All of Elizabeth’s confusion and anguish exploded in a burst of tempestuous, sobbing fury that was directed at herself, but which she hurtled at him. Tearing free of his grasp, she whirled around. “Provide for me,” she cried. “Provide what? A—a hovel in Scotland where I’ll stay while you dress the part of an English gentleman so you can gamble away everything—”
“If things go on as I expect,” he interrupted her in a voice of taut calm, “I’ll be one of the richest men in England within a year—two at the most. If they don’t, you’ll still be well provided for.”
Elizabeth snatched her bonnet and backed away from him in a fear that was partly of him and partly of her own weakness. “This is madness. Utter madness.” Turning, she headed for the door.
“I know,” he said gently. She reached for the door handle and jerked the door open. Behind her, his voice stopped her in midstep. “If you change your mind after we leave in the morning, you can reach me at Hammund’s town house in Upper Brook Street until Wednesday. After that I’d intended to leave for India. I’ll be gone until winter.”
“I—I hope you have a safe voyage,” she said, too overwrought to wonder about the sharp tug of loss she felt at the realization he was leaving.
“If you change your mind in time,” he teased, “I’ll take you with me.”
Elizabeth fled in sheer terror from the gentle confidence she’d heard in his smiling voice. As she galloped through the thick fog and wet underbrush she was no longer the sensible, confident young lady she’d been before; instead she was a terrified, bewildered girl with a mountain of responsibilities and an upbringing that convinced her the wild attraction she felt for Ian Thornton was sordid and unforgivable.
As she left the horse in the stable and saw with sinking horror that the party had already returned from the village jaunt, she didn’t think of anything except sending Robert a note begging him to fetch her that night, instead of in the morning.
Elizabeth had supper in her room while Berta packed, and she scrupulously avoided the window of her bedchamber, which happened to look out over the gardens below. Twice she’d glanced outside, and both times she’d seen Ian. The first time he’d been standing alone on the terrace, a cheroot clamped between his teeth, staring out across the lawns, and his solitary stance made her heart ache because he seemed lonely somehow. The next time she saw him, he was surrounded by females who’d not been there last night— new arrivals at the house party, Elizabeth supposed—and all five of them seemed to find him irresistible. She told herself it didn’t matter, could not matter to her. She had responsibilities to Robert and Havenhurst, and they had to come first Despite what Ian obviously thought, she could not link her future with that of a reckless gambler, even if he was probably the handsomest Scotsman ever born—and the gentlest—
Elizabeth closed her eyes, trying to shut out these thoughts. It was incredibly silly to think of Ian in this way. Silly and dangerous, for Valerie and some of the others seemed to suspect where she’d been all afternoon, and with whom. Wrapping her arms around herself, Elizabeth shivered as she remembered how neatly she’d been trapped by her own guilt that afternoon as soon as she’d walked into the house.
“Good heavens, you’re wet,” Valerie had exclaimed in a cry of sympathy. “The stable said you’ve been gone all afternoon. Don’t say you were lost and in the rain all that time!”
“No, I—I came upon a cottage in the woods and stayed there until the rain let up a little while ago.” It had seemed the wisest thing to say, since Ian’s horse had been nowhere in sight and hers had been perfectly visible, should anyone have cared to look.
“What time was that?”
“Close to one o’clock, I think.”
“Did you happen to come upon Mr. Thornton while you were out?” Valerie inquired with a malicious smile, and everyone in the salon seemed to stop talking and turn toward them. “The gamekeeper said he saw a tall, dark man mounted on a big sorrel stallion go into the cottage. He assumed the man was a guest, and so he didn’t challenge his presence.”
“I—I didn’t see him,” Elizabeth said. “It was . . . very foggy. I hope nothing untoward happened to him.”
“We aren’t certain. He isn’t back yet. Charise is concerned, although,” Valerie continued, watching Elizabeth closely, “I told her she needn’t be. The scullery maids gave him a luncheon à deux to take with him.”
Stepping aside to let a couple pass, Elizabeth explained to Valerie that she’d decided to leave tonight instead of tomorrow, and without giving Valerie an opportunity to question her reason she quickly excused herself to change out of her wet clothing.
Berta had taken one look at Elizabeth’s pale face and guessed at once that something was terribly wrong, particularly when Elizabeth insisted on sending word to Robert to fetch them home tonight. By the time Elizabeth had sent the note off Berta had managed to pry most of the story out of Elizabeth, and Elizabeth was forced to spend the rest of her afternoon and early evening trying to soothe her maid.
7
It won’t do you a bit of good to wear a path through the carpet,” Berta told her. “We’ll both be spending time enough on the carpet when that Miss Throckmorton-Jones hears what you’ve been about.”
“She won’t hear anything,” Elizabeth said with more determination than conviction, and she sank into a chair, nervously plucking at the skirt of her bright green traveling costume. Her bonnet and gloves were on the bed beside their packed valises, waiting to be brought downstairs when Robert arrived. Even though she’d been expecting it, the knock on her door made her nerves jump. Instead of telling her that her brother had arrived, the footman handed her a note when she opened the door.
With clammy hands she unfolded it, praying that it wasn’t news from London that Robert couldn’t be found to fetch them. For a moment she frowned in blank incomprehension at the hastily scrawled, almost illegible note that said “Meet me in greenhowse—Must talk to you.”
The footman had already started down the hall, and Elizabeth called after him, “Who gave you this note?”
“Miss Valerie, my lady.”
Elizabeth’s relief that it wasn’t from Ian was immediately replaced by guilty terror that Valerie had somehow discovered more about Elizabeth’s disappearance this afternoon. “Valerie wants me to meet her in the greenhouse right away,” she told Berta.
Berta’s color drained. “She knows what happened, doesn’t she? Is that why she wants to see you? It’s not my place to say it, but I can’t like that girl. She has mean eyes.”
Elizabeth had never in her life been embroiled in intrigue or deceit, and everything that was happening seemed unbearably complicated and tinged with malice. Without replying to Berta’s comment about her friend she looked at the clock and realized it was only six. “Robert can’t possibly be here for at least an hour. In the meantime I’ll go and find out why Valerie needs to see me.”
Walking over to the windows, Elizabeth parted the draperies, studying the guests who were standing on the terrace or strolling about the gardens. The last thing she wanted was for Ian to see her go to the greenhouse and follow her there. Such a possibility seemed extremely remote, but even so, it seemed wise to take no further chances. She almost sagged with relief when she saw his tall form on the terrace below. Clearly illuminated by a pair of torches, he was occupied with three women who were flirting with him while a footman hovered on the edge of their group, patiently waiting for recognition. She saw Ian glance at the footman, who then handed him something she supposed to be a drink.
Ignoring the sharp tug of her senses as she looked down on his dark head, Elizabeth turned away from the windows. Rather than leaving the house by the back doors, which opened out onto the terrace where she knew Ian was, she left by the side doors and stayed away from the lit torches.
In the doorway to the greenhouse Elizabeth hesitated. “Valerie?” she called in a low voice, looking around.
Moonlight poured in through the glass
panels of the roof, and when no one answered, Elizabeth walked inside and looked about her. Pots of flowers bloomed everywhere—in orderly rows upon the tables and on benches. More delicate species adorned the shelves beneath the tables, sheltered from the direct rays of the sun that would pour through the glass ceiling in the daytime. Trying to calm her nerves, Elizabeth strolled down the aisles, studying the blooms.
The greenhouse was larger than the one at Havenhurst, she noted, and part of it was apparently used as a sort of solarium, for there were trees growing in pots, and beside them were ornate stone benches with colorful cushions on them.
Elizabeth wandered down the aisle, oblivious to the dark shadow looming in the doorway, moving silently down the aisle. Her hands clasped behind her back, she bent down to sniff a gardenia.
“Elizabeth?” Ian said in a clipped voice.
She whirled around, her heart slamming against her ribs, her hand flying to her throat, her knees turning to jelly.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You—you startled me,” she said as he strolled up to her, his expression oddly impassive. “I didn’t expect you to come here,” she added nervously.
“Really?” he mocked. “Whom did you expect after that note—the Prince of Wales?”
The note! Crazily, her first thought after realizing it was from him, not Valerie, was that for an articulate man his handwriting verged on the illiterate. Her second thought was that he seemed angry about something. He didn’t keep her long in doubt as to the reason.
“Suppose you tell me how, during the entire afternoon we spent together, you neglected to mention that you are Lady Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth wondered a little frantically how he’d feel if he knew she was the Countess of Havenhurst, not merely the eldest daughter of some minor noble or knight.
“Start talking, love. I’m listening.”
Elizabeth backed away a step.
“Since you don’t want to talk,” he bit out, reaching for her arms, “is this all you wanted from me?”
“No!” she said hastily, backing out of his reach. “I’d rather talk.”
He stepped forward, and Elizabeth took another step backward, exclaiming, “I mean, there are so many interesting topics for conversation, are there not?”
“Are there?” he asked, moving forward again.
“Yes,” she exclaimed, taking two steps back this time. Snatching at the first topic she could think of, she pointed to the table of hyacinths beside her and exclaimed, “A-Aren’t these hyacinths lovely?”
“Lovely,” he agreed without looking at them, and he reached for her shoulders, obviously intending to draw her forward.
Elizabeth jumped back so swiftly that his fingers merely grazed the gauze fabric of her gown. “Hyacinths,” she babbled with frantic determination as he began stalking her step for step, past the table of potted pansies, past the table of potted lilies, “are part of genus Hyacinthus, although the cultivated variety, which we have here, is commonly called the Dutch hyacinth, which is part of H. orientalis—”
“Elizabeth,” he interrupted silkily, “I’m not interested in flowers.” He reached for her again, and Elizabeth, in a frantic attempt to evade his grasp, snatched up a pot of hyacinths and dumped it into his outstretched hands.
“There is a mythological background to hyacinths that you may find more interesting than the flower itself,” she continued fiercely, and an indescribable expression of disbelief, amusement, and fascination suddenly seemed to flicker across his face. “You see, the hyacinth is actually named for a handsome Spartan youth—Hyacinthus—who was loved by Apollo and by Zephyrus, god of the west wind. One day Zephyrus was teaching Hyacinthus to throw the discus, and he accidentally killed him. It is said that Hyacinthus’s blood caused a flower to spring up, and each petal was inscribed with the Greek exclamation of sorrow.” Her voice trembled a little as he purposefully set the pot of hyacinths on the table. “A-Actually, the flower that sprang up would have been the iris or larkspur, not the modern hyacinth, but that is how it earned its name.”
“Fascinating.” His unfathomable eyes locked onto hers.
Elizabeth knew he was referring to her and not the history of the hyacinth, and though she commanded herself to move out of his reach, her legs refused to budge.
“Absolutely fascinating,” he murmured again, and in slow motion she watched his hands reach out and gently grasp her shoulders, rubbing lightly. “Last night you were ready to do battle with a roomful of men because they dared believe I’d cheated, yet now you’re afraid. Is it me you fear, sweetheart? Or something else?”
The endearment spoken in his rich baritone voice had the same stirring effect on her as the touch of his lips. “I’m afraid of the things you make me feel,” she admitted desperately, trying to get control of herself and the situation. “I realize that this is merely a—a little weekend dalliance—”
“Liar,” he teased, and he took her lips in a sweet, swift kiss. Her mind reeled from the brief touch, but the moment he lifted his mouth from hers she rushed into frightened speech. “Thank you,” she blurted inanely. “H-Hyacinths are not the only flower with an interesting history. There are lilies, too, which are also part of the genus—”
A lazy, seductive grin swept across his handsome face, and, to Elizabeth’s helpless horror, her gaze fastened on his mouth. She couldn’t still the shiver of anticipation as he bent his head. Her brain warned her she was mad, but her heart knew this truly was good-bye, and the knowledge made her lean up on her toes and kiss him back with all the helpless, confused longing she felt. The sweetness of her yielding, combined with the way her hand slid up his chest and rested against his heart while her other hand curved around his nape, would have seemed to any man to be either the actions of a woman who was falling in love or else those of an experienced flirt. Elizabeth—naive, inexperienced, and very young—was acting on pure instinct and was unaware that everything she did was convincing him she was the former.
She was, however, not so lost as to the ramifications of her actions that she forgot about Robert’s impending arrival. Unfortunately, she had never imagined Robert might have been on his way there before her note ever arrived.
“Please listen to me,” she whispered desperately. “My brother is coming to take me home.”
“Then I’ll talk to him. Your father may have some objections, even after he understands that I’ll be able to provide for your future—”
“My future!” Elizabeth interrupted in genuine terror at the way he was taking charge—a gambler, just like her father. She thought of the rooms at Havenhurst, stripped almost bare of valuables, the servants counting on her, the ancestors counting on her. At that moment she would have said anything, anything to make him stop pursuing her before she lost control completely and gave in to the mindless, wicked weakness he seemed to inspire in her. She leaned back in his arms, trying to make her shaking voice sound cool and amused: “And what will you provide, sir? Will you promise me a ruby large enough to cover my palm, as Viscount Mondevale has? Sables to cover my shoulders and mink to carpet the floor, as Lord Seabury has?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Of course,” she said with brittle gaiety, but she was choking back a sob. “Isn’t that what all females want and all gentlemen promise?”
His face hardened into an expressionless mask, but his eyes were probing hers like daggers, looking for answers—as if he couldn’t completely believe that jewels and furs mattered to her more than feelings.
“Oh, please let me go,” she cried on a choked sob, shoving hard at his chest.
So intent were they that neither of them noticed the man striding swiftly down the aisle. “You miserable bastard!” Robert thundered, “you heard what she said! Take your filthy hands off my sister!”
Ian’s arms started to tighten protectively, but Elizabeth tore free of his grasp and ran to Robert, tears streaking down her face. “Robert, listen to me. It’s not what you t
hink!” Robert put his arm around her shoulder, and Elizabeth started to launch into explanations. “This is Mr. Ian Thornton,” she began, “and—”
“And despite the way this looks,” Ian interrupted with amazing calm, “my intentions toward Miss Cameron are perfectly honorable.”
“You arrogant son of a bitch!” Robert exploded, his voice vibrating with fury and contempt. “My sister is Countess Cameron to the likes of you! And I don’t need an introduction. I know all about you. As to your intentions—or should I say pretentions—I wouldn’t let her marry scum like you even if she weren’t already bethrothed.”
At those words Ian’s gaze jerked to Elizabeth. He saw the truth on her guilt-stricken face, and Elizabeth almost cried out at the cynical contempt blazing in his eyes.
“You’ve compromised my sister, you misbegotten pig, and you’ll answer for it!”
Pulling his gaze from Elizabeth, Ian looked at Robert, his hard face wiped clean of all expression now. Acceding to Robert’s demand for a duel, he nodded curtly and said almost politely, “Of course.” Then he moved as if to leave.
“No!” Elizabeth cried wildly, clutching at Robert’s arm, and for the second time in twenty-four hours she found herself trying to stop someone from spilling Ian Thornton’s blood. “I won’t permit this, Robert, do you hear me? It wasn’t all his—”
“This is none of your affair, Elizabeth!” Robert snapped, too enraged to listen to her. Removing her hand from his arm, he said, “Berta is already in my carnage in the drive. Go around the far side of the house and get in with her. This man,” he said with scathing sarcasm, “and I have some things to discuss.”
“You can’t—” Elizabeth tried again, but Ian Thornton’s murderous voice stopped her cold.
“Get out of here!” he said between his teeth, and while Elizabeth was willing to ignore Robert’s order, Ian Thornton’s made her quake. Her chest heaving with fright, she looked at his rigid face, at the muscle leaping in his jaw, and then at Robert. Not certain whether her presence was making things worse or forestalling a calamity, she tried once again to appeal to Robert: “Please—promise me you won’t do anything until tomorrow, when you’ve had time to think and we’ve talked.”