Dreams of Desire (23 page)

Regardless of Mr. Dudley’s claims to the contrary, there was no magic in the world strong enough to make him love her.

Loathing was her best defense against him, and she hurled, “You’re a bully, and I hate you.”

“Well, at the moment, I can’t say I like you any better.”

“Just . . . just . . . leave me alone. Oh, please, just leave me alone!”

She whirled away and ran, and though he lunged for her, she was too quick. She slipped away, vanishing as neatly as if there’d been fog in the meadow to shield her from view.

“Lily,” he shouted, “get back here. At once!”

She kept going, aware that he would stop bellowing before he was overheard, that he would never chase after her. He was nothing if not predictable, and with a castle full of guests, he would never make a scene.

“OPEN this door. Right now.”

“No.”

“Open it, or I will kick it down.”

There was a lengthy silence as Lily debated whether or not he was serious. John himself wasn’t sure what he might do.

After a long day of revelry, it was the middle of the night, the entire castle abed. All was quiet, so an abundance of noise—such as he’d just instigated—would be easily discernible.

He was risking discovery and scandal, but he didn’t care. It occurred to him that he’d had too much to drink, that he was making awful decisions, but for once, he wasn’t concerned over proprieties.

If it had taken an enormous quantity of alcohol to spur the conversation he intended, so be it. He had numerous cogent remarks to share with Miss Lily Lambert, and by God, she would listen to them!

He pressed his ear to the wood, and he could hear her tiptoeing nearer.

“Go away,” she hissed.

“No.”

He banged with his fist, then kicked the wood so hard that it bowed. She squealed with alarm and jumped away, stunned by his violence, and he had to admit that he was a tad stunned, too.

What had come over him? Why did she drive him to such extreme displays?

Another protracted silence ensued, then the key turned in the lock. She pulled the door open a crack, grabbed him by the wrist, and dragged him inside.

“Get in here,” she fumed, “and cease your caterwauling!”

She spun the key again, locking them in, which suited his purposes.

Since her tantrum in the forest earlier in the afternoon, he’d been in a fine fettle. She was correct that he was behaving badly—toward her
and
Violet—and though such misconduct was out of character for him, he couldn’t control himself.

Over the past few weeks, he’d become a teeming morass of discontentment and disapproval. Nothing made him happy. Nothing satisfied him. His disposition was foul, his patience at an end. He complained and criticized; he snapped and nitpicked, and it was all Lily’s fault.

After she’d stormed away from him, he’d tarried at the party, pretending all was well, when in fact he was exhausted by the whole charade.

When it came right down to it, he loathed hunting, and he wasn’t particularly keen on fraternizing with his neighbors. He loved the rustic solitude of the castle, which was why he traveled to Scotland every autumn. Yet he allowed himself to be pushed by convention into hosting numerous feasts and soirees.

Edward nagged, and the twins simpered. Esther begged him to mediate her quarrels with Barbara. Violet irked him with her girlish nonsense. He wished everyone would go to the devil, that he could be alone with Lily, just the two of them free to act however they pleased.

He’d spent hours in his room, pacing and drinking. Gradually, it had dawned on him that it was pointless to rage at himself. Lily was the cause of his irritation, so it was only fair that she bear the brunt of his dour mood.

“Explain yourself!” she demanded. “And since it’s three o’clock in the morning, make it quick.”

“I will not make it
quick
, Miss Lambert. I have many pertinent comments, and I will talk until I’m finished.”

“Get on with it then.”

She was tapping her foot, her annoyance obvious, and his anger soared.

Why was she annoyed?
He
was the one who’d been wronged. Not her.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” he said.

“What is it? I keep waiting to hear, but you can’t seem to begin. If you never begin, you’ll never conclude.”

Narrowing his gaze, he studied her, trying to figure out why he was enamored.

He had no idea.

“You are full of spit and sass,” he mused. “I’ve never liked that about you.”

“So what?”

“I insist that my women be mild-mannered, respectful, and good-natured.”

“Well, I am not one of your
women
, so you needn’t fret over my lack of suitable attributes.”

He bent down till they were nose to nose. “You are mine until I say you’re not.”

“Ha! That’s what you think.” She laid her palms on his chest and shoved him away, creating space between them. “You imagine you can bully everyone, but you can’t bully me.”

She was so aggrieved, a pretty, petite virago who drove him wild and made him crazy. With her eyes flashing daggers, her elevated temper had left her even more beautiful. Her cheeks were rosy with color, her hair down and brushed out. She was barefoot, the tips of her toes peeking out from under her nightgown. The toenails had been painted bright red.

He’d never seen a woman’s painted toes before, and the sight was exotic and arousing in a fashion he didn’t understand. It confused him; he lost his train of thought.

His aggravation waned, to be replaced by lust. As he’d learned early on in their relationship, it was impossible to be in her presence and not desire her. He’d given up fighting his attraction.

He glanced around, focusing in, realizing that a candle was lit. Coals burned in the stove. The blankets on the bed hadn’t been disturbed.

“Why weren’t you asleep?” he asked.

“I’ve been remembering how much I hate you. How could I rest with so much animosity careening through my veins?”

“You do not hate me. I will not allow it.”

“Why does everything always have to be about you? Why can’t my feelings matter for once?”

“Your feelings are absurd. That’s why.”

“Ooh, I can’t abide you!”

She stomped over to a table by the window, where she grabbed a half-empty bottle. It was filled with what appeared to be red wine. She tipped it to her lips and swallowed a huge gulp.

“Are you drinking?”

“Yes.”

He marched over and snatched the bottle from her.

“Give me that!” she protested.

“No.” He ran his thumb over the label and read, “Woman’s Daily Remedy. What is it supposed to do?”

“It’s meant to relieve feminine stress.” She glared at him. “It’s not working.”

He took his own sip, and at establishing its intoxicating potency, his eyes watered.

“Where did you get it?”

“I bought it from Mr. Dudley.”

One of the few blessings of recent days was that—after Lily had been rescued from the grotto—Dudley had vanished. He’d been markedly absent from castle events, so hopefully, he was gone for good. John didn’t like him, and if Dudley loitered on the premises, John might have to be civil.

“Dudley sells female tonics that are laced with alcohol?” he asked.

“Yes. I told you he was a charlatan. You ought to see what else he sells. You’re such an uptight boor”—she drunkenly stammered on the word
boor—
“that you’d probably have an apoplexy.”

“Very funny.”

He was greatly bothered by her comment. He didn’t want to be a boor around her, didn’t want to be cross or stuffy. He wanted to be playful and carefree, more like his . . . his . . .

Oh, hell, like his
mother
. There! He’d admitted it. But when he’d spent three decades trying to be conventional, it was so difficult to be frivolous.

Before he could stop her, she yanked the bottle away and enjoyed another swig. Like the imperious ass he could definitely be, he yanked it back. She lunged for it, and he held it over his head, out of her reach. “I believe you’ve had enough,” he scolded.

She gazed at the bottle, at him, at the bottle again, and she sighed.

“Never mind.” Her balance precarious, she flopped into a chair. “There isn’t enough liquor in the world to cure what ails me.”

She looked so glum, and his heart made the strangest flip-flopping motion.

“What ails you, Lily?”

“You.”

At her surly tone, he chuckled. “Why?”

She peered up at him with those big blue eyes of hers, eyes that seemed to delve to the core of his being.

“Just once,” she quietly said, “I want to be important to someone.”

“You’re important to me.”

“Shut up. I can’t bear it when you lie.”

“I’m not lying. You
are
important to me.”

“You have a peculiar way of showing it.”

“I can’t marry you.”

“I know, I know. I’m not a dolt.”

“You claim to understand”—he shrugged—“so what else would you have me say?”

“How about that you’re sorry you can’t? How about that you wish things could be different? How about that you’d marry me if you could?”

“I would marry you if I could.”

His tepid assertion had her scoffing with disgust. “Be silent before you embarrass yourself beyond all redemption.” She stared and stared, then asked, “Why am I so unlovable?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to refute the notion, to boldly shout,
You’re not unlovable.
I
love you!
But he couldn’t force out the affirmation. He’d never previously declared himself, and he hadn’t a clue what the word
love
meant.

Was it what he felt for her? When he was with her, he was so content. When they were apart, he moped and pined, wondering where she was and what she was doing. She occupied his thoughts and tormented his dreams.

Was that love?

If it was, what purpose would be served by telling her?

They could never wed, because he wasn’t free to choose any available girl. There were bloodlines to consider, fortunes to protect, land and people and property to enrich.

He didn’t want to marry at all. Not Violet or anyone. He’d seen the damage matrimony could inflict on a man— his father being the prime example. If it had been left up to John, he would never have become engaged, but he’d been raised to do his duty, so he would wed Violet Howard.

Lily had no role to play in that scenario. She couldn’t change what would happen. It simply
was
, and only a fool would fail to grasp why she was upset.

He’d callously ruined her—without regard to the consequences. There was no compensation he could provide to make it right. There was no way to repair the damage he’d wrought, yet he’d dally again in an instant, so where did it leave them?

He walked over to her chair, and he slapped down his hands, trapping her in her seat. He leaned down and kissed her, but she turned away so he brushed her cheek instead.

“I hate you,” she repeated, but with less vehemence.

“I don’t hate you.”

“What do you want from me?” she asked, exasperated.

“Just this. I want to spend time with you—when I can.”

“Why?”

“Because you make me happy.”

He kissed her again, and she participated with a bit of vigor. She wasn’t immune to him, and he would exploit her attraction. He intended to wear her down, to keep on till she smiled, till she admitted she was glad he came.

“I need more than this from you,” she said. “It’s not fair that I have to sneak around and hide what’s occurring.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I should find a man who loves me.”

“Of course you should.”

“I deserve someone better than you,” she grumpily insisted.

“I won’t argue the point.”

“Let me go back to England.”

“No.”

“Why not? Why are you being so obstinate?”

He had no answer for her.

His conduct was irrational, and he recognized that he was courting disaster, but he couldn’t let her go. Not quite yet. Or maybe never.

He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed. At the swift movement, she grappled for purchase, clutching at his shoulders, laughing as he tossed her onto the mattress and followed her down.

“I’m so dizzy,” she muttered. “I must be drunk.”

“Good. It will make it easier to take advantage of you.”

“I don’t want you to take advantage of me.”

“Yes, you do.”

He rolled on top of her, pinning her down in case she thought to escape, but she had no fight remaining. She gazed up at him, looking so miserable, and he couldn’t bear to see that she was unhappy, to know that he was the cause of her woe.