A little disdain is not amiss; a little scorn is alluring.
—Congreve
Grayston arose the next morning in a very foul humor, and immediately managed to tie his cravat so tightly he had to ring Stallings to unstrangle him. And the day was not looking up. Over dinner the previous evening, he had learned who else was expected to round out the house party. A pack of dull Scots and a bloody parson were to make up the largest entourage, followed by a reclusive earl who had married Ophelia’s cousin or some damned thing. They apparently lived but a dozen miles away, and thus would benumb the conversation with local gossip and rural chitchat. After that, the guest list went downhill.
The horde was expected to descend around mid-morning, and Grayston was determined to plot an escape. After breakfast, he wandered into the old abbey and found Elise sewing in the family parlor. Henriette sat at a Pembroke table executing a charcoal sketch. They looked up in mild surprise when he entered. Perhaps guests were expected to keep to the newer, more formal rooms? But Grayston was undeterred. “May I join you?”
“Anyone may do so,” Elise murmured, shrewdly laying aside her stitchery such that it blocked the other half of the tiny settee. “I trust you slept well, my lord?”
He had not, but Grayston lied with alacrity. He sat down opposite her, and they chatted idly for a time. Today Elise wore a silk gown of deep rose. It was the same color as her cheeks when she blushed, he thought, a lovely, innocent shade. He’d set her to blushing more than once during dinner last night, and it was clear she’d neither forgotten nor forgiven him.
He leaned forward to study her embroidery frame where it lay upon the settee. “A fine piece, ma’am,” he said. “You’ve a clever hand.”
“Thank you.”
“I find delicate work with the hands most soothing,” he murmured, stroking his fingers almost lovingly over the silk threads.
“Oh,” she said vaguely, too innocent to catch the double entendre. “Is that why you play the pianoforte?”
Grayston lifted one brow and studied her for a moment. “In my line of work, ma’am, a man must keep his fingers supple and deft.” She looked at him in some surprise, and so he continued. “I am a professional gamester, Lady Middleton. A wicked fileur de cartes. But then, you knew that, did you not?”
Elise looked at him unblinkingly. “But you are now the Marquis of Grayston,” she said simply. “Surely you no longer need—”
Softly, Grayston laughed. “Need has little to do with it,” he answered. “A man’s character never alters, ma’am. Women would do well to remember that about the men in their lives.”
But Elise would not be led. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and forced the conversation toward something more mundane. Soon Henriette brought her sketch to be admired, and with a shy smile, reminded Grayston of his promise to see the pianoforte.
“I have not forgotten,” he assured her. “Indeed, I have been pilfering the sheet music in your uncle’s library. I found two pieces which I thought we might try together this afternoon. My lady, will you join us?”
“I have plans,” said Elise, seizing up her embroidery and beginning to stab at it once again.
“Ah.” Grayston watched her nimble fingers work. The piece really was quite lovely. “Then would you consent to spend the morning with me? I should very much like a tour of Gotherington’s grounds.”
“I’m sorry, but I mean to take a walk with my daughter, my lord. Until Lady Ariane Rutledge and the Amherst girls arrive, Henriette has no one to play with.”
“Excellent!” returned Grayston smoothly. “Then I shall have two ladies, one for each arm.”
He really had left her no choice. Within the hour they were walking arm in arm along the path which wound from the rear entrance through the topiary garden. Elise was awkwardly transparent in her efforts to hasten him along, while Grayston was equally determined to stop and admire every sculpture. He considered with great satisfaction the picture of domestic bliss which would greet Denys Roth should he happen to glance out his bedchamber window.
It was an easy enough matter to engage Henriette’s complicity. At her instigation, they would pause alongside each carefully pruned shrub and take turns making up fairy tales to suit its shape. Thus, the prancing boxwood unicorn became a princess forever frozen by the spell of a jealous witch, while the gaggle of green geese around the fountain became an army of elves called to her rescue. Henriette was a lively, fanciful child, and their game made for slow progress. Christian held Elise’s arm firmly against his side throughout it.
After half an hour of their relentless good cheer, Elise began to wear down, the chilly edge receding from her voice. And soon, despite his delaying tactics, they ran out of topiary and crossed into the walled flower garden. There the three of them strolled slowly along the brick paths, looking, he supposed, very much like a happy family.
But how would he know? Christian could not once remember strolling through the gardens at Hollywell with anyone other than Lenora toddling on his heels. They had scarcely even known their parents. His father had always lived in London, returning reluctantly to Northamptonshire only for a few weeks at Christmas. His mother had lived far away in Bath, where his father had sent her when Christian was four, with instructions to never again darken their door. And she had not done so. Not until she was six months’ gone with a second child, leaving Christian’s father with an unpleasant choice. He could leave his wife to give birth alone in Bath, thereby making it plain to the world that he had been cuckolded for the hundredth time. Or he could hide her away in the country in an attempt to mitigate the embarrassment.
For Lady Grayston, the embarrassment had lasted but nine months. She died in childbed, leaving behind a squalling, black-haired infant of uncertain parentage. Christian watched Henriette Middleton dance down the path before him, her raven braids swaying as she went, and remembered his sister with an abiding sweetness. The circumstances of her birth had marked a drastic change in his life. He had not missed his mother, for she’d never been overfond of children, and even before her banishment, had lived most of the year in London. No, the change had been Lady Lenora Villiers.
Despite the difference in their ages, there had existed between them an instant bond, not unlike that of two souls cast adrift in a lonely sea. No longer was he left alone in a three-acre mausoleum with only a tutor and a housekeeper for companionship. Fool that he was, he had believed his childhood suddenly idyllic. He had believed his life perfect. For a few years, it had been. And then the façade crumbled.
On his twelfth birthday, his father had announced that it was time to make a man of his son. And Christian was his son. None but a Villiers, it was often said, could beget a child with eyes which were at once so cold and so silvery. But the rest of him was his mother’s. He had her dark coloring, her voluptuous mouth, and—as his father was ever fond of reminding him—her reckless appetites. To ensure that such tendencies were beaten out of him, Christian had been sent not to Eton or Harrow, but to Rugby School, whose motto was “By prayer and by work.”
It was an accurate assessment of the curriculum. Christian had never prayed so much nor worked so hard in all his life. For a couple of years, anyway. Then, after having been repeatedly told by his father that he was irredeemably wicked, Christian had decided that no prophecy should go unfulfilled. At fourteen, he ran away from Rugby. At sixteen, he ran off to join the Royal Navy. At seventeen, he ran away to the Strand and fell in with a gang of blacklegs who’d taught him the first of many hard lessons in cardsharping. And at eighteen, he ran away with the Belgian ambassador’s mistress. It never occurred to him that while he was running and running and running, his young sister was left to the mercies of their overbearing father.
Finally, when he was twenty, Christian ran into a very beautiful—and very married—countess. After being caught in a moment of bliss between the lady’s thighs, Christian almost killed her husband in a duel, and was obliged to flee to France. The old marquis declared it the last straw. Christian had been whoring and drinking and gambling his reputation to ruin, and so his father banished him from England. As long as Christian would stay on the Continent, his father promised he would continue to give Lenora the protection of his name and provide her with an enormous dowry. If not, he’d wash his hands of his dead wife’s bastard, and Christian could deal with Lenora’s future as best he could.
By then, the truth of Christian’s exploits had been magnified times ten in the telling, until his reputation was even worse than he deserved. But Christian still knew he had rendered himself unfit to raise a child. And so he left his little sister behind for good. At the time, it had seemed his only choice. Damm it, it had been his only choice.
He was jerked back into the present when Henriette shrieked with delight, splintering his maudlin mood. Christian looked up to see that she had espied a pair of young rabbits sunning themselves beyond a row of rose bushes, and had darted around the distant wall in hopeless pursuit. “Henriette!” cried Elise after her. “Stay away from the canal!”
But the child did not seem to hear. Christian watched her go, amazed to find himself genuinely smiling. “She is headed the other way,” he soothed. “She will be safe.”
Elise caught his tender tone. “Have you some fondness for children, my lord?”
Christian crooked his head to look down at her. “I hardly know,” he lightly confessed. “I’ve rarely been around them. Still, it is a pleasure to watch Henriette.”
“Is it?” Elise sounded skeptical.
Christian shrugged. “She has such a natural exuberance beneath her shyness,” he explained, feeling suddenly ill at ease. “I knew someone once who was very like that as a child.”
Elise seemed taken aback. “Really? Who?”
He hesitated for a long moment. “My sister,” he said softly. “She is—was—six years my junior.”
“Oh, yes,” she said softly. “How odd that I did not realize Lady Lenora Villiers was your sister.” Distance had crept back into her tone, as if she, too, found their conversation awkward. “But then, I hardly know you, do I?”
“Don’t quarrel with me just now. Elise,” he said very quietly.
“Forgive me,” she said stiffly. “I did not realize I was quarreling.”
“Forgiven.”
For a time, they simply strolled along the path which Henriette had taken, the hems of Elise’s dress sweeping over the leaves which had started to fall. “I only saw her once, you know,” Elise mused, pushing a branch of forsythia from her face. “At Lady Morton’s ball last Season. She was so very lovely.”
“Lenora—?” he murmured, as if returning again to the present. “Yes, Lenora was lovely inside and out.”
They were still strolling along the main path. Elise looked up at him strangely. “How long has it been since you lost her?” she finally asked. “And your father passed away shortly thereafter, did he not?”
He thought of Henriette dashing after the rabbits in her yellow muslin pinafore, the sun glinting off her hair, the very picture of well-bred innocence. Such were his last memories of his sister. How long since he’d lost her? Ten long years, really. Ten years since he’d betrayed her by capitulating to his father’s demands, leaving Lenora alone to bear the brunt of his hatred. But how long since she was murdered? Tricked, debased, and abandoned by the man she’d loved? Ah, that betrayal was more recent.
“Last August,” he answered, turning to fully face her, preparing to tell Elise the same awful lie he’d been telling for months now, ever since Lenora’s last letter had finally caught up with him in Venice. “She died last August in a fall from a parapet at Hollywell Castle. A portion of the wall gave way. It was a dreadful accident. And yes, my father followed not long after.”
Elise’s expression softened. “How horrible for you,” she said quietly. “But you must not blame yourself my lord.”
He looked at her sharply. “Why do you think I blame myself?”
Elise shrugged. “I do not know why,” she answered. “But I can hear the pain and doubt in your voice. And yet, there was nothing you could have done.”
Christian jerked his eyes from hers and stared straight down the path before them. “You do not know that,” he said swiftly. “I should have been with her. Perhaps … perhaps things would have been different.”
Her gaze flicked up at him. “Your pain is deep, my lord,” she murmured. “But you must cut out the bitterness, and cleave only to the pleasant memories of your sister. I am glad that you had her for a time, and that you loved her.”
He realized at once that it had been a mistake to speak his thoughts of Lenora aloud. He had no wish to share any part of his sister—or his sin—with anyone. They were crossing from one walled garden into another. Suddenly, Christian halted and swung around to face her, almost trapping her with his body. “I do not wish to speak of my sister, Elise. I should much prefer talk about us.”
Her blue eyes shifted nervously. “There is no us to talk about, my lord. Please do not start this again. I have not yet lectured you for your behavior last night at dinner, and I mean to do so.”
He lifted one slashing black brow. “You did not enjoy it?”
Elise felt heat flush up her neck. “You know I did not!”
He gave a dry, doubtful smile. “You are not flattered by the fact that a man finds you infinitely more desirable than his dinner? Almost more desirable than the air he breathes? I want you as my mistress, Elise. Have I not made that plain?”
“The only thing you’ve made plain is that you have lost your hearing at an abysmally young age.” Elise tried to keep her expression stern. “I said no. And I meant it.”
Quietly, he laughed. And then, after cutting a swift glance to be sure Henriette had not returned, he gripped Elise lightly by the shoulders. “Elise, my dear,” he said. “You have been a widow for—what? Two years? Did you take no pleasure from the physical aspects of marriage? Do you not miss having a man to warm your bed?”
Her eyes blazed with anger. “My bed is none of your business, my lord,” she hissed. “And I am not interested in your quick, cheap pleasures.”
Christian pursed his lips for a moment. “Do you think that sexual pleasure between a man and a woman is cheap, Elise?” he murmured. “I could show you that, properly done, it is the ultimate luxury. And it certainly is not quick. Let me come to you tonight and show you just how rewarding an affaire d’amour can be.”
Elise felt herself unaccountably trembling inside. “A love affair!” Her hands came up to push defensively against his chest. “Don’t pretty up your offer with French, my lord. There is no love between us. That is what cheap means.”
She watched as faint humor flicked across Grayston’s face. “But I love the look on your face when you are ringing a peal over my head, Elise,” he laughed. “Doesn’t that count?”
Elise lost what was left of her temper. “Oh, devil take you, Grayston!” she snapped. “You are maddening.”
But the devil did not seem to want him either, for Grayston did not vanish. Instead, his smile merely deepened. “You are not by chance holding out for marriage, are you, Elise?” He chuckled when she gasped in horror. “You could almost tempt me, my love,” he continued. “But what if I am all brag and no brawn? Many men are, you know. It is best to put a horse through his paces before you bid.”
“I will not be bidding, my lord. Indeed, we know nothing of one another.”
“That excuse has become shopworn, my dear.” He dipped his head as if he might kiss her right in the middle of the rose garden. To her shock, she did not jerk away as any sensible woman ought to have done. But at the last possible instant, he drew back, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Do I not know everything about you that a man needs to know?” he asked in that wicked whisper of his. “I know that your nipple hardens sweetly to my touch, that your mouth tastes of cinnamon, and that the sway of your hips can hold me in thrall. And I know you make the most exquisite sounds of pleasure in your throat when my tongue teases yours.”
“Why—good Lord! I do not make noises of any sort!” Elise took a step back, her heel sliding awkwardly off the brick path. Oh, how she wished Henriette would return!
The marquis caught her firmly beneath the elbow, and drew her back to him. “I lied, Elise, when I said that I slept well last night. I did not. Shall I tell you what I dreamed of? You were so very, very good, my dear. It was sheer torment. I awoke shaking with fever, and aching with disappointment.”
“I fear your torment is destined to continue,” she snapped. “In this world, certainly, and right into the next, I don’t doubt.”
“You shrew!” he chuckled. “For my part, I don’t think it will last much longer. I think bliss is just around the corner.”
“You are an ass, my lord. And an arrogant one, at that.”
His silvery eyes glittered with something, but it was not humor. “Back to those insults again, are we?”
“Yes,” she hissed. “And I shan’t apologize again. Not when you keep teasing me.”
“You do not want me to tease you?” he responded, his voice laced with a challenge. “You do not wish me to continue inviting you to my bed? Then keep your lips perfectly still, Elise, while I kiss you very thoroughly. Don’t move, and don’t let me coax out any of those sweet little noises. If you can, then I swear I will never again lay a hand on you.”
Her eyes widened, the color deepening across her face. Christian waited for a heartbeat, waited for her to step back, or lower her gaze. But instead, the lady set her palms more firmly against his shoulders and gave him a scolding look. A governess look. She did not wish him to kiss her, but he was not at all sure she would try to stop him.
But then again, he might be wrong. Perhaps she would strike him a cracking good blow across the face. Suddenly, he did not care. Instead, Christian had the sensation of standing on unsteady ground, as if he had ventured into quicksand from which there was no turning back, and was finding it oddly exhilarating to be dragged under. He had forgotten where he was. He had even forgotten about Roth. He dipped his head again. “Now hold very still, my love,” he whispered near her mouth. “You must try to prove your point.”
“You are insane,” she hissed. “I shall scream.”
“No, you won’t,” he whispered, his lips brushing lightly over hers.
I will she thought. I swear to God I will!
But when his lips touched hers, so sweet and lightly teasing, Elise sucked in her breath. With it came the dizzying scent of him, his musky warmth, his freshly starched linen, and the hint of sweet tobacco, all of it so achingly familiar. And as if drawn by powerful magnets, Elise turned her face into his and kissed him back. The resolve seemed to drain from her every muscle, only to be replaced by something which spiraled sweetly into her belly.
Ah, God! She had known it! Known that she would weaken, and then capitulate. And yet, it was another of those otherworldly moments, as though her impulses and her mind were controlled by someone else. She leaned into his heat, felt the soft wool of his lapels firmly against her breasts, and opened her mouth beneath his. And then he did it again; melted her world with his lazy, stroking tongue and his warm, knowing touch.
The marquis soothed her gently, sliding inside her mouth and back out again, raking her skin with the faint stubble of his beard, and drawing her fully against him. Into him, it seemed. And Elise felt herself rise up onto her toes, intuitively searching, instinctively aching. Gently, he set her back against the stone gatepost, wrapped a powerful arm about her waist, and plumbed her mouth again. Elise let her hands drift from his chest down and around to the small of his back, remembering the hardness of his muscles there.
At her touch, Grayston groaned faintly, deepened the kiss, and slid one hand under her behind, the silk of her gown softly rustling as he circled and caressed her through the fabric. On another moan, he lifted her against him, easing her up the warm, hardening length of his erection. Elise fought down an almost unbridled emotion—not panic, but something worse. Something wonderful. She fought the urge to curl one leg about his waist; battled the wanton wish to press herself higher, harder, against him. It felt delicious and wrong and wicked and perfect all at once. Suddenly, she cared not one whit that he was a rake and a rogue, as long as he would soothe her aching torment.
And then she remembered Henriette! At once, Elise stiffened and tore her mouth from his. She might hear the child’s footsteps running back down the path at any time. The walls and bushes might not be enough to hide them.
Slowly, with obvious reluctance, the viscount lowered her back down the hard swell of his trousers. Then came the moment she had instinctively dreaded. The moment when he would look into her eyes and laugh. But he did not laugh.
Soon, she wished he had. Elise had expected him to mock her, had expected at the very least that his face would be alight with unholy amusement. Instead, Grayston looked down at her, his expression tender, and a little mystified. And there was a sense of grief and loss there, too. Then very gently, as if she were a wayward child, he set her away from him, and looked down to neaten the fabric of her bodice.
It was a long moment before he lifted his eyes to hers again. When he did, the tender expression—if it had existed at all—was gone.
“Ah, my dear Lady Middleton,” he whispered, his silvery gaze catching hers once more. “It seems hunting season is destined to continue.”