Lady Whistledown Strikes Back (8 page)

He should stop. He had to stop. And yet he couldn’t.

Somewhere within him, he knew that this might be
his only chance, the one kiss he’d ever play across her lips. And he
wasn’t ready to end it. Not yet, not until he’d had more. Not until she
knew more of his touch.

“I want you,” he said, his voice husky with need.
“Never doubt that, Tillie. I want you like I want water, like I want
air. I want you more than all that, and …”

His voice failed him. There were no words left. All
he could do was look at her, stare deeply into her eyes and shudder
when he saw the echo of his own desire. Her breath was passing over her
lips in short gasps, and then she touched one finger to his lips and
whispered, “What have you done?”

He felt his brows rise up in question.

“To me,” she clarified. “What have you done to me?”

He couldn’t answer. To do so would be to give voice
to all of his frustrated dreams. ‘Tillie,” he managed to say, but that
was all.

“Don’t tell me this shouldn’t have happened,” she whispered.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He knew it was true, but he
couldn’t bring himself to regret the kiss. He might later, when he was
lying in bed, burning with unfulfilled need, but not now, not when she
was so close, her scent on the wind, her heat pulling him near.

“Tillie,” he said again, since it seemed to be the only word his lips could form.

She opened her mouth to speak, but then they both
heard the sound of someone else approaching, and they realized they
were no longer alone on the patio. Peter’s protective instincts took
over, and he pulled her farther behind the pillar, pressing one finger
to his lips to signal for quiet.

It was Lord Easterly, he realized, arguing in
hushed voices with his wife, whom, if Peter had the story correctly,
he’d abandoned under mysterious circumstances some twelve years
earlier. They were quite involved in their own drama, and Peter was
optimistic that they would never notice they had company. He stepped
back, trying to cloak himself more deeply in the shadows, but then—
“Ow!” Tillie’s foot. Damn.

The viscount and viscountess turned sharply, their eyes widening when they realized they were not alone.

“Good evening,” Peter said gamely, since he seemed
to have no other choice but to brazen it out. “Er, fine weather,”
Easterly said.

“Indeed,” Peter replied, at much the same time as Tillie’s chirpy, “Oh, yes!”

“Lady Mathilda,” Easterly’s wife said. She was a
tall, blond woman, the sort who looked always elegant, but tonight she
appeared nervous.

“Lady Easterly”.Tillie returned. “How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“Just fine, thank you. I was just, er, a little
overheated.” Tillie waved her hand about as if to indicate the cool
night air. “I thought a spot of fresh air might revive me.”

“Quite,” Lady Easterly said. “We felt the exact same way.”

Her husband grunted his agreement. “Er, Easterly,”
Peter said, finally sparing the two ladies their uncomfortable small
talk, “I should warn you of something.”

Easterly inclined his head in question. “Lady Neeley has been publicly accusing you of the theft.”

“What?” Lady Easterly demanded. “Publicly?” Lord Easterly queried, cutting off any further exclamations from his wife.

Peter nodded curtly. “In no uncertain terms, I’m afraid.”

“Mr. Thompson defended you,” Tillie put in, her eyes alight. “He was magnificent.”

“Tillie,” Peter muttered, trying to get her to be
quiet. “Thank you for your defense,” Lord Easterly said, after a polite
nod to Tillie. “I knew that she suspected me. She has made that much
abundantly clear. But she had not yet gone so far as to accuse me
publicly.”

“She has now,” Peter said grimly. Beside him,
Tillie nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said. She turned to Lady Easterly and
added, “She’s rather horrid.” Lady Easterly nodded hi return. “I would
never have ac
cepted
her invitation had I not heard so much about the chef.”

But her husband was clearly uninterested in the chef’s renown. “Thank you for the warning,” he said to Peter.

Peter acknowledged the thanks with a single nod, then said, “I must return Lady Mathilda to the party.”

“Perhaps my wife would be a better escort,” Lord
Easterly said, and Peter realized that he was returning the favor. The
Easterlys would never mention that they’d found Peter and Tillie quite
alone, and furthermore, Lady Easterly’s impeccable reputation would
ensure that Tillie was not the subject of scurrilous gossip.

“You are more than correct, my lord,” Peter said,
pulling gently on Tillie’s arm and steering her toward Lady Easterly.
“I will see you tomorrow,” he said to Tillie.

“Will you?” she asked, and he could see in her eyes that she wasn’t being coy.

“Yes,” he said, and much to his surprise, he realized he meant it.

As there are no new developments to report in the Mystery of the Disappeared Bracelet, This Author must content herself with her more ordinary subject matter, namely the day-to-day foibles of the ton, as they proceed in their quest for wealth, prestige, and the perfect spouse.

Chief among This Author’s topics is Mr. Peter Thompson, who, as anyone with an observant eye will have noted, has been most assiduously courting Lady Mathilda Howard, only daughter of the Earl of Canby, for more than a week. The pair were quite inseparable at the Hargreaves’ Grand Ball, and in the week since, Mr. Thompson has been known to call upon Canby House nearly every single morning.

Such activities can only attract attention. Mr. Thompson is known to be a fortune hunter, although to his credit, it must be noted that until Lady Mathilda, his monetary aspirations had been modest and, by the standards of society, unworthy of reproach.

Lady Mathilda’s fortune, however, is quite a prize, and it has long been accepted by society that she would marry none less than an earl. Indeed, This Author has it on the highest authority that the betting book at White’s predicts that she will pledge her troth to the Duke of Ashbourne, who, as all know, is the last remaining eligible duke in Britain.

Poor Mr. Thompson.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS,
10 JUNE 1816

Poor Mr. Thompson, indeed.

Peter had spent the past week alternating between misery and bliss, his mood entirely dependent upon whether he was able to forget that Tillie was one of the richest people in Britain and he was, to be quite blunt about it, not.

Her parents had to know of his interest in her. He’d called at Canby House nearly every day since the Hargreaves ball, and neither had sought to dissuade him, but they also knew of his friendship with Harry. The Canbys would never turn away a friend of their son, and Lady Canby in particular seemed to enjoy his presence. She liked talking to him about Harry, hearing stories of his final days, especially when Peter told her how Harry could make anyone laugh, even while surrounded by the worst degradations of war.

In fact, Peter was quite certain that Lady Canby liked hearing about Harry so much that she would allow him to dangle hopelessly after Tillie, even though he was, as was patently obvious, a most unsuitable prospect for marriage.

Eventually the time would come when the Canbys sat him down and had a little chat, and Peter would be told in no uncertain terms that while he was an admirable, upstanding fellow, and certainly a fine friend for their son, it was quite another thing altogether to make a match with their daughter.

But that time had not yet arrived, and so Peter had decided to make the best of his situation and enjoy what time he was allowed. To that end, he and Tillie had arranged to meet this morning in Hyde Park. They were both avid riders, and as the day was sporting the first patch of sun in a week, they could not resist an outing.

The sentiment appeared to be shared by the rest of the
ton.
The park was a crush, with riders slowed to the most sedate of trots to avoid entanglements, and as Peter waited patiently for Tillie near the Serpentine, he idly watched the crowds, wondering if there were any other lovesick fools in their ranks.

Maybe. But probably none quite as lovesick—or as foolish— as he.

“Mr. Thompson! Mr. Thompson!”

He smiled at the sound of Tillie’s voice. She was always careful not to address him by his given name in public, but when they were alone, and especially when he was stealing a kiss, he was always Peter.

He had never before given a thought to his parents’ choice of names, but since Tillie had taken to whispering it in the heat of passion, he had come to adore the sound of it, and he’d decided that Peter was a splendid choice, indeed.

He was surprised to see that Tillie was on foot, moving along the path with two servants, one male and one female, following.

Peter immediately dismounted. “Lady Mathilda,” he said with a formal nod.

There were a great many people nearby, and it was difficult to tell who was within earshot. For all he knew, that wretched Lady Whistledown herself could be lurking behind a tree.

Tillie grimaced. “My mare is favoring a leg,” she explained. “I didn’t want to take her out. Do you mind if we walk? I brought my groom to tend to your horse.”

Peter handed the reins over as Tillie assured him, “John is very good with horses. Roscoe will be more than safe with him. And besides,” she added with a whisper, once they’d moved a few yards away from the servants, “he and my maid are quite sweet on each other. I was hoping they might be easily distracted.”

Peter turned to her with an amused smile. “Mathilda Howard, did you plan this?”

She drew back as if affronted, but her lips were twitching. “I wouldn’t dream of lying about my mare’s injury.”

He chuckled.

“She really was favoring a leg,” Tillie said.

“Right,” he said.

“She was!” she protested. “Truly. I merely decided to take advantage of the situation. You wouldn’t have wanted me to cancel our outing, would you?” She glanced over her shoulder, back at her maid and groom, who were standing side by side near a small cluster of trees, chattering happily.

“I don’t think they’ll notice if we disappear,” Tillie said, “provided we don’t go far.”

Peter quirked a brow. “Disappeared is disappeared. If we’re out of their sight, does it really matter how far we venture?”

“Of course it does,” Tillie returned. “It’s the principle of the matter. I don’t want to get them in trouble, after all, especially while they are providing such a thoughtful blind eye.”

“Very well,” Peter said, deciding there was little point in following her logic.

“Will that tree do?” He pointed to a large elm, halfway between Rotten Row and Serpentine Drive.

“Right between the two main thoroughfares?” she said, scrunching her nose.

“That’s a terrible idea.

Let’s go over there, on the other side of the Serpentine.”

And so they strolled, just a little bit out of sight of Tillie’s servants, but not, much to Peter’s simultaneous relief and dismay, out of sight of everyone else.

They walked for several minutes in silence, and then Tillie said, in a rather casual tone, “I heard a rumor about you this morning.”

“Not something you read in
Whistledown,
I hope.”

“No,” she said thoughtfully, “it was mentioned this morning. By another one of my suitors.” And then, when he didn’t rise to her bait, she added, “When you didn’t call.”

“I can hardly call upon you every day,” he said. “It would be remarked upon, and besides, we had already made arrangements to meet this afternoon.”

“Your visits to my home have already been remarked upon. I hardly think one more would attract additional notice.”

He felt himself smiling—a slow, lazy grin that warmed him from the inside out.

“Why, Tillie Howard,

are you jealous?”

“No,” she returned, “but aren’t you?”

“Should I be?”

“No,” she admitted, “but while we’re on the subject, why should
I
be jealous?”

“I assure you I haven’t a clue. I spent the morning at Tattersall’s, gazing upon horses I can’t afford.”

“That sounds rather frustrating,” she commented, “and don’t you want to know what the rumor was I heard?”

“Almost as much,” he drawled, “as I suspect you wish to tell it to me.”

She pulled a face at that, then said, “I’m not one to gossip … much, but I heard that you led a somewhat wild existence when you returned to England last year.”

“And who told you this?”

“Oh, nobody in particular,” she said, “but it does beg the question—”

“It begs a great many questions,” he muttered.

“How was it,” she continued, ignoring his grunts, “that I never heard of this debauchery?”

“Probably,” he said rather starchily, “because it’s not fit for your ears.”

“It grows more interesting by the second.”

“No, it grew
less
interesting by the second,” he stated, in a tone meant to quell further discussion.

“And that is why I’ve reformed my ways.”

“You make it sound vastly exciting,” she said with a smile.

“It wasn’t.”

“What happened?” Tillie asked, proving once and for all that any attempts he made to cow her into submission would be fruitless.

He stopped walking, unable to think clearly and move at the same time. One would think he’d have mastered the art in battle, but no, it didn’t seem to be in evidence. Not here in Hyde Park, anyway.

And not with Tillie.

It was funny—he’d been able to forget Harry for much of the past week. There had been the conversations with Lady Canby, to be sure, and the undeniable pang he felt whenever he saw a soldier in uniform, whenever he recognized the hollow shadow in their eyes.

The same shadow he’d seen so many times in the mirror.

But when he was with Tillie—it was strange, because she was Harry’s sister, and so like him in so many ways—but when he was with her, Harry was gone.