A Compromised Innocent (4 page)

Lizzie never made it to the Clarington ball.

A week later found Lizzie frustrated from confinement. Her aunt had not taken it well that Lizzie had been seen with Oliver, and she had waylaid her niece in the sitting room later that same day.

“You little slut!”

Lizzie's cheek burned with the imprint of her aunt's hand, and she stared at the older woman in disbelief. Perhaps it shouldn't have surprised her that Roberta would lash out, but it did; no one had ever slapped her before.

“Not only have you been seen in Hyde Park with Wainsborough, you arrive at my doorstep fresh from his carriage!” Roberta's scarlet gown cut a vivid slash across the ivory silk sofa she sat down upon. “I thought you were bright enough to heed my words, but I can see that you're just as headstrong as your mother ever was.”

Lizzie hung her head but would not feel remorse for having spent time with Oliver. How could she when her body still throbbed from the remnants of their interlude?

She certainly wasn't going to avoid him as her aunt would have her do. Lizzie didn't delude herself; she didn't expect more than a brief dalliance. How could it be more? The man was a duke, destined for a match of importance and great wealth, neither of which she could offer.

“I told him to stay away from you. I won't have this, do you hear?”

“What do you have against the duke, Aunt Roberta? Most families would be pleased to have an acquaintance of such consequence, no matter how casual.” Of course, she'd had the basics from Oliver during their walk, but Lizzie feared there might be more to it from Roberta's side, something she needed but dreaded to know.

Roberta's eyes glittered like jet beads. “Wainsborough is an unreliable knave. We have no need for such connections.”

Knave
was the most improbable descriptor Lizzie could ever imagine of Oliver. For a powerful man, he was widely regarded as kind, an unusual attribute in the ton where the higher the title, the more it was used to batter people.

And the venom behind her aunt's words belied her disregard for Wainsborough. She behaved with the peevishness of a slighted woman. Had she once held a tendresse for him?

Did she still? Roberta was an attractive woman, and not so very much older than Lizzie. Lizzie's stomach hollowed out with jealousy at the thought of the two of them together.

“He won't marry you,” Roberta said.

Lizzie nodded, the words bruising a tiny part of her soul despite the truth she knew them to be. “I know.”

“Do you? Are you certain you don't harbor a hope that he might offer for you?”

“No, Aunt Roberta. I don't.” Had her heart just shattered, to admit such a thing?

“Splendid.” Her aunt rose, watching her closely. “Then you'll be delighted to know that Mr. Layton has approached your uncle and offered for you. You won't interest anyone higher than a viscount, and only that because your grandfather was a duke. I think you should accept.”

Horror swamped her, as sudden as a storm surge. Coming from Oliver's arms, she couldn't imagine sharing such with another man, agreeing to marry someone else. Her core still throbbed with the sensation of him between her legs and her lips still felt the warm press of his.

It was an inconceivable consideration. Lizzie shook her head, unable to speak.

“Now, now. Don't be hasty, dear,” Roberta said and turned away with a dismissive gesture. “Take some time to think about it. I'll send our regrets to the Claringtons about missing their gathering.”

As it turned out, Roberta had declined all other social events for the week, so as to give Lizzie sufficient time to reflect upon the proposal. Her aunt had only yielded when Lizzie appealed to her uncle and explained that she would not accept Mr. Layton's proposal under any circumstances.

The thought of another man's touch gave her the shudders. She couldn't forget the memory of Oliver's touch, had dreamed about their time together every night since.

Now, finally, Lizzie was able to leave the house and, oddly, without a flicker of malcontent from her aunt. If she hadn't been the recipient of Roberta's earlier spleen, Lizzie might have felt the entire situation had been put behind them.

During the coach ride that evening, Roberta's enthusiasm had seemed affected. In the crush of the reception line, her demeanor had been watchful. But, once announced, Lizzie felt happier and more free than she had all week.

She danced with abandon and chatted with enthusiasm. And, for the first time in her life, she felt almost graceful. Not clumsy.

Not a single thing had turned amiss, a monumental evening. Not even when Mr. Layton claimed a dance. He was a handsome enough man and, in some ways, Lizzie almost wished that she hadn't met Oliver or she might have been pleased to accept his offer. Now she felt ruined for another man, as if Oliver had impressed himself on her very essence.

“Lord Alderfield tells me that you've declined my proposal, Miss Talbot.”

So, this was the purpose of asking her to dance. “Yes, my lord, though I'm most flattered by the honor you bestow upon me.” Lizzie wanted to look away but she owed him the courtesy of answering his question directly.

He looked only slightly mollified by her response. “You're certain?”

“Indeed, I am.”

“Very well, then.”

His face was somber so she wasn't able to gauge his reaction, but it felt good to resolve this between them.

The only thing the day lacked was Oliver.

Oh, but she was falling hard.

It should frighten her, the swiftness of her attachment to him, but it didn't. She felt energized. Attractive and accepted for who she was, rather than the center of attention because she was strange. It was liberating and she didn't want to set it aside too easily.

Then, the arrival of the Duke of Wainsborough and his brother were announced and Lizzie couldn't think straight. Excitement thrummed in her.

He's here. He's here. He's here. He's here.

The pair cut a fine figure of manhood in their evening attire. Oliver looked immaculate and subdued in the dark blue superfine he preferred, and light blue waistcoat.

As could be expected, Oliver was swarmed with acquaintances. A rare guest at these events, he'd drawn unparalleled attention.

Lizzie watched from the opposite side of the room, knowing she'd have to be content with the distance. Her aunt might have relented enough to allow Lizzie to reenter the social circuit, but it wasn't possible that Roberta would have changed her mind about Oliver.

At one point, when a particularly vigorous mother trotted her bevy of daughters past the duke in the obvious hope that one would appeal, Oliver looked up and caught Lizzie's eye, as if he'd known precisely where she stood all along. The expression on his face conveyed an apology, and her heart flipped.

Heavens, it hurt to watch other women standing where she longed to, so close as to reach out and touch his sleeve. To feel the vibration of his deep voice and to catch the faint scent of bergamot.

Lizzie glanced toward her aunt, but found she was no longer there. She breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to dispense with Roberta's scrutiny for the moment.

When another gentleman approached to claim a dance, it might have been her imagination that Oliver looked displeased. Just the thought satisfied a small bit of her that railed because she couldn't claim Oliver for her own.

Before she could accept the escort to the dance floor, a liveried footman approached. “Your pardon, Miss Talbot. Lady Alderfield has asked for you to attend her. If you'll follow me?”

Uttering an apology, Lizzie left the room and followed the servant down the corridor till they reached a small drawing room set away from the main rooms of the household. It seemed an odd request, but as the timing coincided suspiciously with Oliver's arrival, it was possible that Roberta wanted to separate them.

The room was empty and only moderately lit, the shadows as dark as India ink. “Where's my aunt?”

“She asked for you to await her within.”

It was quiet when he closed the doors behind him. Lizzie sat on one of the tufted armchairs to wait.

Would it always be like this, her heart leaping at the sight of Oliver? The despair knowing he could never be hers?

God, what she'd give to be able to marry him, bear his children. As an only child, Lizzie had always wanted a large family, and she'd like nothing more than to raise a keen dozen with Oliver.

But that was the path of a fairy tale.

Perhaps it might help to have another man to set her affections to. Lizzie knew she'd have to let Oliver go one day—not to do so was to resign herself to spinsterhood, which, in principal she was loath to do—but not now. Not yet. She would when the thought and memories of Oliver weren't so very sensitive and raw.

“There you are.”

Deep in thought, she didn't hear the door open. Her heart leaped at the sound of the deep, masculine voice and she surged to her feet in surprise.

Only it wasn't the one her heart clamored for.

Damnit, where was she?

Oliver scanned the ballroom again, but still no Lizzie.

His gut twisted. After a week of trawling fetes and dances for her, he'd lost her just as quickly as he'd found her. He hadn't even made it across the crowded ballroom for a polite exchange, an excuse to hear her lilting voice.

He'd been able to think of little else since he'd seen her safely home after their sweet interlude in his rain-shrouded carriage, the scent of her climax lingering to taunt him in the small space after she was gone. And in his memory ever since.

Earlier, he'd seen her in her pale sprigged maiden's gown, the memory of her anything but maidenly with the flush of passion in her cheeks and the sparkle of her eyes. Did she wear the yellow hair ribbons for him?

Circling the ballroom once more, Oliver bit back a growl of frustration. If he hadn't seen Roberta beside a potted palm, chatting gaily within a circle of friends, he'd have guessed she had spirited his Lizzie away. Surely she wouldn't have sent her home alone?

“I'm so pleased you're taking your duty seriously, Wainsborough.”

He turned with a frown. “What is that, Mother?”

“To settle upon your duchess.”

God, did she think of nothing else?

“Not now, please, Mother.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Roberta separate from the group, her arm linked with one of the biggest gossipmongers in town. They crossed the room with a purposeful stride.

Where was Lizzie?

“I'd like you to consider Lady Cecilia. Her family is one of the finest—”

“Excuse me, Mother. We'll discuss this another time.”

“But—”

Oliver didn't wait for her to respond. He set off after the pair, keeping them in sight. They headed past the series of public rooms that had been opened for guests then turned left down another hallway. Oliver slowed his step and paused. If they weren't stopping there, they were likely headed to the retiring rooms, and it didn't make sense to follow them farther. Even if Lizzie were there, he couldn't burst in without causing the scene of all scenes.

Should he loiter like a lovesick fool? Hunt down a drink to take the edge off this anxiousness?

A sudden commotion down that left hallway drew his attention; a door slammed and a mutter of angry voices drifted toward him, low enough to be drowned out in the ballroom by the musicians' efforts, but loud enough to be heard in the hallway by a lingering gentleman like himself.

Worry knotted his stomach. That was the direction that Roberta had gone in. Was it something to do with Lizzie? He set off to investigate before he'd even thought to do so.

The sitting room at the end of the hallway was unremarkable, but dread filled him as he stopped in the doorway. Inside was Lizzie, and his heart gave a little jump before he realized that something was off about the tableau. Mr. Layton was present, and he watched Lizzie with alarming interest. Roberta looked smug and Lady Stinton appeared scandalized, though she watched closely for details to no doubt recount later. But it was Lizzie who worried him, her pretty face contorted and her hand clutching her shoulder.

Was her gown torn? Had that beggar turned molester?

Fury flared and he clenched his fists, his vision centering on Mr. Layton. That he
dared
to touch Lizzie… Oliver took one step forward. “Are you all right?”

“Hullo, Wainsborough. Be the first to congratulate my niece on her upcoming nuptials.”

That froze him as nothing else could, and he stared at Roberta in confusion. The smug look on her face boded ill and the first frisson of fear sizzled down his spine.

“Oh, Oliver,” said Lizzie, her blue eyes wide and filled with pain.

Lizzie was to marry Layton? Every nerve in his body screamed at the thought of her with anyone but him.

“Oliver, is it?” Roberta's face began to glow as if she'd just received the keys to the pearly gates. Or the fiery ones. “Well, you haven't been very constant, have you, Elspeth? I can see that it was inevitable to discover you in such a scandalous assignation. I trust you'll keep her in line in the future, Mr. Layton?”

Lizzie shook her head in silent denial and eased away, closer to Oliver. It was all he needed to reassure his raging soul that what was amiss had more to do with Roberta's spitefulness than anything Lizzie had done. He wanted to gather her in his arms and protect her from whatever foolishness was going on. But he didn't have the right.

And that's when he realized he wanted it, wanted Lizzie enough to
take
the right. To use all of the power behind his accursed title to make it happen. Hell, he'd go to Prinny himself if he needed to in order to accomplish his goal.

For the first time in his life, he was willing—nay, eager—to use the power of the dukedom he'd inherited from his despotic father. He'd never felt so glad to have this burden at his disposal, and it just felt right to spoil Roberta's plans and satisfy his own selfish needs.

“What's going on here?”

At the sound of his mother's voice, Oliver closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer heavenward.

“Not now, Mother. Please close the doors so we can keep this little chitchat to ourselves.”