When he finally released her, she sprang from the ground like a startled doe and rushed to the entrance of the hidden garden. To her eternal humiliation, she couldn’t find the door, which was concealed by the lavish spills of ivy coming over the wall. Blindly she thrust her hands into the trailing greenery, breaking two nails as she scrabbled for the doorjamb.
Coming up behind her, Westcliff settled his hands at her waist, easily dodging her attempts to throw him off. He pulled her hips back firmly against his and spoke against her ear. “Are you angry because I started making love to you, or because I didn’t finish?”
Lillian licked her dry lips. “I’m angry, you bloody big hypocrite, because you can’t make up your mind about what to do with me.” She punctuated the comment with the hard jab of one elbow back against his ribs.
The sharp blow seemed to have no effect on him. With a mocking show of courtesy, he released her and reached for the concealed door handle, allowing her to escape the hidden garden.
Chapter 15
A fter Lillian fled the butterfly garden, Marcus struggled to cool his passions. He had nearly lost all control with Lillian, had almost taken her on the ground like a mindless brute. Only some infinitesimal gleam of awareness, weak as a candle flame in a storm, had kept him from ravishing her. An innocent girl, the daughter of one of his guests …Good Lord, he had gone mad.
Wandering slowly through the garden, Marcus tried to analyze a situation that he would never have expected to find himself in. To think that a few months ago he had mocked Simon Hunt for his excessive passion for Annabelle Peyton. He had not understood the power of obsession, had never felt its ferocious pull until now. He could not seem to reason himself out of it. It seemed that his will had been divorced from his intellect.
Marcus could not recognize himself in his reactions to Lillian. No one had ever made him feel this aware, this alive, as if her very presence heightened all his senses. She fascinated him. She made him laugh. She aroused him unbearably. If only he could lie with her and find relief from this endless craving. And yet the rational part of his brain pointed out that his mother’s assessment of the Bowman girls was on the mark. “Perhaps we can achieve a bit of superficial polish,” the countess had said, “but my influence will certainly be no more than skin-deep. Neither of those girls is tractable enough to change in any significant way. The elder Miss Bowman, in particular. One could no more make a lady of her than one could change fool’s-gold into the real substance. She is determined not to change.”
Oddly, that was part of why Marcus was so drawn to Lillian. Her raw vitality, her uncompromising individuality, affected him like a wintry blast of air inside a stuffy house. However, it was dishonest of him, not to mention unfair, to continue his attentions to Lillian when it was obvious that nothing could come of them. No matter how difficult it was, he would have to leave her alone, as she had just asked.
The decision should have afforded him a certain measure of peace, but it didn’t.
Brooding, he left the garden and went to the manor, noting against his will that the exquisite scenery around him seemed a bit muted, grayer, as if he viewed it through a dirty window. Inside, the atmosphere of the sprawling house seemed stale and dark. He felt as if he would never take real pleasure in anything again. Damning himself for the maudlin thoughts, Marcus headed to his private study, even though he was in dire need of a change of clothes. He strode through the open doorway and saw Simon Hunt seated at the desk, poring over a sheaf of legal documents.
Looking up, Hunt smiled and began to rise from the chair.
“No,” Marcus said abruptly, with a staying motion of his hands. “I merely wanted a glance at the morning’s deliveries.”
“You look to be in foul humor,” Hunt commented, settling back. “If it’s about the foundry contracts, I’ve just written to our solicitor—”
“It’s not that.” Picking up a letter, Marcus broke the seal and glowered at it, perceiving that it was an invitation of some sort.
Hunt watched him speculatively. After a moment, he asked, “Have you reached a sticking point in your dialogue with Thomas Bowman?”
Marcus shook his head. “He seems receptive to the proposal I put forth about the enfranchisement of his company. I don’t foresee any problems in securing an agreement.”
“Then has it something to do with Miss Bowman?”
“Why do you ask?” Marcus countered warily.
Hunt responded with a sardonic look, as if the answer was too obvious to be voiced.
Slowly Marcus lowered himself to the chair on the other side of the desk. Hunt waited patiently, his undemanding silence encouraging Marcus to confide his thoughts. Although Hunt had always been a reliable sounding board on business and social matters, Marcus had never brought himself to discuss personal issues with him. Everyone else’s issues, yes. His own, no.
“It’s not logical for me to want her,” he said at last, focusing his gaze on one of the stained-glass windows nearby. “It has all the makings of a farce. One can scarcely conceive of a more ill-suited pair.”
“Ah. And as you’ve said previously, ‘Marriage is too important an issue to be decided by mercurial emotions.’”
Marcus glanced at him with a scowl. “Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike your tendency to throw my own words back in my face?”
Hunt laughed. “Why? Because you don’t want to take your own advice? I am compelled to point out, Westcliff, that had I heeded your counsel about marrying Annabelle, it would have been the greatest mistake of my life.”
“At the time she was not a sensible choice,” Marcus muttered. “It was only later that she proved herself to be worthy of you.”
“But now you will admit that I made the right decision.”
“Yes,” Marcus replied impatiently. “One fails to see, however, how that applies to my situation.”
“I was leading to the point that perhaps your instincts should play a part in the decision of whom to marry.”
Marcus was genuinely offended by the suggestion. He stared at Simon Hunt as if he had gone mad. “Good God, man, what is the purpose of the intellect if not to deliver us from the folly of acting on instinct?”
“You rely on instinct all the time,” Hunt chided.
“Not when it comes to decisions that have lifelong consequences. And in spite of my attraction to Miss Bowman, the differences between us would eventually result in misery for us both.”
“I understand the differences between you,” Hunt said quietly. As their gazes met, something in his eyes reminded Marcus that Hunt was a butcher’s son who had climbed out of the middle class and made a fortune from nothing. “Believe me, I understand the challenges that Miss Bowman would face in such a position. But what if she is willing to accept them? What if she is willing to change herself sufficiently?”
“She can’t.”
“You do her an injustice by assuming that she could not adapt. Shouldn’t she be allowed the chance to try?”
“Blast it, Hunt, I have no need of a devil’s advocate.”
“You were hoping for blind agreement?” Hunt asked mockingly. “Perhaps you should have sought someone of your own class for counsel.”
“This has nothing to do with class,” Marcus snapped, resenting the implication that his objections to Lillian stemmed from simple snobbery.
“No,” Hunt agreed calmly, standing from the desk. “It’s an empty argument. I think there is another reason you’ve decided not to pursue her. Something you won’t admit to me, or possibly even to yourself.” He went to the doorway and paused to give Marcus an astute glance. “As you contemplate the matter, however, you should be made aware that St. Vincent’s interest in her is more than a passing fancy.”
Marcus’s attention was instantly captured by the statement. “Nonsense. St. Vincent has never had an interest in a woman beyond the limits of a bedroom.”
“Be that as it may, I was recently informed by a reliable source that his father is
selling off everything that isn’t entailed. Years of indiscriminate spending and foolish investments have drained the family coffers—and St. Vincent will soon be deprived of his yearly allotment. He needs money. And the Bowmans’ obvious desire for a titled son-in-law has hardly escaped him.” Hunt allowed a skillfully timed pause before adding, “Whether or not Miss Bowman is suited to be the wife of a peer, she may very well marry St. Vincent. And if so, then he’ll eventually come into his title and she will become a duchess. Fortunately for her, St. Vincent seems to have no qualms about her suitability for the position.”
Marcus stared at him with furious astonishment. “I’ll speak to Bowman,” he growled. “Once I make him aware of St. Vincent’s past, he’ll put a stop to the courtship.”
“By all means… if you think he’ll listen. My guess is that he won’t. A duke for a son-in-law, even a penniless one, is not a bad catch for a soap manufacturer from New York.”
Chapter 16
T o anyone who cared to notice, it was obvious during the last two weeks of the house party at Stony Cross Park that Lord Westcliff and Miss Lillian Bowman made a mutual effort to avoid each other’s company as much as possible. It was equally obvious that Lord St. Vincent was partnering her with increasing frequency at the dances, picnics, and water parties that enlivened the pleasant autumn days in Hampshire.
Lillian and Daisy spent several mornings in the company of the Countess of Westcliff, who lectured, instructed, and tried in vain to instill them with an aristocratic perspective. Aristocrats never displayed enthusiasm, but rather detached interest. Aristocrats relied on subtle inflections of the voice to convey meaning. Aristocrats would say “relation” or “kinsman,” rather than “relative.” And they used the phrase “do be good enough” rather than ask “would you.” Furthermore, it was mandatory that an aristocratic lady should never express herself directly, but instead hint gracefully at her meaning.
If the countess preferred one sister over the other, it was certainly Daisy, who proved far more receptive to the archaic code of aristocratic behavior. Lillian, on the other hand, made little effort to hide her scorn at social rules that were, in her opinion, completely pointless. Why did it matter if one slid the bottle of port across the table or simply handed it over, as long as the port reached its destination? Why were so many subjects forbidden to discuss, whereas others that held no interest for her must be visited in tedious repetition? Why was it better to walk slowly than at a brisk pace, and why must a lady try to echo a gentleman’s opinions rather than offer her own?
She found a measure of relief in the company of Lord St. Vincent, who seemed not to give a damn about her mannerisms or what words she used. He was entertained by her frankness, and he was decidedly irreverent. Even his own father, the Duke of Kingston, was not exempt from St. Vincent’s derision. The duke, it seemed, had no idea how to apply tooth powder to his toothbrush, or put on his stocking garters, as such tasks had always been done for him by his valet. Lillian could not help but laugh at the idea of such a pampered existence, leading St. Vincent to speculate in mock horror at the primitive life she must have led in America, having to live in a mansion that was identified with a dreaded number over the door, or having to comb one’s own hair or tie one’s own shoes.
St. Vincent was the most engaging man that Lillian had ever met. Beneath the layers of silken gentility, however, there was a hardness, an impenetrability, that could only have belonged to a very cold man. Or perhaps an extremely guarded one. Either way, Lillian knew intuitively that whatever kind of soul lurked inside this elegant creature, she would never find out. He was as beautiful and inscrutable as a sphinx.
“St. Vincent needs to marry into a fortune,” Annabelle reported one afternoon, as the wallflowers sat beneath a tree, sketching and watercoloring. “According to Mr. Hunt, Lord St. Vincent’s father, the duke, is soon to cut off his annual portion, as there is hardly any money left. There will be little for St. Vincent to inherit, I’m afraid.”
“What happens when the money is gone?” Daisy asked, her pencil moving deftly across the paper as she sketched a view of the landscape. “Will St. Vincent sell some of his estates and properties when he becomes a duke?”
“That depends,” Annabelle replied, picking up a leaf and inspecting the delicate vein pattern of its amber skin. “If most of the property he inherits is entailed, then no. But have no fear that he’ll become a pauper—there are many families who will compensate him handsomely if he agrees to marry one of them.”
“Mine, for example,” Lillian said sardonically.
Annabelle watched her closely as she murmured, “Dear…has Lord St. Vincent mentioned anything to you about intentions?”
“Not a word.”
“Has he ever tried to—”
“Heavens, no.”
“He intends to marry you, then,” Annabelle said with unnerving certainty. “If he were merely trifling, he would have tried to compromise you by now.”
The silence that followed was gently fractured by the dry swish of the overhead leaves, and the scratch of Daisy’s busy pencil.
“Wh-what will you do if Lord St. Vincent proposes?” Evie asked, peeking at Lillian over the edge of her wooden watercolor case, the top half of which served as an easel as she balanced it on her lap.
Unthinkingly Lillian plucked at the grass beneath her, breaking the fragile blades with her fingers. Suddenly realizing that the activity was reminiscent of Mercedes, who had a nervous habit of pulling and tearing things, she stopped and tossed the bits of grass aside. “I’ll accept him, of course,” she said. The other three girls looked at her with mild surprise. “Why wouldn’t I?” she continued defensively. “Do you realize how few dukes there are to be found? According to Mother’s peerage report, there are only twenty-nine in all of Great Britain.”
“But Lord St. Vincent is a shameless skirt chaser,” Annabelle said. “I can’t envision that as his wife, you would tolerate such behavior.”
“All husbands are unfaithful in one way or another.” Lillian tried to sound matter-of-fact, but somehow her tone came out defiant and surly.
Annabelle’s blue eyes were soft with compassion. “I don’t believe that.”
“The next season hasn’t even started,” Daisy pointed out, “and now with the countess as our sponsor, we’ll have much better luck this year than last. There’s no need to marry Lord St. Vincent if you don’t wish it—no matter what Mother says.”
“I want to marry him.” Lillian felt her mouth tighten into a stubborn line. “In fact, I will live for the moment when St. Vincent and I will attend a dinner as the Duke and Duchess of Kingston …a dinner that Westcliff will also be attending, and I will be escorted into the dining hall before him, as my husband’s title will take precedence over his. I’ll make Westcliff sorry. I’ll make him wish—” She broke off abruptly, realizing that her tone was far too sharp, betraying far too much. Stiffening her spine, she glared at some distant point on the landscape, and flinched as she felt Daisy’s small hand settle between her shoulders.
“Perhaps by then you won’t care anymore,” Daisy murmured.
“Perhaps,” Lillian agreed dully.
The next afternoon saw the estate mostly vacant of guests, as the majority of the gentlemen went to a local race meeting, to wager, drink, and smoke to their hearts’ content. The ladies were conveyed in a succession of carriages to the village, where a traditional feast day would be attended by a touring company of London performers. Eager for the diversion of some light comedies and music, the female guests left the estate en masse. Although Annabelle, Evie, and Daisy all implored Lillian to come with them, she refused. The antics of a few traveling players held no appeal for her. She did not want to force herself to smile and laugh. She only wanted to walk alone outside…to walk for miles, until she was too weary to think about anything.
She went alone into the back garden, following the path that led to the mermaid fountain, which was set like a jewel in the middl
e of the paved clearing. A nearby hedge was covered with wisteria, appearing as if someone had draped a succession of pink tea cozies across the top of it. Sitting on the edge of the fountain, Lillian stared into the foamy water. She was not aware of anyone approaching until she heard a quiet voice from the path.
“What luck to find you in the first place I looked.”
Glancing up with a smile, she beheld Lord St. Vincent. His golden-amber hair seemed to absorb the sunlight. His coloring was unquestionably Anglo-Saxon, but the dramatic lines of his cheekbones, angled at a rather tigerish slant, and the sensuous fullness of his wide mouth gave him a singularly exotic appeal.
“Aren’t you leaving for the race meeting?” Lillian asked.
“In a moment. I wanted to speak to you first.” St. Vincent glanced at the space beside her. “May I?”
“But we’re alone,” she said. “And you always insist on a chaperone.”
“Today I’ve changed my mind.”
“Oh.” Her smile held a slightly tremulous curve. “In that case, do have a seat.” She colored as it occurred to her that this was the exact spot where she had seen Lady Olivia and Mr. Shaw embracing so passionately. From the glint in St. Vincent’s eyes, it was apparent that he remembered too.
“Come the weekend,” he said, “the house party will be over…and then it’s back to London.”
“You must be eager to return to the amusements of town life,” Lillian remarked. “For a rake, your behavior has been surprisingly tame.”
“Even we dissipated rakes need an occasional holiday. A constant diet of depravity would become boring.”
Lillian smiled. “Rake or no, I have enjoyed your friendship these past days, my lord.” As the words left her lips, she was surprised to realize that they were true.
“Then you think of me as a friend,” he said softly. “That’s good.”
“Why?”
“Because I would like to continue seeing you.”