I have no relish for the country; it is a kind of healthy grave.
—Smollett
Much later that same evening, Lord Robert Rowland found himself attempting to alleviate the boredom of Gotherington’s drawing room by lifting his wineglass to the candlelight and peering discreetly through his sherry. To those who did not know the young man, such a gesture made him appear almost introspective, as if he were contemplating the fine quality of the vintage, when in truth, all he was contemplating was the quality of the Misses Onslows’ bosoms. Those were very fine indeed, he noted, when Belinda leaned over the harpsichord to turn her sister’s music.
The room in which Lord Robert languished was stuffed cheek-by-jowl with the Onslows’ newly arrived guests, most of whom lingered about a pair of whist tables which had been set up after dinner. Lord Robert gazed past them most carefully. It would not do, his elder brother had warned during their tedious journey from Cambridgeshire, to be caught paying overmuch attention to the oh-so-eligible Misses Onslow.
“Well, Stu, at least they have their mama’s luscious bosoms,” he said, stretching back into his chair on a huge yawn. “Perhaps these two weeks in the back of beyond won’t be such a great snore after all?”
From his adjacent chair, his elder brother, Stuart, Lord Mercer, shot him a speaking glance. “They are young ladies, Rob,” he grumbled. “Not Green Room talent to be ogled at your convenience.”
Lord Robert laughed. “Oh, don’t be such a stick, Stu,” he sagely advised. “Lucy’s been batting those big blues at us since we arrived. I daresay a fellow could coax her into a dark corner without too much trouble.”
“Thank you, but I’ve no wish for a leg shackle at my age,” snapped Lord Mercer. “And that’s what we’d likely get. Do you imagine for one instant that Papa wouldn’t drag your young arse to the altar for it? They are his goddaughters, never forget.”
But as usual, Lord Robert was undeterred. “Then what about a pretty widow or a bored wife?” he asked just as Lucy struck up her next tune. He motioned with his wineglass in the direction of the two whist tables. “Helene Rutledge has very long legs.”
“She is also Bentley Rutledge’s sister-in-law, you lack-wit!” Mercer’s voice was thick with disgust. “And Lord Treyhern’s wife. Really, Rob, you’re such a puppy. If a woman of Lady Treyhern’s caliber so much as winked at you, you’d likely just come all over her slippers.”
Across the room, Belinda began to sing to Lucy’s accompaniment. Lord Robert winced, and turned away. “You are just jealous of my looks, Stu,” he drawled. “Fifty guineas says I can bed her within the week.”
“Your fifty guineas will get your brains blown out by that hard-nosed husband of hers,” retorted his elder brother. “If Hell-Bent Rutledge doesn’t do the job for him. What kind of friend are you?”
At last, Lord Robert fell silent. “You are right, of course,” he finally agreed, watching Lord Treyhern sweep up a trick and stack it neatly by his elbow. “It would not be at all the thing to sleep with old Bentley’s sister-in-law, would it? But what of Elise Middleton? I hear widows are always eager for bed-sport.”
Now it was Lord Mercer’s turn to snort with laughter. “Even a fool can see which way the wind blows there.”
“Who, Roth?” Lord Robert scowled just as Belinda hit a sour note. “Mama says he’s just a fortune-hunter who’s been hanging out after Lady Middleton all Season. If she wanted him, she’d have had him ere now.”
Lord Mercer hissed between his teeth. “She does not want him, you noddy. She wants the Marquis of Grayston.”
“She what—?”
Lord Mercer jerked his head toward Lady Middleton’s card table. “She can scarce take her eyes off the man, Rob. They’ve been cutting sidelong glances at one another since we arrived.”
Lord Robert put down his glass and commenced a careful study of his manicure. “So—?”
“So stay well out of that one, Rob. They say Grayston would as soon put a bit of lead between your eyes as look at you.”
Just then, the would-be assassin stepped from the shadows where he’d been standing since declining a seat at the after-dinner card games. With a slow, indolent gait, he wandered across the room toward them, a half-empty brandy glass held low and loose in his fingertips. Both young men twisted uneasily in their chairs when Grayston halted, looming over them like a thin, black shadow. He was tall and very lean, with eyes like well-polished pewter; silvery and emotionless.
“I collect, gentlemen, that your evening lacks excitement,” he said very quietly. “Might I be of service?”
“In what way, sir?” asked Mercer politely.
Grayston cast a jaded eye about the room. “Perhaps we should play at something more challenging than whist?”
Lord Robert forced himself to sit up very straight. “What is your game, Grayston? We might be interested.”
Swiftly, Mercer’s elbow jabbed into his brother’s ribs.
“Vingt-et-un is the only game I play,” murmured Grayston. “Usually,” he added, lifting his glass to his lips and staring quite blatantly over the rim at Lady Middleton.
Vingt-et-un! Bloody hell. It was a very dangerous sport, and one which it was said a very clever man could master. Lord Robert Rowland had not mastered it. Truth be told, he’d not mastered much of anything, cards or copulation included, loath though he was to admit it.
Thankfully, his brother saved him from his fate. “Perhaps another time, Grayston,” Mercer said, feigning his mother’s most world-weary tone. “Our stepfather frowns upon serious gaming when ladies are present. You understand, I hope?”
A strange half-smile crooked Lord Grayston’s mouth. “Ah, the Reverend Mr. Amherst as a stepfather,” he murmured. “I quite perceive your problem.”
“We do not find it a problem, sir,” said Lord Mercer very softly.
For a long moment, Grayston stared at him. “A poor choice of words on my part,” he finally acknowledged with a nod. “And I meant only that we might play for practice, not serious money. But perhaps another time?”
Just then, one of the whist games ended, chairs sliding back amidst a great deal of laughter. The harpsichord, too, halted. Grayston crooked one brow. “Your pardon, gentlemen,” he remarked, turning away with some haste. It was quite clear where he was headed.
Lord Robert felt the stab of his brother’s elbow yet again. “Observe now, my brother,” hissed Mercer. “And behold a master at work.”
The game had not gone well for Elise, who had finished the rubber badly by tossing down a trump, which quite obviously ought to have been played earlier. She was partnered by Mr. Amherst, who merely smiled, slid the trick to Helene, then suggested they pause for refreshments. At Elise’s elbow, Denys pushed back his chair and stood. Suddenly, it was as if her breath came more freely; as though she’d been unconsciously ill at ease in his presence. There was an undeniable tension between them now, and she was not quite sure what, if anything, she ought to do about it. She had made Denys no promise, and was feeling less and less inclined to do so.
But even that discomfort had been surpassed by the disquieting sensation of Lord Grayston’s cold gray eyes on her face, where they had remained for much of the evening. He was without a doubt the most relentless gentleman she’d ever known. And the most commanding. Since his arrival at Gotherington, she’d been almost intuitively aware of his presence each time she entered a room. His gaze seemed somehow to command hers, willing her to look at him, drawing her eyes down his length. And no matter what he wore, he was always startlingly handsome. The arrogant devil.
Denys had been very much aware of him, too. In fact, if he came within three feet of her, it seemed that Grayston was at once by her side, touching her on the shoulder, or murmuring some compliment into her ear, and making Denys’s eyes flash with resentment. Elise felt confused, and wretchedly out of her depth. Suddenly, the hair on her neck prickled, and Elise turned her head just as the marquis slid a strong, warm hand beneath her elbow.
“I find the air has grown overwarm, ma’am,” he said in a voice which was clearly meant for her alone. “Might I prevail upon you to take a stroll through the gardens?”
“The gardens?” Elise managed to stand without stumbling.
Across the table, Denys cleared his throat. Grayston seemed oblivious. “I have a particular wish to see the ornamental canal by moonlight,” he urged, his breath warm on her ear. “I am told it is very romantic.”
Denys coughed sharply. “Lady Middleton is playing at whist, Grayston.”
Finally, Grayston lifted his cool gaze. “Is she? I was under the impression the game had ended.”
“Just the rubber,” snapped Denys. “Lady Middleton will wish to finish the match.”
Elise, however, found herself just a little wary of having someone else decide what she wished. Perhaps she did not know her own mind, but that was her problem. At that moment, Lady Kildermore reentered the drawing room. “The girls are finally asleep!” she announced, her eyes going at once to her husband, Mr. Amherst. “Oh, are you being forsaken, my love? I should be pleased to take Elise’s seat, if she would like some air.”
Elise stepped away from the table. “Thank you, Jonet,” she said, telling herself she could hardly refuse either Grayston or Jonet without being rude.
For much of the evening, the marquis had stood aloof and alone by the fireplace, while Elise remained almost shockingly aware of his presence—which was just what he’d intended, she did not doubt. She did not wish to be aware of such a man. She did not wish to feel the heat of his eyes almost consuming her flesh. Certainly she did not wish to leave the warmth and safety of the drawing room on his arm. Or did she? Good heavens, his strange, twisted logic was taking root in her head!
“I’ll just go and fetch my shawl,” she heard herself murmur. Good God, she never murmured.
“Splendid.” Grayston curled his hand more possessively beneath her arm. “I shall see you upstairs.”
Elise turned to go, but from across the table, Denys’s eyes caught hers. A flash of something unpleasant twisted his features, but before Elise could make it out, he spun about on one heel and crossed to the sideboard. “Will you take sherry with us, Lady Kildermore?” he asked, jerking the stopper from the decanter with an ugly scrape.
Elise was very much aware of Grayston as he followed her up the curving staircase. She was a mindless idiot, no doubt, for provoking Denys Roth over the likes of Lord Grayston. Why could she not behave sensibly? Why could she not keep this man in his place? She should not have angered Denys. Suddenly, it seemed as if her weakness was the marquis’ fault, and she wanted to strike out at him for it. “Well,” she said over her shoulder. “You have got your way again, it would seem.”
They had reached the landing. Abruptly, Grayston seized her by the shoulder, forcing her to turn and face him, his expression and his words suddenly grim. “Do you accompany me against your will, Lady Middleton? If so, feel free to return at once to the drawing room before I do something untoward.”
Elise could not hold his gaze. Her words had been unfair. “You’ve done nothing,” she whispered. “Nothing yet.”
He slid one finger beneath her chin and forced her face back to his. Tonight, there was a noticeable strain about his eyes. “Perhaps, madam,” he said quietly, “you’d best decide which of us you’re most afraid of.”
Elise felt heat flood her face. “Why, I cannot think what you mean.”
“Can you not?” He let his gaze roam slowly over her features, as if he meant to memorize them. “Isn’t it just a little unfair to return my kisses with such ardor, and then lay the whole of the blame on me? Be warned, my dear. It is a burden I’ll bear but so long.”
Elise opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out. And after all, what could she say? “I do not wish for your kisses, my lord,” she managed. “If I’ve misled you, I apologize.”
The tight lines about his mouth deepened to a frown. “So why are you here, Elise?”
“But an arm’s length away, is that it?” He crooked one brow. “No flirting? Touching? Kissing? Are those your terms?”
“Yes.” The word was a whisper.
Grayston nodded curtly. “If that is what you think you want, ma’am, then so be it.”
Elise shot him another uncertain glance, and hastened in the direction of her bedchamber. She would not permit herself to slow down, did not wish to reconsider the folly of her choice. She told herself that she was leaving with Lord Grayston merely to make a point to Denys. She was her own mistress, and made her own choices. But Elise very much feared that was only a part of the truth. The rest of it she was not at all ready to examine.
It took but a moment to fetch her shawl, and soon they were making their way through the topiary garden. It really was a gorgeous night; the air autumn-crisp beneath a sky which was washed with starlight. A night for romance, she thought impulsively. But what a foolish notion. There was nothing in the least romantic about a handsome rake, unless one was a fool.
The walled gardens of Gotherington were vast, one connecting to another through a series of gates, arches, and arbors. Grayston strolled through them in silence, Elise’s fingers resting warmly on his arm. True to his word, Grayston did not allow himself to draw her near. Instead, he struggled to control the frustration he’d been suffering since dinner. A frustration which was not waning.
Having caught on to Grayston’s tricks, Mrs. Onslow had seated him between Lady Treyhern, a passionate, dark-haired beauty, and the effervescent Lady Kildermore, who had turned out to be so vastly different from the dour Scot he’d expected, it was laughable. Of course, he had flirted shamelessly with them both. But strangely it was Elise with whom he wished to converse. Elise with whom he wished to laugh and whisper. And the worst part of it was, with every passing hour, his wish was having less and less to do with that bastard Roth.
Tonight as Roth had hovered about Elise, there had been no mistaking the proprietary look in his eyes, the sense of ownership in his touch. He was sending Grayston a message. Roth was rattled, and that was, of course, deeply gratifying. So why was he here now, strolling through the moonlit gardens with the man’s intended wife? Grayston had incited Roth’s wrath by taking her, yes. But would not his purpose have been better served by remaining in the drawing room to flaunt his flirtation? Instead, he had slipped away with Elise into the darkness, which was precisely what he’d wanted to do. And therein lay the problem. He was losing sight of his goal.
Even worse, he had agreed to Elise’s ridiculous notion of propriety simply to ensure that she would not scamper back into the relative safety of the drawing room. An arm’s length away. She did not wish to be touched. Kissed. Flirted with. So this walk did him no good at all. Except that he was enjoying it. He loved the feel of her properly gloved hand on his arm and the scent of her soft, simply dressed hair. He loved the way her dinner dress laid bare her dainty collarbones and the way her shawl was inching down her right shoulder. And he especially loved the way she had gasped when first she’d caught sight of the moonlight reflecting down the length of the canal.
God help him, what he wouldn’t give to hear her gasp in just such a way beneath him. Oh, how he would love to strip away that dress, spend his frustrations inside her, and then—and here was the most disconcerting part—spend the rest of the night with her enfolded in his arms. Good God, he wanted to murmur sweet nothings against her temple. And why? Why? What on earth had got into him?
But there was one thing about Elise which rattled him. In the quiet of the night, it was easier to admit that he was disconcerted by how easily she saw through him. Her sudden insights always left him vaguely ill at ease. The ability to cloak his thoughts, sometimes even from himself, was a skill he had honed carefully through the years. He did not need Elise Middleton to lift the wool from his eyes. And yet that same emotional acuity drew him. Drew him, and left him feeling strangely raw and vulnerable. He did not want to feel vulnerable. It would be wise to carefully guard his emotions when he was with her. And Elise would be well worth the effort.
The moon was a silver crescent in the sky, its light shimmering off Elise’s bare skin. He wanted to draw her close, but he had sworn he would not. Grayston crooked his head to better see her face. “Elise, you had best say something,” he warned.
She looked up at him uncertainly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Amuse me, Elise,” he advised. “Chatter idly about something, for God’s sake. Else I might resort to those very things I’ve promised not to do.”
Even in the cool night air, he could sense her skin growing warm. “What shall I talk about?”
He made an exasperated sound through his teeth. “Tell me about yourself.”
She lifted her shoulders in the merest shrug, sending the shawl slithering off the other arm. “Oh, I fear I’ve lived an unremarkable life.”
“Unremarkable—?” Absently, Grayston tucked her shawl back up again. “That has a certain appeal.”
Elise lifted her gaze from his fingers to his eyes. “To you—?” she asked on a laugh.
Grayston refused to be baited. “Tell me, Elise, how did you like being married? Was it a love match? Do you yet grieve for your dead husband?”
“So many questions, my lord!” Her voice was soft but chiding. “However, in the interest of amusing you, yes, I liked being married. I liked having someone to care for, and someone who concerned himself with my welfare. And yes, I loved my husband, but it was not a love match. There are many kinds of love, you see.”
“Ah, and I would know nothing of such tender emotions?” remarked Grayston mordantly. “I assume your paragon wed you because your sharp little tongue and pale blond beauty stole his breath away as it has mine?”
She pressed her lips firmly together. “What folderol! Never was a man more full of breath than you.”
“Ah, I’m flirting again, am I not?” he murmured. “A nasty habit I shall strive to restrain. Now tell me why two people who were not in love decided to wed?”
For a moment, her eyes sparked, and then Elise relented. “Because we were fond of one another,” she said. “And because his lungs were … not strong. The doctors could do little. H-He did not wish Henriette to be orphaned.”
Grayston lifted one brow and looked down at her as they strolled. “I’m very sorry,” he said quietly. “But is Ophelia not his own blood kin?”
Elise hesitated, her blue eyes flicking up at him beneath a fringe of dark lashes. “Henry felt that Ophelia had her plate full.”
Grayston laughed softly. “Henry thought his sister a hen-wit, more like,” he returned. “But that was nicely done, Elise. You are every inch a lady. Now tell me, where does such a well-bred lady hail from?”
“A village in Sussex, near the South Downs,” she answered. “I’ve lived within twenty miles of it all my life.”
They had begun to stroll along the wide graveled path which verged the canal. Carefully, Grayston set her to his left, away from the water’s edge. “You have property in Sussex, do you not?” He knew, of course, that her husband must have left her quite well off. A predator like Denys Roth did not fish in shallow water.
“My late husband left me one of his lesser properties, yes,” Elise murmured. “It is a small manor, but very lovely. And it has always been Henriette’s home.”
“Ah! You had said you were her governess. How did that come to pass?”
“Sir Henry was a widower, and when he moved into my father’s parish, we were intro—”
“Oh, Lord!” interjected Grayston, halting on the path. “You’re going to tell me that your father was the local vicar, aren’t you?”
“You needn’t make it sound like some sort of cliché, my lord,” she murmured.
At once, he drew her back into motion. “But it is a bit, isn’t it?” he carefully suggested. “The virtuous vicar’s daughter becomes a governess, then earns the undying love and respect of her employer? It happens often enough, does it not?”
“Oh, to be sure.” He felt her body go stiff with anger. “Almost as often as spoilt young noblemen seduce other men’s wives, then bolt off to the Continent to forever wallow in vice and dissolution. If we’re to discuss clichés, my lord, let’s not miss any of the more salacious ones.”
“Touché, Elise,” he murmured. “But my exile was not quite forever, was it? I am here with you, behaving myself with relative grace, whilst the vice and dissolution of Paris wallow on without me. Still, if you mean to wound me, you are making progress.”
Elise slowed her pace. “Oh, I am sorry,” she said on a sigh. “I didn’t exactly mean—”
“Oh, but you did!” He gave a bitter laugh. “Elise, you are the most egregious liar! To yourself, and to me. And what now? Must I deny my wicked reputation? Well, I shan’t. I hardly know what is said of me here in England, but I do not doubt for one moment that at least half of it is true. Unlike some men, I will never hide from you my true nature—or my motives.”
On his sleeve, her fingers tightened. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Grayston pursed his lips and shook his head. For a heartbeat, he considered. No, his job was not to save Elise from her folly, but rather, to avenge Lenora’s. Elise was capable of making her own choices; she was no green girl. Or was she? He did not know, nor did he wish to. In fact, Grayston wished he need know nothing more about her. He wanted only to bed her, and for reasons which went far beyond pleasure. It would be less of a torment to tumble her as publicly as possible, then meet Denys Roth over pistols at dawn to settle the matter.
Oh God, how awful that now sounded! Suddenly—and very desperately—Grayston wished that his hunger for revenge need not consume another human being whilst it was being satisfied. The thought of hurting her was almost unbearable. It was not just her innocence. Not just the fear that she might love Roth, perhaps even deeply grieve for him when he was dead. No, it was worse than that. For if she loved Roth, then it would mean that she would never …
But he must not think of that. He must think of Lenora. If guilt and grief and yes—perhaps even a measure of loneliness—began to choke him, then he must throw off that emotional stranglehold by reminding himself of hers. What must it feel like to be seduced, betrayed, and abandoned by someone you loved? To feel his child growing in your womb, and know that you had been forsaken to bear your shame and punishment alone?
Good God! For months now he had seen her in his dreams, as clearly as if he’d stood on the ground beneath, begging her not to do it. Again and again, he watched as her silky black hair tossed lightly in the updraft and her pale linen nightgown billowed in the moonlight. In his mind’s eye, his sister stood alone at the top of a cold stone parapet, staring down into fate’s abyss. And there was nothing he could do to stop her. Not now. It was too late. He could only avenge her death, but in the process, might he be committing a sin blacker than any of those which already shadowed his soul?
They had reached the end of the path. And perhaps they had reached the end of something else as well. Grayston was not perfectly sure. Gently, he slid his hand over Elise’s and lightly patted it where it lay upon his coat sleeve. “We should go in, my dear,” he said quietly. “It grows late.”
Elise looked up at him in mild surprise, then nodded. Was it his imagination, or did she look disappointed? Despite her protestations, had she secretly wished him to pursue her? Well, he was in no mood to oblige her. No, not tonight. Tomorrow, his cold resolve would no doubt rise anew from tonight’s ashes. But at the moment, it had somehow escaped him, leaving him feeling melancholy and absurdly world-weary.
Elise felt a jumble of emotions as the house came into view. When they reached the short flight of stairs which led up to the veranda, Lord Grayston pulled her gently to a halt. Elise lifted her chin and looked up at him expectantly, her heart beating an odd tattoo. For a moment, their eyes met, and Grayston let his gaze roam over her face in that odd way which made her insides go limp and her stomach flip-flop. Her pulse ratcheted up and her lashes fluttered almost closed.
He is going to kiss me, she thought. No matter his promise, he is going to kiss me.
But he did not. Instead, with a faintly mocking smile, he lifted her hand from his arm and let her heart fall back into its proper place. “I’ll bid you goodnight here, Elise.” His voice rumbled softly in his chest. “I wish to stroll the veranda and smoke.”
His meaning was obvious. He wished to be alone. She should not have been surprised; he was a solitary creature. She watched his long, elegant fingers withdraw a burnished cheroot case from his pocket, and felt an odd and acute disappointment that those long fingers weren’t sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck, stilling her mouth for his kiss. Worse, she had the strangest notion that he sensed her disappointment, and found it faintly amusing.
Well! She did not really want him to kiss her. She had specifically requested he refrain from doing so, and he had honored that request. She was grateful. She was. And so with a few quiet words of goodnight, Elise turned and went lightly up the steps and across the veranda, her arm still warm from his touch. But before she reached the long row of French windows which lined the back of the house, one of the handles rattled, and she looked up to see Denys through the glass.
“Elise, my dear,” he murmured, pushing it open. “We were worried.”
Elise stepped in, sliding her hands up and down her arms as if she were still cold. Inside, the house felt almost chillier than did the brisk autumn air. “There was no cause for concern, Denys. I merely went for a walk.”
Denys looked troubled. “Yes, and with that scoundrel Grayston,” he murmured, placing his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Everyone has been concerned, Elise. No one understands why Maynard invited him here.”
Elise bit back the retort which sprang to her lips. Perhaps Denys was concerned. And Grayston’s reputation was by no means pure. “Yet as you see, I am fine.” She forced a tight smile. “But I am tired, Denys. I am going to bed. Please make my apologies to the others.”
He must have caught the irritation in her voice. “Come now, Elise,” he whispered. “Surely you understand my concern? You are good and virtuous, and nothing Grayston can do will change that. But you are also very innocent, and I want so desperately to protect—”
“Oh, Denys!” she interjected, lifting her hand. “Please! Do not—”
He pressed his finger to her lips, cutting her off. “Elise, love, I know that you are not sure,” he gently answered. “But I am patient. In time, my dear, you will be as convinced of the rightness of this match as am I. Now, come, may I kiss you goodnight? Let me show you, Elise, just a hint of what I feel for you.”
With another weak smile, Elise allowed Denys to draw her near and press his mouth coolly against hers. Fleetingly, she closed her eyes and tried to feel some enthusiasm. But it was a cold comfort, this kiss she had not wanted, and a dreadfully stark comparison to the kiss she had secretly wished for.
On a sigh, Denys set her away. “There, you see?” he said, his voice low and suggestive.
And Elise saw. Oh, she certainly did. Beyond Denys’s shoulder, in the shadows which edged the veranda, she saw Lord Grayston. He was silently watching them, like some lean, dark creature of the night, his eyes burning through the glass and radiating a white-hot malevolence.