne would court her, she became fully alive to her lack of worldly goods.

“Do not look so stricken, dear Miss Allbright,” said Steyne. “I have taken the liberty of arranging a wardrobe for you.”

“You … did
what
?” She was scandalized. There were so many things wrong with the idea, she couldn’t decide which one to voice first.

“As I said, I see nothing wrong with your attire,” said Steyne smoothly. “The gowns and so forth are yours should you wish to wear them. It is entirely up to you.”

“But—but how did you do it?” she demanded.

He smiled a rather grim smile. “For my sins, I am well versed in ladies’ fashion, my dear. Everything—and I do mean
everything
—you require will be provided for you.”

By “everything,” he meant petticoats and shifts, stockings and garters and stays, and … Her face grew hot.

She was mortified at the thought of him choosing her clothing, particularly since he must have gained his experience and expertise by outfitting his mistresses. But even disregarding that fact, there was something so intimate and intrusive about the idea. That he had expended so much attention and thought upon her before even meeting her again sat oddly with her, too.

He’d entertained not the slightest doubt that she’d fall in with his scheme, had he?

The parson’s daughter inside her urged her to reject his offering, to refuse to alter her ways simply because she would go amongst people who would judge her for her attire.

But the insidious, powerful, feminine part of her longed to see, to touch, to try.

The Marquis of Steyne was renowned for his exquisite taste. Would he know what might suit her? “How did you guess my measurements?”

His gaze traveled over her body, making her shiver. Then he met her eyes. “The vicar helped with that.”

“Mr. Allbright?” she said, startled and not at all pleased to think of the vicar hearing about Steyne’s plans, much less conspiring in them.

“I believe he quizzed your maid,” said Steyne blandly. “No doubt alterations will be needed, but there will be a seamstress on hand to assist with that.”

She marveled at Mr. Allbright’s powers of dissimulation. The vicar’s deception—over the marquis, over the clothes, even over his plan to invite his sister to live with him—made her uneasy, unsure of her footing. The solid foundation of eight years seemed to shift and crack beneath her feet.

But gowns … If the vicar thought it proper for Steyne to dress her, was she ridiculously pedantic to balk at the idea? After all, Steyne
was
her husband. As such, his gesture was an entirely appropriate one. A simple matter of timing that he gave her these gowns before anyone knew about their union.

The disquiet she felt about accepting such largesse didn’t make much logical sense. The fact that Mr. Allbright had approved the scheme finally decided her. She would not create a fuss over it.

“Thank you, my lord.” Her tone was stifled, and she knew he’d guess how much his high-handedness rankled.

“You’re welcome.” He said the words gravely, but she had the impression he was amused about something. “So, the question remains,” he said eventually. “When will you be ready to leave?”

When, indeed? Practically speaking, it would be the matter of moments to pack her worldly goods. But
feeling
ready was another matter.

“Would a week suffice?” said Steyne. “I confess I’m impatient to see you at Harcourt.”

One week,
she thought. One week to prepare herself for the terrors and uncertainties that lay ahead. One week to farewell the only true home she’d ever known.

While she’d considered Steyne’s intention to appear to court her at Harcourt somewhat of a hopeful interlude during which something might occur to save her, the reality was that her acquiescence to Steyne’s plan was a foregone conclusion.

Mr. Allbright’s words came back to her, that it might well be her calling to redeem the marquis. She slid a look at the man beside her and tried unsuccessfully to imagine him as someone in need of her help.

He was like the diamond pin he’d worn at the ball, all hard surfaces and sharp edges. Dazzling and impenetrable.

What had made him that way?

Lizzie thought of his mother. She’d seen Lady Steyne on many occasions throughout the marchioness’s association with Lizzie’s father and thought her astonishingly beautiful. Lady Steyne had behaved toward Lizzie with a careless, caressing affection that seemed a shallow facsimile of motherly love.

She remembered wondering how on earth such a lovely creature could tolerate Lord Bute. And then she’d seen the shocking evidence of her father’s cruelty on Lady Steyne’s back.

Did Lady Steyne love her son? Lizzie’s recollection of her own mother was faint, but what memories she had were treasured ones. Mama, who had died when Lizzie was four, had been kindness itself.

Steyne turned into the gates at the vicarage, and Joe came out to take the horses.

The marquis handed Lizzie down, but rather than accompanying her inside, he said, “Let’s take a turn in the garden. We may then enjoy the weather even if we do not go on the picnic.”

“Very well.” She’d hoped to have Mr. Allbright as the buffer between them, but she ought not to be such a coward. She would have to speak with Lord Steyne in private—and more than merely speak with him—before too long.

She led him around the house to where a series of gardens sprawled. The small park was bisected by a stream with an arched footbridge across it.

As they walked, Steyne did not attempt to draw her hand through his arm as Tom or one of her other admirers might have done. She was both grateful for it and slightly piqued.

“Why did you miss the picnic?” he asked as they reached the rose garden Mrs. Allbright had loved. A sweet, musky scent wafted to them and the sun shone brightly.

An idyllic scene, in which Lizzie’s pounding heart and dry mouth seemed incongruous.

“I was needed,” she said. “I do not often have leisure to indulge in frivolous pursuits.”

The brim of his hat shaded his eyes, but when he turned his head to look at her, the sun fired them to a blaze of sapphire. “And yet, I believe Mr. Taft’s housekeeper could very well have administered that draft to him.”

She shook her head. “You saw how he is. The housekeeper is too meek to make him mind her.”

“I believe,” he went on as if she had not spoken, “that you didn’t attend the picnic because you did not wish to see me. Why is that?”

She was incredulous. “How can you ask? You come here after eight years with an astonishing request—nay,
demand
—and expect me to jump to your bidding. My wishes don’t come into it at all.”

“You see, I cannot help remembering that eight years ago, I gave you the choice,” he said. “You told me you wanted to go through with the marriage. I recall it quite clearly.”

She burned to retort that her father would have punished her cruelly if she hadn’t surrendered to Steyne that night. But that would not be the full truth of it.

Of course she’d have preferred to be courted by a decent man with a spotless reputation, to be in love and be loved by a husband who would be kind to her, and faithful.

Yet, that was never to have been her fate. She was the daughter of a wealthy aristocrat. She’d never expected a love match. And something about Steyne had drawn her against her will. Despite his reputation and his lack of ardor, she’d wanted him.

Had she not run away, had he taken her with him and made her his wife, perhaps they’d have several sons by now.

But she would have been alone in the deepest sense of that word. She hadn’t fully appreciated what she would miss until she’d come to Little Thurston and filled her life with people she loved.

Now she said, “Things have altered since then. I have changed.”

He opened his mouth to respond but seemed to think better of it. After a pause, he said, “Lizzie, I am offering you a life of luxury and ease, a position of some power and influence.”

She couldn’t help smiling and shaking her head. “What do you think I care for that?”

He made a slight shrug. “If your bent is toward philanthropy, as it seems to be, you may indulge it to your heart’s content. And with far more wide-ranging effect. Money and rank, you will find, open many doors.”

He was right. Given her compulsion to help people, that notion ought to sit well with her. She was not at all sure why it left her unmoved.

“May I ask you a question, my lord?” she said. “A—an intimate one?”

He spread his hands. “Of course.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

There was a long silence. He continued to stroll, his hands now clasped lightly behind his back. His expression gave nothing away.

“No.” He regarded her steadily. “I don’t have it in me to love anyone, you see. I do not believe that romantic love, as the poets describe it, exists.”

She stared at him. Did he truly think that? Or did he merely warn her he would never fall in love with
her
?

“And you, Lizzie?” he said. “Have you ever been in love?”

“No,” she said honestly. “I loved my mother and Mr. and Mrs. Allbright. But I have never fallen in love, as the saying is.”

Unlike the marquis, Lizzie felt as if she had a huge well of love inside her simply begging for someone to expend it upon. Sometimes, it seemed the well would burst its walls and flood the world and no longer belong to her at all.

He reached out to pluck a red berry from the yew hedge, inspect it, then toss it away. Harshly, he said, “If you are subtly asking my views on liaisons outside marriage, then I must assure you I shall not be a complaisant husband, ma’am. Do not form an intimate connection with another man if you want that man to live.”

It was not an idle threat. She would have known that instinctively, even if she hadn’t seen the evidence of his ruthlessness when he descended like an avenging demon upon her father.

But she was not afraid. “Whereas you would be free to indulge in such liaisons, I suppose.” She did not trouble to keep the tartness from her tone.