Julia London 4 Book Bundle (12 page)

Startled, Lilliana sat up and hastily gathered the bedcovers around her. “Are you going?”

“It is rather late,” he said, and strolled across the room to stir the embers in the fire, completely oblivious of his nakedness. She watched him, shamelessly fascinated by his male physique as he stood and casually strolled back to the bed, astounding her with his openness as he donned his dressing gown. He leaned over and kissed her. “Sleep well,” he murmured.

It could not be over so soon! She caught his hand, a little desperately, she knew, but impulsively brought it to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “Adrian,” she whispered, testing his name on her lips. “Must you go now?”

Adrian smiled so that his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he sat on the edge of the bed. “You must be exhausted. You’ve had quite a full day and I don’t want to overtire you. Get some sleep,” he said, and with a final kiss to the top of her head, stood and disappeared through the door that adjoined their rooms. Ashamed by her own brazenness and strangely disheartened, she stared at the door. His lovemaking had been the most glorious thing that had ever happened to her, perhaps the most defining moment of her life. But it had also left her with a peculiar sort of emptiness. Shivering, she pulled the bedcovers around her shoulders before falling against the goose down pillows.

On the other side of the door, Adrian walked to the drink cart Max kept stocked for him, poured himself a whiskey, downed that, and poured another one. What in the hell was the matter with him? Disgusted, he turned and walked to the hearth. Propping one elbow on the mantel, he stared unseeing into the dying flames.

She had affected him. Not affected, exactly, but it was just … hell, he didn’t know what it was. It wasn’t as if she had any sense about lovemaking. She had been stiff as a post, clutching the bedcovers in fear until … until she
had
started to respond. With great
abandon. With complete exhilaration. Her response, while hardly practiced, was as primal as his in claiming her virginity.

Adrian took a long sip of whiskey as he contemplated that. He had never broken a woman’s maidenhead before tonight. There was something terribly earthy about it, something that spoke to the very essence of life in that act. It had captured him, had conjured extraordinary feelings of possession and masculinity. It was a profound act, one that had created an infallible bond between them. Such experiences were foreign to him, and it suddenly made him shudder.

Whatever it was, it had compelled him to claim her fully, invading her untouched body with a strength he had not known in years. And that simple, innocent country girl had opened to him like a flower, returning his passion as well as she knew how, with the same strength he had shown her. He was growing hard again just
thinking
about it.

Dammit, he did not want to feel anything about her—there was nothing but trouble in that. Regardless of how primal that experience had been, she was still the same innocent, the same unremarkable country girl he had so foolishly married.

A Princess of the Grange with a tantalizing dimple in one cheek.

Surely,
surely
, this strange reaction was no more than the release of days of frustration and weariness after his duel with Phillip. Yes, it was that and nothing more, he convinced himself, and poured the last bit of whiskey down his throat.

Exhausted, his nerves raw, he tossed aside his dressing gown and fell naked onto his massive bed. Completely spent, he closed his eyes and prayed that just once, Phillip would not appear in his dreams.
“Just once,”
he muttered, and slung an arm over his eyes, knowing it was too much to ask for.

     
M
RS. POLLY DISMUKE
announced her arrival the next morning by flinging open the drapes. As Lilliana blinked against the bright sunlight that flooded the room, Mrs. Dismuke began a discourse on the ill effects of sleeping so late. Alarmed, Lilliana sat up. She never slept so late. But neither had she ever slept so badly, tossing and turning all night in the unfamiliar surroundings, tortured by an increasing number of doubts.

Fine time for doubts!

Mrs. Dismuke—or Polly, as the boisterous woman loudly proclaimed—shoved a cup of hot chocolate at her and insisted she drink it before she dressed. Lilliana obediently gulped it down, sensing that the woman had an overpowering opinion of the proper order of things. Then she insisted on helping Lilliana dress. Built sturdy and square, Polly looked as if her corset was pulled so tight that she was exploding out of both ends. Broad, masculine hands yanked and pulled at Lilliana’s hair, her night rail, and her arms and legs as Polly chattered brightly of how her mother had served Lord Albright’s grandmother, and she her daughters.

Lilliana hardly listened at all—her nerves were too
frayed, and Polly’s presence seemed yet another sign that things were not quite right. Her father always woke her mother. Every morning, without fail, his was the first face she saw. It was already noon, and Adrian had not come to see about her. Yesterday, he had hardly even looked at her, much less given her any sign—of
anything.

Except last night.

With the single exception of the incredible things he did to her, he had shown her no emotion at all. Even worse, his lovemaking had made her feel larger than life, almost beyond herself. She was dangerously enamored of a man who had obviously discovered he loathed her. Good God, how could she have possibly gotten off to such a bad start? As if she had to ask herself that, she thought disgustedly. She had been too busy planning her life of freedom, too caught up in the fantasy to notice the warning signs. Foolish,
foolish
girl!

All right, she thought as Polly roughly fastened her gown, she was obviously doing something terribly wrong, and for once she wished her mother were there. She had never put much store into what her mother said about how young ladies should comport themselves; her lessons had seemed positively archaic and demeaning. How many times had she heard the lectures? Never mind that—
think!
All right, well, she
did
talk too much. Mother had said men do not care for ladies who talk too much. And she was not demure, not at all. If she had had one bit of sense in her feeble head, she would have sat quietly reading throughout the drive,
not
leaning out the window and
not
calling attention to every piece of scenery. Worse yet, she was not beautiful to make up for her gaffes, not like Caroline. Caroline had the luxury of being an absolute pill when she wanted to be, but Mr. Feather doted on her nonetheless because she was beautiful.

Exactly how did one make up for the lack of beauty and ladylike demeanor?

“Fine head of hair, milady. I shall look forward to dressing it for you. Now, if you will follow me, I shall
take you to Max. He is in an absolute dither to show you about,” Mrs. Dismuke said with a roll of her eyes. She marched to the door of the suite, threw it wide open with brute force, and proceeded to march into the corridor.

Afraid to disobey her, Lilliana rose from the vanity and reluctantly followed.

And Polly was right—Max, as the butler insisted she call him, was as diminutive as Polly was large, and truly was in something of a dither. He seemed to flit from one side of the drawing room to the other, straightening figurines and portraits and wiping imaginary specks of dust from mahogany tabletops. Just when Lilliana thought he might actually work himself into a frenzy and whirl right through the roof, the tour of Longbridge began.

In the course of it, when she wasn’t sprinting to keep up with Max, Lilliana learned that Adrian had spent very little time at Longbridge, and that most of the enormous house remained as the late Lord Albright had left it. Which was one reason Max exclaimed over the many paintings she had brought from the Grange, declaring they would be the perfect pick-me-up to some of the drab decoration. When she confessed that she had painted them, Max clasped his hands to his chest and excitedly confided that he,
too
, was a budding artist. Which naturally gave rise to his idea that she might paint in the orangery, a building that had not been used in many years, and he instantly ushered her down to the rectangular brick building for a proper artist’s inspection.

Lilliana managed to keep a cheerful facade throughout the tour by sheer force of will. In truth, she walked about in something of a daze, nodding politely with feigned interest in the things Max showed her, or appearing to listen attentively to Polly’s rather long-winded history of the Albright house. And, naturally, nodding politely to both points of view during Max and Polly’s frequent arguments about who, exactly, had done what to Longbridge and in what year. More than once she opened her mouth to ask about her husband. More
than once she shut it before she foolishly did so.
Don’t ask. Don’t let them know.

Apparently, miracles could happen, she told herself as she took her tea alone. Because for the first time in her twenty-two years, it looked as if her mother might possibly be right. Lady Dashell had always stressed the importance of being a lady. How many times had she rebuked her for unladylike behavior? How many times had she warned her that no gentleman would want a ruffian as a wife? Lord, how many times had she thrown up her hands, complaining it was all quite hopeless?

Lilliana had ignored her mother, assuming she was as old-fashioned as she was unyielding in her beliefs. And she was too desperate to soar to worry about what others might think of her. She had never cared a whit about being a proper lady, and despite her mother’s pleas she preferred racing at reckless speeds on horseback to needlework. Romping with children or exploring the caves by the river suited her interests far more than drills in deportment and elocution. Lady Dashell positively wailed when Lilliana chose novels of daring adventure and travel above the required poetry and biblical text. But it was the only way Lilliana knew how to exist in the oppressive confines of Blackfield Grange; her only solace was the dream of escape.

Silly girl, she had thought she had found her escape in Adrian. How very ridiculous to think he would be pleased with a ruffian, or to ignore how odd she would seem to a man of his stature and sophistication. Unfortunately, he had offered based on her reputation—a reputation that her mother had fought to maintain for her. He could not have possibly known she was as unladylike as he should ever hope to find or that she longed for adventure and travel and worldly amusements.

But he suspected now, did he not, that she was not the gently bred woman so well suited to him? Her only option—now that her mother was in Bath with the rest of the family—was to recall every fragment of memory of her mother’s hundreds of lessons and become the demure
woman a gentleman would want at his side. It seemed the only way, and definitely her only hope.

Adrian plunged his arms into the coat his valet, Roger, held out for him, a deep frown on his face and a blinding headache to boot. Roger’s attention to his neckcloth was grating on him; he was far too exhausted to care about his appearance. As was happening with alarming frequency, he had spent another sleepless night with visions of Phillip, and sometimes Benedict, plaguing him.

“Thank you, Roger,” he muttered, impatiently slapped the man’s hand away, and started for the door. He was famished; he had not eaten since sunup. A good supper and several glasses of port seemed in order, and then, God help him, perhaps sleep would come.

“I’m to tell you that her ladyship is in the south drawing room, my lord,” Roger said behind him.

Adrian paused at the door and glanced at his valet in a moment of confusion.
Lilliana.
He had almost forgotten. “Thank you,” he said curtly, and strode from the master suite. He had forgotten his new wife sometime early this morning when he had come upon the first tenant’s cottage in great need of repair. The next cottage had been no better, nor the next. The tenants were clearly suffering, and as he had ridden into the fields he had seen why. The harvested stalks were spindly, and judging by the look of the soil, there wouldn’t be much point in sowing the fields in the spring.

That was when the idea had come to him. Longbridge had once been a place of splendor—and it could be so again. As he had ridden about the estate he had begun to see how easily Longbridge might rival Kealing Park. It was brilliant—if Archie thought to deprive him, then Adrian would create his own Park. Only one much grander than Archie should ever hope to see at Kealing Park.

As Adrian strode along the corridor of the ground floor, he tried to recall when he had last seen a report on
Longbridge since inheriting the title and estate after his grandfather’s death some five years ago. Reaching the drawing room, he opened the doors and walked inside, his mind quickly running through the places he might have left that report.

Lilliana sprang to her feet as he entered and stood nervously. She wore a gown of ivory brocade, and her thick blond hair was arranged in a pleasing style. Adrian was struck by the odd notion that she looked … 
attractive
 … in a country sort of way. “Good evening,” he said, and strolled to where she was standing to place a perfunctory kiss on her temple.

“Good evening,” she murmured, and smiled nervously. “Shall I fetch you a drink?”

Yes, and a stout one at that, he thought, and sank onto a damask-covered couch. “A whiskey.”

Lilliana hurried to the sideboard and poured it herself before the footman attending them could reach it She returned, holding the liquor out to him with a slight tremble in her hand. “How was your day?” she asked.

“Exhausting,” he muttered, and took a healthy sip of the amber liquid. Lilliana perched herself carefully on the edge of a chair, primly arranged her skirts, and straightened her spine. She then looked at him expectantly.

Adrian belatedly remembered himself. “And how was your first day at Longbridge?”

She smiled prettily. “Quite informative. Max took me on a tour of the house. It is quite grand. The southern rooms get wonderful light.”