Come talk to Lord Westcliff!”
Marcus kept his face expressionless as he saw the raised brows of a few people standing nearby.
Glancing in the direction of Mercedes’s rapid gesticulations, he saw the Bowman sisters, who were both transformed from the dusty imps playing behind the stable yards earlier in the day. His gaze latched on to Lillian, who was dressed in a pale green gown, the bodice of which seemed to be held up only by a pair of little gold clips at the shoulders. Before he could control the direction of his wayward thoughts, he imagined detaching those clips and letting the green silk fall away from the creamy pale skin of her chest and shoulders—
Marcus dragged his gaze up to Lillian’s face. Her shining sable hair was pinned neatly atop her head in an intricate mass that looked nearly too heavy for her slender neck to support. With her hair drawn completely away from her forehead, her eyes appeared more catlike than usual. As she looked back at
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him, a faint blush colored the crests of her cheeks, and she dipped her chin in a cautious nod. It was obvious that the last thing she wanted was to cross the room to them—to him—and Marcus could not blame her.
“There is no need to summon your daughters, Mrs. Bowman,” he murmured. “They are enjoying the company of their friends.”
“Their friends,” Mercedes exclaimed scornfully. “If you mean that scandalous Annabelle Hunt, I can assure you that I do not condone—”
“I have come to hold Mrs. Hunt in the highest regard,” Marcus said, giving the woman a level stare.
Taken aback by the pronouncement, Mercedes paled a little and hastily reversed herself. “If you, with yoursuperior judgment, have chosen to esteem Mrs. Hunt, then I must certainly concur, my lord. In fact, I have always thought—”
“Westcliff,” Thomas Bowman interrupted, having little interest in the subject of his daughters or whom they had befriended, “when will we have an opportunity to discuss the business matters that were brought up in our last correspondence?”
“Tomorrow, if you like,” Marcus replied. “We’ve organized an early morning ride, followed by breakfast.”
“I will forgo the ride, but I will see you at breakfast.”
They shook hands, and Marcus took his leave of them with a shallow bow, turning to converse with other guests who sought his attention. Soon a newcomer joined the group, and they quickly made room for the diminutive figure of Georgiana, Lady Westcliff…Marcus’s mother. She was heavily powdered, her silvery hair elaborately coiffured, and her wrists, neck, and ears heavily ornamented with brilliant jewels. Even her cane sparkled, the gilded handle paved with inset diamonds.
Some elderly women affected a crusty exterior but harbored a heart of gold underneath. The Countess of Westcliff was not one of those women. Her heart—the existence of which was highly arguable—was definitely not made of gold, or any remotely malleable substance. Physically speaking, the countess was not a beauty, nor had she ever been. If one were to replace her expensive garments with a plain broadcloth dress and apron, she would easily have been mistaken for an aging milkmaid. She had a round face; a small mouth; flat, birdlike eyes; and a nose of no remarkable shape or size. Her most distinguishing aspect was an air of peevish disenchantment, like that of a child who had just opened a wrapped birthday present to discover that it was the same thing she had received the year before.
“Good evening, my lady,” Marcus said to his mother, regarding her with a wry smile. “We are honored that you have decided to join us this evening.” The countess frequently eschewed well-populated dinners like this, preferring to take her meals in one of her private rooms upstairs. Tonight it seemed that she had decided to make an exception.
“I wanted to see if there were any interesting guests in this crowd,” the countess replied somewhat grimly, her regal gaze sweeping the room. “From the looks of them, however, it seems the usual pack of dullards.”
There were a few nervous titters and chortles from the group, as they chose—erroneously—to assume that the comment had been made in jest.
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“You may wish to reserve your opinion until you’ve been introduced to a few more people,” Marcus replied, thinking of the Bowman sisters. His judgmental mother would find no end of diversions in that incorrigible pair.
Adhering to the order of precedence, Marcus escorted the countess to the dining hall, while those of lower rank followed. Dinners at Stony Cross Park were famously lavish, and this one was no exception.
Eight courses of fish, game, poultry, and beef were served, accompanied by fresh flower arrangements that were brought to the table with each new remove. They began with turtle soup, broiled salmon with capers, perch and mullet in cream, and succulent John Dory fish dressed with a delicate shrimp sauce.
The next course consisted of peppered venison, herb-garnished ham, gently fried sweetbreads floating in steaming gravy, and crisp-skinned roast fowl. And so on and so forth, until the guests were stuffed and lethargic, their faces flushed from the constant replenishing of their wineglasses by attentive footmen. The dinner was concluded with a succession of platters filled with almond cheesecakes, lemon puddings, and rice soufflés.
Abstaining from dessert, Marcus drank a glass of port and entertained himself by stealing lightning-quick glances at Lillian Bowman. In the rare moments when she was still and quiet, Lillian looked like a demure young princess. But as soon as she began talking—making gestures with her fork and freely interrupting the men’s conversation—all appearance of regalness dropped away. Lillian was far too direct, far too certain that what she said was interesting and worthy of being listened to. She made no attempt to seem impressed with the opinions of others, and she seemed incapable of being deferential to anyone.
After the rituals of port for the men, tea for the ladies, and a last few rounds of idle conversation, the guests dispersed. As Marcus walked slowly to the great hall with a group of guests that included the Hunts, he became aware that Annabelle was behaving a bit strangely. She walked so close to him that their elbows kept bumping, and she fanned herself enthusiastically even though the interior of the manor was quite cool. Squinting at her quizzically through the great puffs of scented air that she blew his way, Marcus asked, “Is it too warm in here for you, Mrs. Hunt?”
“Why, yes …do you feel warm too?”
“No.” He smiled down at her, wondering why Annabelle abruptly stopped fanning and gave him a speculative gaze.
“Do you feelanything? ” she asked.
Amused, Marcus shook his head. “May I ask what prompts your concern, Mrs. Hunt?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I just wondered if perhaps you might have noticed something different about me.”
Marcus gave her a quick, impersonal inspection. “Your coiffure,” he guessed. Having grown up with two sisters, he had learned that whenever they asked his opinion on their appearance, and refused to tell him why, it usually had something to do with their hairstyle. Though it was a bit inappropriate to discuss the personal appearance of his best friend’s wife, Annabelle seemed to regard him in a brotherly light.
Annabelle grinned ruefully at his reply. “Yes, that’s it. Forgive me if I am behaving a bit oddly, my lord. I fear I may have had a bit too much wine.”
Marcus laughed quietly. “Perhaps some night air will clear your head.”
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Coming beside them, Simon Hunt caught the last remark, and he settled his hand at his wife’s waist.
Smiling, he touched his lips to Annabelle’s temple. “Shall I take you out to the back terrace?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Hunt went still, his dark head inclined toward hers. Although Annabelle couldn’t see the arrested expression on her husband’s face, Marcus noticed it, and wondered why Hunt suddenly looked so uncomfortable and distracted. “Excuse us, Westcliff,” Hunt muttered, and pulled his wife away with unwarranted haste, forcing her to hurry to keep up with his ground-eating strides.
Shaking his head with a touch of bafflement, Marcus watched the pair’s precipitate exit from the entrance hall.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Daisy said glumly, wandering from the dining hall with Lillian and Evie. “I was seated between two gentlemen who couldn’t have taken less interest in me. Either the perfume is a sham, or both of them are anosmic.”
Evie gave her a blank look. “I…I’m afraid I’m not f-familiar with that word…”
“You would be if your father owned a soap company,” Lillian said dryly. “It means that one has no sense of smell.”
“Oh. Then my dinner p-partners must also have been anosmic. Because neither of them noticed me either. What about you, Lillian?”
“The same,” Lillian replied, feeling both confounded and frustrated. “I suppose the perfume doesn’t work after all. But I was so certain that it had an effect on Lord Westcliff…”
“Had you ever stood so close to him before?” Daisy asked.
“Of course not!”
“Then my guess is that simple proximity to you made him lose his head.”
“Oh, well, obviously,” Lillian said with self-deprecating sarcasm. “I’m a world-renowned temptress.”
Daisy laughed. “I wouldn’t discount your charms, dear. In my opinion, Lord Westcliff has always—”
But that particular opinion would forever go unheard, for as they reached the entrance hall, the three girls caught sight of Lord Westcliff himself. Leaning one shoulder against a column in a relaxed pose, he cut a commanding figure. Everything about him, from the arrogant tilt of his head to the physical confidence of his posture, bespoke the result of generations of aristocratic breeding. Lillian experienced an overpowering urge to sneak up to him and poke him in some ticklish place. She would have loved to make him roar with annoyance.
His head turned, and his gaze swept the three girls with polite interest before settling on Lillian. Then the look in his eyes became far less polite, and the interest took on a vaguely predatory quality that caused Lillian’s breath to catch. She couldn’t help remembering the feel of the hard-muscled body that was concealed beneath the impeccably tailored black broadcloth suit.
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“He’s t-terrifying,” she heard Evie breathe, and Lillian glanced at her with sudden amusement.
“He’s just a man, dear. I’m sure he orders his servants to help him put his trousers on one leg at a time, like everyone else.”
Daisy laughed at her irreverence, while Evie looked scandalized.
To Lillian’s surprise, Westcliff pushed away from the column and approached them. “Good evening, ladies. I hope you enjoyed the supper.”
Tongue-tied, Evie could only nod, while Daisy responded animatedly, “It was splendid, my lord.”
“Good.” Although he spoke to Evie and Daisy, his gaze locked on to Lillian’s face. “Miss Bowman, Miss Jenner…forgive me, but I had hoped to take your companion aside for a word in private. With your permission…”
“By all means,” Daisy replied, giving Lillian a sly smile. “Take her away, my lord. We have no use for her at the moment.”
“Thank you.” Gravely he extended his arm to Lillian. “Miss Bowman, if you would be so kind?”
Lillian took his arm, feeling oddly fragile as he led her across the hall. The silence between them was awkward and question-fraught. Westcliff had always provoked her, but now he seemed to have acquired the knack of making her feel vulnerable—and she didn’t like it at all. Stopping in the lee of a massive column, he turned to face her, and her hand dropped away from his arm.
His mouth and eyes were just two or three inches above her own, their bodies perfectly matched as they stood toe to toe. Her pulse became a soft, rapid tapping inside her veins, and her skin was suddenly covered in heat that presaged a burn, as if she were standing much too close to a fire. Westcliff’s thick lashes lowered slightly over midnight-dark eyes as he noticed her heightened color.
“Miss Bowman,” he murmured, “I assure you that in spite of what happened this afternoon, you have nothing to fear from me. If you have no objection, I would like to discuss it with you in a place where we won’t be disturbed.”
“Certainly,” Lillian said calmly. Meeting him somewhere alone had the uncomfortable overtones of a lovers’ tryst—which this would certainly not be. And yet she couldn’t seem to control the nervous thrills that ran up and down her spine. “Where shall we meet?”
“The morning room opens onto an orangery.”
“Yes, I know where that is.”
“Shall we meet in five minutes?”
“All right.” Lillian gave him a supremely unconcerned smile, as if she were quite accustomed to making clandestine arrangements. “I’ll go first.”
As she took her leave of him, she could feel his gaze on her back, and she knew somehow that he watched her every second until she was out of sight.
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As Lillian walked into the orangery, she was suffused in the scent of…oranges. But lemons, bays, and myrtles also cast their fragrance extravagantly through the gently heated air. The tiled floor of the rectangular building was punctuated with iron grillwork vents that allowed the warmth of the stoves on the lower floor to waft evenly inside the room. Starlight shone through the glass ceiling and glittering windows, and illuminated the interior scaffolding that had been loaded with rows of tropical plants.
The orangery was shadowy, with only the flicker of torches outside to relieve the darkness. At the sound of a footstep, Lillian turned quickly to view the intruder. A flash of uneasiness must have revealed itself in her posture, for Westcliff made his voice low and reassuring. “It’s just me. If you would rather meet in another place—”
“No,” Lillian interrupted, mildly amused to hear one of the most powerful men in England refer to himself as “just me.” “I like the orangery. It’s my favorite place in the manor, actually.”