The Wickedest Lord Alive (22 page)

He dragged his palm over his chin as if feeling for stubble. But he was clean-shaven—she’d discovered that well enough when he kissed her.

“You are being unreasonable, Lizzie. A mere matter of timing—”

He didn’t understand. “I hardly know you. What if you turn capricious and decide not to go through with the charade of becoming engaged and marrying? Where does that leave me? You said yourself that no one is here to bear witness to our marriage. I certainly do not have the marriage lines. I ran away, remember? I’m reasonably certain you could expunge any records if you wished to. If I let you ruin me as Lizzie Allbright and cast me aside, what am I to do then, Xavier?”

He’d been hot before. Now he was utterly cool. “You impugn my honor, Lizzie. I find that difficult to forgive.”

“What do I know of your honor?” she flung back. Something toward the back of her mouth seemed to close up and she added more quietly, “I only know your reputation is a dreadful one. Why should I risk so much on a whim?”

His eyes seemed to glitter in the dim light. “A whim, you say. No, my dear, bedding you is not something I do on a whim.”

The strange remoteness in his tone alarmed her. “You promised to at least appear to court me.”

“And you promised to receive my attentions with the semblance of pleasure. Distasteful though they might be.”

The tension in the silence made her heart ache. She went to him and reached up to touch his cheek. “They are not distasteful. Quite the reverse. An experienced rake such as yourself ought to know that.”

Before he could reply, she turned, found the gap in the drapes, and slipped away.

Chapter Fifteen

Lizzie opened her eyes to a morning that was bright, cool, and clear. She threw back the covers and rose to greet the day. From her window, she saw formal Italian gardens laid out in geometric shapes, fountains playing. Some sort of Grecian temple stood on a gentle rise to the east, its cupola glinting in the sun.

The hour was later than her usual waking time, but she was not obliged to be anywhere or do any chores today. It was an odd feeling for one whose schedule had been busy for the past eight years—positively overflowing since Mrs. Allbright passed away.

She had done her best to arrange matters so that her duties were filled by goodhearted ladies in the district, for it was not her place to direct the efforts of Mr. Allbright’s sister.

No doubt they would all work it out among themselves. She did worry for the Minchins, though, and that the less palatable among her self-imposed duties might be allowed to lapse. Most gently born ladies extended charity only so far.

But the vicar would make sure everyone in his parish was cared for, wouldn’t he? She took comfort from that.

Lizzie sighed. She missed everyone in Little Thurston already. She might even grow to regret leaving Mr. Taft.

She rang for Beth, who brought her a cup of tea.

“I am riding with Miss Beauchamp this morning,” said Lizzie. “Will you lay out my riding habit, Beth?” The jacket was ever so slightly too large, but not enough to signify.

Beth’s brow puckered a little when she’d helped her dress. “The coat’s not sitting quite as I should wish across the back, miss.”

“It will do for the duration of my stay,” said Lizzie, looking over her shoulder at her reflection in the looking glass. She’d need a tailor to fix the problem. Beth might be a talented needlewoman, but tailoring was a specialized skill.

“Yes, miss,” said Beth. “I’ve made those other alterations you wanted.”

“What, already?” Lizzie was startled. “You must have been up all night.”

“Happy to do it, miss. If you don’t mind my saying, it does me credit to have you looking just the thing.”

“That’s all very well, but you must not work yourself to the bone on that account,” said Lizzie. Rather touched and admiring of the girl’s dedication, she silently resolved to dismiss her early that evening.

Beth frowned again at the set of the habit across Lizzie’s shoulders. Truly, only the keenest eye would detect the problem. And she would be riding, would she not? It wasn’t as if she’d wear the costume to a ball.

As Lizzie escaped her maid’s scrutiny, she wondered with a grin if Beth wouldn’t turn out to be something of a martinet, after all.

Since their arrival at Harcourt, Lizzie had largely managed to avoid Mr. Huntley, but she found him in the breakfast parlor holding forth on the duke’s collections to a very bored-looking Georgie.

Feeling in some sort responsible for inflicting her suitor upon the company, Lizzie drew his fire by sitting down beside him and asking after his mama.

“I was so glad to see Mrs. Huntley at dinner last night,” she said. “The journey did not wholly overset her, then?”

“No, indeed,” said Mr. Huntley. “I took every precaution, you know. I do not mind saying this to you, Miss Allbright, for you know it is not generally my habit to boast. But had I not been fortunate enough to be born into a comfortable existence, I think I should have done exceedingly well as a physician. Indeed, I understand my dear mama’s constitution better than any member of that profession she has employed.”

“Mrs. Huntley is very fortunate to have you,” said Lizzie warmly.

She sent a quick glance around the table. Seeing everyone occupied, she murmured, “Mr. Huntley, I fear there has been a dreadful misunderstanding between us, which I would like to rectify as soon as may be.”

“Oh?” Mr. Huntley vigorously buttered some toast with short stabbing motions. “A misunderstanding, you say? I should not like to think it.”

“Yes,” said Lizzie. “If you will but give me a private audience, I think I can make you understand.”
At least I pray you will understand,
she thought. Knowing Huntley’s thick skin, she wasn’t as confident as she might be on that point.

She licked her lips. “I am going riding with Miss Beauchamp shortly. Will you join us?”

“I am not fond of equestrianism,” said Huntley. “But might I beg that you spend time with my mama today, Miss Allbright? She is quite knocked up from the journey and the dinner last night, but I daresay she would be glad of your company this afternoon.”

“Of course,” said Lizzie at once, even though her heart sank. How could Huntley not see that his mama hated her? If only he would knuckle under about the betrothal the way he obeyed her on every other score.…

No, Lizzie must find a way to make it utterly plain to Mr. Huntley that she would never marry him. She needed to do this before Xavier went ahead and announced their false betrothal.

Lizzie sighed. In the meantime, she would have to endure some distinctly uncomfortable visits with Mrs. Huntley.

*   *   *

“What a glorious day,” said Clare, linking her arm with Lizzie’s and swishing her riding crop to and fro as she walked. She looked fetching as ever in a navy blue habit with brown velvet lapels and a mannish brown beaver hat.

“Isn’t it?” said Lizzie. “I’d be prepared to wager the sun always smiles on Harcourt house parties.”

Clare rolled her eyes. “Oh, not you as well. Everyone around here seems to believe the Duke of Montford is a cross between a wizard and the Lord Almighty. I doubt even His Grace can control the weather.”

Lizzie said, “Of course not. But don’t you think that’s the way it happens in life? That there are some people the sun always shines upon?”

While for others, life was nothing but a grim struggle. She thought of the more indigent of Mr. Allbright’s parishioners and resolved that when she stepped into the role of marchioness, she would dedicate time and money to helping people, just as Xavier had suggested.

“It might seem that way,” said Clare. “But underneath all the trappings, even the duke is but a man. He must have his travails and sorrows like everyone else.”

“Just none that involve struggling to put food on the table,” murmured Lizzie.

She shook herself. “But yes, you are right. Wealth and position do not guarantee happiness.” And certainly not salvation.

They continued to chatter about lighter subjects, but all the while, Lizzie thought of Xavier. No, she would not describe him as happy, and certainly not content. There was a darkness in him, an old, deep pain that she couldn’t even begin to guess at.

A sudden, fierce need to know, to soothe and heal that wound struck her with the force of a blow.

She wanted to make Xavier Westruther, Marquis of Steyne, happy.

The realization seemed to knock the breath out of her. She halted, staring blindly at the vista of woodland and fields before her.

“Lizzie?” At the same moment, Clare turned and said her name, a masculine voice called from behind them. Clare shaded her eyes to look beyond Lizzie and waved. Lizzie followed suit more slowly.

Tom strolled down the hill toward them, calling something to Clare with his customary grin. Clare said something back to him, but their exchange was muted by the rushing in Lizzie’s ears. As she and Clare waited for Tom to join them, she struggled to reason with her stupid heart.

It was no use. She was hopelessly in love with the Marquis of Steyne.

“Lizzie,” said Tom, tipping his hat to her. “Going for a ride? Mind if I join you?”

“If you must,” said Clare, tucking her hand in his crooked arm.

He offered his other arm to Lizzie. She took it, wishing for somewhere to hide away where she might have leisure to examine and test this new and astonishing revelation. Somewhere to plan.

However, her two companions were not in a bickering mood today, it seemed, and therefore did not mean to let her off the conversational hook.

When they entered the handsome stable block—which itself was like a small palace—Lizzie found that Steyne had already chosen for her a pretty chestnut mare with a white blaze on her forehead. The mare’s coat gleamed with health and vitality, and her brown eyes regarded Lizzie softly.

“You beauty,” Lizzie murmured into the horse’s twitching ear as she fumbled in her pocket for the lump of sugar she’d brought. She could not be angry at Steyne’s high-handedness. She rather wished Xavier were here with her so she could thank him, and …

And what? Perhaps just talk to him. Real conversation, not that verbal jousting they so often engaged in.

The ride was a pretty one, and after a night’s uneasy rest, it was refreshing to be outdoors on such a glorious day. Lizzie was also mightily pleased that Xavier had not chosen a plodding hack for her but a spirited aristocrat of a steed, easily worthy of Lord Bute’s elite stables. Perhaps Xavier had made specific inquiries as to her horsemanship along with her measurements.

Even her joy in riding such a perfect horse didn’t distract Lizzie for long, however. Pondering the problem of Lord Steyne’s impatience to bed her, she scarcely took in the magnificence of the Harcourt estate. Her replies to Tom and Clare’s sallies were perfunctory at best.

When they returned to the stables, Tom took Lizzie aside while Clare consulted with her groom over a stone in her mount’s shoe. “Is there something amiss, Lizzie? You have not been yourself since we came here.”

She lifted her shoulders as if shrugging off his concern. “Amiss? No, nothing of the kind. I—I suppose I am not accustomed to such grandeur.”

Even as she said it, she winced at the lie. What on earth would Tom say when he discovered the truth? But he would never discover the truth about her and Xavier. Not if she could help it. Thank Heaven he hadn’t noticed her new wardrobe.

He was frowning still, as if far from reassured by her flimsy explanation. “It’s Steyne, isn’t it?”

She gave a start, nearly dropping her riding crop. “I—no, indeed. Why should you think he has anything to do with it?”

Tom took off his hat and bunched a hand in his dark curls. “Lizzie, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. The way he made you blush at dinner last night. What was he saying to you? Why did you look so—?” He reddened and his mouth twisted. “You will tell me it’s none of my concern, but I cannot believe he means anything good by these attentions, Lizzie.”

She regarded Tom’s handsome, earnest face and hated herself. She made a move to deny Steyne had paid her any attentions at all, but stopped herself in time. She was supposed to be encouraging people to believe Xavier and she were courting.

She licked her lips. “Lord Steyne is, er … that is, I mean he and I…” She trailed off as Tom frowned.

“I thought you were promised to Huntley,” he said.

Lizzie shook her head. “I refused him, but he won’t listen.” She fluttered her hands in a placating gesture. “Lord Steyne has, er, fixed his interest upon me.”

Tom’s face darkened further. “The scurvy blackguard! Lizzie, you may not know it, but Steyne’s reputation doesn’t bear speaking of. If he weds, it will be some girl with bloodlines back to the Conqueror and eighty thousand pounds into the bargain, not a girl like…”

He reddened, clearly realizing the insult his words implied.

Tightly, Lizzie said, “Tom, you don’t understand, and I’m afraid I can’t explain it to you. Please believe the marquis has honorable intentions toward me. He is
not
the monster you believe him to be.” She squared her shoulders. “If Mr. Allbright has no objection, I am sure you need not.”

“Mr. Allbright is an estimable gentleman, but he is a little naïve in the ways of the world.” Tom took her hands in a strong grip. “I have always been a brother to you, Lizzie. Please listen to my advice now. Anyone would be better than Steyne.”

The click of a booted step was heard behind Tom.

“My lord!” said Lizzie. He had to have heard the last, disastrous part of their conversation.

His face set, fists bunched, Tom slowly turned around.

“Tom?” said Clare, coming out of the stall a little farther down the row.

“Ah,” said Lizzie weakly, never more relieved to see anyone in her life. “There you are, Clare.”

Fortunately, Clare took in the situation at once. “Come, Tom. You must work the pump for me. I am dying of thirst and shan’t last until we reach the house.”

She gripped her brother’s arm and hustled him away. He cast Lizzie a meaningful look as he went, and she knew the subject was far from closed between them.