Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

L eo claimed his hat, gloves, and stick from the porter. He would walk to Portman Square to wear off his ire and hope that London’s fashionable West End streets would harbor fewer pickpockets or vendors trying to relieve him of his coin by honest means. He stalked past the famous bow window of White’s club and turned up Berkley Street, passing the walled frontage of Devonshire House and the gardens that lay within. He wondered what Miss Gower would find to appreciate there, and in the gardens behind Landsdowne House, fronting Berkley Square.

He wondered what she would think of these bets.

He wondered what she thought of him, persuading her to a pretend betrothal, and then neglecting her for a week.

She was a sensible girl. She’d made no hint that she required his attention. She’d agreed, quite evenly, to be the jilt when the time came.

He didn’t want to end it. Not yet. Not when things were finally going so well. And he couldn’t take the time to attend her because it was possible he could locate Craven and secure the last intricate cog in his mechanism. Set his great dream into motion.

He would call on Lillian tomorrow and try to explain.

Explain what, he wasn’t entirely certain. But somehow, she had become part of the dream.

“Mr. Westrop.” The duchess greeted him with a thin smile at the top of the staircase twining up the grand, two-story entrance hall of Highcastle House. “How pleased we are that you should join us.”

Leo raked his brain and remembered: the Highcastles had young unmarried daughters, though there’d been some scandal a few years earlier about the eldest running away with a lesser son with absolutely nothing to recommend him. Love—or at least passion—winning out over the plots of coldly strategic mamas.

“Your affianced is here somewhere,” the duchess went on. “Likely next to a table of refreshments. That seems to be where she likes to establish herself.”

Leo blinked through the sudden and irrational tide of sensation that rose within him at the duchesses’ words. Was she cutting Lillian’s shape? Lillian Gower had the most divine figure he had ever seen on a woman.

“I was hoping to run into Lord Craven. Have you seen him?”

“The baron is here somewhere as well. In fact he may be among the crowd besieging your affianced.” The duchess frowned. “You haven’t done that girl any favors by making her the center of attention, Westrop. It won’t work to her benefit, in the end.”

The remark sank into his skin beside the needle his mother had stabbed in him earlier. Neither of these women could see Lillian’s merits—only that he was toying with her and would hurt her in the end.

His chest pinched. He couldn’t allow Lillian to be hurt.

And she was here . Craven could damn well wait another moment. Leo stalked through the reception rooms, all high ceilinged, painted in jewel-like tones, and crammed from floor to ceiling with expensive furniture, enormous paintings, and art.

Lillian stood in the sapphire room, beside a statue of a helmed Minerva, gloomily regarding a sideboard of small yellow cakes.

His heart leapt at the sight of her, and he caught it immediately in an iron cuff. He would not be a dolt. Not before the crowd of people surrounding her. And certainly not when she looked an ancient goddess come to life in her shimmering white robe.

Her hair was coiled on her head like a heap of old gold, her headdress sporting white flowers of flax and narcissus that he had seen blooming in the Spanish garden at her uncle’s. Their peppery scent kicked his senses to high alert.

Hester stood next to her cousin, munching a cake and listening as a man Leo didn’t recognize spoke to Lillian, gesturing wildly with his arms. He was a handsome fellow, straight of bearing, dressed finely but not fussily in a gold silk waistcoat beneath a dark cutaway, his hair a cap of gleaming black curls.

“Blood red flower, on a tall stalk. Grows on the trees.” He drew a shape in the air.

Lillian nodded, nibbling on a cake. “It does sound like an orchid.”

“Have my sister bring you one when she visits next. She’s a collector.”

“My uncle would be pleased to make a space in his garden. Have you given samples to Sir Joseph Banks at Kew?”

Leo couldn’t stop himself from butting in. “Good evening, Miss Gower.”

“Oh. Mr. Westrop.” Her eyes flared in the most gratifying way—at least, he hoped that was interest, and not alarm. A sharp breath lifted her bosom, where the embroidered neckline of her bodice skimmed the tops of her breasts. He fastened his eyes to her face. Yes, that was a blush of rose in her cheek, but was it distress or pleasure?

“Have you met?” She gestured toward her companion. “This is Mr. Hyperion Falstead, the brother of?—”

“The Marquess of Arendale. How do you do.” Leo nodded his head in acknowledgement.

“Half-brother, properly speaking,” Falstead said with a faint smile. He must be accustomed to explaining himself, for the Marquess of Arendale was undoubtedly descended from pale northern climes, while Falstead’s features suggested African descent.

Leo sorted through his memory. Arendale’s father’s second wife, it was said, had been an African. The marquess and his marchioness had introduced his several siblings to Society in turn, and Society had embraced them as they embraced everything that was rich, important, and held a whiff of the exotic. The boy couldn’t be more than eighteen—he wasn’t courting Lillian, was he?

“Are you a botanist, Falstead?” Leo asked.

“My interests are more historical, sir, but one of my sisters is a great traveler and explorer. I was just telling Miss Gower about some of the plants she’s found.”

Leo managed to get rid of Falstead only to find Lillian’s attention taken up by the Honourable Charles Greville, son of the Earl of Warwick. The man had to be at least fifty years of age, and he had the dubious honor of having made Emma Hart, as she was once known, both the darling of Society and the wife of his uncle, William Hamilton, after cultivating her for several years as his mistress. Guessing that Greville had a taste for voluptuous young women who looked and smelled like a damascene rose, Leo knew that he had to get Lillian away as soon as possible.

“—one of your uncle’s Brunswick figs,” Greville was saying with a self-satisfied grin. He directed an appreciative smile at Lillian’s bosom. “I ought to have you to my home in Paddington Green to supervise me in the planting of it. You might enjoy a tour of my glasshouses. I have quite a selection of tropical plants—Lloyd can tell you.”

“Then she has no need to see them in person, does she?” Leo took Lillian’s arm. “Good to see you, Greville. Give my regards to your uncle.”

Hamilton was a renowned antiquarian, and his collection of Italian artifacts was legendary, as was his careful cataloguing of them. Leo couldn’t afford to make an adversary of either man, but neither did he wish to see Lillian fall into Greville’s clutches.

Lillian narrowed her eyes. “I would adore seeing Mr. Greville’s tropical plants,” she said, and Leo sensed he was swimming into dangerous waters.

“Then I should be happy to escort you. Greville, you might send your direction to me at Westrop House, and I can arrange for Miss Gower to view your—collection.”

Greville chortled, unfazed by Leo’s near snarl. “At least mine’s acceptable for viewing by young women, eh? Unlike some others in that society of yours.” Still chuckling, Greville moved away, and Lillian turned on Leo in a quiet fury.

“You’ll escort me? You appear all at once and insist on meddling in my affairs?”

His fingers tightened against his will. He held her arm above her glove, below the short puff of a muslin sleeve, and her arm was so soft, his mind blanked.

“I am your betrothed,” he managed to say.

She arched a brow at him, singular. He didn’t like the contempt suggested in that gesture. “Are you? I confess I’d forgotten.”

“I did not call on you,” he said, his voice low and grating, “as I was otherwise occupied.”

She tried to pull her arm free, without it appearing to anyone who might be observing them that ought was amiss. “So was I.”

Like a cad, he didn’t let go of her but tucked her arm around his own, drawing her close to him. That was a mistake. Some long tunic-like garment floated about her, the embroidery matching that on the hem and bodice of her white round gown, and beneath that fabric lay her warm curves. She smelled of narcissus and rich, sweet earth. He wanted to bury his nose in the curve where her shoulder sloped up to her neck.

“Tell me what has been occupying you.” The words came out as a growl. He was clenching his teeth, in fact every tendon in his neck, trying not to bend his head toward her. The urge to touch his lips to her, anywhere—hair, eyelashes, lips, skin—was well-nigh irresistible.

“You tell me,” she said coolly, turning away. “Good evening, Mr. Delaval, how do you do?”

Leo scowled. This was getting worse and worse. Ned Delaval was a notorious scoundrel and ne’er-do-well, bastard son of the last Duke of Hunsdon, and as far as Leo could tell he lived off the current duke and duchess with nothing to recommend him but an allowance he promptly spent at the gambling tables, a reputation for keeping company with beautiful and lively women of the demimonde, and looks too handsome for his own good, not at all coarsened by his dissipated lifestyle, as they ought to be.

“Enjoyed The Stranger , did you, Miss Gower?” Delaval asked with an engaging grin. “Suppose you were there to swoon over Kemble, with all his mechanical perfection and that noble Roman nose.”

“He was very fine as the Stranger, but Hester and I were most moved by Mrs. Siddons as Mrs. Haller. Such remorse she displayed! I found the reconciliation at the end very touching.”

Delaval chuckled. “Caught the Siddons fever, have you? I thought the woman next to our box was going into hysterics.”

“We did not have the paroxysms, but Hester fairly jumped out of her seat during the Bluebeard afterpiece, when her father prevented Fatima and Selim from eloping and carried Fatima away. We were convinced Selim would not come in time to save her, and it would all end a tragedy.”

“I enjoyed that one myself. Would rather have good rollicking music than the striding and declaiming.” He turned to Leo. “Didn’t see you at Drury Lane, Westrop.”

“He was otherwise occupied,” Lillian said.

Delaval, drat the rogue, raised a brow. “Too busy to squire one’s betrothed to the theatre? I hope I never suffer that circumstance.”

“Not all of us can devote ourselves to leisure, I’m afraid,” Leo retorted. “I am currently organizing an archaeological expedition. Miss Gower knows that.”

“Well. Should you need an escort to the theatre while this one’s out expeditioning, just send round a note, Miss Gower. I’ll take you to see something that’s rowdy good fun. I hear She’s Eloped! will be back on the playbill as soon as the lead is no longer indisposed.”

Leo fairly rippled with rage. This scoundrel would not be escorting Lillian anywhere.

“Or perhaps you too, Delaval, will discover something more productive to do with your time than while away hours in a theatre box, following fantasy lives instead of living your own,” Leo said, trying and failing to curb his sneer.

Delaval simply raised both brows. “Ah, a moralist. Suppose a man needs to do something with his time while the allowance rolls in and he waits for the transfer of titles, eh? I wouldn’t know what it’s like to have such expectations, ’course.”

A trace of bitterness laced the older man’s tone, and Leo raked his mind again as the rogue made his bow to Lillian and then moved away. Delaval had been born a duke’s son and raised as the spare until a surprising development revealed he was in fact a bastard, the product of a bigamous marriage. The gossip was old, but the taint would never escape him, not in a social world so carefully stratified by blood and pedigree.

Leo flushed. He was not sitting on his thumbs waiting for his uncle’s allowance to appear. He’d never expected to be the heir. He’d never asked for it. Rupert would still be wearing that mantle if a stray French shell hadn’t knocked him from one life to the next.

He faced Lillian’s cool, clear gaze. The blue was an ocean he could get lost in.

“I am not a moralist,” Leo said, in answer to her silent accusation.

He wasn’t humorless, either. But he adamantly refused to become licentious like his father, with the name of a new woman associated with his each season, a history of debts and bad wagers at the gaming table, and a worse history of semi-illicit schemes meant to produce the money to pay off his debts. If not for his uncle and his mother’s cold thrift, Leo would likely have grown up in a debtor’s prison while his father diced away their food and clothing to the guards.

“When did you go to Drury Lane?” he wanted to know. He’d imagined her safe and secure in her library and garden, peacefully going about her work, and she’d been out gallivanting in fashionable places where any rogue could leer and gawk at her.

“Two nights ago. Lady Cranbury sent Aunt Giles an invitation, and my aunt, who is a moralist, sacrificed her sensibilities to a tale of adultery and deception so that she, and I, might be seen in the Cranbury box.” She popped a tiny cake into her mouth. “We’ve any number of invitations flowing in. All thanks to you.”

“And how many rogues and fortune hunters taking note of you?” He had to master himself. He had no right to complain of the company she kept while he was absent. Not when he had no hold on her affections, and no real claim to her otherwise.

She licked her lips. “A great many.”

That simple roll of her tongue over the red stain of her lips destroyed his composure. His mind bowed under the crowding impressions of silk and softness, gleaming surfaces, and warm, sweet spaces he wanted to explore.

He wanted a claim on her.

“Well, don’t do it any longer,” he said roughly.

“What? Accept invitations?”

She touched a finger to the side of her mouth, searching for a stray crumb. He battled the overwhelming urge to lean forward and absorb that mouth into his own. Stake his claim in the most primal way possible. She was his, damn it. Other men couldn’t come along courting and casting out lures simply because Leo had pulled back the curtain and brought her enchantments to public notice.

He realized he was pulling her toward him, too close for propriety, far too close for comfort. Her gown whispered across his pantaloons. Her heat fevered his brain.

She wasn’t resisting. She floated near, nearer, responding to his pull. Her breath quickened, and a dusty rose flushed her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled, wide with interest, curiosity. Desire arced through him like summer lightning flashing through the sky over Berkshire Downs.

“What archaeological expedition are you organizing?” she asked, her voice breathless.

Lust crashed up against the barricade of good sense, normally a fortress that surrounded him entirely. He was supposed to be here setting his future in order, and he was instead using every bit of his iron willpower not to stare down the front of Lillian’s frock.

“I want to excavate at Wayland Smith’s Cave, near the White Horse in Uffington. I’m convinced it’s a barrow. I’ve been going round and round as to who owns the land, and Barrington says Craven owns it. I’m told that Craven was just made aide-de-camp to the king and is in London for the season. I was hoping to find him here.”

Her eyelids flickered. He’d all but said he wasn’t here for her. He rubbed his thumb over the bare skin of her arm and was gratified to feel gooseflesh rise beneath his touch.

“That’s the reason I’ve neglected you. I’ve been getting my dig in order.” Thanks to her. And her parents. And her agreeing to be associated with him.

She pulled her lip with her teeth. “I know William. That is, I knew him before his father died and he became the baron. My parents spent time at his family’s estate in Hamstead Marshall one summer, digging around the remains of the old Norman castles.”

“I thought your parents preferred prehistoric remains.” It was the reason she’d caught his notice. There were few antiquarians interested in pre-Roman Britain; most preferred the impressive monuments of civilization, not the ancient remnants that whispered of forgotten beliefs and lost ways of life.

She considered the fingertips of her gloves. “It was one of those compromises my parents made—my mother likes the ancient monuments, and my father prefers the classical, though he’ll take the medieval if he must. He won the coin toss that summer, I recollect.”

“They took you with them?”

“They have every year. Until this one.” Her brows drew together, her lips turning down. He wanted to coax forth those dimples.

“Perhaps you could point him out to me. The baron.” Then he could keep hold of her. Then he wouldn’t have to leave her here, the focus of a parade of rogues and scoundrels who wanted to see what Leo had seen, who wanted to know why Lillian Gower had been paid the addresses of a marquess-to-be. Such types would lure her away if they could, proving that Leo hadn’t valued her enough and didn’t deserve her in the first place.

His fingers refused to unclasp from her arm. She was strong as the stem that held water lilies to the bottom of a lake, anchoring them in any wind.

“Hex.” Lillian glanced at her cousin. “We’re going to promenade through the rooms, Mr. Westrop and I. Would you wish to come with us, or would you rather find your mother?”

Hester brightened as she observed Leo. “Persian apple pudding,” she said.

He stared at her a moment, then let his lips twitch upward. “Persian apple pie.”

She rolled her eyes. “That was too easy.”

“I will endeavor to improve myself,” Leo replied gravely.

He couldn’t bear to look in Lillian’s eyes at that moment. Something soft shimmered in those blue depths, as if she were blinking back tears.

“Come,” she said, and led the way.

They ran their quarry to ground in the peridot drawing room, done up in the rococo style of Louis XIV of France. Craven, the seventh baron of his title, stood beneath a large oil of Charles II, chatting with one of the Highcastle sons.

Craven was not yet thirty, around Leo’s age, but unlike Leo he had distinguished himself in his career and served as a major in the 84 th Regiment of Foot, besides his position as assistant to the king. He too had his dark hair cut short in the Titus style, and he had the same bold, prepossessing nose as the actor Lillian admired. Leo cursed his own nose, straight but respectably sized, certainly nothing to arrest the gaze. Craven’s dark eyes were sharp and full of intelligence, and he had an enviable physique, shoulders broad beneath his well-fitting coat, strong legs filling out his evening breeches and hose. He had taken the time to don evening attire for the duchess’s soiree.

Leo shared a similar physique, but he didn’t have Craven’s military bearing or a title of his own. Lillian would be bound to note his deficiencies in comparison.

His companion, in the first coquettish move Leo had seen from her, slid open her fan and flirted it before her face. “Lord Craven. You won’t remember me, but I lived on a cottage on your property one summer while my parents explored the castle mottes at Hamstead Marshall.”

Craven smiled as he straightened and faced her. “I do remember you,” he said in a deep voice. His gaze swept over her shoulders, the shelf of her breasts, then back to her eyes. “The little lisping girl who followed me about calling me Wim Wim. How could I forget someone so adorable?”

“I’m sure you have any number of lisping females trailing you about at all times, milord,” Lillian said dryly. “If I made an impression, I don’t expect it was endearing.”

His smile tilted to one side of his lordship’s mouth. “You read me a lecture on the difference between southern marsh orchid and field cow-wheat when I confused them. I hope you know I have retained the lesson.”

Damn the man, he was handsome. Leo forgot to smooth away his scowl as Lillian cleared her throat and directed attention to him. “Do you know Mr. Westrop? He too has antiquarian interests.”

Craven’s sharp gaze scanned his face, and Leo guessed the man had placed in a moment Leo’s family, pedigree, new status as heir presumptive, and complete lack of accomplishments.

“Shame about Rupert,” Craven said. “My condolences, Westrop. We were all quite shocked at his loss.”

The mention nearly undid him. Leo clenched his teeth and nodded curtly. “No one more than I.”

“Antiquarian, are you? How interesting.” Craven said this in the polite tone of a man who believed all that was relevant in the world was the here and now, present decisions to be made, wars to be won.

Leo’s Uncle Waringford was the same. The marquess truly could not comprehend how Leo was drawn to the past, or how he believed the answers to be found there could be illuminating. To such men Leo was merely a dilettante, pursuing idle pleasures, while they were the robust, vital men who shaped the workings of the world.

“I’m interested in some features on your Uffington property,” Leo said anyway. “Particularly Wayland Smith’s Cave near the White Horse. I’ve been hoping to look inside the mound and see if there’s?—”

“A secret hoard of treasure, buried with a Viking king? By all means, dig away if you wish,” Craven said. “Write my steward. He’ll supply what you require.”

Leo blinked. Could it be that easy? He felt like a bull pacing his enclosure only to find the gate suddenly swinging open.

He almost didn’t dare go through. When had the Fates simply handed him what he wanted?

“Thank you,” he managed.

Craven nodded in Lillian’s direction. “If you’re anything like her group, you’ll have a care, you won’t bother the farmers, and you’ll have things tidied up when you leave. Don’t see any reason someone shouldn’t have a crack at it. Though if you do find a Viking hoard, you’ll recall that it’s my property, eh?”

“Of course,” Leo hastened to say. “Though it’s likely that any barrow predates the Vikings and even the Saxons, and was more likely a construction by the tribes the Romans found when they?—”

“I say, there’s Prinny, swanning about the gallery,” Craven said. “Forgive me, Westrop, I need to talk to him about the uprising in Ireland. I’ll direct my steward to furnish whatever you need. Miss Gower, I expect an invitation to your wedding.” He clicked his heels in a bow, then strode away.

“My goodness,” Lillian murmured. “Prince George is here? Lady Jersey must be in attendance. Aunt Giles will be in transports if she gets a glimpse of either of them.”

Leo stood stunned. “I’ve been trying to get permission to dig at Wayland Smith’s Cave for over a year,” he said. “And you…you simply walk up and smile from behind your fan, and Craven grants your request out of hand.”

“Your request,” she reminded him. “I merely made the introduction. What do you hope to find?”

He gazed into her face, so lovely. “Answers. You have smoothed my way yet again, Miss Gower. How might I repay you?”

He wanted to spread his hand alongside her face, touch that damask skin, and kiss her. Her lips parted on a soft breath, as if she wanted him to.

“My florilegium,” she said. “Once I have the plates in my hand, I will consider your part of the bargain discharged.”

And she would have no further use for him. Leo’s heart gave a frantic jerk. The jesters who had entered their bets in the book at Brooks would be collecting their wagers, all because he didn’t know how to woo.

“Are you free tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I’ve arranged a visit to the Chelsea Physic Garden, where I’m told they have a calceolus. It should be in bloom right now, which will be to my benefit.”

“I will escort you.”

“There’s no need.”

“I insist.”

“You have an excavation to prepare for.”

Yes, thanks to her. And the occupation would take him away from her for weeks, if not months. Meanwhile, other men, rogues and scoundrels, would be circling her, sniffing with interest. Unless he could persuade her to remain engaged to him.

But when he returned—what then? What would he have to offer her? He had no right to ask her to wait for him.

But he wanted her to. He wanted her .

He leaned closer without knowing he did so. His breath stirred the tiny hairs curling above her ear. “I made a promise, Lillian.”

Her eyelids lowered, and her lips parted on an exhaled breath. He felt the tendril inside her unfurling, reaching toward him.

“Oh, very well then,” she said.

He took his leave of her before he lost his hold on himself completely and found a shadowed corner to press her against the wall with his body and commence the exploration he wanted to make of her mouth, and her other secret places. He had what he’d come for: Craven’s permission to excavate the barrow. He couldn’t debauch a gently bred young woman that he didn’t intend to marry. If he were discovered devouring Lillian Gower in one of the Duchess of Highcastle’s rococo drawing rooms, there would be no hope of her quietly jilting him.

He had to remain the sensible one, the Westrop with a head on his shoulders. He had to prove he hadn’t inherited his father’s blood or propensities. He had to show he was diligent, dedicated, and could focus on the mission.

The mission that was going to tear a piece of his heart from him when he left Lillian Gower behind.