That Scandalous Summer (37 page)

Looking into his calm, handsome face, she felt, all of a sudden, very
annoyed
. To propose marriage after such a short acquaintance seemed insulting. Could he not at least
pretend
to care about what she was like as a person? Or, at the least, to seem a small bit nervous around her! Clearly he assumed that with his money, his looks, and his new title, she was his for the taking.

She turned down his invitation by pleading a hostess’s obligations, and then did her best to avoid him by making sure that she was constantly in conversation with someone else. Anyone else, save Michael. Michael, she avoided.

And in this effort, he seemed determined to aid her.
As they drifted into the drawing room at half past seven, she mistakenly approached a group before spotting him in it—realizing her mistake only when he turned away and moved onward to join Jane and the Forbeses. And illogically, his tacit cooperation wounded her. Like an arrow through her heart, the sight of his retreating back left her crushed and breathless.

This had to stop. It
must
.

Through an interminable dinner, she mustered quips to trade with the Hawthornes and Tilney, managed persuasive laughter at the guests’ recounting of the clairvoyant’s predictions, and issued mysterious demurrals when pressed for details of the night’s particular entertainment. She did not intend to drink so very much, for there was no point to it; she felt light-headed already, her wits benumbed. But keeping up with the toasts was only polite, and the food on her plate could not interest her. When she rose from the table, the ground seemed to tilt beneath her. She had to catch the edge of the table to steady herself.

“Goodness!” She managed a laugh, high and bright, and said something about the carpet—tripping on the carpet; how ridiculous! But it was no good. She saw that in Lydia’s quickly averted gaze. Lydia had a gift for looking away in the most
judgmental
manner possible.

The next second, Hollister was at her elbow, solicitously offering his arm. Had she not dispensed with the formalities the very first night, he would not have had the chance to escort her; the women would have retreated into the drawing room while the men enjoyed their cigars. But as soon as she’d risen, everyone had come to their feet as well, and now they were filing out of the room, chattering excitedly about the next spiritual
demonstration. And her head was spinning and she could not pull away from Hollister’s grip without risking her balance again. Not yet. Her heart felt as though it were trying to knock straight out of her chest. Too little food; too much wine.

“Perhaps a brief rest before you join the guests,” Hollister was saying, and now he was urging her away from the direction of the others, and when she tried to tug free, the dizziness assaulted her again, freezing her in place. For the first time in her life, she felt truly panicked. For the first time, she truly wished she had not drunk at all. Her body was not responding properly to her commands. A wave of panic, irrational and overstated, swept through her. She was in her own home. She was perfectly safe.

“I’m fine,” she said, but the room spun again, and Hollister laughed and said, “Before the fifth glass, you were.”

The laughter in his voice held no unkindness, but her panic seemed to swell larger yet, for what woman would welcome the news that a man had been tracking her liquor consumption with an eye to privacy? She planted her feet. “I don’t—”

“I only mean to see you to your rooms,” he said. “I shan’t take advantage.”

“No, you won’t.” This level statement came from Michael, his voice washing over her like a cooling relief. He stepped up and slid his arm around her waist, in the process knocking away Hollister’s grip.

He turned her a little, and blurrily she grew aware that the Hawthornes had paused in the doorway to watch—James now stepping up to urge them onward.

My God
. She wanted the earth to open. She wanted
to sink into the ground. It was one thing to drink to excess deliberately, and quite another to discover oneself overset by accident. She had a sudden, vivid memory of the Stromonds’ ball last year—her most vicious fight with Nello; far too much champagne, like oil on the flames of her rage—and James rescuing her from the water closet, where she’d woken sometime later, flat on the floor.

How had that not frightened her? How had she laughed about it the next day? Now, suddenly, she wanted to weep over the memory. What had happened to her this year?

Who have you become?
Mama whispered.
You never dreamed of this for yourself.

She made herself straighten. “I’m fine,” she said. She would not collapse
tonight
. “Lord Michael will escort me.”

Hollister looked between them. “Are you certain?” At her nod, he retreated a pace. “Very well. Until later, Mrs. Chudderley.”

When he walked away, she would have followed, but Michael held her in place. “In a minute,” he said.

He stood beside and slightly behind her. She did not want to look at him. This was not who she was when she was with him. When she was with him, she did not enjoy this spinning feeling; she did not need it. “I’m fine,” she said. And truly, the dizziness was passing.

“Good. But take a few deep breaths. And some water. Here—” His arm still around her, he leaned over to snag a half-drunk glass from the table. “Mine,” he said as he handed it to her, as though she would not have known that; he was the oddity at the table, the guest who asked for water along with his wine. His hand closed over hers
to keep her grip steady as he directed the glass to her lips.

Like a father with his child. It should have mortified her. But the tears that pricked her eyes felt born of a different emotion.
Will you—would you always look out for me so?

Would you never lose your patience?

She sipped hesitantly, fearing for a second that her stomach would reject the libation. But as soon as she’d swallowed, she realized it was exactly what she’d needed. Only then a drop went down wrong, causing her to cough.

His arms closed fully around her, pulling her back into his chest, crushing her bustle between them. “Finish it,” he said into her ear. “Lean on me.”

For a moment, though, she could not bring herself to obey. The feeling of his arms around her was more than a revelation. It was relief in its purest, physical form.
Lean on me
.

This,
her mother whispered.
This, here.

Her throat was so tight that she was not sure she could swallow. Had the Hawthornes popped back in to see this damning tableau, she would not have cared.

“
Finish
it,” he said, his curt voice jolting her back to the moment.

She did, quickly. And then twisted in his embrace to return the glass to the table—becoming aware as she did of the footmen clustered in the doorway, obviously uncertain of whether this scene would bear their intrusion.

She nodded to signal her permission, then used her study of the table to compose herself. Dessert plates and crumbs. Ivy twined cunningly around the silver candelabra.

She could not bear to look into his face and see contempt.

“Better?” he asked.

Reluctantly, she stepped free of his embrace. His face was grave in the candlelight. She could not tell what emotion might underlie his sobriety.

She did not apologize for herself to anybody. Did she?

Perhaps you should apologize to yourself
.

“At least I didn’t end up in the water closet,” she said. “Ask Lord Sanburne about that, if you like.”

His expression did not change. “Do you think it would make a difference, Elizabeth?”

She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. Or perhaps she
thought
she knew, and was afraid to discover that she was wrong.

Or that she was right. He was not for her.

“I wonder if you should go,” she said. Her voice was not steady. “If it would be . . . easier. For both of us.”

“If I’m the cause of your drinking,” he said quietly, “then I’ll leave tonight.”

She sucked in a breath. “No.” It felt terribly urgent to make this clear to him. “That started long before you. And it . . .” It was not always so bad. “I never drink when I’m alone. I would not . . .”
Drink with you.

“Then perhaps you should rethink the company you keep,” he said.

Now came the gentle clink and rattle of china being collected. She found herself afraid of what she might say if they continued to stand here. His blue eyes were so steady on hers. So pale, ringed with gold around the irises. The most beautiful eyes in the world. “We should join the other guests,” she said.
We cannot be alone. Not
any longer.
“Tonight is . . . the medium. Table rapping.” Her laugh was weak. “An old favorite.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You look steadier,” he said. “But perhaps you should bid us an early good night.”

She brushed her hand across her mouth—and then froze as she realized what she’d done, the girlish rudeness of it.

He gave her a slight smile. “I think you missed a spot.” He leaned forward and very gently ran his thumb along her chin, flicking away the last drop of water.

A sound escaped her, more formless than an
Oh.
His smile faded. She stepped backward, breathless. The way he was gazing at her! “I really didn’t drink so much,” she said quickly. “Only I hadn’t eaten anything until dinner.”

“And you barely touched your plate,” he murmured.

He’d been watching. She’d felt his eyes on her. She had to leave. Now. “I’ll be fine. I only—”

The door flew open. Mather burst into the dining room, breathless and harried in one of her new gowns. “Madam,” she said. “A coach just arrived from the station, and it seems—Mr. Nelson is here!”

“Who?” she asked stupidly. And then:
“What?”

“I’ll handle this,” said Michael, scowling—and
that,
at least, she had the wits to reply to immediately.

“No, you won’t.” The look on his face left no doubt that his treatment would
not
be diplomatic.

“You’re in no condition to deal with uninvited guests,” he said coolly, and then strode out of the dining room—leaving her no choice but to race after him, Mather at her heels. She never, ever wished him to meet Nello. The very thought drove her mad with panic.
Nello was not . . . not a man she ever wished to have to explain. Or to have Michael associate with her.

She caught him by the arm just as he turned into the main corridor. “Stop!
Stop,
” she said. “This doesn’t concern you!” What Nello’s visit concerned, she could not begin to imagine—but he had no part to play in it.

He swung around with a curse. “Doesn’t it, then? Don’t I have the right—”

There was violence in his face. The sight shocked her. Pure instinct drove her to recoil from him, snatching back her hand—and her reaction, in turn, seemed to shock
him.

He blinked and then scrubbed a hand over his face. On a long breath, he let his hand fall.

“Of course, you’re right,” he said coolly. “It does not concern me in the least. Forgive my presumption, Mrs. Chudderley. I will join the other guests, then.”

The bow he gave her was painfully formal. She swallowed hard and waited until he was out of sight before turning to Mather.

“Nello?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am!”

“What does he want? Did he say?”

Mather shook her head. “Ronson did not know what to do. He let himself into the little drawing room. You’ll have him thrown out, of course. I’ll handle it myself—you needn’t even see him.”

“No. No, that would be unwise.” As their relationship had deteriorated, Liza had come to realize—too slowly, and very reluctantly—that Nello was cut from the same cloth as the Hawthornes. He made a game of other people’s miseries. To turn him away now, when he obviously had some reason for visiting, would be like
turning away from an oncoming vehicle whose horses were shying and bucking. Better to figure out his aim.

She squared her shoulders. “Do I look well?” Amazing how her dizziness evaporated at the hint of danger.

Mather frowned. “Very well,” she said solemnly. “But I don’t like—that is, shall I listen at the door, in case you . . . need assistance?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Liza said. She had already broken one vase in that room, but there remained several heavy objects that would make excellent weapons.

When she entered, Nello was standing at the mantel, examining some piece of bric-a-brac. He turned immediately, his lips crooked into a sideways smile—a favored weapon in his patented arsenal of charms. But that smile, which had once made her heart turn over, now gave her a strange, prickling sensation, akin to the icy breath down one’s spine that often followed a brush with mortal danger.

He looked far from menacing. With a startled sense of coming awake, she saw that she had misremembered him. He looked smaller, somehow diminished, and his blond hair, which had always been thin and fine, seemed to have receded an inch since they’d last spoken. His coat, cut in the latest style, seemed a poor choice, the broad lapels emphasizing the narrowness of his build.