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Authors: Charis Michaels

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“Indeed.” He blocked half the door. The polite thing would be to step back, but he did not budge. She was forced to maneuver around him.

“Aunt?” she called over her shoulder, sailing briskly to the stairs. “A word? It will only take a moment. While I change?”

“But of course, darling,” came the answer, as she knew it would.

Elisabeth clipped up the marble steps to her chambers, ready to do battle.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

“Y
ou are cross.” It was a statement, not a question, said on a sigh. Aunt Lillian opened Elisabeth's wardrobe and began yanking gowns from the rod and tossing them on the bed.

“Yes,” said Elisabeth, watching colorful silks arc through the air. “I am cross. ‘Cross' states very mildly how I feel, I'd say. Lilly, how could you? Without even consulting me? This man?
This
man? You have no idea what you've done.”

“Oh, I think I have some notion, and”—the countess pulled a turquoise gown from the wardrobe—“I would do it again.” She held the gown high, considered it, and then added it to the pile.

“Of this I have no doubt.” Elisabeth began to pace. “Of all the machinations, the manipulations, of all the chance meetings that were not so chance—this is, by far, the worst. And to think. If I had consented to attend the dinner from the start, I would have been taken completely by surprise.”

Lillian tsked. “Quincy predicted you would react this way.”

“Well, Quincy was right. Where is he? He'll be the only one on my side, as usual.”

“Whatever do you mean?” asked the countess, watching her pace. “He insists upon watching over me during these affairs; you know this. He's with the footmen, serving drinks.”

Elisabeth considered this—considered the entire conversation they could have about it. The abject strangeness of her aunt's secret love affair with the gardener was a rare but explosive topic. If ever she wished to change the subject, dear Quincy was a sure bet. But not tonight. Her aunt's audacity could not be let go. Elisabeth had her own secrets to detonate.

While she paced, Lillian circled the bed, considering the dresses. “Would it have been so bad to be taken by surprise by the viscount? Rainsleigh has pursued you himself. Of all the young women the baroness has invited tonight, it was
you
he sought out. I watched the whole thing from my place by the door. To be honest, I've never seen anything like it.”

“How gratifying for you—to witness your ambush play out before your very eyes.”

“Ambush—please, Elisabeth. It's not like you to resort to dramatics.”

“Perhaps, but it is exactly like you, and now I'm meant to reckon with it?
This
goes beyond the bounds of reason. How could you invite him here and not tell me?”

“Oh,” she mused, fingering the hem of each dress, “you know the answer to that. If I had told you he was coming, you would have refused. You refused anyway. You always refuse. Honestly, I hardly see what could be so harrowing after
fifteen years.

“That's because you have no idea about that which you speak. The passing time makes no difference. It only matters that I am
not ready
.”

“But what if you're never ready? This is my fear.” Lillian held up the ivory silk, and Elisabeth made a face. The countess nodded and moved on to the next.

“How can I make you understand?” asked Elisabeth. “The . . . ordeal we suffered together does not translate into the direct need to meet again. Ever. Despite your years of asking, suggesting, wheedling—and now delivering the man to our dining table. And he doesn't even recognize me—thank God. My one saving grace.”

Lillian opened her mouth to counter this, but Elisabeth forged on. “Surely you know that most reasonable people would say my history with this man calls for the opposite of a reunion, surprise or otherwise. It has been prudent and self-preserving to stay away from him.”

“True, perhaps, but lucky for you, I am not most reasonable people. Certainly I am not prudent.” She pulled the lavender gown from the bed and held it high. “The lavender, I think, don't you? Come, let us try it.”

Reluctantly, Elisabeth crossed to her aunt and turned, allowing her to unfasten her perfectly pleasant, exceedingly comfortable blue muslin.

“I would never have pressed,” continued Lillian, “if I had not seen your reaction to him.”

“What reaction?” Elisabeth craned around. “He cornered me! In the stairwell! Whilst I harangued Stoker. I hardly looked at the man at all.”

“Not
tonight
, Elisabeth. Before.” She jostled Elisabeth this way and that, working the gown from her shoulders.

“When before? Before what? I've not seen the man in fifteen years, and you've never met him in your life. It's his first time to dinner; you've said so yourself. You're making no sense.”

“Am I not?”

Elisabeth let out a noise of frustration and dropped her face into her hands. Her stomach churned with frustration and anger, and the sickening, nervous stew of it almost outweighed the anxiety of seeing him again. Almost.

The countess filled the silence. “I've said nothing about it, mind you. I do try to honor your privacy, darling. But that doesn't mean I have not seen it, all these years. The blushes and the bright-eyed interest. If anyone even utters his name, in any stray piece of inane gossip . . . ”

“This is ridiculous,” Elisabeth said reflexively.

“Ridiculous, is it? What of the newspaper clippings? For years you have followed him in the papers.” Elisabeth stepped out of the blue dress and hugged her shoulders against the coolness of the room. Her aunt had seen the brand on her shoulder many times, but Elisabeth hated the scar to be exposed, even in private.

“I can read about the man and wish him well without making his acquaintance,” Elisabeth said lamely.

“Or you could meet him again on your own terms. As the beautiful young woman you have become.”

Elisabeth shook her head. “You misconstrue my interest.”

“Do I? I do not misconstrue your gratefulness to him for his rescue.” Her aunt leaned over the bed and picked up the lavender dress, giving it a gentle shake. “How much have we heard about this young man? You would speak of little else over the years. We know virtually nothing about what happened the night your parents were attacked. We have respected your privacy. But forgive me if I have clung to the few details you are able to share. The rescue.
This man.
And now, he's waiting to have dinner with you.”

Elisabeth was shaking her head. “But I—I cannot bear to meet him,” she said softly. “
I am not ready
. I think it is my fate never to be ready.”

“Fate?' But what is fate?” Lillian lowered the lavender dress, and Elisabeth hesitated only a moment before stepping into it. “Resistance is all you've ever known, so of course it seems like the only path. What have I always said?
There. Is. More.


More
may be a risk I am not willing to take,” she whispered. “I have the inheritance. I have my work at the foundation. With or without a . . . man in my life, these mean freedom. Not everyone has the opportunity to fall in love, like you.”

“Well, certainly no one who refuses to try.”

Elisabeth scoffed, “I'll consent to
try
to fall in love when you consent to tell the world that you
are
in love.”

She knew it was wrong the moment she said it. Behind her, Lilly went still and then her diligent hands fell away from the back of the gown. Silence settled in the room. It was not unfair to invoke her aunt's relationship with Quincy, the coward's way out. Hastily, she added, “When you are ready.”

The countess was quiet a long moment, and then she said, “Now 'tis
you
, my dear, who speak of things that you do not know.” She turned away.

Elisabeth was unaccustomed to motherly rebuke. Her aunt chided her and teased her, but rarely, if ever, did she scold.

“That was exceedingly rude of me,” Elisabeth said softly. “I'm sorry, Lilly. I . . . I know you have your reasons. Aunt Lillian?”

She would not respond.

Elisabeth tried again. “We all have secrets.”

The countess turned to her. “Yes, but only you bear yours alone. Come.” She returned to Elisabeth and took up the loose sides of her dress and pulled the bodice together. “And
this
is why I am forcing you to dine with the viscount.”

“So I will no longer have secrets?”

“So you will no longer be alone!” She attached the tightest hook with a yank, causing Elisabeth to gasp at the constriction of the gown.

“You are too ambitious,” said Elisabeth. “A surprise meeting? How could this possibly work?”

Lillian sighed impatiently, smoothing the closed bodice over Elisabeth's spine. “We will not know until we try.”

“Even better, we could never kno—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” interrupted the countess coming around to smile at Elisabeth's appearance in the lavender gown. “Too late for that, darling. It's finally too late for that.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

I
f the distinction of
viscount
did not allow Rainsleigh to leave a party early, the notoriety of being Frankie Courtland's son certainly did. His parents routinely left parties early, arrived late, refused to leave, or didn't attend at all. Boorish rudeness was a Courtland family tradition.

It was also precisely the sort of bad behavior that Rainsleigh worked so hard to expunge, but he'd be damned if he would remain in the presence of an unknown niece who, clearly, could not bear the sight of him.

He hadn't even known the countess was in possession of a niece. And now this young woman would reject him
?
According to Beecham, she was an on-the-shelf spinster who rarely left the house.

Rainsleigh scanned the salon, looking for the baron and his wife. He'd make some excuse. He had no idea what.
I lost my head and behaved like an idiot in front of a pretty girl
would obviously never do, but he'd think of something.

What lunacy had taken possession of his brain? He had conditioned himself over the years to ignore the distraction of females in general and beautiful women in particular. He was an active, virile male, well in his prime, but temptation could be (and had been) locked down for the sake of productiveness. And his reputation. And to prove a bloody point.

He would never be a slave to his own impulses as his father had been.

And now, look at him. After one exchange, it was no wonder that Lady Elisabeth had sprinted up the stairs. He'd all but chased her into the bloody kitchens.

If nothing else, it made him realize that the new wife he sought should not unleash any sort of unchecked base desire. Another reason that Dunhip was better served to sift through the early candidates. The very last thing Rainsleigh wanted, even less than a young girl or a bold girl, was a distractingly beautiful girl. Especially one who considered herself too superior to sit beside him for the length of one meal. He made a mental note for Dunhip's file:
Should pose no particular temptation.

Temptation
, he thought bitterly,
that's putting it very mildly
.

He located Beecham and his wife near the fire but paused just short of making an excuse. Of course he couldn't leave now. To go before they'd eaten would be considered strange at best, rude at worst.

He should use the event to demonstrate that his manners were sufficient. That he could keep away from closed doors and servant passages. That he was in no way preoccupied with the hostess's obviously disinterested niece.

“Ah, there he is,” called a female voice behind him.

Not preoccupied
, he reminded himself, waiting a beat before he turned 'round.

Lady Banning stood smiling behind him. Behind her, stood the niece, Lady Elisabeth. Her expression read . . . concern. Concern about what, he could only guess. She would not look at him. She stared resignedly at the bobbing feather in her aunt's coiffure with a pained look on her face. Gone was the blue day dress; the wispy, tumbling curls; the bare hands. Now she wore an evening gown of pale purple, delicately trimmed in a darker shade of merlot. Her hair had been slickly gathered into a full poof of curls on the top of her head. Silk gloves of the same pale purple sheathed her arms from elbow to fingertip. Distractions set in immediately, and he found himself staring at those fingertips, her dainty elbow, her curls. Only the faintest sense of self-preservation caused him to return his gaze to the countess.

“My lady,” he said. He inclined his head graciously.

The countess went on, “Please accept my apologies for the delay, my lord. You must be ravenous. But I have rung for dinner, and the soup is divine.”

She looked to her niece—one quick glance and then a second, longer look. “Come along, Elisabeth,” she enthused. “You've made the acquaintance of the viscount, so he may escort you. Lead the way, won't you?”

Rainsleigh was given no choice but to offer Elisabeth his arm. For a long, painful moment, he thought she would reject it, her aunt be damned. But then she stepped wordlessly forward and slid her gloved hand over his sleeve. Her fingers closed firmly, and he felt her warmth through the wool of his jacket. She was so close. His body surged with awareness, like a magnet drawn to its opposite pole.

As they walked, he had some vague sense of the other guests falling in procession behind them—the plod of canes and heavy footsteps from the old couples, the rustle of gowns and giggling from the young ladies. He had intended to take in every detail of his first London party. Now his sole focus was every detail of the woman beside him. Her profile—soft skin and a serene expression. Her red-gold hair. The faint scent of her hair wafted against him, clean, fresh.
Like a bloody meadow,
he thought. She smelled like daylight.

“It's just here.” She gestured to the right.

He allowed her to lead him. What else could he do while his mind swam with her nearness? In no way was he detached or measured or rational. He was totally preoccupied, and the weakness made him angry. To stem the tide, he leaned to her ear.

“Loser's lot?” he asked softly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, come now. Let us drop the pretense.”

She missed a step. On reflex, he tucked his arm, drawing her close. He felt the warm contour of her body up and down his side. He swallowed hard.

“Pretense?” she asked.

“The quarrel with your aunt just now. You lost, clearly. And now here you are, forced to eat dinner with me.”

She stopped. “Is that what . . . ”

Her pause made him look. She stared back, her eyes large. They were blue
and
green, he could now see. Turquoise. A mermaid's eyes. A flicker of a memory—some long-forgotten moment in time—danced on the edges of his consciousness. He ignored it, determined to expose her rejection of him. “Yes?” he asked.

“Is that why you . . .
That
is what you think? That my aunt has forced me, and I don't wish to attend?” She stole a look over her shoulder at the other guests. They were nearly to them, filing past with sidelong glances. Rainsleigh looked up long enough to see the young women do more than glance. They stared openly, and Elisabeth slid her hand from his arm and stepped away. It felt immediately wrong, and he fought the urge to grab it back.

“We needn't pretend,” he said, an excuse to return to her.

To this she had no response. Her mermaid's stare did not waver. “No. Let us not pretend.”

She chuckled then, a sad, disbelieving sort of laugh, and slid her gloved hand over his arm. The other guests had trickled through, and she tugged him to catch up, around a corner and through an arched door. “Here we are,” she said.

She let him go and drifted to the table, nosing round, chair to chair. Other guests had begun to settle up and down the table, but they watched him. He felt every curious glance. The young women watched him openly. He waited to feel gratified or flattered, but his sole focus was Lady Elisabeth.

“Heavens, the outlay,” she whispered, walking back to him. The table was set with a glinting landscape of china and silver. Crystal goblets reflected the light of fifty candles. “I have no idea where I'm meant to sit.”

“You'll sit beside his lordship, Elisabeth,” said Lady Banning, sailing into the room behind them. She gestured to two seats near the head of the table.

Elisabeth nodded and followed. Rainsleigh followed, too, watching how she maneuvered the crowded room with a silent, graceful pride that seemed to ignore the audience of onlookers. When she reached the designated seat, a footman leapt from the wall to pull out the chair. She smiled gently and murmured to him, sinking in.

In the corner of the room, a fierce, whispered exchange arose between the countess and Lady Beecham. Lady Elisabeth leaned to Rainsleigh and said, “My aunt is pulling rank. A rare sight, indeed.”

“Except in the stairwell,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“The countess forced
you
to attend this meal on my arm.”

“You are mistaken, my lord, about what happened between my aunt and me.” She studied him.

He raised one eyebrow.

She looked down at the glistening place setting. “Lillian has probably shuffled the place cards.”

“To accommodate our seats,” he guessed.

“To accommodate herself—but yes, she is pulling rank to trap you between me and her. You should feel gratified; Lady Beecham would swarm you on all sides with the young ladies.” She inclined her head toward the girls casting disappointed glances in their direction from the far end of the table. “My aunt would have you less . . . encumbered.”

“Instead, she encumbers you?”

“I am not encumbered by you, my lord,” Lady Elisabeth said.

He stared at her, searching for some slight or deeper meaning. He tried to predict what she might say next, but he realized that he had no idea. Everything out of her mouth had been a surprise. He wasn't accustomed to surprises; if asked, he would say that he wasn't fond of them. And yet he found himself eager to hear what she might say next. Too eager.

But now the countess was settling at the head of the table and signaling the footmen to serve the soup.

“Lord Rainsleigh?” she called to him. “There are several people who would delight in making your acquaintance, and I hope you'll indulge us. My, er,
errand
upstairs precluded proper introductions, but you must meet a few friends and neighbors.”

Rainsleigh glanced at Lady Elisabeth. “It would be a pleasure.”

A procession of names and nods followed, including the young ladies now relegated to the far end of the table and the elderly couples scattered between. The final guest—a marchioness, who, according to rank, was seated directly across from Rainsleigh—was presented last.

“Perhaps you already know Frances, Marchioness of Frinfrock?” the countess asked, gesturing to the diminutive old woman. “You are neighbors, I believe, in Henrietta Place.”

Rainsleigh nodded. “How do you do, Lady Frinfrock?”

The wizened old woman could barely see above her soup, but she gazed at him with suspicious, narrowed eyes. “The
castle
you've constructed in my street is a vulgarity, Rainsleigh,” the marchioness said.

Rainsleigh swallowed a laugh. “I'm sorry to hear it, my lady.”

In the same moment the countess said, “Come now, Lady Frinfrock. I'll admit I've nearly starved you, but let us strive to be pleasant.”

“ 'Tis no unpleasantness,” he assured the countess. To the scowling woman across the table, he said, “Pray, your ladyship, which house in the street is yours?”

“You'd know my property if you made an effort to learn the character and population of the street before you devoted an eon erecting your Tower of Babel.”

“Yes, well, I've only just moved in, but you make a fair point. It's been builders and craftsmen you've seen in and out. I should have called on neighbors by now.”

“Had you deigned to make the acquaintance of anyone in Henrietta Place, you would also know that your ‘craftsmen' have hauled every manner of timber, stone, and Lord-knows-what material into the street, rendering the road nearly impassable. Pocked with trenches and pits from your delivery wagons. Strewn with spilt gravel. All the while, they raise your monstrosity higher and higher, blotting out the very sun.”

Again, Bryson swallowed a laugh. In fact, he had met with neighbors—he'd bought the house from a neighbor and friend—and he had been mindful of inconvenience and damage to the area. But this woman was enjoying herself far too much to be challenged. And it wouldn't do to be ungracious to a lady.

“But perhaps you did not notice, your ladyship,” he said, “the repairs I commissioned to restore the road? The new road was meant to give residents—”


Perhaps
we preferred the road as it was,” the marchioness interrupted, pointing with her spoon. “Another thing you would have known if you had bothered to introduce yourself to anyone of consequence in Henrietta Place.”

“Yes,” he allowed, taking a sip of wine. He gave Lady Banning a wink and tried again, “Although were you aware that I, in fact, bought the house
from
a neighbor? The Earl of Falcondale? He and his lady-wife live next door; that is, when they are not traveling abroad—”

“I said anyone of
consequence
, and Falcondale hardly qualifies. His wife is lovely, but I take frequent issue with the earl. He offered nothing to the house but abject neglect. You are no better, burdening us with an extended construction; widening and raising and embellishing. Domed turrets, ogling gargoyles, and that ghastly tangle of iron trim. It's difficult to say who has done more harm, you or the earl.”

“Oh, I'll happily concede this distinction to Falcondale,” Rainsleigh said. “He may revel in it.” A footman cleared his soup, and he leaned back in his chair, smiling at the engrossed faces up and down the table. “But you make it very clear that I must make some sort of amends, my lady. I've no wish to embark on my new life surrounded by enemies in my own street. May I call on you in the coming days and provide a tour through the house? Perhaps you could tolerate the work if you were to see the inside.”

The marchioness harrumphed. “Doubtless I have the strength to traverse such a vast expanse or climb such a great many stairs.”

“I find that very hard to believe,” he said, eliciting chuckles from around the table. “Come now, you must be curious.”

The tiny woman set down her spoon and raised her eyebrows. “How perceptive.
Curious
, am I?”

A footman removed her soup and replaced it with a dish of vegetables. She muttered something disagreeable to him and then turned back to Rainsleigh. “Now that you've made mention, there is one thing about which I am
exceedingly
curious . . . ”

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