Not Wicked Enough (10 page)

“She has that,” he said.

Lily sniffed then glanced down and winced. The man was in need of a decent bootmaker, too. “My God,” she said in a low voice. “Those boots.” No amount of polish or oil could save his footwear. She shook her head. “Now that I am here, your grace, it is my particular aim to see your sister amused.” She folded her hands on her lap. “It’s something you and Lord Nigel have failed to do. You ought both of you to be ashamed. I intend to continue to encourage her
to leave the house, make calls, and engage in divers recreation that will refresh her heart.”

“Wellstone, please believe that I do not for a moment doubt your devotion to my sister—”

“If writing sentences with a phosphorus pencil amuses your sister, and it did, sir, then how can you object to that?”

His eyes widened. “Because it is dangerous.”

“Oh, pshaw. We’d been writing for some time before you interrupted us. In fact, Lord Nigel, Miss Kirk, and your sister had already had their turn.”

“I object to my house burning down.”

She lifted her hands, palms up, and looked from side to side. “Your house has not burned down.”

He spread his thighs and propped his hands on his knees as he leaned forward. “Pure luck.”

“Hardly.”

“The quill burst into flames. You might have brought the house down.”

She snorted. “Tell me, do you come home every day and say to yourself, ‘Thank God, today I was not savaged by wolves’? Or ‘killed by a runaway carriage’?”

He yanked on his cravat. There was at least no way to make it look any worse. He would be passionate in bed, she was certain. Capable of gentleness, but more than able to set tenderness aside if the moment called for more. “There are no wolves in England.”

“Precisely my point.”

“But there are runaway carriages, and when I am in the presence of one, yes, I am grateful to continue among the living.” He leaned back on his chair and raked his fingers through his hair. Such beautiful, thick hair. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair again. “Phosphorus is a dangerous substance.”

“So is gunpowder. Have you removed every trace of it from your estate?”

“Of course not. There are precautions, Miss Wellstone.”

“Thank you for making my point.”

He stared at her. Lily stared back, and the heat between them had nothing to do with phosphorus pencils. “I’ve never covered a quill in the stuff and thrust it into the flames.”

“What an absurd thing to say, your grace. Did you see me do that?”

“Tell me, Wellstone.” He leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, legs apart. “If you were to survive a fall from a twenty-foot cliff, would you then presume you would be unharmed when you jumped the second time?”

“Argument by analogy is hardly logically sound.”

“Yes it is.” His eyes flashed. “But allow me to speak without resort to analogy. What I mean for you to understand is that this is my home, and I consider phosphorus to be an element so dangerous that I do not wish to have it present. With or without precautions. I don’t want Eugenia, Miss Kirk, or Nigel to be injured. Or you, Lily.” He spread his arms. “Is that unreasonable?”

“No, sir. It’s not.” She tapped her chin. She was aware that she’d been outmaneuvered and could not help admiring him for it. “I cannot disagree it must have been alarming to you to enter upon such a scene.”

“Indeed.”

“Without knowing the various precautions we followed.”

“They were not sufficient.”

“I admit that phosphorus is volatile.” She fingered her medallion, smoothing a finger over the surface as was becoming a habit with her. “We followed the instructions almost without deviation. Lord Nigel was there, and if there had been any danger, I am confident he would have acted quickly to prevent harm from befalling anyone.” She gestured. “It was a lark, your grace. You must have seen your sister. Before our phosphorus pencil caught fire, that is.”

He nodded.

“She was laughing. How often have you seen her laugh since she came home? The entire project amused her, and that can only be good.”

The duke relaxed a little on his chair, and Lily began to
hope she’d brought him round to her point of view. He fell silent a moment. “I’ve not seen her laugh like that for far too long.”

“You see?” She leaned over far enough to pat his knee, and it was no surprise that his attention followed her bosom. Or that she felt that shivery sense of anticipation. “We do agree on something. That’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“It seems we do.” Mountjoy stared at his thigh. And then at her, turning the full force of his gaze on her. She’d kissed him, and she wanted to again even though he wasn’t Greer. She hadn’t in all this time thought of another man in that way. So intimately.

“Can we not be friends?” she asked.

He did not answer straightaway. “Would you be as loyal to me as you are to my sister?”

Her heart tripped because his voice had gone softer. Not sweet so much as silky. It was the voice she heard in her dreams. That shivery sensation climbed inside her again, and she was hard-pressed not to melt in her seat. “If I find you deserving, yes, absolutely.”

“I will endeavor to deserve your devotion, Wellstone.”

Lily looked at him sideways. His face was perfectly bland. “You should not call me that.”

“I would prefer, Wellstone,” he went on in a voice that was oh so slightly less silky, “that you give the phosphorus to me for safekeeping. I will return it to you when your visit has concluded.”

“You were not present to see the care we took.”

He kept his thighs spread. “You failed to keep the quill wet.”

“Lord Nigel reminded me.” She reached for the jar and held it out to him. He had a point. This was his home and surely a man expected to make the rules in his own home. “Consider it a gift, your grace.”

His eyebrows lifted. “A gift?”

“You needn’t return it. I can always buy more when I am back at Syton House.”

“I pray there is a local firefighting association.”

“As a matter of fact there is. I donated the very newest engine.”

He took the jar from her and slipped it into his pocket. She rose and he, too, stood. He offered her his arm. “Now that we have settled matters between us, may I escort you to the Oldenburg salon?”

Lily tucked her hand under his upper arm so that her fingers rested lightly on his biceps. If she kissed him again, would it be as wonderful? “You’ll just have time to change before tea.”

“I’ve already changed.”

She very nearly laughed, but she had the good fortune to look at his face in time to stop herself. He was serious. “Do you mean to tell me, sir, that these are your best clothes?”

They reached the door before he answered. “No. These are among my most comfortable clothes.”

“You have the oddest notion that fashionable clothes are necessarily uncomfortable ones. You are wrong.” The duke reached for the knob. “A properly fitted suit not only makes the most of a man’s assets, and yours are considerable, but it is also comfortable. Because it fits.”

“I am perfectly at ease in these clothes.”

“You’re serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You really ought to hire me as your valet.”

“Perhaps I ought.”

She gestured at him, and he took a step nearer her. Away from the door. “As bad as that?” he said in that silky voice.

“Worse,” she said. She grabbed a handful of his cravat and pulled his head to hers. His lips caught at hers, slanted over her mouth, and he parted her lips or, perhaps, he didn’t have to.

Not a kiss between friends. Not at all.

Mountjoy’s arm snaked around her waist, and he pulled her close. She ended up with her back pressed against the
door and his forearms on either side of her head while they kissed each other as madly as they had before. More.

He wasn’t gentle this time, and she was swept along, and by the time they separated, they were both breathing hard and she was weak behind the knees. “We can’t do this, Wellstone,” he said, his mouth inches from hers.

“No. Positively not,” she whispered.

“Go. Go have tea, and give my regrets to Eugenia and Miss Kirk.” He didn’t release her, but even if he had, she wouldn’t have moved.

“I’d rather stay here.”

“Impossible.” He pressed a kiss to her ear.

“It’s the medallion,” she said, arching her throat to give him the access he wanted. His lips slid along her shoulder. “We have no power to resist.”

He rested his forehead on hers but managed to reach behind her and pull the door open enough that they had no choice but to move. “Damned magic.”

“At the moment, I find it rather thrilling.”

Mountjoy gave a low laugh. “It is at that. Go or I won’t answer for the consequences.”

T
WO DAYS LATER, LILY SAT WITH GINNY AT THE FAR
side of the Kirks’ salon, listening to Miss Caroline Kirk play the piano. Lily wore a gown of pale pink satin while Ginny wore a frock that was at least not quite black. One took small steps. There was no point in asking more of Ginny than she was yet prepared to give. Gray, even a very dark gray, was a triumph.

Jane Kirk sat beside her sister, turning pages. The middle of the Kirk sisters, Miss Caroline, had only yesterday returned from a visit to relatives in the north of England. This gathering was a welcome-home for her. Most of the High Tearing gentry were here on her behalf. Lord Nigel sat a few rows nearer the front while Mountjoy sat closer to the door, beside Mr. Kirk, who would one day be his father in law. All in all, Lily thought the connection would be a good one for both families. At the moment, Jane was rather outmatched by Mountjoy, but that would change.

Miss Caroline was a better than excellent musician, and Lily was glad that the room was comparatively quiet while
she played. She’d chosen a difficult piece by Scarlatti, and such was her talent that Lily had some time ago stopped worrying about whether she would make a mistake and was simply enjoying the music.

The salon door opened to admit a late arrival, but the butler, wisely, did not announce him. Nevertheless, Lily and several other guests turned for a better look at the latecomer. From the whispers, she gathered he was someone important. He looked to be in his late twenties, quite handsome and distinguished, but with a decidedly cold air about him. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t think who.

The new arrival elected to stand near the door, well within her view as it happened. He surveyed the room as if he were searching for someone. Whoever he was, she approved of his taste in clothes. Heartily. Mountjoy could learn a thing or two from this stranger’s example.

Whoever he was, though he took no sartorial risks, his clothes fit him to perfection. Even from where she sat, she could tell the fabrics were first-rate. The very best grade of wool and silk, the finest lawn for his shirt. His cravat was subdued yet folded and knotted to perfection. His boots gleamed and though there were no tassels, she felt the lack suited him. If his attire was a trifle severe, he’d relieved the effect by wearing an embroidered fob of an overly cheerful yellow. An intriguing whimsy.

When Caroline had done playing and the applause had not yet died down, Lily leaned to Ginny and whispered, “Don’t be obvious”—she held Ginny’s forearm to prevent her from turning around— “but do you know who that is? The gentleman who’s just come in.”

Under cover of adjusting her gown, Ginny glanced across the room. “Who?”

“With the yellow fob.”

“I don’t see anyone with a yellow fob.”

“There. By the door. I’ve the strangest feeling I’ve met him before, but I can’t think where.”

Ginny frowned. “What’s
he
doing here?”

“You
do
know who he is.”

Ginny straightened. “Yes.” Her lips thinned. “Lord Fenris.”