Scoundrel (13 page)

Lily ignored his outstretched hand and began to walk around the harpsichord to examine it from all sides. It was a large, awkward-looking contraption, yet the rosewood carvings on the cabinet were obviously the work of an expert. Remmington couldn’t care less about the harpsichord. At the moment, he was absorbed by the gentle sway of her skirts, the soft outline of her hips. A small voice in his head told him they were alone together, that he could simply close the door and none of his servants would dare disturb them. He fisted his hands again, as if that could lessen the temptation to reach for the door and swing it shut. “I seem to recall that I forbade you the use of this room. The rooms on this floor are in disrepair. You could be—”

“Early eighteenth century,” she interrupted. Her fingers brushed over the strings reverently. He could almost feel her fingertips brush over his body just as slowly. The imagined caress set his blood on fire. She knelt down to look beneath the instrument and he stared at every curve her new position revealed. “Perhaps seventeenth century,” she mused. “I wonder if the craftsman left his mark somewhere.”

He would leave his mark on her if they didn’t get out of here soon. “You are defying my orders quite blatantly, Lady Lillian.”

“Here it is!”

He leaned over as she disappeared beneath the harpsichord. She sat down cross-legged near the center, then she brushed away more dust that had collected underneath. He studied the outline of her legs against the stretched fabric of her skirt. When he rested his hand against the side of the harpsichord, he heard a small creak. His interest in her figure turned to concern for her safety. “You will come out from there this moment, Lady Lillian. Do you have any idea how much this instrument weighs?”

As usual, she ignored his order completely. “Oh, my goodness. You must see this, Remmington.”

He managed to sound indignant over the suggestion. “I have no intention of crawling beneath there.”

Actually, the thought was appealing. If she’d sweeten the offer by promising a kiss, he’d follow her almost anywhere. In return he’d offer to brush off the dust that remained on her face and gown. He’d go about that task very slowly, very carefully, not missing an inch. His gaze raked over her again as he tried to decide what she would feel like beneath his hands. Soft. Warm. Oh, yes, she would be very warm.

He shook his head. Where were these thoughts coming from? He drew himself upright, away from temptation, and made sure his tone was stern and fatherly. “You will remove yourself immediately, young lady.”

“But this is an important find.” She leaned closer to gaze up at him. There was a smudge of dirt on one of her cheeks, and a cobweb dangled precariously from her hair bow. She looked like a grubby little street urchin. An urchin with the most intriguing eyes he’d ever seen. They were silently pleading with him, her expression so hopeful that he finally threw his hands up in defeat.

“Oh, all right.” He knelt down and rested his weight on his hands as he inched forward. Eventually he was halfway beneath the harpsichord. Being considerably larger than Lily, he wasn’t nearly as comfortable as she appeared to be in the confined space. She pointed out a brass plaque beneath the cabinet and he twisted his head around to read the inscription.

“Do you see?” She brushed away more dust that landed in his face. “It says ‘Bartolomeo Cristofori, 1693.’ “

“I can read,” he said tersely. His neck had started to ache from the odd angle, and he was still deciding if he needed to sneeze. If she’d really wanted his cooperation, she should offer to let him lie on his back and rest his head in her lap to look up at the plaque. Then she could brush away the dust that she’d just dumped on him. From the corner of his eye he stared at her hands and imagined the soothing strokes of those fingertips, what it would feel like to have his head cradled in her lap. That thought made him grit his teeth. “It’s an old harpsichord. Sixteen ninety-three hardly qualifies it as a relic.”

“But it’s a Cristofori!”

“It’s an old harpsichord,” he repeated. He fixed her with an annoyed glare. “It will probably fall on our heads at any moment.”

“Hardly,” she scoffed. “Don’t you know who Cristofori was?”

He didn’t know and he didn’t care. The only thing he cared about at the moment was the slender thread of his control that she kept tugging away from him. He’d never known what a powerful imagination he possessed. His gaze dropped to her mouth and he wondered if she would slap him if he kissed her. Aware of the double meaning behind his reply, he still managed to sound bored. “I have the feeling I’m about to find out.”

Lily lifted her chin. “With that attitude, I don’t think I shall tell you.”

“Fine. Then we can leave.” He didn’t move an inch. His gaze moved along the soft curve of her cheek and down the slender column of her neck, then stopped at the edge of her high collar. He could see the outline of a dark bruise just above the neckline, and a surge of protectiveness rose inside him. He wanted to hold her in his arms and somehow take away the pain of her injuries. He wanted to comfort her again while she cried, but this time he would brush away her tears, no, he would kiss them away, make her forget her fears, forget the man who hurt her. He would—

“Oh, all right.” Lily looked nowhere near tears. He tried to concentrate on what she was saying. “Cristofori invented the piano. In fact, he based the piano on the harpsichords he built, probably one very similar to this instrument. Perhaps this very harpsichord. So you see? This harpsichord
is
a valuable relic, one that should probably be on display in a museum.”

His tone turned suspicious. “You seem to know a great deal about musical instruments, my lady. However did you come by such knowledge?”

She turned away to study the small plaque with renewed intensity. “Papa has an interest in antiquities. He’s quite enthusiastic on the subject and tells endless stories. Just a stroke of luck, I suppose, that I remembered this Cristofori fellow.”

She was lying. He was certain of it. He looked into her wide, innocent eyes and immediately began to rethink his conviction. Why would she lie about something so trivial? He watched her gaze move lower and he knew she was looking at his mouth. She wet her lips in what was probably a nervous gesture, but the affect on him was purely sensual. Her mouth was just inches from his, the look in her eyes too inviting to resist. If he leaned forward just a little—

“Your Grace?”

The sound of Digsby’s voice made Remmington’s head snap up, resulting in a loud crack when his head struck the bottom of the harpsichord.

“Do you, er, need any assistance, Your Grace?”

Remmington swore under his breath. With Lily beneath the harpsichord, and himself looking as if he’d gone in after her, he could well imagine Digsby’s interpretation of the scene. One more minute alone and it would have been the truth. He’d come very close to seducing her beneath this wretched thing. He should have closed the door. He never should have stepped into the room in the first place. The source of this humiliating scene remained the picture of innocence, her sherry-colored gaze wide and guileless.

“No, Digsby, I can manage this situation myself.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

The door closed and they were alone. Digsby had guessed what they were about, damn his hide. He’d closed the door so no one else would interrupt them. Sometimes he swore Digsby could read his mind. In most situations he found the trait useful. In this one, he found it annoying. Digsby’s unwelcome interruption reminded him that he had no business being alone with Lily in this room, that there shouldn’t be any need to close the door. With Digsby gone, he fixed his irritation on Lily.

She brushed her hands off and began to scoot away from him toward the edge of the harpsichord. “Thank goodness your servants are not the gossiping type. We must look rather improper.”

“
Rather
improper?” he echoed, as he rose to his feet. “My dear lady, every moment I spend with you in this house is
entirely
improper. I laid down some very specific rules at the onset of this… this visit, and already you’ve managed to disregard them. I wonder how you can remember the obscure origins of pianos, yet you cannot seem to recall the gist of our conversation just two days ago.”

“Memory is a strange thing, is it not?” She lifted the discarded sheet and began to draw it back over the harpsichord. “I do seem to recall your order to avoid the music room, now that you mention it. Even though you wrote down all your orders, I find lists so very difficult to memorize. It seems likely that I will break more of your rules before this visit is done with. Would you mind drawing your side of the sheet over the edge?”

He yanked the cover into place. She hadn’t forgotten his orders. He would stake his life on that sure bet. She stared at him with those guileless eyes, then promptly ignored everything he said. Yesterday, while he’d searched
London
for the man who could help him solve her problems, she’d sent her maid on errands all over the house. Today Lily took up the exploration. He had sound reasons for giving orders that would keep Lily and her maid as confined as possible in his house. He decided it was time to enforce his rules. “It seems I shall have to keep a closer eye on you to ensure that your memory remains sound.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said quickly. “Perhaps it would be best for all concerned if you simply allow me to continue my journey. My Great-aunt Amelia has a summer cottage in
Brighton
. Gretchen and I could stay there.”

“You’re a persistent thing, aren’t you?” He found her hopeful expression oddly reassuring. It seemed obvious that she’d disobeyed him on purpose, to try his patience and thus revive her argument that she should leave. If she’d plotted with her father to get herself situated in his house, she wouldn’t try so hard to undo the plan. He felt an equal measure of relief and anger—relief that she wasn’t involved in a plot to trick him, anger that her father still might be. He shook his head. “You will not leave this house until I receive word from your father. Until then, you will endeavor to follow the rules of my household more carefully.”

“As you wish.” She gave him a stiff nod. “Now if you will excuse me, I believe my appearance is in need of improvement.”

His nod equally curt, Remmington watched her walk past him. Covered in dust, she still managed to look as regal as a queen. The way she ignored him made him feel churlish. “By the way, you have an enormous spider’s web caught on your hair bow. Oh, and now that you’ve turned around, I think you have the spider as well.”

Lily shrieked. She plucked the sticky mess from her hair and yanked the bow loose in the process. Her fingers combed through the freed locks, then she used both hands to give the heavy mass a vigorous shake. She peered at him sideways. “Is it gone?”

He rubbed his chin and felt the gritty dust that still covered him. “It seems I was mistaken. There was no spider.”

The glare she gave him should have singed his lashes. God, she was beautiful when she was angry. It was worth her ire just to see her eyes flash with fire. Her chest was heaving rather nicely, too. She tossed her glorious mane over one shoulder, then turned on her heel and stalked from the room. What an intriguing piece of work she was. A regal queen one moment, a dusty urchin the next. He was never quite sure what to expect from her.

Unmindful that he’d recently questioned the stability of the harpsichord, he leaned his hip against the instrument and gazed thoughtfully at the doorway. His smile faded into a puzzled frown. Whatever he’d expected when he met Lily Walters, the woman who had just left this room wasn’t it. All these years he’d expected to find little of substance behind that pretty face. What he’d finally discovered made him uneasy. There was a clever mind at work beneath that facade of cheerful ignorance, so carefully guarded that he’d managed no more than a glimpse here and there of the real Lily.

What was she hiding?