A Most Unconventional Match (25 page)

An enormous sense of disappointment filled her. She'd not see him again, perhaps for more than a week. 'Twas almost a lifetime!

At least, she thought with a secret smile, he'd expressed his desire to see her again as soon as possible. He was welcome to call as early as he desired. Or as late.

Oh, that it might be late. That she might anticipate evening's fall, draw Hal into her arms, undress him slowly garment by garment…

Catching the direction of her thoughts, she felt her cheeks heat again. Oh, this was terrible! She'd never felt like this before, excited and giddy one moment, cast nearly into despair the next.

She knew without doubt she had loved Everitt. But never had she pined for him, ached for him, giggled out loud at his memory. He'd been the dearest friend she'd ever had, an occasional lover whose caresses she'd greeted with tenderness. But she'd not been titillated, tempted, on fire with anticipation as she was at the thought of touching Hal. What she felt for Hal was a different sort of love altogether.

Her mind reeled in shock as the word entered her head. She…loved Hal? But how could that be? She was still in mourning! This was absolutely the worst time and place!

But perhaps…perhaps love had an agenda of its own. When she thought of what poets over the ages had written about romantic love, their passionate lines provided an exact description of the turbulent intensity of what she felt for Hal.

She had loved Everitt…but she was
in love
, for the first and only time in her life, with Hal Waterman. A sense of peace and joy settled over her as she recognised that fact. The time might not be right now to openly express that love. But it would be some day.

Until then, she would honour Everitt's memory—and wait. Treasure the friendship he offered her while trying to inspire Hal Waterman, who had successfully eluded love and matrimony for years, to cherish her in return.

By late afternoon of the next day, despite knowing there was nothing she could do to summon Hal sooner, Elizabeth's restless impatience had intensified. She'd worked feverishly in her studio, taken David to the park and trotted him around until they were both breathless. She'd come back to pour herself a glass of wine, but the sherry was no more successful in calming her distraction.

She had almost decided to go to Hatchard's and ask the clerk for books about canal building when James interrupted, bearing yet another note. Though logically she knew it could not have come from Hal, still a rush of disappointment stung her to discover it was another missive from Sir Gregory.

Only curiosity to discover what mendacious audacity he'd written this time prompted her to read it instead of throwing it directly into the fire.

She'd find the enclosed article from yesterday's newspaper interesting, Sir Gregory wrote, adding he hoped that a certain gentleman had finished settling the Lowery affairs before he'd gone off to pursue his own!

Puzzled, she unfolded an excerpt from the ‘Talk of the
Ton
' column. ‘How Lord K. must rejoice,' she read, ‘that after three Seasons on the Marriage Mart, Lady T. is to wed, however scandalously! Mrs W., too, must rejoice to finally see her son settled. Who guessed 'twould take a flight to Gretna to spur him to the deed? But having seen his carriage bearing Lady T. out of London last night on the Great North Road, 'tis certain he's taken that step at last.'

As the inferences in the column grew clear, she dropped the clipping with trembling fingers.

Her memory flashed to Hal's note. Called away immediately. Business in the north. Gone a fortnight.

Could he have rushed off to Gretna…to marry Lady Tryphena? But he didn't even like the girl!

Fury such as she'd never before experienced filled her. Ripping the article to shreds, she rushed over and threw it into the fire. That action insufficient to blunt her wrath, she seized the wineglass and threw that in too, exulting as the glass shattered and the alcohol blazed.

By the time the flames settled, her sudden burst of emotion was spent. She went back to pacing the room.

It didn't make sense. Hal would hardly write that he wished to call immediately upon his return…unless he wanted to present his new bride? But if Lady Tryphena were willing to wed and his mama was pressing him, why flee to the border? There was no reason the banns could not be called right in London, followed by a great society wedding the bride and his mother would probably adore. Or, if Hal wished to avoid such a spectacle, he could easily obtain a special licence to enable them to wed quietly elsewhere. No, it didn't make sense.

Whatever Hal was doing in the north, whatever the reason Lady Tryphena had been travelling out of London at great haste in Hal's carriage, he was not carrying her off to Scotland for a runaway marriage.

Elizabeth was sure of it. Almost.

Dismay at her uncertainty succeeded by fury at that dismay, she had to
do
something. A smile curved her lips as she strode back to the desk to seize paper and quill.

After thanking Sir Gregory for his information, she added how amazing it was that a blockish man of little address had won one of the most highly titled prizes on the Marriage Mart. But then, anything was possible for an honourable gentleman of pure intentions.

I
n the evening some ten days later, Hal sat at his desk in his rented rooms near Newcastle. The business of the elopement had delayed him less than he'd initially feared. Charles Hilliard, amazingly, had turned out to be a responsible young man of good sense who, though lacking experience, affirmed his willingness to learn about estate management. More important, to Hal's great relief, he seemed deeply grateful for Hal's assistance in getting him married to Lady Tryphena, whom he apparently did love as devotedly as she'd claimed.

Hal wished him joy of her. Too flighty and managing by far for his taste, but he had to admire her ruthless resourcefulness. She might mature into a worthy wife.

Now, after having settled the newlyweds on his property at Hempstead Hall, he had nearly finished dispatching his own business. After an absence of almost two weeks, he was frantic to finish the meetings with the engineers and investors and return to London.

Return to Elizabeth. Doubtless rumours had abounded after Lady Tryphena's late-evening flight. He'd insisted she send her parents a letter explaining the whole at their first stop. He hoped Elizabeth would now know the truth.

He'd debated writing to her as well. But though he could express himself much better on paper than in person, he wanted to be with her when he explained, able to see her face, read the language of her stance and gestures to ascertain whether she was angry and disapproving or understanding of his actions.

Would the scandal of it bother her? With her undeterred by the social risk inherent in becoming an acknowledged artist, he didn't think so. If she was angry, surely after he detailed what had happened, she would forgive him.

Still, worry over her reaction was a stubborn burr pricking at the back of his mind, a distraction that made it impossible for him to fully concentrate during his meetings with investors and consultations with the workmen.

Nights were more difficult still. Sometimes he'd wake with a start to the image of Sands slamming the town house door in his face after telling him Mrs Lowery no longer wished to see him. Other nights he'd awake bathed in sweat, tantalising images still behind his eyelids of Elizabeth naked, astride him, her blonde hair flowing over him, her slick skin sliding against his as she moved over him, the taste of her mouth, her nipples on his tongue.

He wasn't sure which dream was worse. After waking, he'd pace, too agitated to recapture sleep. Neither wine nor strong brandy helped relax him. Finally, in desperation, he'd taken up quill and paper and channelled his worry, devotion, desire and pain into sonnets. They now numbered more than a dozen, paeans to her beauty, her sweetness, her talent and his longing for her.

Already he ached for her again. 'Twas probably no use to attempt to go to bed. With a sigh, he drew more paper out of the desk and began to write.

As it turned out, nearly three weeks had elapsed by the time Hal finally sighted the church spires of London in the distance. Night was nearly falling; driven by the urgent need to see her, he'd pressed on well past dark on every night of the journey.

Only one good thing had come from his extended sojourn in the north. Several of the new investors he'd contacted, middle-class gentlemen who'd made their fortunes in the mills and factories, had expressed great interest after viewing Elizabeth's sketches in having their own offspring immortalised. If she were interested when these gentlemen brought their families to London, he could probably secure her several lucrative commissions.

Would she still wish to pursue an artist's career, or would she, as Sir Gregory had predicted, after considering the ramifications of such a choice by a lady of quality, have decided against a public use of her talents?

Would she even receive him to discuss the matter?

Then there was Sir Gregory. Though Elizabeth had seemed irate after Hal warned of his probable intentions, Sir Gregory was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. Could he have managed somehow to appease her and weasel his way back into his favoured position in the household? Might he even now be at Green Street wooing Elizabeth, escorting her to dinner or the theatre?

Hal wasn't sure he could tolerate it if Sir Gregory had recovered his stature with her. He might have to find some pretext to call the man out and pummel him senseless.

Entering the city, Hal pulled up his weary mount. He'd ride home, pen Elizabeth a quick note and have Jeffers deliver it immediately, asking for an appointment in the morning. Or perhaps he'd stop by Green Street tonight and leave his card, letting her know he'd returned.

The evening was probably too far advanced to call. And what if Sir Gregory were there?

That decided it, he thought, fury burning within him at the image of the baronet bending his sly lecherous grin upon Elizabeth. He'd go first to Green Street.

Besides, if he went directly to his rooms, he might find awaiting him a summons from his mother. By visiting the Lowerys first, it would be too late by the time he arrived home to wash, dress and go to attend his mother at whatever function to which she commanded him.

Joy and nervous excitement tightening his chest, he kicked his mount into motion.

On the other side of Mayfair, Elizabeth put up her brushes and stored her paint for the night. With the natural light almost gone from the studio, there was no reason to linger here any longer.

And with the coming of night, there was no possibility that finally, today, Hal might arrive back and come to see her. What could be taking him so long? she thought despairingly for the hundredth time.

Though news had trickled back that he had indeed left London with Lady Tryphena—in order to assist her in wedding some penniless younger son—sometimes Elizabeth wondered if the report was true. Yesterday afternoon, desperate for information, she'd even walked with Gibbons in the park while her knowledgeable maid identified the society personages passing in their carriages. She'd stared at Hal's mother, assessing the connection between them and finding one only in the hue of hair and eyes.

As she'd expected from Hal's descriptions of Mrs Waterman, her carriage frequently halted to allow her to exchange greetings with other society matrons or to permit some dandy to climb up and speak with her. There had been no young protégée seated beside her, so Lady Tryphena was definitely gone from London. But not, Elizabeth devoutly hoped, wedded to Hal.

Indeed, her only satisfaction in the whole excursion was the pleasure, when he drove past her, of giving Sir Gregory the cut direct.

Perhaps Hal had already returned to London and simply hadn't called on her. She had no claim on him. He'd only filled in for Nicky to assist in getting Everitt's estate papers in order. He might feel for her nothing more than a tepid friendship.

But it was more than that, she told herself fiercely. He might not feel the intensity of love she felt or experience the same sharp physical desire, but he did appreciate her work. He'd encouraged her, promised to investigate possible commissions and report back to her. She looked around her studio, assessing again all that she'd accomplished in the last few weeks.

He would call when he returned, she knew he would!

After pacing restlessly, she halted before her current work, the picture that had captured her concentration since she completed the Turneresque landscape of London rooftops.

She told herself she'd begun it as a figure study to prepare for the possibility of accepting commissions. But instead of sketches of children or a sober portrayal of some captain of industry, she'd decided, inspired by the classical sculpture at the Royal Academy, to paint the toga-clad figure of a virile young man. Tall, broad of shoulder, with the muscular physique of an athlete, his proud head crowed with golden curls like Apollo.

Red-gold curls over deep blue eyes with green centres.

Having completed the preliminary work, she'd been at a standstill. She needed to paint with a live model to progress further.
The
model, her inspiration. Hal.

She sighed, envisioning his splendid chest and shoulders bare beneath a draping of toga…Desire and longing throbbed within her again.

With a frustrated groan, she whirled around and marched to the door. She'd drive herself mad if she stayed here, looking at her image of him, pining for him.

Not in the mood even to dine with David, she instructed James to have supper sent to her son in the schoolroom, adding that she might take a tray later in the library. Perhaps she could distract herself by reading.

Entering the library, intent on selecting a book, she paused instead by the desk. She leaned down to rub her cheek against the chair's tall back, inhaling deeply. But among the odours of leather and polish, she was unable to distinguish even a trace of
his
scent, soap and male and a hint of something spicy.

Realising what she was doing, she straightened, muttering an oath she'd overhead in the stable yard. What was the matter with her? She was ridiculous, mooning over Hal like a silly heroine out of a Minerva Press novel.

Irritated, she nearly snapped at Bowers when the new butler—whom she'd hired herself last week from among candidates sent out from an agency, she thought with a glow of pride—bowed himself in. She was only half-listening until the words ‘…gentleman waiting below' penetrated her abstraction.

The name engraved on the card he held out sent a bolt of excitement and desire through her. Cutting off Bowers's half-uttered question about whether or not he should admit a gentleman so late, she cried, ‘Send him up at once!'

As soon as the door closed, however, shyness attacked her. Nervously she smoothed the wrinkled skirt of her old work gown while her heart commenced to flutter in her chest like a bird trying to escape its cage.

She wished she'd changed after painting, put on something that fitted her figure more closely, with a bodice cut a bit lower. She rushed to the mirror, trying to stuff stray wisps of hair back into her coiffure and biting her lips to give them more colour.

Then, before she'd barely finished primping, the library door opened again and he was there.

The bird in her chest beat his wings in earnest now while her dazzled ears couldn't take in whatever greeting he made her. She simply watched him walk in, lithe motion and easy confidence, his big body filling her room. So overcome with sheer joy was she at the sight of him, tears filled her eyes. It was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms.

Her hungry eyes devoured every detail, from his face, which looked weary, to his clothes, which were a bit muddy and travel-stained.

‘Sorry so late,' she heard him say at last. ‘Should have sent note. Hope not interrupt dinner.'

‘No, 'tis not late at all!' she replied, as if the household hadn't already settled in for the night. ‘I'm delighted you called. Please, come sit…' she patted a place on the couch ‘…and tell me all your news.' Which, she devoutly hoped as she seated herself beside him, wouldn't include the acquiring of a wife.

‘Shouldn't stay,' he replied, hesitating. ‘Still in all my dirt. But…wanted you to know I'm back.'

‘I'm so very grateful you did. Nor am I troubled over a bit of dirt, so unless you must depart immediately, I'd very much like you to stay.' She had this silly, panicked feeling that if he walked out, she might lose him again for another interminable three weeks.

To her relief, he took the seat she indicated. Unable to help herself, Elizabeth laid her hand on his arm. She felt his muscles tense as a bolt of sensation rushed from her fingers up her arm.

Closing her eyes, she savoured the shock. And wanted more. Wanted everything. She opened her eyes to find Hal staring at her.

Stop behaving like an idiot, she chided herself. Pulling herself together—but letting her fingers rest where they were—she asked, ‘ Did the project go well? It took longer than I'd expected. Your note indicated you'd not be gone above a fortnight.'

Flushing slightly, his eyes studying hers, he said, ‘Had…complications. Probably heard of them. Hope won't think badly of me. Helped Lady Tryphena elope. Mama's protégée, you'll remember. In love with younger son, not permitted to marry. Scandalous to run to Gretna, but couple determined.'

She wanted to shout with relief and assure him she wouldn't care if Lady Tryphena had married a baboon in Africa, as long as the male she entangled into matrimony wasn't Hal.

As if echoing her thoughts, Hal smiled. ‘Preferred she marry him than me. Funded flight to Scotland, found position for husband. Seems nice chap. Hope they happy. Ruined reputation. Mine too, probably. You…don't mind?'

‘You learned of the lovers' plight and assisted them, risking your own reputation in the process. I think your intervention was selfless and very kind.'

He shook his head. ‘Not selfless. Self-preserving. After that, met investors. Did turn up prospects for commissions. Discuss them tomorrow, if still interested.'

While he spoke, unable to deny herself, she began stroking his arm. Fierce delight filled her as his face coloured, his breathing accelerated.

‘Better,' he said raggedly, ‘talk tomorrow.' But he made no attempt to move from under her caressing fingers.