“The back terrace,” Annabelle replied.
They went to the rear of the house and exited through a row of French doors that opened onto a broad flagstoned terrace. Stretching the entire length of the house, the terrace overlooked the extensive gardens below. It looked like a scene from a painting, with orchards and beautifully kept walks and beds of rare flowers leading to the forest, while the Itchen River flowed below a nearby bluff that was defined by an ironstone wall.
Lillian turned toward Evie and hugged her. “Evie,” she exclaimed, “I’ve missed you so! If you only knew of all the ill-conceived rescue plans we thought of to steal you away from your family. Why won’t they let any of us come to visit you?”
“Th-they despise me,” Evie said in a muffled voice. “I never realized h-how much until recently. It started when I tried to see my father. After they caught me, they locked me in my room for days, with h-hardly any food or water. They said I was ungrateful, and disobedient, and that my bad blood had finally risen to the fore. To them I’m n-nothing but a dreadful mistake that my mother made. Aunt Florence says it is my fault that she’s dead.”
Shocked, Lillian drew back to look at her. “She told you that? In those words?”
Evie nodded.
Without thinking, Lillian let out a few curse words that caused Evie to blanch. One of Lillian’s more questionable accomplishments was the ability to swear as fluently as a sailor, acquired from much time spent with her grandmother, who had worked as a washwoman at the harbor docks.
“I know that it’s not tr-true,” Evie murmured. “I mean, m-my mother did die in labor, but I know that it wasn’t my fault.”
Keeping one arm around Evie’s shoulders, Lillian walked with her to a nearby table on the terrace, while Annabelle and Daisy followed. “Evie, what can be done to get you away from those people?”
The girl shrugged helplessly. “My father is s-so ill. I’ve asked him if I could come to live with him, but he refuses. And he is too weak to keep my mother’s family fr-from coming to take me back with them.”
All four girls were silent for a moment. The unpleasant reality was that even though Evie was of an age to leave her family’s custody voluntarily, an unmarried woman was in a precarious position. Evie would not inherit her fortune until her father’s death, and in the meantime, she had no means to support herself.
“You can come live with me and Mr. Hunt at the Rutledge,” Annabelle said suddenly, her voice filled with quiet determination. “My husband won’t let anyone take you away if you don’t wish it. He’s a powerful man, and—”
“No.” Evie was shaking her head before Annabelle had finished the sentence. “I would n-never do that to you…the imposition would be so… oh, never. And surely you must know how odd it w-would appear… the things that would be said…” She shook her head helplessly. “I’ve been considering something …my aunt Florence had an idea that I sh-should marry her son. Cousin Eustace. He’s not a bad man…and it would allow me to live away from my other relatives…”
Annabelle’s nose wrinkled. “Hmm. I know that’s still done nowadays, first cousins marrying, but it does seem a bit incestuous, doesn’t it? Any blood relation at all just seems so… ugh.”
“Wait a minute,” Daisy said suspiciously, coming to Lillian’s side. “We’ve met Evie’s cousin Eustace before. Lillian, do you remember the ball at Winterbourne House?” Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “He was the one who broke the chair, wasn’t he, Evie?”
Evie confirmed Daisy’s question with an inarticulate murmur.
“Good God!” Lillian exclaimed, “you are not considering marrying him, Evie!”
Annabelle wore a puzzled expression. “How did he break the chair? Does he have a foul temper? Did he throw it?”
“He broke it by sitting on it,” Lillian said with a scowl.
“Cousin Eustace is rather l-large boned,” Evie admitted.
“Cousin Eustace has more chins than I’ve got fingers,” Lillian said impatiently. “And he was so busy filling his face during the ball that he couldn’t be bothered to make conversation.”
“When I went to shake his hand,” Daisy added, “I came away with a half-eaten wing of roast chicken.”
“He forgot that he was holding it,” Evie said apologetically. “He did say he was sorry for ruining your glove, as I recall.”
Daisy frowned. “That didn’t bother me nearly as much as the question of where he was hiding the rest of the chicken.”
Receiving a desperately imploring glance from Evie, Annabelle sought to calm the sisters’ rising ferment. “We don’t have much time,” she counseled. “Let’s discuss cousin Eustace when there is more leisure to do so. Meanwhile, Lillian, dear, wasn’t there something you were going to tell us?”
It was an effective diversionary tactic. Relenting at the sight of Evie’s distressed expression, Lillian temporarily abandoned the subject of Eustace and motioned for all of them to sit at the table. “It began with a visit to a perfume shop in London…” Accompanied by Daisy’s occasional interjections, Lillian described the visit to Mr. Nettle’s perfumery, and the concoction she had purchased, and its purported magical properties.
“Interesting,” Annabelle commented with a skeptical smile. “Are you wearing it now? Let me smell it.”
“In a moment. I haven’t finished the story yet.” Withdrawing the vial of perfume from her reticule, Lillian set it in the center of the table, where it sparkled gently in the diffused torchlight on the terrace. “I have to tell you about what happened today.” She proceeded to relate the story of the impromptu rounders game that had taken place behind the stable yard, and Westcliff’s unexpected appearance. Annabelle and Evie listened incredulously, both of them wide-eyed at the revelation that the earl had actually taken part in the game.
“It’s no surprise that Lord Westcliff likes rounders,” Annabelle commented. “He’s a virtual fiend for outside activities. But the fact that he was willing to play with you…”
Lillian grinned suddenly. “Clearly his dislike was overridden by the overwhelming urge to explain everything that I was doing wrong. He started by telling me how I should correct my swing, and then he…” Her smile faded, and she was uncomfortably aware of a flush that spread rapidly over her skin.
“Then he put his arms around you,” Daisy prompted in the avid silence that had settled over the table.
“He what?” Annabelle asked, her lips parting in amazement.
“Only to show me how to hold the bat properly.” Lillian’s dark brows drew together until they nearly met over the bridge of her nose. “Anyway, what occurred during the game doesn’t matter—it was after the game that the surprise happened. Westcliff was guiding Daisy and me along the shortest route back to the house, but we were separated when Father and some of his friends came down the walkway. So Daisy sneaked on ahead, while the earl and I were obliged to wait behind the hedgerow. And while we were standing there together…”
The other three wallflowers leaned forward, all three gazes fastened on her without blinking.
“What happened?” Annabelle demanded.
Lillian felt the tips of her ears turn red, and it took surprising effort to force the words from her mouth. She stared hard at the little perfume bottle as she murmured, “He kissed me.”
“Good Lord,” Annabelle exclaimed, while Evie stared at her speechlessly.
“I knew it!” Daisy said. “I knew it!”
“How did you know—” Lillian began to argue, but Annabelle interrupted eagerly.
“Once? More than once?”
Thinking of the erotically linked chain of kisses, Lillian blushed even harder. “More than once,” she admitted.
“Wh-what was it like?” Evie asked.
For some reason it hadn’t occurred to Lillian that her friends would want a report on Lord Westcliff’s sexual prowess. Annoyed by the insistent heat that was now making her cheeks and neck and forehead prickle, she cast her mind about for something to
pacify them. For a moment the impression of Westcliff came to her with startling vividness …the hardness of his body, his warm, searching mouth…Her insides shifted as if they had been turned into molten metal, and suddenly she could not bring herself to admit the truth.
“Dreadful,” she said, her feet fidgeting beneath the table. “Westcliff is the worst kisser I’ve ever encountered.”
“Ohhh…” Daisy and Evie both breathed in disappointment.
Annabelle, however, gave Lillian a frankly doubtful look. “That’s odd. Because I’ve heard quite a few rumors that Westcliff is very adept at pleasing a woman.”
Lillian responded with a noncommittal grunt.
“In fact,” Annabelle continued, “I attended a card party not a week ago, and one of the women at my table said that Westcliff was so superb in bed that he had ruined her for any other lover.”
“Who said that?” Lillian demanded.
“I can’t tell you,” Annabelle said. “The statement was made in confidence.”
“I don’t believe it,” Lillian replied grumpily. “Even in the circles that you move in, no one would be so brazen as to talk about such things in public.”
“I beg to differ.” Annabelle gave her a vaguely superior glance. “Married women get to hear much better gossip than unwed girls do.”
“Drat,” Daisy said enviously.
The table fell silent once again as Annabelle’s amused gaze locked with Lillian’s glowering one. To Lillian’s chagrin, she was the first to look away. “Out with it,” Annabelle commanded, with the tremor of a sudden laugh in her voice. “Tell the truth—is Westcliff really so terrible at kissing?”
“Oh, I suppose he’s tolerable,” Lillian admitted grudgingly. “But that’s not the point.”
Evie spoke then, her eyes round with curiosity. “What is the p-point?”
“That Westcliff was driven to it—to kiss a girl he detests, namely me—by the smell of that perfume.” Lillian pointed at the tiny glimmering bottle.
The four girls regarded the vial with awe.
“Not really,” Annabelle said disbelievingly.
“Really,” Lillian insisted.
Daisy and Evie remained raptly silent, looking back and forth between the two of them as if they were viewing a tennis match.
“Lillian, for you, the most practical girl I’ve ever known, to claim that you have a perfume that acts as an aphrodisiac, is the most astonishing—”
“Aphrowhat?”
“A love potion,” Annabelle said. “Lillian, if Lord Westcliff displayed any interest in you, it was not because of your perfume.”
“What makes you so certain?”
Annabelle’s brows lifted. “Has the perfume produced this effect in any other man of your acquaintance?”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” Lillian admitted reluctantly.
“How long have you worn it?”
“About a week, but I—”
“And the earl is the only man it seems to have worked on?”
“There are other men who will respond to it,” Lillian argued. “They just haven’t had the opportunity to smell it yet.” Seeing her friend’s disbelief, she sighed. “I know how it sounds. I didn’t believe a word that Mr. Nettle said about this perfume, until today. But I promise you, the moment that the earl got a whiff of it…”
Annabelle pinned her with a considering stare, clearly wondering if it could be true.
Evie spoke in the silence. “May I s-see it, Lillian?”
“Of course.”
Reaching for the perfume vial as if it were some highly combustible explosive, Evie unstoppered it, brought it to her whimsically freckled nose, and sniffed. “I don’t f-feel anything.”
“I wonder if it works only on men?” Daisy mused aloud.
“What I’m wondering is,” Lillian said slowly, “if any of you wore the perfume, would Westcliff be as attracted to you as he was to me?” She stared directly at Annabelle as she spoke.
Realizing what she was about to propose, Annabelle wore a look of comical dismay. “Oh no,” she said, shaking her head vigorously. “I’m a married woman, Lillian, and very much in love with my husband, and I haven’t the slightest interest in seducing his best friend!”
“You wouldn’t have to seduce him, of course,” Lillian said. “Just try some of the perfume and then go stand next to him, and see if he notices you.”
“I’ll do it,” Daisy said enthusiastically. “In fact, I propose that we all wear the perfume tonight, and investigate whether it makes us more attractive to men.”
Evie chortled at the idea, while Annabelle rolled her eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
Lillian gave her a reckless grin. “There’s no harm in trying it, is there? Consider it a scientific experiment. You’re merely collecting evidence to prove a theory.”
A groan escaped Annabelle’s lips as she watched the two younger girls shake out a few drops of the perfume to adorn themselves with. “This is the silliest thing I’ve ever done,” she commented. “It’s even more absurd than when we played rounders in our drawers.”
“Knickers,” Lillian said promptly, continuing their long-standing debate on the proper name for undergarments.
“Give me that.” With a long-suffering expression, Annabelle held out her hand to receive the vial, and dampened her fingertip with the fragrant elixir.
“Use a little more,” Lillian advised, watching in satisfaction as Annabelle dabbed the perfume behind her ears. “And put some on your neck too.”
“I don’t usually wear perfume,” Annabelle said. “Mr. Hunt likes the smell of clean skin.”
“He may prefer Lady of the Night.”
Annabelle looked appalled. “Is that what this is called?”
“It’s named after a night-blooming orchid,” Lillian explained.
“Oh, good,” Annabelle said sardonically. “I was afraid that it was named after a harlot.”
Ignoring the remark, Lillian took the vial from her. After applying a few drops of the scent to her own throat and wrists, she tucked the vessel back into her reticule and stood from the table. “Now,” she said in satisfaction, glancing at the wallflowers, “let’s go find Westcliff.”
Chapter 5
U naware of the assault that would soon be launched against him, Marcus relaxed in the study with his brother-in-law, Gideon Shaw, and his friends Simon Hunt and Lord St. Vincent. They had gathered in the private room to talk before the formal dinner started. Leaning back in his chair behind the massive mahogany desk, he glanced at his pocket watch. Eight o’clock—time to join the company at large, especially as Marcus was the host. However, he remained still, and frowned at the watch’s implacable face with the grimness of a man who had an unpleasant duty to perform.
He would have to speak to Lillian Bowman. With whom he had behaved like a madman today. Seizing her, kissing her in a berserk eruption of misguided passion …The thought of it made him shift uncomfortably in his chair.
Marcus’s straightforward nature urged him to deal with the situation in a direct manner. There was only one possible solution to this dilemma—he would have to apologize for his behavior, and assure her that it would never happen again. He would be damned if he would spend the next month skulking through his own house in an effort to avoid the woman. Trying to ignore the whole thing was not feasible.
He only wished he knew why it had happened in the first place.
Marcus had been able to think of nothing else since that moment behind the hedgerow—his own astonishing breach of restraint, and even more bewildering, the primal satisfaction of kissing the annoying shrew.
“Pointless,” came St. Vincent’s voice. He was sitting on the corner of his desk, staring through the stereoscope. “Who gives a damn about views of landscapes and monuments?” St. Vincent continued lazily. “You need some stereocards featuring women, Westcliff. Now there’s something worth viewing through this thing.”
“I would think that you see enough o
f those in three-dimensional form,” Marcus replied dryly. “Aren’t you a bit preoccupied with the subject of female anatomy, St. Vincent?”
“You have your hobbies, I have mine.”
Marcus glanced at his brother-in-law, who was politely expressionless, and Simon Hunt, who seemed amused by the exchange. The men were all remarkably different in character and origin. Their only common denominator was their friendship with Marcus. Gideon Shaw was that most contradictory of terms, an “American aristocrat,” the great-grandson of an ambitious Yankee sea captain. Simon Hunt was an entrepreneur, a former butcher’s son who was shrewd, enterprising, and trustworthy in every regard. Then there was St. Vincent, an unprincipled scoundrel and a prolific lover of women. He was always to be found at some fashionable party or gathering, staying only until the conversation became “tedious,” which was to say that something meaningful or worthwhile was being discussed, and then he would leave in search of new revelry.
Marcus had never encountered a cynicism as deep-seated as St. Vincent’s. The viscount almost never said what he meant, and if he ever felt a moment of compassion for anyone, he concealed it expertly. A lost soul, people sometimes called him, and it did seem likely that St. Vincent was beyond redemption. It was equally likely that Hunt and Shaw would not have tolerated St. Vincent’s company were it not for his friendship with Marcus.
Marcus himself would have had little to do with St. Vincent were it not for his memories of the days when they had attended the same school. Time and again St. Vincent had proved himself to be a supportive friend, doing whatever was necessary to get Marcus out of a scrape, sharing packets of sweets from home with nonchalant benevolence. And he had always been the first by Marcus’s side in a fight.
St. Vincent had understood what it was like to be despised by a parent, as his own father had been no better than Marcus’s. The two boys had commiserated with dark humor, and had done what they could to help each other. In the years since they had left school, St. Vincent’s character seemed to have eroded considerably, but Marcus was not one to forget past debts. Nor was he one to turn his back on a friend.