The Wickedest Lord Alive (27 page)

Mr. Huntley’s voice came so sharply, Lizzie nearly upset the inkpot. “Oh! Mr. Huntley, you startled me.”

“It is past eleven o’clock,” said Mr. Huntley. “Did we not agree that you would wait upon my mother at this hour?”

Lizzie tilted her head. Mr. Huntley seemed rather agitated.

“I have no recollection of it,” she said. “But if Mrs. Huntley requests my company, of course I’ll go to her.”

She slid her pen into its stand and rose. “I’ll resume this later, Cyprian,” she said to him, but the poet, who was now gripping fistfuls of his own hair and muttering to himself, did not seem to hear.

Huntley took her arm, but instead of going upstairs to the parlor his mother had commandeered for her use, he steered Lizzie out to the terrace.

She had to skip a little to keep up with him. “I thought you wanted me to sit with your mama, sir?”

“That was just a ruse,” said Huntley, turning to face her. “You seem upon terms of great intimacy with that poet fellow.”

Lizzie blinked. Then she laughed. “I assure you, that is not the case. Why, we have been sitting together for two hours, and he has not spoken a word to me.”

“Two hours?” said Huntley. He shook his head. “I must tell you, it does not look well, Lizzie.”

“Why, what possible objection can you have to Cyprian?” said Lizzie. “He would not hurt a fly.”

“These romantical artist types are renowned for having an overabundance of
feelings,
” said Huntley with disapproval. “They do not exercise proper gentlemanly restraint upon their emotions.”

Lizzie, who had suffered more than she wished to of gentlemanly restraint, said, “Well, I think it would be better for all gentlemen if they did show their feelings more. At least then we would know they have some!”

Her voice had raised, and Mr. Huntley reared back as if she’d slapped him.

“And another thing, Mr. Huntley, since we are speaking of such matters, I would appreciate it if you would stop telling everyone we are betrothed when it is no such thing. I refused you on the night of the assembly, and I have not changed my mind.”

The flare of his eyes told her that her candor had wounded him. In a calmer tone, she said, “I am sorry, Mr. Huntley, but I could never be your wife. It would be cruel, and … and wrong, not to tell you this plainly.”

He was silent for a time. Then he bowed his head and regarded his hands. “I know that you do not love me, Lizzie,” he said in a subdued voice. “I know that.” His shoulders heaved in a sigh. “I had merely hoped that in time you would see the advantages of the match.”

“I am sure you would make the most excellent husband any lady could wish for,” said Lizzie. “But I cannot marry where I do not love, sir. And I am very sorry, but you are right. I do not love you.”

He pressed his lips together once, then again. Nodding, he pressed her hand. “I understand, my dear. But please believe me your servant to command.”

Lizzie gave Mr. Huntley’s hand a grateful squeeze in return. She was touched by his steadfastness. She had expected him to be affronted by her rejection of him. Perhaps he was somewhat relieved he would no longer have to listen to his mother’s harangues about Lizzie.

“Miss Allbright.” The words were sharp and cold, spearing the warmth between her and Mr. Huntley.

Lizzie saw Xavier striding toward them. Her hand naturally fell free of Mr. Huntley’s as she turned to answer him.

Xavier’s eyes were cold upon her. What, did he think she had been exchanging intimacies with Mr. Huntley? How absurd. She lifted her chin.

“Huntley, your mother is calling for you,” said Xavier without preamble.

Lizzie’s erstwhile suitor appeared perplexed. “Are you sure? Mrs. Huntley never rises before noon.”

Xavier shrugged. “Best go quickly, then. You wouldn’t want to keep her waiting. She might be ill.”

Not a complete fool, Huntley eyed Xavier suspiciously for a moment, and was met with such a bland look that Lizzie felt like treading on Xavier’s foot, if only to alter that maddening expression on his face.

“Very well, then. I’ll go. Forgive me, Lizzie,” said Huntley. “And you will remember what I’ve said.”

She nodded and he hurried off, leaving her alone on the terrace with her husband.

Lizzie, merely to be perverse, said, “If Mrs. Huntley is ill, I must go to her also.”

“No, you must not,” said Xavier. “Walk with me.”

She frowned at him.

“If you please, dear Lizzie,” he said, giving her a flourishing bow.

She rather thought she knew what was coming. If he meant to berate her about holding hands with Mr. Huntley, then she would enjoy giving him a few home truths, herself.

“Very well,” she said. “I wish to speak with you, in any event.”

They walked in silence until they were out of sight of the house. They passed the kitchen garden and some outbuildings. Hardly the kind of scenic walk she usually took around Harcourt.

The dairy, which was grander than most Englishmen’s houses, was quite beautiful, but it seemed Xavier did not mean to show her that, either, for he hurried her past it.

“Where are we going?” Lizzie asked him. “If anyone sees me sneaking off alone with you, my reputation will be in shreds.”

He shrugged. “If anyone sees us, we will simply announce our betrothal at once. I perceive no difficulty. Particularly as you do not scruple to go holding hands with Huntley whenever the mood takes you.”

“Surely you do not think you have a rival in Huntley,” she returned, her tone every bit as even as his.

The habitual sneer curled his lips. “I don’t.”

“Then I do not see why you mention the matter,” said Lizzie. “You know perfectly well there’s nothing between Mr. Huntley and me.”

His mouth tightened, ever so slightly. “I do not care to see my wife on terms of intimacy with other gentlemen.”

She stared at him. “You are not jealous, my lord?”

“No, I’m not jealous,” he said, calmly towing her toward what looked like a disused potting shed. He wrenched open the door, sending dust motes swirling. “But if I see his hands on you again, I shall shoot him through the heart.”

“Oh.” For some reason, the statement robbed her of her righteous anger.

He
was
jealous. And truly, she ought not to feel so smug about that. “Well, you need not concern yourself with Mr. Huntley, my lord. Now, was that all you wished to say to me?”

“Not at all,” he said, kicking the door shut.

A little less certainly, she said, “What, then?”

“Merely this.” He pushed her against the door and kissed her until she couldn’t breathe.

“No, we mustn’t!” she said, but he merely stopped her protest with his mouth, turning her, backing her farther into the room.

With his fingertips, he drew aside the muslin fichu she wore and brushed his lips over her clavicle until he found the precise spot at the base of her throat that he knew drove her wild.

Oh, Heavens! If this was how he responded to another man holding her hands, it wasn’t much of a disincentive to repeat the offense.

“There is a mark here.” His breath flowed over the tender flesh where he’d bitten down on her the night before. “I
am
a brute,” he murmured, but the wicked amusement in his tone did not make him sound very contrite.

His tongue gently traced the faint bruise she’d made sure to cover this morning with the fichu. She shuddered and closed her eyes at the exquisite sensation.

“We shouldn’t do this. Not here,” gasped Lizzie. She gripped his upper arms, felt the muscular shape of them encased tightly in blue superfine, and lost the will to push him away.

For an answer, he slowly drew her fichu out of her bodice and tossed it on to the bench behind her. “I know,” he said, his gaze on her mouth.

His attention lowered to her breasts, and she had the stupidest urge to cover herself. “Xavier. Please, we must talk.”

“Talk away,” he murmured, dipping to trace the mound of her breast with his tongue.

Her hands reached for his head, but instead of thrusting him off, her fingers plunged through his thick, black hair.

She might as well accept that she was powerless to resist him. She’d tried, hadn’t she? But now, with her blood racing through her veins, she could not seem to utter more than a token objection.

Lifting his head from her breasts, Xavier kissed her lips, plunging his tongue inside her mouth with a groan of hunger. She kissed him back, twining her arms around his neck as he lifted her to sit on the bench.

His hand bunched up her skirts, sliding them to her thighs while he kissed her, and she didn’t even think to protest when he touched her between her legs.

“Open your eyes, Lizzie,” he said.

She licked her lips. She was supporting herself with her hands, felt the grit of the wooden bench beneath her palms. The heat of her arousal seemed to flood her body.

His voice was commanding. “Lizzie, open your eyes. I want you to look at me when you come.”

She shivered, but obeyed him, staring boldly into fathomless blue as he explored her in a gentle, relentless rhythm that made her arch and shiver. The intimacy of his regard only heightened the power of his touch. One finger slid into her, then two. He stroked inside her until her breaths were shredded and her world contracted to his eyes, those black-fringed eyes, and the blood heating, expanding, boiling through her veins.

She was so lost to shame that she sighed, “Oh, yes,” when finally, he freed his member and thrust inside her.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” His voice sounded rough, husky, and she gave a ragged laugh and rocked to take him deeper inside.

Suddenly, Xavier stopped. “Someone’s coming,” he breathed in her ear.

“What?” Her eyes popped open. She heard footsteps, heavy ones, outside. A shadow rippled over the grimy window, but the panes of glass were too dirty to see who it might be.

“Did you lock the door?” she whispered.

“I can’t remember.”

She wriggled, trying to free herself, but Xavier held her fast. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear.

Her ears were exquisitely sensitive. A thrill went down her spine and she clenched around him involuntarily. He stifled a groan. Then slowly, he moved inside her, the tiniest bit. Then again, and again in slow, quiet pulses that sent ripples of bliss through her body.

What if that someone came inside? What if they saw her and Xavier here like this? She’d die of humiliation.

Panic seemed to heighten the sensations that intensified inside her. Little cries built in her throat as the pleasure climbed to a new pitch. Footsteps grew closer, moving to the door. She whimpered as a spring coiled within, wound tight.

The door handle rattled, making Lizzie squeak with alarm. Xavier put his hand over her mouth, wrapped his other arm around her waist and buried his head in her neck. With one hard thrust, they both shattered, muffling their cries in each other’s flesh.

The door handle rattled again, yanking Lizzie out of a sated daze. But the door held fast, and whoever was at the door gave up trying to enter and stomped away.

“You did lock it,” said Lizzie in an accusatory tone.

Coolly, Xavier adjusted his trousers. “Indeed.” From his waistcoat pocket, he produced a large, rusty key.

After that extraordinary bout of lovemaking, she could not seem to dredge up any real ire at his deception. Lamely, she said, “You might have told me.”

That wicked glint was in his eye. “But where would be the fun in that?”

“Fun? That was not fun,” she spluttered. “That was courting disaster!”

He gripped her chin between thumb and forefinger and looked into her eyes. “Ah, but the danger is what lends it spice,” he murmured, and kissed her ravenously.

And while she would never admit it to a living soul, Lizzie was forced, privately, to agree.

*   *   *

Lydgate strode into Xavier’s bedchamber while he was finishing dressing for dinner. “Nerissa’s here. And so’s Bernard, the scaly villain.”

“I know.” Xavier finished tying his cravat and allowed his valet to help him on with his tightly fitting black swallow-tailed coat.

With a nod of dismissal, he turned to face his cousin. “Sit down. Tell me what you’ve discovered.” He indicated the small collection of decanters on the sideboard. “Sherry?”

Lydgate shuddered with unnecessary drama. “Thank you, no. With that woman in the house, we all should employ tasters for our wine.”

A quick pulse of rejection passed through Xavier, but he quelled the urge to put Lydgate in his place. The boy never spoke of it, but Xavier suspected there was history between Nerissa and Lydgate of which the rest of the family knew nothing. For some reason, that gave Lydgate the right to criticize, where others had it not.

His thoughts ran on parallel lines as he listened to Lydgate’s account of Nerissa’s progress from Dover. He couldn’t get Lizzie out of his head long enough to fully deal with the problem of Nerissa.

Satisfying as it might have been, the encounter with Lizzie in the potting shed had not resolved anything between them.

However, his future with Lizzie would become moot if he allowed his mother and uncle to dig him an early grave.

The image of that large, flailing body would haunt his dreams for many years to come.

Like Lydgate, he’d wondered, with a sour smile at himself, whether his mother might seek to do away with him by poison. But if he ate from dishes from which other guests had partaken, he ought to be safe. He would not touch wine unless he had poured it himself.

Every precaution would be taken, but somehow he didn’t believe his mother would attempt anything here at Harcourt with so many of the Westruthers watching her.

“I wonder why she comes here so precipitately,” mused Lydgate.

“The only reason I can think of is one I don’t at all like,” said Xavier.

Lydgate sank back into his chair and steepled his fingers in a curiously accurate but unconscious imitation of the duke. “You mean she knows about Miss Allbright.”

“She has her spies,” said Xavier. “She must have heard of my growing interest in one of our fair guests.”