Lords Of Desire Part 37

"Like you, I do not require my sister's a.s.sistance in matters of the heart," Christobel said. "Besides, if I were hanging out for a husband, I certainly wouldn't be looking for one in these parts."

"Of course you wouldn't," he said, his voice suddenly cold.

Heat flooded Christobel's cheeks, and she instantly regretted her candor. Time to change the subject, and quickly. "Tell me, how is your hand? Has the bruising gone down?"

John reached for his injured hand, absently ma.s.saging the still-sore knuckles that were now an odd shade of greenish-yellow. "It no longer pains me," he lied.

"I...I hope the liniment helped," she continued on, her cheeks deepening to scarlet. No doubt she was thinking of the liberties he'd taken while she'd seen to his hand-that thoughtless, reckless kiss that had haunted him, taunting him endlessly with the memory. Her warm body atop his, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against his coat; her soft, sweet mouth, more delicious than he'd ever imagined.

What a b.l.o.o.d.y, d.a.m.nable fool I am. "Miss Symth," he began, rubbing his cheek with the palm of one hand, "I fear I proved myself to be exactly what you thought of me. Unmannered, un-"

"Please don't," she interrupted, dropping her gaze to her feet. "We mustn't speak of it."

"To the contrary, we must. You must allow me to apologize, though I've no excuse for my behavior." How he longed to reach for her chin, to tip her face up to meet his gaze. How he wished himself more a gentleman, so he wouldn't be in this predicament. How he wished himself less a gentleman, so that he might have done more than just kiss her.

d.a.m.n it all. "I can a.s.sure you, Miss Smyth, that it will never happen again."

In light of his apology, she only looked annoyed. Disappointed, perhaps.

"Didn't I give you permission to call me Christobel, Cousin John?" she snapped. "Really, is your memory so very faulty-"

"Miss Smyth?" a male voice called out. "Wherever has she gone to?" It was Sir Edmund, of course, searching for Christobel in a proprietary fashion though he'd only made her acquaintance that very day.

Christobel whirled toward the closed door of the greenhouse, fluttering the hem of her skirt. He watched as indecision played across her features, her brow drawn in thought. At any moment, he fully expected her to hurry toward the door and dash out into the sunshine, calling gaily to her new suitor while he shrunk back in the shadows.

Instead, she did something wholly and completely unexpected-she put a finger to her lips, her eyes dancing merrily. "Shh," she whispered.

Grasping his sleeve, she silently pulled him back against the wall, behind the door. She stood beside him, so close that he could feel her warmth, smell the lilac scent of her hair, the spicy scent of her perfume.

The door opened, squealing loudly on its hinges. "Miss Smyth?" the tenacious Sir Edmund called out. He peered inside, standing mere inches from where they cowered. "Are you in here, Miss Smyth? Hullo?"

The door opened a fraction more, and Christobel pressed against John. He felt the fluttering of her heart, felt his own pounding relentlessly against his ribs as she buried her face in his coat. Her hands were seemingly everywhere, one clutching his arm, the other pressing the blasted tennis ball into his groin, mere inches from his far-too-eager c.o.c.k.

His own hands were trapped against the small of her back, resting against the belt that cinched her tiny waist. All he could think about was taking her, right there on the dusty floor, Sir Edmund be d.a.m.ned.

What in G.o.d's name was she doing, taking such a risk as this? If they were discovered, alone and unchaperoned, hiding behind a door...

He held his breath as the door creaked shut. The sound of Sir Edmund's footsteps grew fainter, then mercifully disappeared altogether.

He suddenly became aware of tinkling laughter, m.u.f.fled against his coat. They'd almost been discovered in what would have surely seemed a compromising position, and she was laughing? All he could do was shake his head. He'd never understand women, least of all this one.

At last she released him and stepped away, her face flushed. Escaped from their careful arrangement, tendrils of dark hair fell against her collar.

"Why, Cousin John!" she said, still laughing softly as she attempted to straighten her blouse and tidy her hair beneath her cap. "Who knew you had such mischief in you?"

Completely bewildered and more than a little aroused, John watched in stunned silence as Christobel strode out, her head held high, a look of triumph gleaming in her eyes.

Only then did he let out his breath in a rush, swearing violently as he did so.

CHAPTER 5.

Christobel took a sip of sherry, hoping it would calm her nerves. After all, Sir Edmund had gotten on every last one of them. She stepped around her sister's pianoforte, hoping to hide herself behind it.

Somehow, Mrs. Lovelace found her. "A shame that Mrs. Roth had to depart this morning, isn't it?" she said, a vicious smile on her face. "And so hastily, too."

"Indeed," Christobel murmured, searching wildly for Edith among her guests.

She found her, wringing her hands as she whispered something into the housekeeper's ear. Poor Edith. Last night-the very first evening of her party-had been dreadful. Both Misses Allen had taken ill with a stomach ailment just after dinner, and then Mrs. Lovelace and Mrs. Roth, both widows, had had a terrible row, right there in the drawing room.

The fickle Mr. Aberforth was to blame, of course, but the man had done nothing to intercede, leaving that unpleasant duty to Edith, who'd managed to smooth their ruffled feathers, at least temporarily.

But then something had happened in the dead of night to prompt Mrs. Roth to pack up her belongings at daybreak. Edith wouldn't say, but Christobel suspected that one woman had found her lover in the other's bed, and chaos had ensued.

Long before the other guests had breakfasted, Jasper had been forced to drive a tearful Mrs. Roth to the train station.

Now it would seem that Mrs. Lovelace would spend the remainder of the house party crowing in victory. As if Mr. Aberforth were such a prize, Christobel thought, shaking her head. She turned toward the balding, portly man in question, who sat at the card table twirling his moustache as he regarded the cards in his hands. He was rich, she supposed, but beyond that she could find nothing to recommend him. Across from Mr. Aberforth sat Sir Edmund, a good ten years and two score lighter than his opponent.

"I see you have your eye on Sir Edmund," Mrs. Lovelace said, startling her. "If you don't mind my saying so, I think you could do far worse. He's quite the gentleman, and handsome, too."

"I suppose he is," Christobel conceded. Tall and ginger-haired with an athletic build, he cut a fine form, indeed. His disposition seemed perpetually sunny and bright, and he was polite to a fault. Despite all that, he left Christobel's emotions positively unmoved.

"If I were you, I'd make it known straightaway that you are receptive to his intentions. After all, he's made them clear enough."

Christobel attempted to laugh. "My dear Mrs. Lovelace, you must be mistaken. After all, my acquaintance with Sir Edmund only spans the length of a day."

"Time enough to know the size of his fortune," Mrs. Lovelace said with a toss of her curls. "What else is there to know?"

"Indeed, if one were considering becoming chattel," Christobel murmured between clenched teeth. She watched as Mr. Leyden entered the room and accepted a gla.s.s of sherry from a serving maid.

"That one there," Mrs. Lovelace said, following the direction of her gaze, "the tall, dour-looking one. Have you any idea why he walks as he does? Do you suppose he's trying to imitate the Queen?"

"You must excuse me," Christobel said, smiling sweetly. "There is Miss Bartlett, and I promised her that I would show her the library."

Anything to escape the horrid woman's company.

"Miss Bartlett," she called out, hurrying across the room. "Shall I show you the library now?"

Miss Barlett's pretty heart-shaped face lit up at once. "Oh, I should so love that, but I've promised a game of whist to Lady Margaret. Afterward, perhaps?"

Christobel nodded, feeling ridiculous. "Of course," she said, watching as Miss Bartlett deftly shuffled a deck of cards and took her place at the baize table opposite Lady Margaret.

Perhaps I'll find Mother, she thought. Trying her best to avoid Mrs. Lovelace, she looked furtively around the room where all of Edith's guests were happily occupied in one diversion or another, enjoying the morning sunshine that cast a warm, golden glow through the drawing room's windows.

"Miss Smyth," a voice called out, and Christobel turned to see Sir Edmund rise from the card table and head toward her, smiling broadly with his hands clasped behind his back.

Feeling like a cornered fox, she looked about wildly for an escape. From across the width of the room, Edith caught her eye and winked. Oh, how very unfair of Edith to manipulate her so, leaving her with no means of retaliation, thanks to her sister's delicate condition.

In seconds Sir Edmund was beside her. "You look lovely today, Miss Smyth. A vision, one might say."

"Why, aren't you full of flattery this morning, Sir Edmund," she replied lightly. "I suppose you've said as much to all the ladies present."

"Indeed not. Suffice it to say that no one shines as brightly as you do on this fine day," he said rather loudly. Enthusiastic, as always.

Christobel laughed, amazed at his audacity. "Be careful, sir, or I'll develop airs with such grand compliments as that.

You would not want me to become insufferable now, would you?"

"You, insufferable? Never! Why, I have it from Mrs. Hadley that you are the model of humility and-"

"Humility?" she interrupted with a laugh. "Dear me, Sir Edmund, you mustn't trust a word my sister says about me. I can a.s.sure you, whatever she's said, I'm likely the exact opposite."

As Sir Edmund's easy laughter joined hers, Christobel noticed several pairs of eyes suddenly turned their way, including Mr. Leyden's. As always, his appeared narrowed in disapproval, his nostrils slightly flared as he regarded her with obvious disdain.

Why did he have to look at her so, as if she were a naughty child caught sticking her fingers in the tea cakes? For the briefest of moments, their eyes met across the room, and then he turned and left without a backward glance.

Heat flooded her cheeks, no doubt staining them red. She turned her gaze back to Sir Edmund, forcing a tight smile. "If you'll excuse me, I'm suddenly feeling a trifle unwell."

"Hmm, you do look rather flushed, if you don't mind my saying so." He examined her from head to toe with a scowl on his face. "Perhaps you should go lie down. I would hate for you to take ill like the Misses Allen, poor souls. La grippe, I'm told."

Christobel nodded, drawing the back of one hand across her forehead for effect. "I think I will go lie down. How kind of you to suggest it."

She had no intention of lying down, of course. Instead, she retrieved her hat, which hung by the front door, and slipped out, trying to decide how she could make her way to the ornamental pond without being spotted through the drawing-room windows.

Perhaps if she went out the front gate and walked along the road for a bit, then cut back through the woods toward the park- A loud, sputtering noise nearly made her jump out of her skin. Good heavens, it was Mr. Leyden's motorcar, she realized. It materialized in a cloud of dust, its motor now a steady hum as it chugged down the long drive toward her. She stood watching the car's approach, the sun glinting off its dark green exterior and bra.s.s fittings. In seconds, he pulled up alongside her, braking hard.

"Where are you going?" he called out over the engine's roar. His driving goggles were in place, though his tweed duster was not to be seen.

"For a walk," she yelled back, cupping her hands around her mouth. "Where are you going?"

"For a drive," he yelled back.

Christobel just nodded, eyeing the empty, red-tufted leather seat beside him. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to go for a drive in the sleek, shiny motorcar.

"Good day, Miss Smyth." He reached over the door to release the brake.

"Wait!" she cried out. "May I come with you?"

He did not conceal his surprise as he turned toward her. For a moment, he said nothing. Even behind the goggles, she could see the indecision flit across his features. "Have you a hat?" he asked at last.

Christobel produced her wide straw hat and placed it on her head, hurriedly tying the ribbons beneath her chin.

"Without a veil or coat, you're going to be covered in dust-"

"I don't care," Christobel said with a shrug, hurrying around the car to the pa.s.senger side before he could argue further. In seconds, she'd climbed inside and settled beside him.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he said with a shake of his head.

Christobel just nodded, grasping the side of the car with a squeal of delight as they set off.

Once John turned the car onto the road, he accelerated, picking up speed as Miss Smyth clutched the leather squabs so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Occasionally he'd steal a glance at her, wondering just how it was that she came to be sitting beside him, laughing gaily as the wind whipped stray tendrils of hair about her face.

Her cheeks were stained pink, her eyes bright as she shielded them from the ubiquitous cloud of dust.

"Faster?" he asked, shouting to be heard over the engine's roar.

"Oh, yes!"

He obliged her, smiling inwardly as she leaned into him, clutching at his sleeve. Entirely content, he drove on aimlessly for a quarter hour, headed vaguely toward the Pennines in the distance.

There was a lovely spot ahead, he realized, a bluff with excellent views of Cranford down below. Minutes later, he guided the car off the main road and turned onto a narrow lane.

"Are we stopping?" she asked, releasing her death grip on his forearm.

"I thought you might like to catch your breath for a moment." He cut the motor and removed his driving gloves and goggles before climbing out and hastening around the car to hand her down.

"Goodness, I am rather breathless," she said, taking his hand and stepping down. "I don't remember when I've had so much fun."

He was acutely aware that he still held her small hand in his. Suddenly self-conscious, he released it and stepped away, attempting to brush the dust from his coat.

"Look at me!" She reached up to tuck her hair back under her hat, laughing softly as she did so. "I'm a fright. Whatever am I going to tell Edith when we return?"

She did look rather like a chimney sweep, he thought, suppressing a smile. "You've got...ahem, right there." He indicated her left cheek. "A smudge of some sort. Here." He reached for his handkerchief and handed it to her. "Right there, on your cheek."

"Here?" she asked. She swiped at it, entirely missing it.

"No, higher." He shifted his feet uncomfortably. "There," he said, resisting the urge to run the pad of his thumb over her smooth, rosy skin.

Her second attempt was no more successful. "Better?"

"Not quite."

"Here," she said, handing him back the handkerchief. "You do it."

John took a deep, fortifying breath, then nodded.

"I don't bite," she teased. "At least, not often."

Taking the square of linen, he firmly wiped away the smudge, noticing for the first time a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. "There," he said gruffly, feeling foolish as he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. How he longed to trace the freckles with his fingertip, to trail kisses in their wake.

"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" she asked brightly.