Miles gave her a supercilious look. “Right.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth stared at the crowd for a moment, digesting this information. “It doesn’t seem like Luke,” she said eventually. “He might not act like he cares about being responsible and beholden to his duties, but I know he does. Look how he has squired me around when I know he’d much rather be doing something else. I don’t understand his actions.”
“I don’t either.” To her amazement, Miles didn’t sound infuriatingly superior for having more information than she did, which was out of character. Usually he gloated over it. It had started when she was about five and he was eight. But right now, he was frowning, rubbing his jaw. “Something is wrong. He’s moody and distant.”
Distant.
There was that word again, repeated by Miles, no less.
She could count on one hand the times the two of them had agreed on anything lately, and wished this wasn’t one of those rare instances. “You’ve noticed it too?”
“Occasionally,” he drawled in a dry tone, “contrary to your disparaging opinion of my character, I do manage to divert my attention from my own interests. Yes, I’ve noticed. He’s preoccupied, though he’s doing his best to be perceived as enjoying himself with the usual pursuits available to wealthy, aristocratic gentlemen. If I had to guess, he had no intention of entering into that bet. It just happened because it was assumed he’d relish such a staggering wager.”
That was insightful enough that Elizabeth was star tled. “You’ve given this some thought. And when put that way, at least it makes some sense.”
“Now
that’s
frightening.” Her cousin’s mouth quirked at one corner, and his thick lashes dropped a little over those unusual amber eyes. “The last time we were think ing along the same lines, we decided to take your fa ther’s brand new phaeton for a spin in the country. If I remember the disaster correctly, I couldn’t sit down for three days afterward when we were caught upon our return. My father was furious with me.”
She’d always felt a bit guilty he’d gotten the caning for that little misadventure, while she’d merely been confined to her room. “You shouldn’t have claimed it was all your idea. We both knew I was just as guilty.”
“My idea of chivalry at the time.” He shrugged. “I’m older and wiser now, as the saying goes, so the answer to your question is a firm no.”
The music swelled again, filling the room with the strain of the latest popular waltz. “I haven’t asked any thing,” she muttered, studiously adjusting her glove.
Miles straightened from the wall in a lithe movement. “You were just about to suggest that I try to find out what is bedeviling Luke.”
She
had
been. Damn him. “Not at all,” Elizabeth said coolly.
“Liar.” His grin flashed, and then faded. He shook his head. “Women just don’t understand men.”
“Why the devil would we want to?” she muttered. “But could you be more specific as to what I don’t un derstand in this instance?”
“I’m not going to pry. Sorry, El. If he wished to dis cuss it, he would bring it up himself. It isn’t my business, or yours, for that matter, if something is awry.”
“Pardon me if I am concerned about my brother.”
He knew that stubborn set to her soft mouth. Miles Hawthorne uttered an inner curse and resisted the urge to grab Elizabeth’s slender shoulders and drag her out through the French doors to the terrace and explain in the plainest terms possible how little the average male liked an interfering female trying to order his life.
Or drag her out there and do something else entirely. A passionate kiss came to mind. It came to mind quite often, in fact, when he was around Elizabeth.
If they
were
really cousins, this would never have happened, but he’d known since he was old enough to understand the complexities of the situation that they weren’t related. His widowed mother had married Eliz abeth’s father’s cousin only a few years after Miles was born, and they had moved to the Daudet estate. There wasn’t a drop of shared blood between him and Eliza beth. He was so conscious of it, the knowledge disor dered his life.
She
disordered his life.
This evening she was striking in deep rose tulle that bared the creamy upper swells of her breasts, the low cut of the bodice emphasizing the graceful column of her neck. Her shining hair was upswept, and at the moment her eyes, the signature striking Daudet silver, regarded him with haughty disdain. High cheekbones held a hint of outraged color.
She wasn’t classically beautiful, but was still consid ered a beauty. It was hard to define, and he’d love to spend a lifetime trying to analyze it. Those luminous, long-lashed eyes dominated her delicate face, and her chin was a shade square, her nose tilted up at the tip in a piquant angle. . . . When she was younger the combination lent her an elfin look, all eyes and long, curling hair, but as a woman, it lent her distinction from the perfect, blond, incomparable ideal of the
ton
. The color of her hair was impossible to define, waves of dark chestnut with a touch of gold in the light, and a hint of auburn as well.
Part of the allure, he knew, was her vitality. Elizabeth rarely did anything halfway. Some poor, unsuspecting man was going to have a devil of a time keeping her out of trouble once she was wed.
Some very lucky man, sod him
.
She was glaring at him now with unconcealed irritation. Nothing new in
that
.
“Luke managed to stay alive during a war in Spain,” Miles pointed out, returning her look with unperturbed steadiness. “He’s titled, wealthy, and thirty years of age. He doesn’t need you fretting over him. I daresay he’d be annoyed just to learn we’d had this conversation.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts in a militant fashion. “Well, he won’t ever
know
we had this conversation, will he? And I still say you could at least talk to him. For whatever reason, he likes you.”
Elizabeth could needle him like no one else. Miles took a moment and then replied, “Your gift at bestowing compliments rivals my own. I could list a goodly amount of reasons he
would
like me, first and foremost being I have no inclination to interfere in his life.”
“I’m merely asking you to—”
“No.” A few familiar strains floated out from the orchestra. Miles arched his brows and looked at his cousin. “The subject is dropped, El. Shall we dance? Unless you are, of course, eager to have the next waltz with Porter, who is determinedly heading this way.”
The diversion worked. A look of panic crossed her face. “I’d even rather dance with
you
than him. Hurry.”
“I’m flattered, of course.” He caught her hand and led her toward the floor. “Porter being a dead bore and all.”
Elizabeth had the grace to laugh. She was graceful in other ways too as she swirled into his arms, though a polite distance naturally separated them, and her hand rested primly on his shoulder.
They’d danced together countless times, since they’d both had the same dancing master and essentially learned together. It was instinct to move in perfect accord to the lilting music, the patterns predictable, her body swaying against his in provocative motion.
Unconscious provocative motion, he knew, as her full skirts brushed his legs.
He
found it provocative, though it was perfectly proper. Those dancing lessons had been heaven mixed with a liberal dose of hell.
Damn all.
When, precisely, had he fallen in love with her? He couldn’t recall. There hadn’t been a brilliant flash of rec ognition of the moment, no trumpets had sounded, nor had he caught sight of Cupid poised anywhere with a quiver of arrows strapped to his back. As they matured he’d just become aware of it, like noticing the sky is blue, or the verdant color of a country pasture coming into focus. It was just
there
.
She’d still been so innocent, so unconsciously lovely as she’d begun the transition from a girl to a woman. It was only a few years ago—she was just nineteen now—but he’d done his best to keep his distance, and it hadn’t been too difficult during the years he was at Eton and then Cambridge. He’d finished university early and gone home to Berkshire, his natural aptitude for academics putting him back in her sphere right about the time she was preparing for her bow. It was upon his return that he was forced to acknowledge the reality of his position.
She didn’t look at him the same way.
It wasn’t the only obstacle in courting her either. He was merely the stepson of a baronet, with nothing but a modest portion from his inheritance. No title, no for tune, no aristocratic lineage, except that his grandfather had been an earl, but his father had been the youngest son out of four before his death when Miles was two years old.
In contrast, Elizabeth’s brother was a wealthy vis count, her dowry generous, and she was both lovely and intelligent. In short, she could, and no doubt would, do much better than him.
It was just the cold, unpalatable truth. He’d kept his role as brotherly childhood friend because it was
something
, and no matter his thwarted passion, she was still, and forever would be, his best friend. So they bickered as always, and his secret was safe.
“Uncle Chas said you persuaded him to invest in your shipping company.” As they danced, Elizabeth gazed up at him from under the veil of her lush lashes. “Luke is considering it also, I understand.”
The company was his idea, but though Miles was sure enough of the venture, he wasn’t quite willing to claim it as his very own. “There are multiple investors,” he said evasively, swinging her into a turn, one hand at her slim waist. “It isn’t mine alone.”
“Hmm.”
“What does that mean?”
Her eyes narrowed. “It means when you get that particular shuttered look, you have something to hide. I know you.”
He wished she knew him. In the biblical sense. He’d taught her to swim, to ride her pony, to climb a tree . . . how he’d love to enlighten her on how to make slow, long, lingering love, initiating her into the joys of the flesh with a thoroughness that would leave them both gasping and sated afterward . . .
He wasn’t at liberty to tell her that the royal family had also decided to invest. If this endeavor was success ful, and he was as certain as he could be that it had po tential, he might someday be a rich man.
Someday would be too late. Elizabeth would marry this season.
To change the subject and needle her, instead he said with a wicked smile, “Lord Porter is hovering, waiting for this dance to be over. I don’t think you’re going to escape so easily, El.”
She muttered an unladylike word that he’d taught her long ago, and he stifled a laugh.
And got to waltz with her for the next dance.
Chapter Five
H
e woke—it happened all too often—sweating, disoriented, trapped in the misty moonlight that spilled across the bed. Luke sat up, shivering as the sheets fell away, even though it was full summer and the air was warm, sticky even. He swallowed against the protestation of a dry-as-dust throat, and stumbled out of the bed.
“Damnation,” he muttered, “when will it stop?”
Naked, he walked to the window, shoved up the sash so he could catch the hint of a breeze, and braced his hands on the sill, taking a deep lungful of air. Looking out, he didn’t see the neat, shadowed paths and cultivated flower beds of the formal back garden, but instead a rocky slope, icy cold in the grip of a Spanish winter, a ruined convent silhouetted against a lurid sky, and the licking flames leaping upward, devouring without mercy. . . .
In his nightmares, he heard the screams. In truth, that hellish night had been quiet except for the demonic crackle of the fire.
She’d looked so beautiful that day in her mother’s mantilla, her dark hair shining as she knelt before the altar and placed her hand in his, the candles flickering around them. He barely remembered the ceremony, simply repeating the words, and then it was done.
She was his wife.
What a pity that same day he discovered only fools fall in love during a war. . . .
His face was wet.
Perspiration, not tears
, he told himself, and went to the basin to dip a cloth in the tepid water and wipe his sticky skin. He dressed quickly, because he knew from experience he would not be able to go back to sleep. Breeches buttoned hastily, shirt tucked in haphazardly, boots pulled on, no coat ... it was too warm to need one. Raking his fingers carelessly through his hair, he went down the stairs of the Mayfair mansion in the dark, knowing the way so well he didn’t need more than the obscure moonlight slanting through the gallery windows to negotiate the long, quiet hallways.
The walk to St. James Street was dark, his restless footsteps echoing, his pace exacting as he tried to erase the dream through physical exertion. He went up the steps of the elegant town house, used his personal key, and let himself into a foyer that carried a hint of lily of the valley perfume. Once upon a time—what seemed like a distant life—he had bought the town house for himself. When his father died and Luke inherited the title, he’d been in Spain. On his return, he had moved into the viscount’s apartments in the sprawling family home, albeit with reluctance, because of his sense of duty.