To Lure a Proper Lady (12 page)

Lizzie wasn't sure she agreed with that assessment. If Snowley had had to assign a forfeit to her or either of her sisters, he'd have chosen something embarrassing. She could well imagine him making her go down on all fours and imitate a pig or, worse, a donkey. Goodness, when had her cousin developed any sentiment so high as empathy toward a shy young lady overshadowed by an overbearing mother?

A tug at her sleeve distracted Lizzie from her thoughts. Pippa stood at her elbow, her expression all but demanding explanations, for goodness only knew what. On a mission for certain. She jerked her head toward an unoccupied corner, but when that didn't produce the desired result, she wrapped strong fingers about Lizzie's wrist and tugged her away from the others.

“Tell me about the maze,” Pippa said the moment they were out of general earshot.

Good Lord. Clearly Caro had said something, but a glance around the room proved Caro was not among the company. “What do you think there is to tell?”

“Caro said things got…interesting. And then you went off with Lord Dysart alone.”

“And where is Caro now?” For that matter, another guest seemed to be missing. Pendleton ought to be polishing off Papa's best brandy right beside Allerdale; his absence was conspicuous. Alarm sent a prickle down Lizzie's spine. “Did she tell you the rest of what happened in the maze? We came across her and Pendleton having a straight out row.”

“Caro decided to sneak off for a ride before Great-aunt Matilda could spoil her plans with another idea for fun and games.”

“And Pendleton?” Another prickle, this one sharper. “Don't tell me he decided to accompany her.”

Pippa squeezed Lizzie's hand. “Not that I know of. I shouldn't worry about Caro. No one can catch her on Boudicca. You know there's not a single horse here that's a match for that mare.”

“Perhaps Lord Dysart will run into Pendleton.” Although that thought wasn't much comfort, not when the solution to one problem might well lead to another.

“Yes, about Lord Dysart. You've stalled long enough. Tell me what's going on.”

Good heavens, where should she begin? Caro had clearly dropped enough hints to rouse Pippa's curiosity where kisses might be concerned, but then there was the whole issue of Dysart's mysterious background. That bit would require more explanation than she wished to give in a crowded parlor full of curious guests.

The rasp of a throat clearing saved her from having to decide. Thin-lipped Lady Whitby had approached their corner. “I should like some explanations regarding this so-called Lord Dysart myself. I was given to believe the gentlemen guests at this party would be suitable matches for my Anna. So might you kindly explain how one of them is already married?”

The party guests were still in the drawing room when Dysart took up his post by the doors to Sherrington's apartments later that evening. Dysart had skipped the formal dinner in favor of a meal in far more comfortable surroundings. A pint or two to wash down a pasty and a wedge of cheese suited his stomach far better than course after course of richly sauced meats.

No matter that such fare had once been usual for him. No matter that, at one point, he'd imagined no other future than the one that played itself out downstairs in the drawing room.

Charades. From the sound of things as he'd padded by, that was the game that occupied the company tonight. How fitting.

His family had raised him with the expectation he'd take up the very sort of social charade for which the
ton
was noted. Sally had changed all that.

He leaned his shoulders against the doorjamb and considered having a look in on his grace. On his return from the village, Dysart had passed through the kitchens, where he'd ascertained from the servants that the duke was resting easily after taking a tray in his rooms. No one had disturbed the old man the entire day.

Not even Pendleton. At the thought of that bastard, Dysart's hands clenched into fists. He'd followed at a distance while Pendleton chased down his quarry, but the stranger had gone to ground somewhere. Neither Pendleton nor Dysart had caught a further glimpse of the man.

Dysart's questions in the village had met with bland stares and shaken heads.

“Older chap? Creased face?” The landlord of the local pub had left off wiping his counter for a moment or two. “Let's see. There's Sherrington's estate agent, and John Tyler wot lives t' the other side o' the hill, and”—he laughed—“there's me own wife, for that matter. But none o' them ain't got no call hiding in the woods, and that's a fact. More'n likely it were poachers.”

But for Pendleton, Dysart might have drawn the same conclusion. “Do the name Marcus Pendleton mean anything t' ye?”

“Can't say that it does.” The landlord went back to his wiping.

“Maybe he wouldn't give his name. Nobbish sort. He'd make free with the serving wenches.”

“Don't get many nobbish sorts here. Mr. Wilde from time to time, but I reckon he prefers the duke's brandy to my simple ale.”

Damn it, wrong nob. Dysart raised his mug. “It's good enough for the likes of me.”

Now in the corridor, the image of Pendleton straining over a weeping Sally floated through Dysart's mind. His fist pounded into the wood at his back, while he longed for another chance at Pendleton's face. But he could not afford to call any more attention to himself.

Between the scene in the stables and the tension at breakfast, he could not withstand the scrutiny of someone like Lady Whitby. She'd already cast too many suspicious glances in his direction. The best course was no doubt to avoid the other guests for the remainder of the party.

But if he did that, how was he to keep an eye on Pendleton? Asking the servants to alert him should Pendleton decide to wander about the estate once more would have to do. Dysart could only hope he didn't spend all his wages passing out coin in exchange for the information.

From the end of the corridor, the soft pad of feminine footsteps and the whisper of silk skirts reached his ears. To the devil with it. He'd hoped to have at least another hour before he had to face any of the others. Before he had to face Lady Elizabeth, if he was honest with himself.

Yet she approached now, the pale blue satin of her bodice clinging to a lush pair of breasts. Her skirts swayed about her body, giving enticing hints at the curve of her hips and the dip of her waist.

His palms itched with the desire to map every last contour, to test the weight of those breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples to hardness, while his lips tasted hers once more. While he learned all the secret places of her body where his touch would elicit a sigh. A moan.

Impossible.
And not simply because of who he'd become. Even in his former life, he'd never have turned her head.
She is above you.

Not only that. Now that she'd discovered him here, she was doubtless about to barrage him with questions about his past.

Time to head that off, if he could. “Isn't it early for Charades to be over?”

“I pleaded a headache.” She touched her fingertips to her temple, displacing a tendril of rich chestnut hair. “I may even have been telling the truth.”

“I can't say I blame you there. I can only tolerate so much of what passes for amusement in your circles. Especially after this morning.” Well, damn. If he'd intended to deflect her attention from his past, he'd set his foot in it there.

A slight crease formed between her brows. “I made excuses for you, you know. Lady Whitby was particularly curious about where you'd disappeared. Not to mention my great-aunt.”

Just as he'd suspected. One or both of the beldams were trying to work out who he was. “It's for the best, don't you think, if I avoid certain guests.”

“In the interest of keeping the peace, yes.” She reached past him for the door handle, close enough that he caught a hint of her perfume, but at the last moment turned a thoughtful gaze on him. “Speaking of Lady Whitby, she told me quite a fascinating story today. I wonder if I can believe it.”

He crossed his arms. He might have known he didn't possess the kind of luck to present him with a young lady who would let the matter drop. “What gave you the impression I'm one to pay attention to gossip?”

“Perhaps once you've heard the story, you'll think differently.”

“Not bloody likely.”

“Humor me.” Her words may have been light, but her tone was not. He recognized an order when he heard one.

“Not here.” Not where anyone could happen by.

She gestured to the door at his back before turning the handle. Good God, was she planning on sleeping in there again? Close enough that the image of her slumbering form would torture him all night?

He followed her into the sitting room. The fire hadn't been laid today, and the room lay under a blanket of shadows, but he knew exactly where she was, thanks to the rustle of her voluminous skirts. The whispering slide of rich fabric aroused a vision of her arraying her gown over the settee.

He remained where he was—as far from her as possible. And then he waited for her to begin. Though he had a very good idea what she was going to say, he wasn't about to prompt her into beginning the story.

“What would you think of a younger son of an earl who turned his back on society and disappeared?” She spoke quietly, her tone carrying not the least hint of accusation. “All to marry one of the upstairs maids?”

“I'd say he had his reasons.” As long as he could talk about these events as if they weren't discussing details of his life he revealed to no one, he might get through it without losing his temper. This was just another of the many roles he assumed for his job.

“I wonder if I might know what those reasons are.”

“What gives you the idea they're any of your affair?”

“Call it curiosity, for one. I know of no one born to a titled family who walks away.”

Dysart pressed his lips shut. Yes, he understood her surprise. Though he could not see the room's furnishings, he recalled the opulence, the brocades and velvets, the carved wood, the plush carpet, the gilt wallpaper. Richness surrounded him. Wealth such as he'd walked away from entirely of his own choice.

“You might also say,” she went on after a moment, “I have a personal stake in this now.”

“How so?” he burst out. “What does any of this have to do with you?”

“What would your wife have to say about what happened in the maze earlier?”

God, the maze. That kiss. That too short, wholly unsatisfying kiss. “I haven't got a wife.”

“Then please tell me what happened. I believe I deserve to know.”

Heaven help him, she did, since he'd gone and acted on his attraction to her. “I
was
married. To Sally. And if you add in what I told you about Pendleton and her, you can probably piece the rest of it together.”

“I'd rather hear you tell it in your own words.”

He wanted a cheroot and a wall to lean against while he wreathed himself in smoke. Preferably on Bow Street, where the air might smell of coal fires and the Thames and streets full of horse dung, but at least it wasn't tainted with the stench of privilege. The kind of stink that led a man to raise his own nose so high, he never saw those he considered beneath him.

But Dysart had seen. He hadn't been able to turn away from Sally in her need.

“I'm no hero.” There. He'd destroy that notion straightaway. “I didn't come to Sally's rescue immediately. It was only a month or so later when I heard her crying again.”

“Had…Did Pendleton come back?”

“No, he didn't need to. He left Sally with a permanent reminder of what he'd done to her. As if she'd ever forget. But the housekeeper discovered she was increasing and was going to turn her out with no references. She'd have been for the workhouse—or worse. So I offered myself as a solution.”

Over a dozen years later and he still didn't know why he'd made that offer. All he knew was the pitiful echo of Sally's sobs in his brain every time he saw the lass. At times, they woke him from a sound sleep, carried on the thought he should have intervened directly when he came upon Pendleton abusing her.

“I took her to Scotland and married her over the anvil.” At eighteen, he'd been too young to go through the proper formalities in England. “When we got back home, my dear puh-
pa
was livid.”

Stupid.
That was what the earl had called his son.
Stupid
and
idiot
and
half-witted.
“You could have paid one of the footmen to take her,” the man had railed. “One of the grooms. There was no need to throw your life away.”

But there had been, even if the old man couldn't see it. Another husband would have demanded his conjugal rights. Dysart had been willing to make that particular sacrifice to ensure Sally's safety and to save her the horror of reliving Pendleton's brutality on a nightly basis.

“He turned me out, so we went to London, and I had to learn fast how to scrape by, especially with a babe on the way.” He'd taken whatever work he could get, and soon enough his soft, aristocratic hands bore the calluses of a dockside laborer. The day he chased down a pickpocket for nabbing his meager wages turned into a windfall. That incident had led him to Bow Street, where his talent for mimicry and ability to blend in stood him in good stead.

“And what happened to them?” Her whispered question emerged on the husky rasp of one caught up in a tale.

“I've hired someone to see to the boy. I've made certain he's had schooling as best I can. A fever took Sally a few years back, so I'm all he has.” He still didn't know how he felt about that turn of events. Part of him still harbored resentment that he hadn't been able to save her a second time, but another part—one he didn't like to examine—acted like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. When he was a lad of eighteen, no one had warned him the burden of his choices would only increase with the passing years.

“The boy?” The rustle of silk told him she'd shifted. If she did anything ill-advised, such as standing and approaching, he wasn't sure what he'd do. Because now that she knew of his past, he felt naked before her. “Doesn't he have a name?”

“He does.” A name Dysart hated. “She named him after me.” Poor lad. Bad enough one person should be saddled with such a designation, let alone two.

She stood. He heard as much in the swish of her skirts. “Gus—”

“Don't say it.”

“Then tell me, why do you call yourself Dysart?” Her voice reached his ears from someplace considerably closer than the settee. Damn it. The plush carpeting beneath his feet had muffled the pad of her slippers.

“You haven't worked that out? It was Sally's family name. As soon as I got to London, I left everything else behind. No one needed to know my real family name was Childress or my father was the Earl of Norcott.”

“I still don't understand.” She stood before him now. He more than heard as much. He caught her scent. He
felt
her presence as something tangible. Something he could reach out and touch. Something he very much wanted to touch. “Why hide who you are?”

“Because no one in his right mind would walk away the way I did.”

“You're afraid people will say you're mad? I don't think you're mad.” The tips of her fingers grazed his arm, but the contact soon became far worse, as it skated upward to land on his cheek. “I call it admirable.”

He clenched his hands to stop them from taking her by the waist. A clean vanilla fragrance filled his nostrils as she leaned in. Damn it, was that softness against his upper arm her breasts?

He should step back. He needed distance between them, but somehow the entire length of Sherrington Manor seemed insufficient.

Then her lips brushed the corner of his mouth, and his mind went blissfully blank.

Dysart. Lizzie would never be able to apply any other name to this man—not even the one his parents had bestowed on him. Lady Whitby had divulged that particular secret, along with a few other details. Details she'd tried to make sound as shocking as possible.

But what did Lady Whitby know? Yes, the story
was
scandalous—too much so to have ever reached her protected ears at the time, or even later. Of course, so many years had passed since Dysart's disappearance from polite circles that it hardly struck Lizzie as a surprise she'd never heard rumor of the tale. Busybodies had found other juicy tidbits to dissect with the precision of an anatomist.