To Lure a Proper Lady (10 page)

“I suppose that depends on how much of a show they wish to make.”

“Knowing Pendleton, it won't be much of a show.”

Lizzie studied him from the corner of her eye. “How do you know someone like Pendleton?”

Well enough to engage in fisticuffs, which implies something rather more personal than a simple scrape with Bow Street.
She left that thought unsaid, but the words hovered in the air between them all the same.

But Dysart didn't get a chance to reply. At that moment, Pendleton entered Lizzie's field of vision. As Dysart predicted, he bore directly for the maze.

Lizzie waited for the hedges to swallow him before standing.

Dysart set a hand on her sleeve. “Give him a head start. Then we'll go in.”

He maintained his hold on her wrist for a good minute, and she felt every single one of those sixty seconds throbbing through her veins like a pulse. At last, he let go, long fingers uncurling slowly.

She set off at a rapid clip. Before long, the high hedges closed about them, creating a cool, green twilight.

“They'll make for the center,” Lizzie said.

“Quiet.” His voice, low and dangerous, forced her to incline her head in his direction. “I don't want them to know yet that we're on their tail.”

“But—”

“Hush.”

Lizzie stopped in her tracks. “You've insisted Pendleton is dangerous, yet you want me to let my sister traipse off with him.”

Not only traipse off. The middle of the maze was quite possibly the ideal location for a gentleman to lead a young lady to ruination.

“I will intervene if necessary, but I also need to know what Pendleton wants here. Now take me to a place we can listen in without being caught.”

She led him along the main path, twisting and turning back on themselves a few times before deliberately choosing a course that would lead to a dead end near the middle. Her very breathing rushed loud in her ears, and the crunch of her feet on the gravel must be audible from the house.

Dysart, in contrast, moved silently as a ghost. She might not even know he was following but for her own heightened senses. For her, his presence was something solid, tangible, an entity to itself that warmed her through and sent her mind wandering down scandalous paths of its own.

She could almost imagine herself sneaking away from the watchful eyes of a chaperone to a midnight assignation.

His fingers circling her wrist brought her back to reality. She turned to find him holding a forefinger to his lips. Then she heard it, too.

Voices arguing. And not on the next path over, but just ahead.

Lizzie stifled a gasp and backed up a step.

“No, I will not entertain such an offer.” Caro's statement emerged on a rapid rhythm of anger.

Pendleton's reply was too low to make out.

With one outstretched hand, Dysart signaled Lizzie to stay put, while he tiptoed closer.

“For the last time, Boudicca is not for sale. She was never for sale.”

Dysart raised a brow.
“Boudicca?”
His lips formed the name, but he uttered not a sound.

Lizzie slipped near enough to breathe in his ear. “Her mare.”

He nodded.

“I don't know where you've come by these notions, but you cannot have my mare and that's final.”

“You'll regret this.” Finally Pendleton had said something intelligible. But if they could make out his words, that meant only one thing.

“He's coming.” Lizzie barely got that observation out before Dysart gathered her against him, turning her back to the hedge, while her front…Her entire front was pressed against a solid masculine chest. Strong arms surrounded her, and before she could draw breath, his lips crashed into hers.

A tiny corner of Lizzie's brain tried to tell her this wasn't happening—at least not for the right reasons. Dysart was merely trying to mask the true purpose behind their presence here.

By kissing her.

Dysart was kissing her, all firm lips and questing tongue. Solid arms pressed her body against his. Hands slipped down her spine to mold to her form.

And the greater part of her mind, along with the entirety of her body, wanted to focus on the sensations he aroused and forget everything else. She wanted to respond to every last nuance of his kiss with one of her own, to meet strength with softness, to marry demand to acquiescence, to match her urgency to his.

When it came to kissing men in the shadowy passages of a maze, logic had no place. Nor did rational thought. Besides, the onslaught of his lips on hers was fast turning her brain to mush. Also, her knees seemed to have lost their ability to support her. They wanted to bend, to slump, to languidly lie back and let him do as he pleased.

Other men had stolen kisses, but none of them had affected her the way Dysart's did. Not a single one of those overdressed, over-mannered gentlemen triggered such delicious little explosions all along her nerve endings. Not even close.

Before she was ready for the kiss to end, Dysart pulled back. A moment passed before her eyes obeyed the command to open. Another passed before she realized why he'd stopped. Then she heard the ponderous rhythm of one hand meeting another in a slow, ironic clap.

“Bravo, Gus.” Just beyond Dysart's shoulder, Pendleton twisted his battered face into a sneer. “A performance worthy of the stage.”

Gus? Could there have been a measure of truth behind Dysart's claim to the name Angus Alistair? Were the Scottish intonations he'd adopted for the benefit of the other guests actually his native speech? Heavens, she knew this man's kisses set her senses aflame, yet she remained in ignorance of something so basic as his true name.

“Performance?” Dysart grumbled. “Why would you think that?” He waved a hand, the gesture no doubt intended to come off as flippant, but the tension in the set of his shoulders rather spoiled the effect. “I reckoned you knew all about taking a little pleasure in out-of-the-way spots.”

Pendleton loomed closer. “You have an infuriating habit of turning up wherever I happen to be.”

“Oh, did I ruin a little rendezvous of yours?” Dysart nodded in Caro's direction, several paces beyond Pendleton. “Aiming rather high these days, aren't you?”

“You're one to talk, when I nearly walk into you in the midst of pawing—”

“That will do.” Lizzie stepped between the two men before they could take up their earlier fight. “If you cannot behave in a civilized manner, I shall be obliged to ask you to leave this party.”

“Dysart, you mean. He's the one who's forgotten how to behave in polite society.”

Forgotten. What an interesting word choice, but Lizzie refused to let that thought distract her. “I mean either of you. If I hear any more tales of fighting, I will not hesitate. In case it's slipped your mind, let me remind you his grace is not well. I refuse to have him upset should such goings-on reach his ears. Do I make myself clear?”

She turned her glare on Dysart for good measure, even if her admonishments were mainly directed at Pendleton.

Pendleton regarded her from the top of his nose. “You can be certain I will not leave these premises until I get what is mine.”

Caro gasped.

Dysart edged closer, not going so far as to touch Lizzie, but she felt his presence at her back all the same. “That sounded rather like a threat.”

“Make of it what you will.” And with that, Pendleton pivoted on his heel and strode off down the path. The shadows of the maze soon swallowed him.

Lizzie turned on her sister. “Good heavens, what were you thinking, letting him follow you in here like this?”

“He was asking after my horse, as you no doubt heard. I wasn't ever in any danger. Clearly.” Caro nodded at Dysart. “You both had matters well in hand, even if you did allow yourselves to become distracted. And now perhaps you'd rather I left you to get on with…things.”

“You can't just go off and leave us here.” Heaven forbid. Dysart could try to kiss her again, and this time she might forget herself for good and all.

Caro placed her hands on her hips and squared herself to face Lizzie. “Why can't I? It seems this is just what Great-aunt Matilda had in mind when she concocted this game.”

“But…” Lizzie could hardly begin to protest against the impropriety. Not after the events of the previous evening.

“Please don't start imitating Lady Whitby. Though, if you insist, we can call the game over.”

But the game wasn't over. Not when she desperately needed a private word with Dysart. Except she needed to choose an even more secluded venue.

They left Lady Caroline behind at the entrance to the maze, where presumably she would rejoin the rest of the party. Stiff-backed, Lady Elizabeth led Dysart to the rear of the manor with crisp strides that would put a drill sergeant to shame. She entered through an almost hidden door that must normally be reserved for servants and marched down a darkened corridor to a small sitting room.

A swift glance about proved the passage deserted, but she still swung the door nearly closed before facing him, arms crossed. “I should like an explanation.”

Bloody hell.

“Is this about the maze?” If she was going to slap him for his transgression, Dysart reckoned she might as well get it over with. Thank God she'd waited until they were out of the sight of others. The last thing he needed was for Pendleton to witness his humiliation.

Not only that, no woman wanted to hear she'd just received a kiss as part of an act. All the worse for her if she had to listen to his admission before an audience. She didn't know he'd risk a second slap to try again. The minor discomfort of a stinging cheek would be well worth the reward of her response.

“Yes.” That single word hit him like a sudden, ice-cold downpour.

If her carriage had been a clue to her mood, her reply to him now only proved it. She wasn't happy with him. Far from it. Before Pendleton and on the way in from the gardens, she'd held a tight rein on her temper. Now she was about to turn it on him.

A highly dangerous prospect even if she maintained her control.
Especially
if she maintained it. That tight grip she kept on her irritation posed a mighty temptation. Something perverse inside him longed to chip away at her restraint until she unleashed herself.

If he couldn't enjoy her kisses, he'd free her passions another way—or he'd long to. He couldn't afford to act on the impulse.

“Pendleton had the right of it.” As much as that admission pained him, he forced the statement out. “If I took a liberty, it was for the purpose of—”

A wave of her hand cut him off. “Not that.”

Part of him bristled. Could she really wave off his kiss so easily?

Not so easily. She responded.
She'd melted. Just like candle wax set near a flame, she'd turned all liquid. Those lovely breasts had pushed into his chest. She'd matched him stroke for stroke. What he wouldn't give for an uninterrupted hour or two—or, hell, an entire night—to test her depths.

“I want to know about you and Pendleton.”

God, he'd rather explain the kiss. Then he might get a chance to demonstrate he'd gladly kiss her and not just for show. “What is it you want to know?”

“Why have I heard reports of you brawling in the stables? Why just now in the maze did I feel like you'd have started in on each other again? This isn't some matter of justice.”

He studied her from the corner of his eye. She stood a foot or so away, hands folded in front of her, every bit the proper miss making simple conversation over tea. Yet he saw beyond the façade. She'd retreated behind a shield of manners, perhaps, but she could not mask the tension about her lips or the subtle force driving her speech.

“Oh, you're wrong there.” He fought for a low, even tone, but he suspected she heard the tension behind his words every bit as much. “It has everything to do with justice—or rather, the lack of it.” Beyond all reason, Dysart had made the episode with Pendleton his personal affair. “I told you to watch yourself around him. Did it ever occur to you to ask how I know about him? I walked in on him.”

He paused and searched for the words to adequately express what he'd seen that day. More than a decade had passed, but time had done nothing to soften the memory of what he'd seen. With precise clarity, he still saw Pendleton grunting over Sally.

But Dysart was damned if he'd describe that image to Lady Elizabeth. The polite sort of terms he ought to use with a lady of her station were insufficient to depict Pendleton's brutality. Dysart couldn't bring himself to be frank. He'd seen enough ugliness in his life, but that was no reason to inflict it on Elizabeth.

So he simply added, “I caught him in the act.”

“Was she your sister?” No need to clarify whom Elizabeth meant. The victim. But that, too, was stripping Sally's identity away, the same as Pendleton had done in referring to her as
that slut.

“Her name was Sally, and no, she was not my sister.” Their relationship had become more complicated than that of simple siblings.

“Oh.” The remaining irritation drained away from her voice in that one soft syllable. “Your sweetheart, then?”

He knew what she was imagining—a romance between equals, where he was a stable boy or footman stealing kisses with one of the chambermaids on their half day. Such a naive little scenario.

Could Elizabeth really be so innocent? Hell, she didn't kiss like an innocent. Someone had taught her how to respond with fire and zest, just the way Dysart liked it. Bloody rotter.

He brushed those inappropriate thoughts aside. “I didn't even know Sally's name when I discovered them.” He'd only learned it at their second encounter. “But what sort of man would I be to turn a blind eye when she was sobbing and begging the heartless bastard to stop?”

She rolled her lips between her teeth, to stop them from trembling, he suspected. To the devil with it, he'd forgotten himself. And now all he wanted to do was go to her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, or better yet, pull her into an embrace. But he couldn't permit that. Not after he'd tasted her.

“Your pardon,” he said. “I was trying to take care not to plant those details in your mind and I failed.”

She looked him straight in the eye, as penetrating a regard as he'd ever experienced. In fact, he'd turned just such looks on suspected criminals, trying to see through the veneer to the person beneath. “You don't need to protect me.”

“I think I do.” Indeed, it was his duty. He felt as much deep in his gut. And more than that, he
wanted
to shield her from the harshness of the world.

“Just because of my social position you've no reason—”

“I
do
have reason.” He didn't mean to raise his voice, didn't meant to cut her off, but the words erupted from the depths of his chest before he could stop them.

“Who are you?”

The question struck him out of the blue. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, blast it.”

Despite her vehemence, he stood firm. “I just told you what sort of man I am. Would a name change anything?”

“It would give me your connections.”

Bloody damned connections. That was all that mattered to someone of her position. “What makes you think I have any?”

“That's what you want me to think. Isn't it?” She stepped closer, gaze penetrating, stripping off clothes and flesh and muscle, searching for his naked soul.

He ought to retreat. Hell, he ought to run. But part of him wanted her to see. Damn it.

“You want me to think you have no connections. That you were a servant in the Pendleton household. That you came to the rescue of another servant. That you lost your position because of it. But that's not how it happened, is it?”

“Why couldn't it happen that way?” Quite another part was enjoying rousing her passions, in a sense, even if that deep emotion was annoyance and frustration. It was the closest society would allow him to come to stirring something far more satisfying for them both.

“Because you're one of us. Your manners in front of the other guests prove as much. Someone who grew up as a servant would hesitate and watch the others before deciding which fork to use, but you don't. You know. And you can slip into the proper accent without a hitch.”

“Pendleton said I was performing. How do you know he didn't have the right of it?”

“That was too convincing to be a performance.” Not
is
but
was.
Was she referring to his ongoing act or something far more specific? Something that happened not half an hour ago in the maze. “You are one of us.”

“Get one thing straight. I'm not.” He refused to be part of society if society required him to pass over the behavior of men like Pendleton with no more than a wink and a nod, and just because he took out his baser urges on someone lower down the social scale.

“Then it's by choice because you walked away.”

Damn her, she saw too much. “You're welcome to scour Debrett's for the next year. You'll not find the name Dysart listed.”

“Will I find an Angus Alistair there? Or perhaps some other form of Gus affixed to a different family name?”

To the devil with Pendleton for that slip, but no doubt he'd done it on purpose. “Go on and look, but you'll forgive me if I don't wait around while you do.”

“To think Snowley was wrong about you. I'm more convinced with every passing moment.”

“Snowley? What does he have to do with it?”