Lord Lightning (11 page)

“It does you credit. Given her hostility to you, it would have been understandable if you had allowed her to suffer the consequences of her neglect.”

“I am not interested in earning credit,” Lord Hartwood growled. “And did I not warn you against finding good in me where there is none?”

“Indeed you did, Your Lordship,” she said, schooling her expression. “And I shall take care in the future to do my best to put the very worst interpretation possible on all your actions.”

“Excellent! I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Their discussion was interrupted by a loud scraping sound coming from the hallway. “My mother is coming,” he whispered harshly. “Remain seated when she enters.”

How unspeakably rude! But there was no time for Eliza to frame a reply, as the door to the parlor opened and a footman wheeled in a bath chair. As he pushed Lady Hartwood toward them, her son swung around from the side table against which he had been lounging and came over to rest his hand firmly on Eliza’s shoulder. The gesture at once established his familiarity with her person and made it impossible for her to ignore his command that she remain seated. She attempted to remain calm and to behave as she imagined someone like Violet might do, who had been raised in poverty without the benefit of the kind of education in manners Eliza had received. But since she
had
been schooled in good behavior, her heart pounded with embarrassment as the older woman rolled toward them.

Lord Hartwood’s mother was dressed entirely in black. Her only jewelry consisted of a jet mourning ring and necklace bearing a small miniature portrait outlined in hair. At first glance, it was hard to believe the woman before her was Lord Hartwood’s mother. Where his figure was trim and muscular, hers had run to fat. Her coloring was dark where his was fair. But on further examination there was a certain similarity in the strong, Roman nose that was such a prominent feature of both of their faces. And certainly there was something similar in shape of the steely eyes with which they coolly regarded each other.

Head held high, Lady Hartwood let her eyes sweep over the face of her only remaining child, then rested them on Eliza, gazing for a long time upon the glittering necklace that hung between her breasts, before turning back to her son. Her face showed no trace of emotion. “So you have come, Edward,” she said. “I trust you had a pleasant journey. We will dine at eight. I have invited some people of trifling importance to help celebrate your arrival. It’s astonishing what people will do to be able to say they have dined with a title. Though, of course, no one of any consequence would wish it known that they had dined with you.”

She motioned the footman she was ready to leave, but before she could go, her son spoke up. “How kind of you to welcome us so graciously, Mother. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of introducing you to my own particular friend, Miss
Farrell. She has kindly agreed to accompany me for this fortnight. Please see that she is given the room adjacent to mine.”

Again his mother’s gaze raked over Eliza, coming to rest on the sapphire necklace that dangled in her cleavage, but her features showed nothing but a steely determination to maintain her composure. “Unfortunately, the only room that is free to accommodate Miss Farrell is a small one in the attics where the other servants sleep.” She favored Eliza with a look that would have curdled milk. “It is quite hot and uncomfortable at this time of year. But you may have her things sent up there.”

A look of fury flashed over Lord Hartwood’s face, but in a moment he recovered himself, and like his mother, arranged his pale features to show nothing but cold control, making the resemblance between the two of them more pronounced. “I trust you will still let me sleep in my own room.”

“I cannot stop you.”

He turned toward Eliza. “You need have no fear of suffering unduly from the heat. My room has always been a comfortable one. Please feel free to make it your own.” He turned back to his mother. “Also, before I forget, I’ve invited a guest to join us at dinner. I hope you can accommodate her. It’s been many years since I’ve seen Mrs. At-water. I hope you will make her welcome, too.”

“Invite all the whores in Brighton if you wish. It is just what my guests will expect of you. I doubt there is anyone in Brighton who does not know
the intimate details of the situation into which your poor brother’s will has forced me.”

“I am relieved to hear it. Let’s hope, madam, that you, too, understand the terms of his will and intend to abide by them. I have many other claims on my leisure and am otherwise not likely to linger here. Let there be no mistake about that.”

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Lady Hartwood said bitterly. “You were an annoying child and you’ve grown into exactly the kind of vulgar, showy man I feared you would become. My only comfort lies in the thought that your father did not live to see you become his heir. He died believing it would be dear James who carried on the family name.”

“I am so sorry that I wasn’t able to oblige you by dying in James’s place, Mama,” Lord Hartwood said. “But you will be so good as to observe that I
have
shown up to fulfill the terms of James’s will and that by doing so I may yet save your home for you. I should like some credit for that at least.”

“You have got as much credit as you deserve already,” his mother snapped. “I haven’t thrown your trull out into the street. You shall have to settle for that.” And with that she nodded her head and with the footman’s assistance rolled slowly toward the door.

“Not exactly the return of the Prodigal Son,” Eliza heard Lord Hartwood mutter when they could no longer detect the sound of Lady Hartwood’s chair in the hallway.

“Indeed. I would hazard that your mother would far prefer to slaughter you than the fatted calf. But you are not blameless, either. Consider the provocation you offered her! Even if she had felt some tender feeling for you, she could hardly have expressed it in the face of such a calculated insult.”

“She feels no tender feeling for me.” His voice was harsh. “She never has. I never felt her hand on me as a child except in punishment.” He wheeled around, fixing her with an unsettling stare, his dark eyes almost wild. “You aren’t going to leave me now, are you?”

The hint of desperation in his voice was at odds with the pose of cool unconcern he affected. Reacting instinctively, she almost blurted out that he could depend on her, for it would be impossible for her to leave him now—but she caught herself and clamped her lips shut. The last thing she needed was to have him reproach her for a foolish partiality right now. But clearly he needed something, for in the silence that stretched out as she fought to regain her control, Lord Hartwood tugged savagely at his neck cloth as if it were strangling him. A flash of pain—real pain, not an actor’s imitation—swept over his features as he demanded, “By Gad, Eliza. Answer me!”

She struggled to keep her voice level. “Of course I shan’t leave you, sir. We made a bargain. I shall stay and help you do what you came here to do.”

He peered at her intently as if weighing her words. Then his face gradually relaxed and he
let his breath out slowly. After carefully readjusting the points of his collar, he said, “I believe you really
will
stay.”

“Of course I will. What did you expect?”

He shrugged. “Expect? I would never attempt to predict a woman’s behavior. I’ll leave the predictions to you, my sage astrologer.”

His lips had again assumed that smile that had so little humor in it. His face wore once more its usual look of detached disdain. Only as he prepared to follow the butler up the stairs did he turn back and allow his eyes to meet hers. To her surprise, she saw a hint of tenderness flash through them, one that recalled the pain she had observed in them just moments before.

“You did very well just now, Eliza,” he said. There was almost no irony in his tone. “If I am not careful, I may find myself in your debt.”

“I am glad you are pleased with my performance, Your Lordship,” she replied briskly, curtsying to him. She would not again let herself forget the parts they were playing. His eyebrows rose at the exaggerated gesture. But he said nothing more, merely turning and ascending the main staircase.

A footman motioned Eliza to follow him to the servants’ staircase and she did so, taking care not to trip on the hem of her flimsy skirt. But as she climbed the four flights of the back stairs to the attics, it struck her that, for the first time since they had made their first bargain in his coach, Lord Hartwood was not entirely in control. He
did
need her support here in Brighton—and not only to play out a role.

It would not be easy to help him. The strong feelings he provoked in her were disturbing. She could not entirely trust herself to remain unmoved by them, as she had pledged she would. But overall, the scene that had just taken place in the parlor reassured her: There was work to be done here, just as his horoscope had suggested. He needed her help for much more than just the claiming of his inheritance. Any doubts she had entertained about the wisdom of accompanying him had vanished.

I
t had been close to supper time when they had arrived, so after a footman showed her the small attic room where her things had been stowed, Eliza dressed quickly for dinner.

The emerald tiffany gown that Lord Hartwood had chosen for her to wear to dinner this night was, if possible, even more daring than the dress she had worn on her arrival. A band of nearly transparent openwork ran across the bodice, allowing more than a glimpse of her uncorsetted bosom to show through the lace’s many holes. It was a good thing it had been summer when she had agreed to play out this masquerade. To wear such a gown in an English winter would be to risk death from pneumonia!

As she put on the fatal necklace Lord Hartwood had decreed she wear, she wondered how
his mother would respond to her presence at dinner. However, when Eliza entered the dining room at eight, doing her best to move across the room with the sinuous motion her protector had taught her and thrusting out her bosom proudly, her hostess showed no overt reaction to her presence. Indeed, the only hint she gave of the displeasure she must feel was that she pointedly did not introduce Eliza to her other guests, but merely gestured to the footman to seat her near the foot of the table.

The empty chairs on both sides of Eliza’s place remained empty even after the other guests had been seated. Placed by herself at the far end of the table and subjected to the undisguised curiosity of the others at the table, Eliza felt much like a child who has been sent to sit in front of the class in the dunce’s seat. But she was too fascinated by the scene that unfolded before her to waste her energy in responding to the slight. Her experience of elegant living had been hitherto confined to an occasional attendance at the local assembly rooms with her aunt, who did not take much pleasure in social occasions.

She had never before eaten at a table arrayed as lavishly as this one. The huge chandelier hanging from an elaborate plaster rosette set in the ceiling cast its light over the richly gleaming silver utensils, the translucent china, and the sparkling crystal goblets that furnished each place. The center of the table was taken up by a huge silver epergne on which was displayed every kind of fruit to be
had at this season. Silver urns filled with flowers dotted the vast expanse of heavy damasked linen.

Lady Hartwood’s guests also gave off an air of luxurious wealth. They were dressed in the height of fashion, the women in high-waisted gowns festooned with lace and ribbons, the men in exquisitely tailored suits of superfine, in fashionably muted colors. Though they talked to each other in low voices and cultured accents as they awaited the serving of the first course, Eliza was surprised to note that the bodices of the gowns worn by several of the younger women were hardly less revealing than the scandalous gown in which Lord Hartwood had clothed her. Even so, it was her gown—and what it so barely concealed—attracting the notice of most of the gentlemen, several of whom had fixed her with speculative looks that made her distinctly uncomfortable.

As she felt them devouring her body with their eyes, she was glad her demimondaine status was just a pretense. It would not be pleasant to have men continually looking at one like this. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder at how by simply cutting her hair and donning what was, after all, a ridiculous costume, she, Eliza Farrell, long resigned to being a faded spinster, was able to call forth such a strong response from men.

Aunt Celestina had often said it was a mercy Eliza had not inherited the stunning beauty that had tempted her aristocratic father to elope with her mother in the defiant act that had caused her grandfather to disinherit her father and forced
him to rely on his gambling for their maintenance. Her aunt had counted it a blessing that Eliza’s lack of looks protected her from the disasters that awaited impetuous beauties. But now as she observed the effect she was having on a roomful of gentlemen, aided only by a fashionable hairstyle, a little bit of lace, and very little bodice, Eliza wondered: Could she have turned out more like her mother than she had realized?

Lord Hartwood gazed over at her from time to time with obvious approval, allowing his eyes to linger on her bosom in a way that could not be ignored by anyone in the room. He stared until she could almost feel her nipples burning through the lacy fabric. Then, when she least expected it, he raised his warm brown eyes to meet her own, and when he did so, she felt a burst of uneasiness. Was this what her mother had felt when the fatal connection with her father had first begun? Had his aristocratic blue eyes held the treacherous charm and seductive speculation that she felt now radiating from Lord Hartwood’s mahogany gaze?

Hastily, she reminded herself that the passionate, smoldering looks he was sending her were merely part of the calculated performance the two of them had agreed to enact. He was no more attracted to her now than the vicar had been when she had played Lady Teazle to his Sir Peter. And the other men? They stared at her because she was supposed to be a notorious rake’s mistress and because Lord Lightning, living up to his outrageous reputation, had compelled his mother to entertain
that mistress at her dining table. Most likely they were peering at her so intently because they were trying to imagine why a man as attractive and wealthy as he was would have bothered to take under his protection such a poor excuse for a mistress as herself.