Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.
—H. Fielding
The following afternoon, Elise found herself alone in the small family parlor in the oldest wing of the abbey. Though a bit shabby, the room was warm and comfortable, and the light perfect for sewing. Maynard and Ophelia had been called to the bedside of an injured tenant, leaving Elise to enjoy a few blessed hours of solitude. And she very much feared she needed them.
With a sigh, she let her hands fall into her lap, crushing the embroidery which she’d so industriously been stitching. She’d long ago learned that needlework was the perfect outlet for disordered nerves, and since Maynard’s announcement at breakfast yesterday, Elise had felt as if she could have completed a set of sofa cushions. Blindly, she stared across the room, seeing not the tall cherry-wood armoire in the corner, but something almost as dark and implacable. Christian Villiers. The Marquis of Grayston. As if the vision had been burnt into her mind, Elise could still see his mocking eyes, his odd half-smile. His elegant bow, which held not one whit of humility or deference. She could remember some other things, too… .
No, she couldn’t.
Elise took up her needlework again, and began to stab at it viciously. She really could not fathom how Maynard had come to be friends with such a person. Elise’s brother-in-law was a bluff, hearty military man, highly decorated and deeply respected. Oh, perhaps he occasionally drank a bit too much or played just a little too deep. What gentleman did not, from time to time? Well, her husband Henry had not. Still, Maynard did not keep bad company.
As to Lord Grayston, she’d recognized his name the moment he’d spoken it. In town it was said that he was the worst sort of blackguard; a libertine who had spent most of his life flitting about the Continent, living by his charm, his wit, and his gaming skills, all of which were reputedly impressive. He’d fled England in disgrace as a very young man after being caught in bed with the Belgian ambassador’s wife and her lady’s maid. Rumor had it that he had ruined more European noblemen than Wellington, and hadn’t needed an army to do it. It was said that in Naples, he kept five mistresses, sometimes openly sharing them. That he had been seen sipping champagne from the late queen’s slipper whilst they lay sotted in the sand at Saint-Tropez. That he had won a harem of virgins from the Sultan of Malkara, and sold them off to buy a French brothel.
Surely it couldn’t all be true? Even Elise, in her inexperience, doubted it. He had returned to England just this spring following the death of his sister and his father. But instead of observing a full mourning, he’d passed but a fortnight at his seat in Northamptonshire, then scandalized London by turning up for the Season. Still, Elise had never met him. Not until last night.
Well, soon he would be arriving at Gotherington. Somehow, she must find a way to be civil. And to be honest, what did she really know of Lord Grayston? He had looked rakish, yes, but not hopelessly hell-bound. He had slogged half a mile through the mud to help her. He had willingly given up his bedchamber. It was only at the end that he had … that he had made her feel uncomfortable. Out of her depth. Naïve.
Elise sighed deeply. Despite her twenty-five years, she was still little more than a governess who’d had the good fortune to marry her wealthy employer. And too often, it showed. She had just spent her first Season in London, where she’d learned a great deal. From Ophelia’s friends, she had discovered that widows, and sometimes even married ladies, were permitted discreet dalliances. And that some gentlemen were very much sought after for their talents in that regard.
Was Lord Grayston such a gentleman? Elise very much suspected that he was. He had a dangerous sort of magnetism in his eyes. And there had been an awful lot of tittering and fanning amongst the ladies every time his name was mentioned.
And then there was that wicked thing he’d done with her finger… . Distracted, Elise caught a knot wrong. Good Lord, she thought, biting through the thread and stabbing the frazzled end back through the needle. Why hadn’t she discouraged Ophelia from all this nonsense? This party had been designed, she feared, in the hope that she and Denys Roth would announce their betrothal. But Elise was not at all sure she could fall in love with him, no matter how much time they spent together, nor how ardently he kept asking for her hand. He was charming and handsome, yes. But try as she might, Elise did not feel that shivery, quivery feeling one was supposed to feel when one fell in love. Oh, she had cared deeply for Henry. She did not for one moment regret having married him. But she had not been in love with him, nor he with her. They had done it, both of them, for Henriette.
And so this house party—Ophelia’s scheme—would be all for naught. And now there was Grayston to put up with! Worse still, Elise had a deep suspicion that Maynard could ill afford the affair, which was supposed to last much of the hunting season. The other guests, better than a dozen adults and children, would arrive in two days’ time. And during the second week, there was to be a Hunt Ball, with over a hundred neighbors invited! It had gotten wholly out of hand, as did most of Ophelia’s endeavors. Elise wished there were some gracious way of offering financial help.
At least the twins would be well dowered now. That was going to be a bit of a trick, convincing Maynard that Ophelia’s dead brother had provided for Belinda and Lucinda. He had not, of course, for Sir Henry had secretly thought his nieces vain and silly. He’d held a similar view of his sister, but Ophelia did mean well. Moreover, Elise was sure Bee and Lucy would settle down once married—especially if they could afford to marry someone who made them feel shivery inside.
With grave disapproval, Henry’s solicitor in Sussex had drawn up the documents so that Elise could bring them with her to Gotherington. Elise had taken the money from the generous widow’s portion which Henry had left her. And on the twins’ birthday, Elise was going to do something she had never done in the whole of her life. She was going to tell a lie. She was going to say her husband had set aside the money as a gift for the girls’ come-out. And she would make Maynard believe it. Ophelia, unfortunately, would believe anything.
The sound of jingling harnesses startled her from her reverie, causing Elise to stab herself in the thumb. With a muttered oath, she flung down her stitchery and rushed to the window. Her heart in her throat, she watched the shiny black traveling coach turn into the upper carriageway, preceded by a tall, broad-shouldered man on a snorting black beast. The animal was tossing his head wickedly and dancing about the gatepost in marked dislike.
Elise felt her stomach flip-flop. Denys was a handsome man, but not an especially tall one. And Elise was willing to bet he’d never ridden a horse like that in his life. Dear Lord. That could only mean one thing. But at least she was alone. Elise went at once to the bell and jerked it firmly.
“There is a guest arriving below, Pratt,” she said when the butler entered. “In my brother-in-law’s absence, I shall receive him here.”
“Very good, ma’am. Shall I have his drapes drawn and his water sent up?”
“Yes.” Elise managed a tight smile. “The name is Grayston. Lord Grayston.”
She returned to the window, watching as the footmen swarmed about his lordship’s carriage, unstrapping a huge traveling trunk and an exquisite, brass-bound dressing case. A gun case, a small rosewood chest, several hatboxes and two glossy leather valises followed, their unloading directed by a stately, silver-haired man whom Elise took to be Grayston’s valet. How odd. At the inn, she’d had the clear impression that Grayston was traveling alone.
His valet must have been quite skilled, for the marquis looked little like the brooding ne’er-do-well he’d seemed two nights ago. Today, he oozed Continental sophistication. Gone was his sodden, misshapen hat; in its place was a stiff, tall-crowned top hat with a shallow, curved brim. His coat was not the common cutaway usually seen in the country, but a sweeping, elegant frock coat of deep charcoal, with very wide, very chic lapels. His double-breasted waistcoat and snug, strapped trousers were a matching shade of gray. A simply tied cravat was bound high about his throat, his linen sported not an inch of lace, and in his gloved hand, he carried a gold-knobbed stick of polished ebony.
Formal. Forbidding. Urbane. The merest glance at the man left Elise feeling tongue-tied and out of place. But Pratt was going down the steps into the bright sunshine to greet him, and bowing more subserviently than Elise had ever seen. Then together, they turned, and the marquis came swiftly up the sweeping turn of the steps, disappearing from view as he entered the house.
Running her damp palms down her skirts, Elise turned to face the inevitable. Within moments, she could hear them coming up the winding staircase. Down the long, heavily carpeted corridor. Her heart pounded in her ears. Pratt’s voice echoed as he paused by the door. “A nasty compound fracture, my lord,” the butler was saying. “Major and Mrs. Onslow went at once to his bedside. But Mrs. Onslow’s sister-in-law will make you comfortable.”
And then the door to the parlor was swinging open. As if her feet were frozen to the floor, Elise could only stare. “His lordship, the Marquis of Grayston,” intoned Pratt very solemnly.
But if Elise’s feet were frozen, his lordship appeared to have suddenly altered into a solid block of ice. He jerked to a halt just inside the parlor, barely leaving Pratt room to pull shut the door as he departed. The marquis did not look the sort of man who was easily taken aback by anything, and yet he was. Oh, he most definitely was.
His astonishment gave her courage. Swiftly, she closed the distance between them and swept into her deepest curtsey. “Welcome to Gotherington Abbey, my lord.” The words came out deeper and throatier than she had intended. “I am Elise, Lady Mid—”
Almost rudely, Grayston cut her off. “Good God!” he choked. “You are … you are Lady Middleton?”
At first, his use of her full title did not strike her as odd. Elise rose and, remembering her promise to Maynard, placed her hand on his arm and led him deeper into the room. “I’m Mrs. Onslow’s sister, by marriage.”
“Yes, yes, I did know that much.” His expression shifted to one of impatience.
Elise laid her embroidery on the tea table and settled back into her chair, motioning him to sit opposite. “I am often at Gotherington,” she said stiffly. “I was on my way here, you see, when we … when our paths crossed.”
He recovered his composure quickly, Elise would grant him that. All semblance of surprise had vanished, and in its place was the usual cool expression on his long, thin-lipped face and in his calm, ice-gray eyes. Grayston folded his lean form gracefully into the chair, then let his gaze drift indolently over her. “I was disappointed to find you gone when I awoke.” His voice was soft but his eyes were not. “And since you’d never signed the register, the innkeeper could not be bribed to help me.”
Elise was taken aback. “Why, I can scarce imagine you thought ever to see me again.”
Some strange, nameless emotion flitted across his face. “But what if I’d wished to, my lady?” he answered suggestively as he fiddled with his watch fob. “You are very lovely—especially when … a little wet.”
Elise felt her heart leap into her throat. “Really, Lord Grayston, it is hardly appropriate to … to—”
“To flirt with you?” he supplied thoughtfully, his silvery gaze capturing hers, then trailing quite boldly downward. “But it heightens your color so charmingly. Indeed, ma’am, you look quite warm and pink … all over. It is a lovely sight.”
“You may save your breath, sir.”
Grayston smiled his lazy half-smile. His teeth were very large and very white. “I collect you are still angry over my invitation?”
She was, rather. But Elise was not perfectly sure how to answer him. Worse, she had the deeply disturbing feeling that his words were laced with nuances she did not understand. She wished she did not owe it to Maynard to be civil. “I was not angry, my lord,” she finally answered. “Just taken aback. As you’ve discovered, I am encumbered by what some might consider dreadfully old-fashioned morals.”
“Ah!” he said softly. “So you are not that kind of woman? You regret having kissed me with such passion?”
She felt heat flood her cheeks. “I’m glad you understand.”
But to her undying frustration, Lord Grayston threw back his head and laughed. “My dear Lady Middleton!” His eyes glittered wolfishly. “We are all of us just a shade immoral when it suits us to be so. And all I regret is that you did not think having me in your bed would be worth singeing your soul on a little brimstone.”
“Really, Lord Grayston!”
But he just laughed again. “Oh, do not scold, ma’am. I felt the stab of your old-fashioned morals most keenly. I persuaded one of the serving maids to share her attic bed with me, only to find I wasn’t quite capable of expressing my gratitude, if you take my meaning. She was not amused, and my masculinity has not yet recovered.”
Elise went rigid in her chair. “How sorry I am to have disappointed you both.”
“Ah, disappointment!” Grayston leaned forward in his chair, and seized her hand as if he meant to lift it to his lips. “But satisfy my curiosity, Lady Middleton, if you’ll satisfy nothing else,” he whispered, staring at her across her knuckles. “Did I not tempt you, even just a little bit?”
Those eyes. Good God, those sinful, silvery eyes! Were they the reason she wasn’t slapping him across the face? “You did not tempt me,” she lied, jerking her hand from his long, warm fingers.
Elise could not hold his gaze. Good Lord, he really was quite wicked. She’d never met such a man in her life, or if she had, he’d been civilized enough to hide his true nature. But Grayston wore his sensuality as openly as other men wore clothing. Desperate for some distance, she sprang to her feet and paced back to the window. “Lord Grayston,” she said, her back to him. “I cannot think a civilized man would keep revisiting this topic.”
To her shock, she heard him leave his chair. But of course he would rise. He was a gentleman—in that way, at least. “My dear, have you not heard the gossip? I am hopelessly uncivilized.” His voice was teasing as he approached her. “Come, may I not even kiss your hand? My masculine pride is mortally wounded now. Does that please you?”
“I would not willingly wound anyone, sir,” she said, staring blindly down at the carriageway. “I simply don’t wish to flirt with you. Maynard—Major Onslow—wishes you warmly welcomed to Gotherington. You are his friend, his guest. Let us leave it at that.”
She could sense that Lord Grayston stood behind her now. It was as if she could feel the heat radiate from his body, warming her back. “But what of you, Lady Middleton?” His soft words stirred the hair at her nape. “Do you not wish to warmly welcome me?”
Elise ignored his suggestive tone. Instead, she lifted her eyes from the green expanse of lawn, but as she did so, she caught his reflection in the window, looming impossibly large behind her. Her head did not reach his shoulder. Her breath was hard to catch. “I am pleased to abide by my brother-in-law’s wishes, my lord,” she managed. “As long as you are courteous.”
He held her gaze in the glass, a bitter smile twisting his mouth. “An obedient woman,” he softly remarked. “I like that.”
She whirled about at that, then wished she had not. He stood very close. Too close. But Elise sensed that she must not let him intimidate her with his physical presence. “I’m trying to be civil, Lord Grayston,” she retorted. “But don’t dare push your luck. You’ll find I’m not subservient.”
His smile relaxed ever so slightly, and he lifted his hand as if to dust some imaginary bit of lint from his coat sleeve. But Elise mistook the motion, and jerked away.
His silvery eyes flicked up, capturing her gaze. “Do I make you nervous, Lady Middleton?” Grayston asked, the odd, emotionless smile tugging sideways again. “My nasty reputation has preceded me, perhaps? But rest assured that I have not accepted Major Onslow’s hospitality simply to strip young men of their fortunes, or to ravish lovely young women. Well, not unless …”
Not unless they wish to be. The unspoken words fairly sizzled and snapped between them. Elise itched to box his ears.
Grayston had the good grace to look away. “You spoke of civility, ma’am,” he said blandly, as if a jolt of electricity had not just passed between them. “I confess, I am parched. Might you find it in your heart to ring for tea?”
“Tea?” she said archly.
Grayston whirled back around, both his slashing black brows going up. “I believe the butler said you’d make me comfortable,” he murmured. “Be glad, my lady, that at present, it is only tea which my comfort requires.”
Elise went at once to the bellpull, and yanked it far harder than was necessary. “You quite waste your time with me, Grayston.” Her gaze held his firmly. “We have nothing whatsoever in common. You would find me very dull company.”
“Oh, but I don’t.” His voice was surprisingly soft. “That’s the bloody problem, isn’t it?”
From his position by the window, Grayston watched his hostess. Unless he misjudged, which it was his business never to do, Lady Middleton burned to wrap that bellpull firmly around his neck, or perhaps somewhere even more painful. Good God, she was china-doll pretty, with eyes as blue as a Tuscan sky, and a mass of soft gold curls which fought their conventional constraints by occasionally tumbling out of place.
Inwardly, Grayston laughed. He rather suspected that Lady Middleton’s morals were a bit like her hair. After all, he had put his hands all over her body, and felt the unmistakable heat within. Yes, she kissed like an innocent, but she only wanted a little educating. And Grayston found himself just a little too eager to enlighten her. He watched her walk back to her chair, her slight body trembling with restrained emotion. Beneath the dark blue skirts of her gown, her round hips swayed, stirring something deep and hot inside him.
Lord, he’d best have a care with this little pigeon. He could not misplay one hand, lest his game be lost. Oh, he might leave this house in a week or two, having freely given it back to that idiot Onslow. And it was remotely possible he might leave without having bedded the lovely Lady Middleton as he’d planned. But he would not leave here without having put a bullet through Denys Roth’s black heart. And everyone knew the quickest way to a man’s heart was … well, through his heart.
Still, it was going to prove more difficult than he first imagined to openly seduce Roth’s intended bride, then simply walk away. She really was quite … charming. How strange. That had never been one of his requirements in a bedmate. Voluptuousness. Audacity. Skill. Oh, yes, those things. But he was not accustomed to this, the perverse pursuit of a woman who clearly did not know the rules of the game. He would have to be very, very careful. But then, all appearances to the contrary, Grayston was a very careful man.
They were seated again, she on the little brocade settee, he opposite the tea table in a leather armchair. With quiet dignity, she attempted to make idle conversation until the tea was brought and the servants withdrawn again. She leaned forward to pour, and Grayston found himself suddenly captivated by the swell of her breasts as they shifted. Her brilliant blue eyes flicked up at him. “Sugar, my lord?”
He swallowed and focused his gaze on her face. “I beg your pardon?”
Lady Middleton made a small sound of exasperation. “Do you take sugar? Or milk?”
“Neither, thank you.” He reached across the table to take the cup from her outstretched hand, admiring the fine bones of her wrist. Dimly, he heard the rattle of carriage wheels on the gravel below, but she did not seem to notice.
“You had a pleasant journey from London yesterday?” she asked stiffly, passing him a plate of tiny cucumber sandwiches.
He took one, though he had no appetite. “The day before,” he answered hesitantly. “I’d not spent much time in Gloucestershire, and wished to see the countryside.”
He hoped she did not raise the question of why he’d been sleeping in squalid inns rather than staying at Gotherington. She was looking at him, her full lips parted as if she might ask, but Grayston was saved when the doors burst open, and the little girl darted into the room.
“Mama, come listen! I just played my new Mozart piece the whole way through without one mistake!” The child almost hurled herself at Lady Middleton, but at the last moment, she noticed Grayston and jerked to a halt. “Oh!” she said, bobbing an uneasy curtsey.
Elise watched Grayston rise from his chair just as Gotherington’s governess entered. “Your pardon, my lady,” she said, placing a hand on Henriette’s shoulder as if to draw her away. “We did not know you had a guest.”
But Grayston interceded. “What, is this my Sleeping Beauty, Lady Middleton?” He bent down to Henriette, and lifted her hand to his lips in a theatrical gesture. “She is even more lovely when awake.”
Henriette giggled, her uncertain gaze going at once to her mother.
Lady Middleton was blushing. “My daughter, Henriette, my lord,” she said. “Henriette, this is Lord Grayston. He carried you from the carriage to your bed last night. Do you remember?”
Shyly, the child shook her head.
Grayston let her hand drop. “And so you have mastered Mozart, Miss Middleton?” he asked, gazing at Henriette quite seriously. “I confess, I was all of eleven before I played with any confidence.”
Henriette’s dark eyes grew round. “Do you play the pianoforte, sir?” she asked eagerly. “Uncle May has a new one in the music room. A Graf all the way from Vienna. I could show you, if you wish?”
Elise put down her cup with an awkward clatter. “Lord Grayston has come to hunt, my love,” she said softly. “He shan’t have time to—”
“Oh, but I’m sure I shall,” the marquis smoothly interjected. “After all, one cannot hunt all day. I shall place myself into your capable hands, Miss Middleton. And if I am very good, perhaps you’ll play a duet with me? Do you have a favorite?”
The child smiled and shook her head.
“Then I shall search through Gotherington’s sheet music until I find something,” he promised.
Inwardly, Elise sighed. Henriette’s rapt gaze was now transfixed upon Grayston’s face; a face which seemed suddenly less harsh, far more animated. His voice, too, seemed gentler. But how fanciful she was. The arrogant devil probably had tricks calculated to charm females from nine to ninety.
“Back to the schoolroom, my dear,” said Elise as the governess took Henriette’s hand. “I shall see you at three for our botany walk.”
The door clicked softly shut. “So lovely in their innocence, are they not?” murmured the marquis, staring at it almost sadly.
“Children should be innocent,” Elise answered a little waspishly.
“Indeed.” His gaze snapped to hers, and suddenly, it was if a door had closed on his emotions as well. Gone was the almost avuncular warmth, and in its place, the look of jaded boredom had returned. “But when the epithet is applied to men or women,” he continued, “it is but a civil term for weakness, is it not?”
Elise felt her eyes widen in shock. “Sir, I find that insulting.”
His mouth curved into a bitter smile. “I am sure Mary Wollstonecraft meant you no personal ill when she wrote it,” he murmured.
“I b-beg your pardon?”
“Peruse the second chapter of A Vindication of the Rights of Women, Lady Middleton.” His voice was low and languorous. “I daresay you’ll find it there.”
“You have read that sort of thing?”
“I have read a great deal of every sort of thing,” he retorted. But suddenly, his expression shifted yet again. “Ah, but I tease you cruelly. Your daughter is lovely. That is all I meant to say.”
His ever-changing personality set Elise on edge. She wished he would remain either the arrogant rake or the cold aristocrat. Either of those she could deal with. “I’m doubly proud of Henriette,” she responded awkwardly. “I was her governess, you see, before Sir Henry and I wed.”
“Ah!” said Grayston, as if the mysteries of the universe had just been unveiled. “I had a governess myself once. Had she been half as lovely as you, no doubt my lessons would have held more interest.”
“Lord Grayston, please!”
Grayston sat down his teacup and leaned halfway across the too-narrow tea table. “Oh, I should love to please you, Elise,” he said softly. “I may call you Elise, may I not?”
“Certainly not!” She drew back as far as possible. “I am Elise only to those with whom I’m close.”
“But we have been very close, Elise,” he said, his face breaking into a sudden, and very real, grin. “Indeed, my dear, we have shared the sort of intimacies which I hope you don’t casually bestow on men whose names you don’t know. I am Christian, by the way.”
“I recall it!” she snapped. “May I gather, sir, that you mean to keep tormenting me?”
“Flirting, Elise.” He relaxed lazily into his chair and let his silvery eyes drift over her. “One calls it flirting. Tormenting is something quite different. Would you like to be tormented? I would most cheerfully oblige.”
Elise jerked to her feet. “I’ve never thought to say such a thing, sir, but I’m sorely tempted to slap your face!”
The grin deepened. “Might a good spanking do as well?” he asked, unfolding his height languidly from his chair. “No doubt my first governess shorted me a few, thus the scoundrel you see before you. Perhaps you could redeem me, Elise? I have no mistress, and you would do admirably.”
She drew herself up to her full height and pinned him with her best glare. “I do not know, my lord, what sort of witless females you are accustomed to tricking with that tripe of yours, but I shan’t fall for it. I don’t flirt. I won’t be your mistress. And I don’t believe in fairy tales, leprechauns, or fortune-tellers, either. You are arrogant and asinine and you—you—why you are an arrant rake! And I’m certainly not fool enough to think arrant rakes can be redeemed.”
Grayston grew very still, the glitter slowly leaving his gaze. And then, ever so gently, he dropped his napkin down upon the tea table. “My dear Lady Middleton! You are about to run out of insults which begin with A,” he said. “I shall relieve you of your burden before you proceed apace to the B’s. I am suddenly quite certain which of those you’d hurl first.” And to her shock, he spun on one heel and headed for the door.
Suddenly panicked, Elise recalled Maynard’s edict at breakfast. Was this man really her brother-in-law’s friend? Could she be naïvely overreacting to his flirtation? Somehow, she jerked into motion and followed his long, powerful strides toward the door.
She caught him by the shoulder as he crossed the threshold, and felt a coiled strength ripple through his arm. “I am sorry, my lord,” she said. “I did not mean to insult you.”
His eyes were gray as a stormy sea. “Oh, Lady Middleton, I think you did.”
Elise pursed her lips for a moment. “Perhaps,” she admitted, and felt him relax ever so slightly. “But while we are both Maynard’s guests, can we not agree to be civil and keep our distance?”
“Be predictably English, do you mean?”
“I—good God! I’m so confused I don’t know what I mean.” Elise let her shoulders fall. “But you did not finish your tea.”
As it shafted through the window, the pale autumn light touched his face, softening his expression. “Do you wish me to finish?”
Elise cut her eyes away, then back again. “I would not wish Maynard to return and realize I had argued with you.”
As Grayston let his hand fall from the door, something in his quicksilver gaze made her breath catch. “Ah, Elise, have we just had our first lovers’ quarrel?” His voice sounded genuinely tender. “Perhaps I can manage another of those little sandwiches, then, if it will please you. I shall endeavor to mind my manners.”
Elise tried to ignore the strange sensation in the pit of her stomach. What a conceited devil he was! She opened her mouth to tell him so, but suddenly, the sound of heavy footfalls could be heard around the corner. The butler came into view, and behind him, to her great relief, was Denys Roth.
Elise stepped forward. “Mr. Roth!”
Swiftly, the man closed the distance between them. “Elise, my dear,” he murmured, catching and lifting her hands in his. “How lovely you look!”
“We did not expect you so soon,” she said breathlessly. “Oh! Forgive me. Do you know Lord Grayston? My lord, Mr. Denys Roth, a friend of Ophelia’s.”
Roth shot her a chagrined look. “And of yours, my dear, I hope?” And then he turned his gaze on Grayston, and his expression seemed to falter. “Grayston, did you say?”
Elise watched, mystified, as the marquis’ spine went rigid. “I believe I’ve not the pleasure, Mr. Roth.” His eyes were quick and glittering, like some taut, untamed creature watching his prey. “I’m newly returned from many years on the Continent.”
Roth smiled tightly. “I am pleased to meet you, my lord.”
Uneasily, Elise motioned them toward the tea table. Denys settled into the chair Grayston had just vacated. To her shock, Grayston passed by the matching chair and settled down beside her on the narrow settee. She cut a sideways glance at him, but the marquis merely smiled and … what? Winked? Good God!
“Elise, my dear,” he said leaning companionably toward her as if they were old friends—or something worse. “Why don’t you serve Roth one of those delicious cucumber sandwiches?”
She cut another look at him. “Y-Yes, of course.”
“Have I interrupted something?” asked Roth.
“No,” answered Elise, too sharply.
“We were just enjoying a quiet little tea for two, Mr. Roth.” Grayston smiled faintly at the newcomer. “But I’ve quite had my fill. You won’t mind taking another man’s leftovers?”
The skin drew tight about Roth’s mouth. “I had a late luncheon in Cheltenham,” he murmured, his eyes darting back and forth between them uneasily. “You’ve known Major Onslow long, Grayston?”
“He was at Cambridge with my father.” Grayston reclined lazily against the settee and stretched his arm along its back, almost around Elise’s shoulders. “You knew him, did you not? My father?”
Roth shifted awkwardly in his chair. “Indeed, yes. A fine man. In fact, he had me up to Northamptonshire last year. A lovely home, Hollywell Castle.”
“Ah, yes.” Grayston sounded as if he were reminiscing. “That was my sister’s doing, you know. She was quite devoted to hearth and home. Did you meet her, by any chance?”
Fleetingly, Roth hesitated. “Lady Lenora, you mean?” he answered. “Indeed, I recall her very well. She made her come-out in Town last Season.”
“Did she?” asked Grayston absently. “As I said, I’ve been away.”
Roth relaxed slightly. “I was dreadfully sorry to hear of her … her—”
“Her accident,” supplied Grayston firmly. “She fell and broke her neck.”
Elise gasped. She lifted her hand in an uncertain, fluttering motion, then put it down again.
Swiftly, Grayston covered it with his own, and gave it a little squeeze where it lay upon the settee. “She did not suffer,” he murmured, turning slightly to face her. “It was very sudden.”
Elise was not sure whom he wished to convince. “My lord, I am so sorry.”
“A dreadful accident,” he reemphasized, returning his gaze to Roth. “And now, what little light my life held has been snuffed out. One finds one’s self quite desperate to exact some sort of revenge for such a cruelty. But alas, one can hardly punish fate, can one?” His voice was devoid of emotion.
Elise looked up to see that much of the color had drained from Denys’s face. He was distressed, perhaps, that the marquis had grasped her hand? But Grayston’s touch had brought her a moment’s comfort. And oddly, Elise began to resent Denys’s intrusion into her argument with Grayston. It made no sense, but there it was.
At last, he relinquished her hand, and to occupy herself, Elise poured tea all around while the gentlemen began to converse more casually. But there seemed nothing more of interest to discuss. Lord Grayston’s silvery eyes had become as opaque as a lake at sunset, and it felt as if the tragedy of Lady Lenora’s death lay over the room like a shroud.
But Denys seemed not to notice. Instead, he settled back into his chair as if he were rooted to it, and took up the safe, dull subject of his newest fowling gun.