Chapter Ten

 

 

THE COLD FOLLOWED MALVERN into the hall, clinging to him tenaciously as he handed his gloves to his butler. The weather was always brutal this time of year, but this night it was particularly vicious. Hail and sleet had attacked him as soon as he had set foot outside the house, the wind easily cutting through the layers of clothing he’d thought adequate protection. The glut of carriages on the roads had slowed the traffic’s progress to a limping crawl and he’d spent most of the night ensconced within his carriage, cursing the need that had driven him out into such damnable weather.

Cartwright took the proffered items with no comment, though the butler must have been curious as to why his master had returned at such an early hour. Malvern questioned it himself. He’d had every intention of attending his club until the wee hours of the morning, to imbibe an obscene amount of alcohol and maybe amuse himself by antagonizing some twit possessed more of bluff than brains. As La Belle was conveniently located not five minutes from his club, he’d even toyed with the idea of visiting Lydia’s establishment. However, such a transitory desire had left him when confronted by the prospect of venturing once more into the harsh December night.

All of this had nothing to do with Elizabeth.

His club had not improved in his absence. As he’d wandered aimlessly, he’d been reminded rather forcibly of why he had quit the place. Still the same patrons with the same stories. Still the same posers attempting notoriety, the same lackeys snivelling for attention. The younglings may have changed face, but they were still the same in their callowness. The play at the tables was tiresome, the conversation dull, and he’d left it all behind rather than suffer through such a miserly entertainment.

An unrelenting feeling of restlessness had dogged him. It couldn’t be appeased by his club, by Lydia, by anything that usually diverted him. All he knew was he was waiting for something, but as for what, he had no bloody clue.

And none of it had anything to do with Elizabeth.

Leaving Cartwright to dispose of his outerwear as warranted, Malvern entered his study. At the very least, he would become as inebriated as his brandy stocks would allow. Malvern settled into his chair, pouring himself a generous helping. He raised the glass to his lips and his gaze lit upon the chair opposite his desk.

Her chair.

Damnation.

Draining the brandy in one swallow, his gaze remained firmly locked on the chair. He couldn’t stop thinking about Elizabeth. Everywhere she haunted him. Her features animated as she explained the difference between a courting kiss and a passionate kiss. The wicked glint in her eyes as she trailed her hand down his bare chest. The look of wonder when he made her come.

Bloody hell. His hand tightened around the glass. Mere thoughts of her hardened him, arousal an unassuaged burn in his blood. Pouring another glass, he downed it in the vain hope the heat of the alcohol would burn stronger than his arousal.

Of course it didn’t bloody work.

It had been a week since he’d seen her, a damnably long week in which she’d had to attend her family’s Christmas gathering. After the shocking lack of control that should have sent her running, they had settled back into their routine, so much so he had been thrown when she’d mentioned the holiday and the decampment to her parents’ estate. With her absence, their lessons were of course temporarily suspended.

For his part, he’d not noticed the build-up to the holiday, had not even thought about the season until Elizabeth had mentioned it a little over two weeks ago. Once made aware, he’d entertained vague notions of a private celebration, the two of them together, but fate and her familial commitments had prevented the thought from solidifying. It was for the best. What use had he of Christmas? He’d never celebrated it before and, more than like, wouldn’t again.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, the brandy starting to do its work. For at least another week she would be gone, not returned until well after the new year had begun. She had told him about her family’s tradition, about celebrating at their country home, where she had grown up and her mother had confiscated the Christmas tree as punishment one year because Elizabeth and her next eldest sister Bella had broken a prized ornament. They would sing carols and drink eggnog, and her father would become a bit too merry on mulled wine and tell ribald tales of how he had courted Elizabeth’s mother.

Good God. He downed another glass, the burn now reduced to a tickle. He should not ruminate on Elizabeth in her absence. Lydia had offered the widow as a gift, not an obsession. It did not matter that Elizabeth’s green eyes sparkled when she looked at him, as if inviting him to share in a joke only they two knew. It did not matter that she made him want to hold her next to him, his skin against hers as they absorbed each other’s warmth. None of that mattered. She was merely a mouse of widow of little sophistication, and was never meant to be more than temporary.

As the justifications flowed, he knew them to be false, the platitudes of a man unwilling to admit—

Malvern stood, pulling at his cravat as he began to pace. When had the measure of the room become constricting? Never before had he noticed its smallness. In the past, it had always adequately suited his purposes but tonight…tonight it was a veritable closet. A man was barely able to take two steps before he had to turn in the opposite direction, and whose idea was it to put so much damned furniture in here?

He swore as he narrowly avoided the chaise lounge where Elizabeth had perched, a wicked smile on her face after she had unhooked her corset, after she had bared herself for him. She had been naked but still she’d sat there so properly, her knees together and her hands in her lap as she’d tormented him.

Fucking merciful god, why had he thought it a good idea to think on that? Now, all he could see were her breasts, her legs, her smile, Elizabeth watching him from her perch, knowing she was driving him crazy and yet he had persisted with his lesson, determined to show her—Jesus, he had no idea what he had been going to show her.

Then he had behaved like an idiot. He still had no notion what he had been thinking. It was all a blur, those frantic moments on the lounge. He’d put it all from his mind and Elizabeth seemed to have as well. That state of affairs—total denial—suited him well.

Stopping in the middle of a stride, he rubbed his eyes, cursing the beginnings of a headache. No matter what he did, his thoughts returned to her. Every single bloody time. Memories of her saturated the study, but he knew if he entered another she would follow him, the ghost of her laughter brightening the room, the memory of her touch a shiver on his skin.

Christ. Mayhap this was the first sign of insanity.

A gentle knock drew his attention. His butler entered the room, bringing with him a modicum of distraction.

“What is it, Cartwright?” Malvern was glad for the coolness of his voice, though it was belied by the heat bubbling in his veins.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but you are needed in the ballroom.” The butler’s unemotional voice was oddly soothing, and showed no sign if he had noticed his master’s uncharacteristic display of emotion.

Malvern schooled his features into their usual lines, the impassiveness of his servant’s response reminding him of his own. “The ballroom?”

“The request was insistent, sir.”

“Insistent,” Malvern repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

“And whom is so crass as to insist, Cartwright?”

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I am not at liberty to say.”

“Indeed.”

The butler quailed infinitesimally at Malvern’s level gaze but he resolutely remained silent.

He rubbed his lip, considering his butler before saying, “I shall be there momentarily.”

The butler nodded, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Malvern waited an appropriate amount of time before rising to make his way to the ballroom. Demands. His staff issued demands now. It appeared he was too lenient. If nothing else, he would go to the ballroom to disengage the impertinent fool.

The door was ajar, soft light spilling from the gap. Candles had been left burning in the room, highlighting yet another reason to dismiss this servant. He exhaled. It was so tiresome to discipline his employees. Not for the first time, he contemplated downsizing his household, be damned to society and their expectations.

Pushing open the door, he prepared to rebuke the inept servant. He stopped, dumbfounded.

Elizabeth stood in the middle of the room. Candlelight fell softly upon her, her hair by turns gold and shadow, the soft illumination lending a honeyed hue to her skin. The bottom lip caught between her teeth did nothing to mar the wide smile lighting her face, and the soft light did not hide the laughter in her eyes.

He wanted to take her face between his hands. He wanted to kiss her, hard, soft—it didn’t matter. He took half a step forward before he controlled himself, linking his hands behind his back, interlaced fingers digging into each other with the force of his restraint.

Making himself look from her smile, he instead swept his gaze down her body. Bloody hell, what a stupid idea. She was wearing one of her new gowns, this one of blue silk that clung to her rounded hips and small waist, her breasts barely contained by the fabric.

Arousal ran through him, thick and hot. Ruthlessly, he forced his response aside. He would not react to her so slavishly. A degree of distance must be maintained.

All of this happened in the blink of an eye, and went unnoticed by her.

“Surprise!” Her brow quirked, as if she knew his shock and, what’s more, was amused by it.

“Indeed.” Gesturing to the blanket and basket at her feet, he raised a brow in imitation of her. “What is all this?”

A cheeky grin lit her face. “It is my thank you. I would wager you never expected a picnic.”

“You would wager correctly.” He paused, giving himself time. There was something…warm settled in his chest, something that had begun at her appearance. Curious. “Are you sure this is a picnic?”

“Of course it is. We have a blanket and food. How can it not be a picnic?” She knelt on the floor, her skirts gathered beneath her as she peered into the basket.

Lowering himself to the floor, he stated the obvious. “We are inside.”

She huffed in exasperation. “Fine, then, pretend we’re in a field, under a tree.”

“We’re in a ballroom, Elizabeth.”

“You’re not trying hard enough, James. Here.” She walked on her knees over to him, cursing as her skirt got tangled beneath her. An unwilling smile tugged at his mouth as he watched her pull her skirt out of the way, curses falling from her lips all the while. She really was adorable sometimes—bloody hell, had he just used the word adorable?

She managed to get the skirt out of her way and cross the distance between them. Warm hands covered his eyes as she leaned close, her lips flirting with his ear. “Now, imagine we are in a field. The grass moves gently with the breeze, the summer sun warming the air. We’re shaded by a copse of trees, the branches reaching for the clear sky.”

He snorted at that. A harsh exhalation of breath exploded from her, and he could hear her counting to ten under her breath before, gamely, she continued.

“Imagine we had strolled, searching for a place for our picnic, and we saw the trees and thought it would make good shelter. You spread out the blanket and we lounged across it, enjoying the shade the tree provided from the midday sun. It is summer, and we had thought to take advantage of the warmer weather, of the sunshine and the heat. We can hear the wind gently pushing at the leaves in the tree, and the smell of sun-warmed grass is in the air, earthy and deep. Can you picture it now?”

He took her hands from his eyes, holding them in his own. She was smiling. Something inside him shifted, something that had been cold and dark, that feeling of warmth expanding. Bringing her hands to his mouth, he pressed a kiss against her fingers. “No. But thank you for trying.”

A mock frown couldn’t quite contain her amusement. “Well, pretend then we are in your ballroom in the middle of winter about to eat delicious food. How’s that?”

“Perfect.”

She made a face before turning to the basket, unpacking a variety of foodstuffs and grouping them together in some order, which only made sense to her.

He watched her, enjoying the opportunity just to observe her. Who grouped a tangy lemon tart with a hunk of roast beef? Eventually, curiosity, an unfamiliar emotion, pushed him. “Why are you here, Elizabeth? Should you not be with your family?”

She paused in the setting of the cutlery, and then deliberately, she completed their arrangement. “I was with them.”

“Yes, but you said you wouldn’t be back until after Twelfth Night. Surely you are missing out on, what was it, apple bobbing?”

She looked up. “Apple bobbing?”

He shrugged.

“Apple bobbing.” Ridiculous warmth spread through him at her rueful grin. “Yes. Well. I opened presents with them. We laughed, we cried, Papa became insanely drunk. It seemed prudent to return to London.” Lowering her gaze, she started fidgeting with the edge of a napkin. “There are a million people in my family. I’m sure they won’t miss me. And, I thought…well, you were here on your own with no one to help you celebrate, and I wanted to….” Her chin lifted. “I just wanted to be here. In London. So, I came.”

She had come to London for him? A swirl of some emotion he refused to name tossed low in his gut at the thought. He pushed it away, as he always did with an unknown feeling, and deemed it unimportant. Because it was.

“So, do you like your present?” she asked, a teasing glint lighting her eyes.

“I don’t hate it.” She thwacked him with the napkin. Capturing her hand and disarming her, he traced the delicate bones with his thumb. “I’m glad you’re here.”

 

***

 

AGONY SHOT THROUGH HIS back. Malvern clawed out of sleep, his spine protesting violently, the stiffness in his lower back an unwelcome companion to the pain.

Bloody hell, had he slept on an anonymous floor once again? He had not done such a thing since his youth, preferring to sleep in his own bed no matter what manner of debauch he had undertaken. Still half asleep, he pried open an eye. There seemed to be a blanket between his body and the floor, but the covering had done little to cushion the hard surface. He noted the presence of a female body lying curled around him, her head buried in his neck, her breath light and warm against his skin. Cautiously lifting his head, he braced himself for the remnants of a night of excess.

Instead, he saw Elizabeth.

A curious feeling of relief swept through him. No remnants of a licentious night, but instead the remains of a picnic.

Gradually, the events of the previous evening came back to him. His surprise when he had discovered Elizabeth. The wide smile on her face as she had detailed the reason behind the inclusion of each dish. Watching her tear her bread roll into thin strips before eating them. She had defended her strange eating habit immediately, as if she were often rebuked for it. He cared not how she ate and he had told her so, affecting his most imperious manner. She had laughed. He remembered her laughing often.

He looked down at Elizabeth. She was dead to the world, her mouth slightly open, and, good god, was she snoring? It was a delicate snore, but she would no doubt be mortified if she knew. When she awoke, he would tell her, and watch as her pale skin reddened and she spluttered and insisted she didn’t, even though she was in no position to argue. And then she would berate him for telling her.

He couldn’t wait.

Lifting a finger to her cheek, he traced the bone, memorizing her soft skin. He remembered pouring champagne, her conversation becoming sillier the more she drank, until her animated re-enactment of an embarrassing incident at her first ball had startled a laugh out of him. He remembered pulling her into the crook of his arm, lying back with her as she whispered how tired she was. He remembered saying she should rest for a moment.

Dropping his hand from her cheek, he glanced at his pocket watch. His eyebrows rose. A moment had become four hours. Weak light streamed through the window, the sky beginning to lighten with the new day. Bloody hell, what if someone saw her?

“Elizabeth.” He touched her shoulder gently. “Elizabeth, wake up.”

With a soft murmur, she buried herself deeper into him.

“Elizabeth,” he said again, a bit louder this time.

No response.

“Elizabeth!” He pushed her shoulder sharply.

She sat bolt upright, her expression startled. “What? What?”

He smiled mildly. “Wake up.”

“Oh.” Yawning hugely, she rubbed her eyes. “You scared me to death. Why did you have to yell?”

“Because you sleep like the dead.” Folding his arms did nothing to quell the urge to smooth back her disordered hair. “By the way, it’s almost dawn.”

“Is it?” Seeming unconcerned, she rubbed the small of her back. “Good Lord, but my back is sore. Did we fall asleep?”

“Yes.” Did she always look so in the morning? So mussed and touchable? “Aren’t you worried about the time?”

She shrugged, yawning. “Not particularly. No one is going to remark upon a veiled woman leaving your house, and all my family are in the country.” The sleepiness disappeared. “Why? Are you worried?”

“Only for you.”

Her breath hitched audibly. “Only for me?”

Scowling, he looked away. Damnation, did she have to look so? For God’s sake, he was only worried about her reputation. Preparing to inform her of such, he turned to her.

She still had that same expression on her face, as if he had hung the moon. He started to speak, but she leaned forward, her lips stealing his words. The kiss she gave him spoke of all that had been in her face, all the thoughts and emotions he refused to name.

Her hand resting against his cheek, she leaned back from him. “I should go.”

“Yes.” A lump had formed in his throat and his mouth was dry. It must be that he was parched. They had drunk little water last night.

Dark green pools of warmth and humour held him captive. Her hand was still warm against his cheek. Then it fell away.

Sudden panic filled him at the loss of her touch. “You’ll be here Thursday?”

“Yes, of course.”

Relief swamped him, and he shook his head in disgust. She meets you every Thursday, you fool. She was back from the country now and had no plans to return. Thus, their lessons would continue as usual, and he refused to acknowledge the lightness of heart that accompanied that fact.

Elizabeth was searching around them, lifting up the mussed blanket, her skirt, his jacket. “Have you seen my shoes?”

He shook his head, still combating the lingering remains of unaccustomed emotions. Her picnic had been the least lascivious action he had undertaken for as long as he could remember, but never had he enjoyed himself more. It made little sense, and yet he would not examine it too closely, instead simply take it as she had meant it. As thanks. Simply, only, that.

In the end, she didn’t need his help, finding her shoes and pulling them on before standing and smoothing her dress into a semblance of order. Draping her cloak about herself, she leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “I’ll see you soon.”

Long after she had left, his gaze remained trained on the door, the ghost of her now inextricably imprinted in the ballroom. Instead of his father’s debauchery, he would think of Elizabeth, her smile bright as she knelt amongst the makings of a picnic. He got to his feet, leaving the night behind as he made his way to his bedchamber. Memories of Elizabeth’s laughing eyes followed him all the way, through the hall, into the washroom, while he was dressing.

He had been right. It didn’t matter what room he was in. Elizabeth followed him through all.

He couldn’t decide if he were grateful or resentful.