The Lie and the Lady (2 page)

“Ashby,” she said, her direct tone cutting through his nervous rambling.

“Yes?”

She swung the door open wide, and pulled him inside.

“I can be reckless too.”

AND RECKLESS IT WAS
. She knew it as his lips met hers. As her hands clutched the lapels of his coat, as his surprise melted into want, she knew that this was the most reckless thing she could possibly do.

Leticia had a strategy—she must, because she had very little else.

The only advantage she had in the situation was that he had kissed her. He had shown his feelings to the world. The next logical step was what that kiss implied, an even more public declaration. Preferably in a church, but she would take Gretna Green; she wasn't picky.

But to have him here, in her bedroom without any formal promises, his hands running up and down the length of her body—it was tantamount to throwing all her hard work out the window.

And she didn't care.

There was only one explanation for her actions, she decided: she had lost her mind.

His warm breath fell across her cheek as he broke free from their kiss, moving his mouth down to her jaw, her neck, to that little notch at the base of her throat. A rough gasp escaped as his hands slid their way down her back, lower, to the rounded rise of her bottom.

“You have . . . amazing hands,” she said, her voice shaking, as those wonderful fingers danced over the thin linen of her dressing gown—the only thing between his hands and her skin.

But it was as if her voice broke through his haze, and his head came up.

“I have to tell you . . .” He struggled with the words. “We . . . we should not—”

She took two deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps . . .

“We shouldn't?” she asked, as her dressing gown—completely of its own volition!—slid off one perfect shoulder.

“Oh hell,” he growled, and his mouth found hers again.

Clothes fell away as they groped their way to the bed. His coat hit the floor. His cravat, already hanging loose, was a nuisance. And why oh why did men's shirts have to have buttons?

But soon enough, her dressing gown was parted, exposing her breasts to the cool night air, and she had other things on her mind.

Namely him. This man who breathed out a long, shaking whistle upon seeing her.

She'd never been looked at like that before. Not by Konrad. Not by anyone. It made her feel . . .

Powerful.

His hands—such marvelous hands!—traced the curve of her high breast (although not as high as it once was) and cupped its weight before his head lowered to taste her.

“Ned. Oh, Ned.” The night air echoed with his name.

His hands, making their way up her legs, stopped midway through the journey. His mouth, lavishing all possible praise on her breasts, simply froze.

Leticia stilled. “Ned?”

“Don't . . . don't call me that,” he rasped, his head coming up. In the dark she could not see his eyes. Could not see what he meant.

“I'm sorry . . . I shouldn't have presumed to call you by your Christian name,” she whispered. “I simply thought, since you and I . . . since tonight . . .” But not even since tonight. He'd been calling her Letty, a name she hadn't allowed spoken outside of her own head in nearly twenty years, since he'd arrived. It started as a joke. But secretly she loved it.

“No, don't apologize,” he said quickly.

“Ashby . . .”

“Not that either,” he bit out, so harshly it startled her.

“Then what should I call you?” she asked, worry beginning to creep into her imagination. “Darling?”

He didn't reply.

“My love?” she tried, biting her lip.

“We cannot do this. Not now,” he said, moving away from her. He sat up on his knees. The cold air against her skin was almost painful. The familiar disappointment was worse.

“I understand,” she said, closing the dressing gown around her body.

“No, you don't,” he said, raking a hand through his dark hair. “I have to say something to you . . . before we make any mistakes. And I cannot do it now,” he said, his eyes falling over her body, then quickly shooting back up to her face. “I think it's been proven I won't make it through two sentences.”

“Ash—I mean, my love, whatever it is, you can tell me,” she said, sitting up. She reached out to him with her free hand, caressing the side of his face. He leaned into her palm, a whimper of want escaping his throat.

But he took her hand in his, stilling it against his cheek. “And I will,” he said, resolve filling his voice. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he promised, taking her hand and kissing the palm. “Tomorrow I will . . . say what needs to be said.”

His kisses moved from her palm to the crook of her elbow, pulling her closer, drugging her. Torturing himself.

“Nmmmmmnh,” was the whine as he broke free, finally this time, leaping off the bed and picking up his clothes lying crumpled in puddles on the floor.

And then he was gone.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered, flopping back against the pillows. Tomorrow he would say what he needed to. And she knew what it was. His gentlemanly instincts had overtaken his baser ones, and he wouldn't dishonor her by taking what she—in a dizzy haze of sparkling love—had so very much wanted to give.

Instead, he would get down on one knee, he would ask for her hand in marriage, and she would grant it. They would be married and live in his townhouse in London during the season and at his family seat when the shooting was good and anywhere else they pleased at any other time. She would never have to worry about money again. Or her social standing, or how she was going to live now.

She would be the Countess of Ashby, and he would be her savior.

It all would begin tomorrow, she thought as her heart slowed to a lull, and she drifted to sleep.

2

L
eticia, will you marry me?”

Leticia smiled down at the man before her, arms outstretched, his hand gently holding hers.

“Oh, my darling! Of course I will!”

It was hard to believe, but she had actually done it. She had actually saved herself. It had taken almost an entire year, and pawning almost all her jewelry (she had never liked the diamond earbobs anyway, far too gauche), but it had absolutely been worth it. Because here she was, being proposed to by none other than the man with whom she would happily spend the rest of her life.

Who delivered his proposal sitting, because kneeling wasn't exactly in his repertoire.

Sir Bartholomew Babcock rose (with only minimal trouble) and smiled widely under his bushy white mustache. His girth settled and he found his balance, gripping his cane with one hand and Leticia's hand with the other.

He was the man of her dreams.

Yes. A lot had changed since last summer. Since she learned about the Lie.

“Mind if I kiss you, m'dear?” he asked, a little shy.

“In public?” she replied. There was any number of people in the museum with them. All pompously French, and none paying any attention to the couple by the center bench of the Caryatid Room, but still—Leticia knew to be cautious of public declarations.

“Just to make it official.” He blushed and looked at his toes—or more accurately, toward his toes. There was no way he could see them past his belly.

In spite of herself, Leticia smiled. He was such a large, gruff man, far older than she, and yes, enjoying a particularly unfortunate flare-up of his gout, but still, he managed to be endearing.

“In that case, Sir Bartholomew—of course,” she said.

He pecked her on the proffered cheek—respectably, honorably. The way a lady should be kissed in public by her intended.

“Now that I've convinced you to marry me, how can I convince you to call me Sir Barty?”

As Leticia laughed and took Sir Barty's arm, she allowed herself a small moment of personal congratulation. Who would have guessed that when Leticia walked into this very sculpture gallery three weeks ago she would be meeting the man she would marry?

Who other than Leticia, that is.

Of course, Paris wasn't her first stop. She'd tried London, but she'd had barely three weeks there before the looks started. Then she tried Brighton, Portsmouth, Plymouth, even flying as far north as Edinburgh. But everywhere she went, the whispers began before she could even gain a foothold. The only option left was to flee, chased away—by the Lie.

The Continent had been her last resort. And the biggest gamble of all.

She almost hadn't gone. Paris was a costly city. Its lodgings were expensive, its culinary treats outside the range of possibility. And if one wanted to meet and mingle with the upper echelons of society, one required a small fortune or a small army of personal acquaintances to vouch for their good standing.

Leticia had neither. But she did have just enough funds for a room at a respectable establishment for traveling ladies, and a weekly ticket to the Louvre.

And knowledge of when guides would be bringing their English tourists through.

That was the best—and most important—coin she had spent, bribing those mercenary men who loitered outside of the English hotels, looking to be hired on as guides for young gentlemen, freshly down from Oxford or Cambridge and wide-eyed with wonder on their grand tour. Those crafty guides would tell her when they were planning on taking their charges to the Louvre, thus letting Leticia know when best to be there, strolling the galleries, enjoying the Greek, Roman, and Renaissance works, and anything else that had not been returned to its home country after Napoleon had “borrowed” it.

It took a great deal of patience, of course. As fascinating as they found her (and they all found her fascinating), young men on their first adventure in the world were not keen on giving up that adventure right away—and since Paris was often the first stop on such a journey, they allowed Leticia to fascinate them (and nothing more) for the few weeks they were in France, before abandoning her for the charms of Spain, Italy, and the German provinces.

It was months of this and Leticia had been about to give up hope. Until one day she happened to sit on a bench in front of a large statue of a winged woman. And a round man with a cane hobbled up next to her.

“I hope you don't mind if I sit, my girl,” the man had said, plopping himself down on the opposite side of the bench.

“Of . . . of course not—” Leticia managed, a bit thrown by the presumption of the request . . . if it even qualified as a request. After all, no gentleman would impose on a lady by forcing his company. Besides, she was waiting for a group of young English gentlemen to come through—the porter she regularly bribed was usually so punctual.

“Oh good! You're English!” he cried. “Can't tell you how hard it's been going about this city, trying to strike up a conversation, and not getting much beyond ‘bonjour.' ”

“I . . . can imagine,” Leticia replied.

“Conversation is really all I'm good for,” the man said. “If I'm even good for that.” He tapped his cane against his thigh, and stretched out his foreleg across the black and white marble floor, wincing as he did so.

“It's the gout,” he said, obviously seeing the direction of her gaze. “I'm afraid I can't keep up with the young lads.”

“Are . . . are you here with your son?” she asked. Maybe he was part of the porter's group.

“Don't have a son! Just my little girl. But she's not here either. She's back home, in Lincolnshire. No—I'm here on my grand tour! Sir Bartholomew Babcock, at your service. But everyone calls me Sir Barty.”

He gave a slight bow, then realizing perhaps that bowing while sitting might not exactly register, he tipped his hat instead. Then he realized he was conversing with a lady inside a building and whipped his hat off.

“You are on your grand tour?” Leticia asked.