Suzanne Robinson (19 page)

“Right.”

“A gentleman doesn’t smoke in a lady’s presence unless invited.”

“Right.”

“If you’re smoking and meet a lady, you get rid of your cigar.”

“What a waste.”

“And by the way,” Jocelin said, “if you’re out driving with your mistress, she should be placed on your left so everyone knows she’s not your wife.”

“Ain’t got no wife.”

“You will, and when you get one, you must receive letters from your mistress at your club. The servants will bring them to you address-down so no one else will see the handwriting.”

Nick shrugged. “Why should I care?”

“In case some bounder decides to let your wife know, you fool.”

“Come on, love. She’s going to know.”

“Yes, but if someone tells her, she can’t ignore it.”

“Stupid.”

“I agree, but that’s Society for you, old fellow.” Jocelin glanced at his pocket watch.

Nick wandered over to stand beside him, staring. Jocelin grew uncomfortable under that steady gaze.

“What?” he demanded.

“You don’t look so good. I been worried about you. You’re taking on for a bout of melancholy again, ain’t you. Got yourself all worked up over that bastard Sinclair.”

“I’m fine.”

“You ain’t fine. I seen you staring out windows for hours. You didn’t think I noticed.” Nick put an arm across the back of Jocelin’s chair, leaned down to him, and held his gaze. “You don’t think I know, do you? I
seen the look on your face after you got back from Willingham. You got it again when those blokes started in on the war. I seen you stare out the window at the snow when you come home from Willingham, and I know you wished you could walk out into it and lay down and not come back.”

Jocelin tore his gaze from Nick’s and stared into his whiskey. “You’re wrong.”

“I ain’t, love, and you better think about giving up our jaunts. They’re bad for you, ’cause unlike me, you still got a heart.”

His thoughts had wandered with the shock of Nick’s accusations. “So many of us in the old group are dead, you see.”

“Oh?”

“First Cheshire, then Pawkins, then Airey and Elliot’s son, William, and now Stapleton.”

Nick whistled. “But still, it was war.”

“Not the last three.” Jocelin rested his forehead on the side of his glass. “I thought the dying would be over when we came home.”

“Them bastards shouldn’t have brought it up. Look at you.”

Jocelin glanced at Nick’s troubled features and smiled. “Don’t worry about me, old chap. After tonight I’ll be fine.”

“Going to see Miss Birch?”

“No. You go see her.”

“She’s real pissed at you for not coming. Says she’s not going to loll about in a drafty old inn forever.”

“I’ve been busy.”

Nick fixed him with an intense stare, then grinned at Jocelin. “It’s Miss Shyness, isn’t it? Coo! How’d you manage it?”

“A gentleman doesn’t bandy a woman’s name, old chap.”

Downing his whiskey, Nick set his glass down and headed for the door. “Right. Another etiquette I got to remember. When can we get out of this vault and back to London?”

“Oh, I’d say about three days. I think the lady is definitely worth three days, and besides, we have to attend Elliot’s dinner on Friday. Shall we catch the afternoon train on Saturday?”

Nick paused at the threshold. “You better think about what you’re doing, love. Miss Shyness has got more to her than lace and embroidery.”

“I know, Nick, and if she weren’t a lady … Well, who knows, perhaps …” He was still thinking of what might happen when Nick closed the door.

His friend had been right about his state. He’d been upset by Sinclair, and by poor Millie, and Jamie. There were more Millies and Jamies out there where he couldn’t help them. At this moment they were crying and suffering.

Jocelin squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t think about that and remain sane. He would think about Liza. God, how long was it until he could go to meet her? Not long now.

He distracted himself by thinking of how she had looked at dinner. She’d been furious with him. Refused to look at him most of the night. He remembered her tawny hair, how it swept back from her face and nestled at the back of her neck.

That gown, she’d worn a midnight blue gown, silk over miles of petticoats that swished and rustled. He’d been content to listen to them and anticipate seeing them, briefly, before he got rid of them. Long ago he’d learned to distinguish the myriad types of
petticoats, taffeta, lace, satin. Gloves, now, they required skill in their removal if a lady wasn’t to be put off. They had to be unbuttoned and deftly slid down arms.

Jocelin broke off contemplation of petticoats and gloves to glance at the clock. Time, at last. He slipped into his coat again and left his room. Stratfield Court was quiet and dark. The servants had long since gone to bed, for they had to be up before dawn to clean and prepare fires. Family and guests had retired, and the men had drunk enough to keep them abed until midmorning.

He went down the bachelor stairs, across the entrance hall, and through a transverse corridor to the gentlemen’s library. The conservatory ran the length of the gentlemen’s library, morning room, and music room. Like all of Elliot’s constructions, it was larger than necessary for a conservatory. The structure soared high on thin iron supports that were painted white in imitation of the fairylike Crystal Palace.

Jocelin let himself in through the connecting door from the gentlemen’s library, then locked it. He made a circuit of the conservatory, dodged rubber trees, palms, ferns, and ivy. Elliot had heated the place with steam, and soon Jocelin was warm enough to be glad he hadn’t worn an overcoat.

He took up a station near the door that connected with the music room, for Liza would come that way. He leaned against a pillar covered with ivy. Moonlight spilled through the glass roof, casting orchids into silver illumination. His boots sank into gravel. Loveday would be furious at him for scratching them. Minutes passed. The heavy, cloying scent of tropical flowers aggravated him. He wanted to smell lemons.

He reached out and touched the petal of an orchid. Orchids, the genus
Orchis
, from the Greek word
orchis
, an appropriate allusion, considering what was going to happen here. He tapped his pocket watch with his fingers, then glanced at it. Squinting, he could just make out the time. She was late.

“Hang it.” She wasn’t going to come. “Damn, damn, damn.”

He’d been thinking about her, and now his body had responded. God, he was going to spend another night in pain because of her. Hang it, she knew he wouldn’t really go to her room. She knew he wasn’t the kind of man to do that, and she’d called his bluff. Blasted, stubborn little goad. She harried him, prodded, pricked, and excited him, and then ran away.

“God, I hate women.”

He shoved away from the pillar and took two steps. His foot hit gravel, then something sharp and solid. He heard a
whoosh
, and a pole appeared out of nowhere to whack him square in the face. It cracked his forehead.

Jocelin yelped and stumbled backward. The pole dropped when his foot moved. He clapped his hand to his forehead and cursed. He heard a giggle and saw a gloved arm catch the pole. Bracing himself on spread legs, he rubbed his head and swore.

Liza Elliot walked up to him, holding a rake and giggling. Jocelin rubbed his nose. Peering at her over his cupped hand, he snarled.

“That hurt, you unfeeling wretch. Don’t you dare laugh.”

By this time Liza had propped the rake against a rubber tree and covered her mouth with her hand. Muffled giggles continued to issue from behind the
glove. Finally she managed to stop long enough to say something.

“Oh! Oh, dear, did that hurt?” She looked at him half in pity, half in helpless amusement. She clapped her hand over her mouth as her laughter erupted.

Jocelin glared at her. Feeling his nose and forehead, he clenched his teeth together as her giggles escalated into full-blown laughter.

“You think it was funny, do you?” he muttered. “I’ll teach you to laugh at me, you contrary little midge.”

She stopped laughing and whirled, launching herself down the path toward the music room. He swooped after her and caught her in three steps. His arm snaked around her waist. Hoisting her on his hip, he turned and carried her back the way they had come.

“Put me down!”

“Shh, or you’ll wake everyone. They wouldn’t want to see you being lugged about like a sack of turnips.”

She pounded at his legs, but he kept walking.

“Such bad manners, Miss Elliot, to laugh at a man when he’s hurt. And bad manners require discipline, don’t you agree?”

L
iza gasped as Jocelin hoisted her higher on his hip. Her amusement had vanished the moment he picked her up, and now he was threatening to punish her like a child. She had a father who thought her a mental three-year-old because of her sex. She wasn’t about to suffer the same treatment from his high and mighty lordship. She stopped beating at his legs, grabbed the nearest one, and pounded the kneecap.

He cried out and dropped her. She hit the ground and slumped against him as he hopped on one foot, clutching his knee. His other knee buckled, and he fell on her. Their heads bumped together. Liza clutched her forehead. Jocelin clutched his forehead.

Liza cried out. Jocelin cried out, and they sat side by side, rubbing their heads.

“Hang it!” Jocelin whispered fiercely. “You’ve given me a headache.”

“You deserved it. I’ll not be handled so, my lord. Not by anyone. And how dare you try to force me to, to—you, you …”

“Back to ‘you, you’ again, are we?” He glared at her in the moonlight, then moaned and put his palms to his forehead. “God, why is it that I can have any woman I want except those who smell like lemons? Miss Gamp was just like you when I touched her. I swear the two of you have given me brain fever.”

Liza stopped rubbing her head and peered at him. “What did you say?”

Jocelin glanced at her, then quickly looked at the dark leaves of a rubber tree.

“Oh, nothing.”

“You said a name, Gamp.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You might as well tell me, for I’m not going to let it alone.”

“Whatever happened to the meek Miss Elliot?”

“You made her vanish.”

Jocelin sighed and tried to restore the crease in his trousers. “I came across a plump and peevish young woman named Gamp. I can’t forget her. She’s like malaria, she keeps coming back. And now she’s vanished.” He looked outside at the half-moon and whispered. “All for the good, probably. I’d be as bad for her as I am for you.”

Liza’s thoughts had been whirling. He hadn’t forgotten her. He hadn’t been able to forget her, despite the fact that he’d never even seen her clearly.
Her heart began to thump painfully, then her head felt light.

“So I hired a man to find this woman, but he hasn’t been at all lucky. She’s gone, and now I’ve made you hate me when you’re the only one who makes me forget—things.”

Never in her life could she remember being important to someone, as this man was telling her she was to him. He didn’t know it, of course, but that wasn’t the point. He hadn’t forgotten her. He had wanted her, still wanted her.

For the first time, Liza considered the possibility that Jocelin Marshall might harbor more for her than a mild desire born of ennui. Now she could admit to herself that she’d always been afraid he was more interested in relieving the tedium of his visit than in her odd little self. She had been wrong about his being capable of murder, and she was wrong, it seemed, about his feelings for her. All at once the moon seemed brighter, the air filled with a more provocative scent.

Jocelin was muttering something about low spirits and lace. She hadn’t heard the rest. Liza put her forefinger against his lips. He turned to look at her, his eyes in shadow. For a long moment he remained still and held his breath. Then he kissed her finger while taking her hand.

“Sweet Liza, are you going to forgive me?”

“I may.”

“Shall I convince you to forgive me?” He glanced at the moon again, then put his cheek next to hers. “Look,” he said, pointing. “ ‘The moon like a flower / In heaven’s high bower, / With silent delight—”

“ ‘Sits and smiles on the night,” Liza finished.

He turned to look at her, and she could feel more than see his smile.

“You know Blake?”

“It is I who should be surprised, my lord.”

He stopped smiling. “I’m not really a killer.”

“What?” Had he discovered her snooping?

“The cavalry, my skirmishes out west, all that isn’t what I want.”

“What do you want?”

He leaned toward her and placed light kisses on her cheeks and forehead. “I want love, Liza mine. ‘Love to faults is always blind, / Always is to joy inclined, / Lawless, winged, and unconfined, / And breaks all chains from every mind.’ ” He poised above her lips. “Break my chains, Liza, break them for me.”

Too caught up in the tickling sensations of his kisses, Liza hardly attended to his words. She felt his hand smooth down the length of her skirts to her ankle, where it dipped below to rest, warm and reassuring. All the while his lips drew nearer and nearer her mouth, until at last he kissed her.