Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (7 page)

“To which half do you refer?” Peter asked coldly.

“The bit about your being a thief, of course,” Lady
Neeley said. “We all know you’re hunting down a fortune”—she glanced
rather obviously at Tillie—“but you’re no thief.”

“Lady Neeley!” Tillie exclaimed, unable to believe that even she would be so rude.

“And how,” Peter said, “did you come to that conclusion?”

“I know your father,” Lady Neeley said, “and that is good enough for me.”

“The sins of the father in reverse?” he asked dryly.

“Precisely,” Lady Neeley replied, completely missing his tone. “Besides, I rather suspect Easterly. He’s far too tanned.”

“Tanned?” Tillie echoed, trying to figure out how that related to a theft of rubies.

“And,” Lady Neeley added, rather officiously, “he cheats at cards.”

“Lord Easterly seemed a good sort to me,” Tillie
felt compelled to put in. She wasn’t allowed to gamble, of course, but
she’d spent enough time out in society to know that an accusation of
cheating was a serious indictment, indeed. More serious, some would
say, than an accusation of theft.

Lady Neeley turned to her with a condescending air. “You, dear girl, are far too young to know the story.”

Tillie pursed her lips and forced herself not to reply.

“You ought to make certain you have proof before you accuse a man of theft,”

Peter said, his spine ramrod straight.

“Bah. I’ll have all the proof I need when they find my jewels in his apartments.”

“Lady Neeley, have you had the room searched?” Tillie cut in, eager to diffuse the conversation.

“His room?”

“No, yours. The drawing room.”

“Of course I have,” Lady Neeley retorted. “D’you think I’m a fool?”

Tillie declined to comment.

“I had the room searched twice,” the older woman
stated. “And then I searched it myself for a third time, just to make
sure. The bracelet is not in the drawing room. I can say that as a
fact.”

“I’m certain you’re right,” Tillie said, still
trying to smooth things over. They’d attracted a crowd, and no fewer
than a dozen onlookers were leaning in, eager to hear the interchange
between Lady Neeley and one of her prime suspects. “But be that as it
may— “

“You had better watch your words,” Peter cut in
sharply, and Tillie gasped, stunned by his tone, and then was relieved
when she realized it wasn’t directed at her.

“I beg your pardon,” Lady Neeley said, drawing her shoulders back at the affront.

“I am not well acquainted with Lord Easterly, so I
cannot vouch for his character,” Peter said, “but I do know that you
have no proof with which to level a charge. You are treading in
dangerous waters, my lady, and you would do well not to besmirch a
gentleman’s good name. Or you may find,” he added forcefully, when Lady
Neeley opened her mouth in further argument, “that your own name is
dragged through the very same mud.”

Lady Neeley gasped, Tillie’s mouth fell open, and then a strange hush fell over the small crowd.

“This’ll be in tomorrow’s
Whistledown
for certain!” someone finally said.

“Mr. Thompson, you forget yourself,” Lady Neeley said. “No,” Peter said grimly. “That’s the one thing I never forget.”

There was a moment of silence, and then, just when
Tillie was quite certain that Lady Neeley was going to spew venom, she
laughed.

Laughed. Right there in the ballroom, leaving all the onlookers gaping with surprise.

“You have pluck, Mr. Thompson,” she said. “I will give you that.”

He nodded graciously, which Tillie found rather admirable under the circumstances.

“I do not change my opinion of Lord Easterly, mind
you,” she said. “Even if he didn’t take the bracelet, he has behaved
appallingly toward dear Sophia. Now then,” she said, changing the
subject with disconcerting speed, “where is my companion?”

“She’s here?” Tillie asked.

“Of course she’s here,” Lady Neeley said briskly.
“If she’d stayed home, everyone would think her a thief.” She turned
and leveled a shrewd look at Peter. “Rather like you, I expect, Mr.
Thompson.”

He said nothing, but he did incline his head ever so slightly.

Lady Neeley smiled—a rather frightening stretch of
her lips in her face, and then she turned and bellowed, “Miss Martin!
Miss Martin!”

And she was off, with swirls of pink silk flouncing
behind her, and all Tillie could think was that poor Miss Martin surely
deserved a medal.

“You were magnificent!” Tillie said to Peter. “I’ve never known anyone to stand up to her like that.”

“It was nothing,” he said under his breath.

“Nonsense,” she said. “It was nothing short of—”

“Tillie, stop,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with the continued attention from the other partygoers.

“Very well,” she acceded, “but I never did get my lemonade. Would you be so kind to escort me?”

He couldn’t very well refuse a direct request in
front of so many onlookers, and Tillie tried not to smile with delight
as he took her arm and led her back to the refreshment table. He looked
almost unbearably handsome in his evening attire. She didn’t know when
or why he’d decided to forgo his military uniform, but he still cut a
dashing figure, and it was a heady delight to be on his arm.

“I don’t care what you say,” she whispered. “You were wonderful, and Lord Easterly owes you a debt of gratitude.”

“Anyone would have—”

“Anyone wouldn’t have, and you know it,” Tillie cut
in. “Stop being so ashamed of your own sense of honor. I find it rather
fetching myself.”

His face flushed, and he looked like he wanted to
yank at his cravat. Tillie would have laughed with delight if she
hadn’t been quite sure that it would just discomfort him further.

And she realized—she’d thought it was true two days before, but now she knew—that she loved him.

It was an amazing, stunning feeling, and it had
become, quite spectacularly, a part of who she was. Whatever she’d been
before, she was something else now. She didn’t exist for him, and she
didn’t exist because of him, but somehow he had become a little piece
of her soul, and she knew that she would never be the same.

“Let’s go outside,” she said impulsively, tugging toward the door.

He resisted her movement, holding his arm still against the pressure of her hand. “Tillie, you know that is a bad idea.”

“For your reputation or mine?” she teased. “Both,” he replied forcefully, “although I might remind you that mine would recover.”

And so would hers, Tillie thought giddily, provided
he married her. Not that she wanted to trap him into matrimony, but
still, it was impossible not to think of it, not to fantasize right
here in the middle of the ball about standing beside him at the front
of a church, all her friends behind her, listening as she spoke her
vows.

“No one will see,” she said, pulling his arm as
best as she could without attracting attention. “Besides, look, the
party has moved out to the garden. We shan’t be the least bit alone.”
Peter followed her gaze toward the French doors. Sure enough, there
were several couples milling about, enough so that no one’s reputation
would suffer stain.

“Very well,” he said, “if you insist.” She smiled
winningly. “Oh, I do.” The night air was cool but welcome after the
humid crush in the ballroom. Peter tried to keep them in full view of
the doors, but Tillie kept tugging toward the shadows, and though he
should have stood his ground and rooted her to the spot, he found he
couldn’t.

She led, and he followed, and he knew it was wrong, but there was nothing he could make himself do about it.

“Do you really think someone stole the bracelet?”
Tillie asked once they were leaning against the balustrade, staring out
at the torchlit garden.

“I don’t want to talk about the bracelet.” “Very
well,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about Harry.” He smiled. There
was something in her tone that struck him as funny, and she must have
heard it, too, because she was grinning at him.

“Have we anything left about which to converse?” she asked.

“The weather?”

She gave him a vaguely scolding expression.

“I
know
you don’t want to discuss politics or religion.”

“Quite,” she said pertly. “Not now, at any rate.”

“Very well, then,” he said. “It’s your turn to suggest a topic.”

“All right,” she said. “I’m game. Tell me about your wife.”

He choked on what had to be the largest speck of dust in creation. “My wife?” he echoed.

“The one you claim you’re looking for,” she
explained. “You might as well tell me just what it is you’re seeking,
since clearly I will have to aid you in the search.”

“Will you?”

“Indeed. You said I do nothing but make you appear
a fortune hunter, and we’ve just spent the last thirty minutes in each
other’s company, several of them in full view of the worst gossips in
London. According to your arguments, I have set you back a full month.”
She shrugged, although the motion was obscured by the soft blue wrap
she’d pulled tightly around her shoulders. “It’s the very least I can
do.”

He regarded her for a long moment, then lost his inner battle and gave in.

“Very Well. What do you want to know?”

She smiled with delight at her victory. “Is she intelligent?”

“Of course.”

“Very good answer, Mr. Thompson.”

He nodded graciously, wishing he was strong enough
not to enjoy the moment. But there was no hope for him; he couldn’t
resist her.

She tapped her index finger against her cheek as she pondered her questions. “Is she compassionate?” she asked.

“I would hope so.”

“Kind to animals and small children?”

“Kind to
me,”
he said, smiling lazily. “Isn’t that all that matters?”

She shot him a peevish expression and he chuckled,
leaning a bit more heavily against the balustrade. A strange, sensual
lethargy was stealing over him, and he was losing himself in the
moment. They might have been guests at a grand London ball, but at that
moment, nothing existed but Tillie and her teasing words.

“You may find,” Tillie said, glancing down her nose
at him in a most superior fashion, “that if she is intelligent— and I
do believe you stated that as a requirement?”

He nodded, graciously granting her the point.

“—that her kindness depends upon your own. Do unto others, and all that.”

“You may be assured,” he murmured, “that I will be very kind to my wife.”

“You will?” she whispered. And he realized that she
was near. He didn’t know how it had happened, if it had been him or
her, but the distance between them had been halved. She was standing
close, too close. He could see every freckle on her nose, catch every
glint of the flickering torchlights in her hair.

The fiery tresses had been pulled back into an
elegant chignon, but a few strands had pulled free of the coiffure and
were curling around her face.

Her hair was curly, he realized. He’d not known
that. It seemed inconceivable that he wouldn’t have known something so
basic, but he’d never seen her thus. Her hair was always pulled back to
perfection, every strand in its place.

Until now. And he couldn’t help but feel fanciful and think that somehow this was for him. “What does she look like?”

“Who?” he asked distractedly, wondering what would
happen if he tugged on one of those curls. It looked like a corkscrew,
springy and soft.

“Your wife,” she replied, amusement making her voice like music.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I haven’t met her yet.”

“You haven’t?”

He shook his head. He was nearly beyond words.

“But what do you wish for?” Her voice was soft now,
and she touched his sleeve with her index finger, ran it along the
fabric of his coat from his elbow to his wrist. “Surely you carry some
image in your mind.”

“Tillie,” he said hoarsely, looking about to see if
anyone had seen. He had felt her touch through the fabric of his coat.
There was no one left on the patio, but that did not mean that they
would remain without interruption.

“Dark hair?” she murmured. “Light?”

‘Tillie …”

“Red?”

And then he could take it no longer. He was a hero
of the war, had fought and slain countless French soldiers, risked his
life more than once to pull an injured compatriot from the line of
fire, and yet he was not proof against this slip of a girl, with her
melodious voice and flirtatious words. He had been pushed to his limit
and had found no ramparts or walls, no last-ditch defense against his
own desire.

He pulled her to him and then in a circle around him, moving until they were obscured by a pillar.

“You shouldn’t push me, Tillie.”

“I can’t help it,” she said.

Neither could he. His lips found hers, and he kissed her.

He kissed her even though it would never be enough. He kissed her even though he could never have more.

And he kissed her to spoil her for all other men,
to leave his mark so that when her father finally married her off to
someone else, she’d have the memory of this, and it would haunt her to
her dying day.

It was cruel and it was selfish, but he couldn’t help himself. Somewhere, deep within him, he knew that she was
his,
and it was a knife in his gut to know that his primitive awareness amounted to nothing in the world of the
ton.

She sighed against his mouth, a soft mewling sound that moved through him like flame.

“Tillie, Tillie,” he murmured, sliding his
hands to the curve of her bottom. He cupped her, then pressed her
against him, hard and tight, branding her through thick clothing.

“Peter!” she gasped, but he silenced her with
another kiss. She squirmed in his arms, her body responding to his
onslaught. With every motion, her body rubbed against his, and his
desire grew harder, hotter, more intense, until he was quite certain he
would explode.