A Bride by Moonlight (14 page)

Napier brushed his lips over her perfectly arched eyebrow and rolled away. For a long moment he lay beside her on the soft mattress, staring up at the plaster roundel in the middle of his ceiling and waiting for his rock-hard erection to subside past the point of pain.

Elizabeth Colburne
deserved better.

But most women were romantics. Why had he believed her something less?

“You are too quiet,” she said, her voice tremulous. “Am I . . .”

“Are you what?” His bollocks tight and aching, the words came out more harshly than he’d meant.

“Have I made you angry?” she said. “Was this . . . part of that price you expected me to pay?”

He cursed beneath his breath.

“Oh, I know you think me some sort of Jezebel.” Her voice was strengthening. “Perhaps not without reason. But understand I would have done anything, Napier, to avenge my father’s death. I would have paid any price. But this price—merely to save myself?—oh, you need to know here and now that I will not pay it.”

“You think that’s what this is?” he asked grimly. “A
price
to be paid? Part of that deal with the devil you think you’ve made?”

“Is it?”

“Christ Jesus, Elizabeth.” The knot in his throat tightened again. “What have I ever done to make you imagine me that sort of man?”

“N-nothing,” she whispered.

“Damn it, do you see what I mean?” he said. “
This
is what a mistake feels like.”

The plaster roundel blurred before his vision—Phaethon felled by a lightning bolt, somewhat aptly. She said no more, and after a time, he somehow found it in him to collect his wits and help her off the bed. But as she turned her back to restore her clothing to order, he saw they had crushed the satin cords she’d unfurled from her hair.

On a pathetic impulse, he picked them up and coiled them tight about his hand—coiled them so tight his blood ceased to flow—then relented and shoved them ruthlessly into his pocket.

She turned around with a wobbly smile, her bodice restored. “You were right,” she said. “I oughtn’t have barged in. I take full responsibility.”

Napier shrugged, and forced a smile that probably looked like a sneer. “A lady may always refuse a gentleman’s advances,” he said, gripping the bedpost rather too tightly. “My apologies, Elizabeth. There is a train back to London tomorrow at eight. I can see that you are on it.”

For a moment, her expression turned inward. “And go back to what?” she said hollowly. “I have no life in London now. I cannot even go back to my charity work at Lady Leeton’s school.”

She was right, and Napier knew it. Worse, he did not want her to go. “Very well,” he said. “Then you may trust this will not happen again.”

Her smile had steadied. “So we have reached an understanding,” she said. “After all, I’m here. I may as well help you.”

He dropped his hand from the bedpost. “Yes, so that I’ll keep you safe from Lazonby,” he remarked a little harshly, striding to the door.

She did not reply. His hand on the knob, he turned to see she’d lifted her chin.

“Yes, why else would I do it?” she finally said.

Why indeed?

He snapped back the lock, and peered out into the corridor. “All clear,” he said, motioning her out.

Without another word, Elizabeth went, brushing past in a cloud of lilies and womanly warmth. He did not watch her go but instead stood just inside, one shoulder set to the door frame, and listened as her footfalls faded down the corridor.

In a moment the creak of hinges echoed hollowly down the passageway. Napier bestirred himself from the wood, and pushed his door shut behind him.

And this time, he locked it.

CHAPTER 7

In Which Beatrice Explains Everything

L
isette reeked of smoke. Her hair. Her clothes. It singed her nostrils, choking her.

The lamp sputtered. Panicked, she flicked a glance at it. Emptying. She worked furiously. Struck a paragraph. Scribbled in the margin. Wracked her brain for just the right word.

Burned
not
burnt.
The brig in Boston Harbor had
burned. Ashton hated
burnt
.

She glanced at the clock. Five minutes. Five minutes until Lem came in to set type. Biting her lip, she looked back down. Her breath seized. The words were vanishing—melting into the paper like hot butter. Behind her, the door swung open.

“Well, girl?” The demand came on a cloud of brandy. “Who’s dead?”

“Mrs. Stanton, most likely,” she said, furiously scribbling. “She’s in a bad way.”

Worse than bad. Lisette had learnt the look of death. The frail form had been laid out like an angel on the dock, her green dress and cloak sodden with water, too weak and tremulous even to retch, though she was wracked with the need.

“Enough.” Ashton lurched nearer. “Let’s ’ave it.”

Her stomach twisted. “Almost done, sir.”

“
Almosh
—?” Ashton roared. “I’ve a paper to sell, you little cow—an’ dawdling won’t put a roof o’er your head. Not my roof, at any count.”

“I just got back,” she snapped.

The clock struck the hour. “It’s time,” he growled, reaching for the paper.

“But it isn’t finished.”

“Aye, too good to earn your keep, eh?” Reeling, Ashton seized her shoulder and drew back his opposite hand, his face twisting with disgust.

But the blow did not land. It never did.

Because he knew better.

“Miss?” Someone jostled her, the voice coming as if from a tunnel. “Miss, ’tis just Fanny. Now wake up, do.”

Confused, Lisette forced her eyes to flutter open. Fanny’s face hovered above, her dark brows in a knot.

“
What
—?” she managed.

Fanny released her shoulder, her lips curving into a soft smile. “Miss, it’s half seven,” she said. “Who were you talking to, anyway?”

Lisette levered herself up on one elbow, dragging a shock of curls from her face as she tried to remember. “Heavens, Fanny,” she said, shuddering. “It was Ashton after me again.”

“What, that mouthy sot? Ha! You always gave back good as you got. Besides, he’ll not catch us now.” Fanny had gone to the hearth and was studying it with displeasure. “And whoever laid up this sorry excuse of a fire last night must a’ been sotted, too. The smoke could choke a body to death.”

Lisette sat fully upright and espied her morning chocolate. Fanny had gone to the window. She threw open the drapes and hurled up the sash, the pulleys shrieking in protest. Cold, clean air flooded the room.

Lisette drew it deep into her lungs, dispelling the last of her fog. “I was dreaming, Fanny, about the
Golden Eagle
,” she murmured, her hands curling around the warm mug. “That brig that caught fire leaving Boston Harbor? When all those people had to be dragged from the water?”

“Oh, years ago, that was, and terrible, too.” Fanny was flapping her apron at the window as if to chase out the stench. “But t’was the making of our Jack, weren’t it? Now Ashton’s pickled in his grave, and the poor missus gone, too. As to that black hole of a newspaper—well, that’s somebody else’s problem, in’it?”

It was indeed. Because Lisette had sold it—dumped it for a pittance as soon as her aunt died, since her uncle’s radical politics and penchant for drink had driven the old rag near bankruptcy. For two years after Ashton’s death, she and her aunt had somehow kept it afloat but nothing now remained of Lisette’s old life save for their old house off Federal Street, now sitting empty.

Lisette almost never thought of those years anymore. Not unless something else disturbed her sleep.

Last night, something had.

Something tall, dark, and deeply irritating.

Hurling back the covers, she hastened to the washstand and sloshed cold water into the basin so that she might wash away what was left of any tears. With light now spilling in, Fanny would miss nothing, and Lisette couldn’t bear to be quizzed. She wasn’t even sure what her explanation would have been—which made it all the worse.

Patting away the damp, she lifted her gaze to the gilt mirror above the basin. A pale, perfectly oval face stared back at her through a pair of oddly colored eyes. It was her ordinary self. Not the wanton who had writhed and ached beneath Royden Napier’s powerful—and rather insistent—body yesterday. So insistent that, for a moment, Lisette feared she’d run the wrong risk with Napier—that this man mightn’t take no for an answer.

Instead, he had offered her the chance to go. And in that fleeting instant, she’d held him at a slight—a very slight—advantage. He’d been remorseful, perhaps a trifle embarrassed. But rather than pack her bags, she’d refused his offer.

She’d refused to run when she’d had the chance.
Again
.

Dropping her gaze from the mirror, Lisette gave a pathetic laugh, and considered her own naïveté. Good God, did she really imagine this trip into the wilds of Wiltshire was some quixotic quest for salvation? Did she really believe she might help Napier in some mad pursuit of justice, and thereby find a little redemption for her own sins?

In the bright light of day, she found it easier to admit what was hidden in the back of her mind. For the truth was, had she really wished to escape Royden Napier, she could have fled Hackney days ago. And she might have got away with it.

Instead, she’d foolishly chosen to come here. Because it was a challenge. Because it would distract her from what she had become. And because she’d chosen that elusive path toward redemption.

But there was no redemption for what she had done.

A man lay dead—an evil man, yes—but another man’s good name lay in tatters, and that was in part her fault. Her reckless, near-vicious pursuit of Lord Lazonby had brought it ever more clear to Lisette that vengeance really was the Lord’s.

Tossing aside the linen towel, she turned to watch Fanny lay out her clothing, wondering how she’d muddled through dinner last night. Napier had been seated at the opposite end of the table, and had scarcely held her gaze. But Lord Duncaster had not come down, so there had been no reprieve by port; everyone had gone straight to coffee in the small drawing room. Unable to bear it, Lisette had scurried back to her bedchamber, claiming travel fatigue.

What she should have claimed was utter stupidity.

Napier was every inch a man, with a man’s desires. But she was still his prisoner, or something near it, and Lisette knew she would be wise not to test his restraint too far.

And perhaps wiser still not to test hers.

After dressing and retracing her long hike through Burlingame, she found the room Gwyneth Tarleton had identified as the small dining room and went in to discover that Napier had already eaten and gone back out again. All of the ladies, however, still lingered over coffee. Lady Hepplewood had a newspaper laid to one side of her plate, and Gwyneth Tarleton was inspecting some scraps of watered silk laid across one edge of the table.

Upon seeing her, the three greeted her warmly enough. Diana Jeffers leapt at once from her chair, and followed Lisette to the sideboard. “Shall I ring for warm toast, Miss Colburne?”

“Thank you, no,” she answered, picking up her plate. “And please call me Elizabeth—or Lisette, if you prefer.”

“Very well.” Miss Jeffers’s smile was vague. “You must call me Diana.”

“And I’m Gwyneth, of course,” said Miss Tarleton from the table. “I trust you slept well?”

“Wonderfully,” she lied. “Thank you.”

Diana showed Lisette what each dish contained, then left her to her own devices.

Lady Hepplewood cleared her throat. “I was wondering, Miss Colburne, if you and Saint-Bryce had set a firm date?”

Lisette turned. “Oh, in the spring,” she said vaguely.

“But nothing has been fixed?” Lady Hepplewood pressed hopefully. “Your family has no specific expectation?”

This time, Lisette’s smile tightened. “About the only thing my family ever expects is that I shall make up my own mind,” she said. “But I will certainly let everyone know once the date is chosen.”

Her efforts thwarted, Lady Hepplewood returned to her coffee and Lisette to the sideboard. Behind her, she could hear Gwyneth shuffling the fabrics.

“Honestly, Diana, I’m no judge of colors,” she said when Diana sat back down. “Though why you’re turning out a room done just last year I cannot think.”

Diana looked hurt. “Hepplewood told me when we settled here I might furnish all our rooms as I pleased.”

“Yes, you always were his pet,” Gwyneth murmured. “But he’s dead now. He isn’t using that room.”

Lisette turned from the sideboard to see Lady Hepplewood staring down her nose. “It’s a sentimental matter, Gwyneth, something you mightn’t understand,” she coolly remarked. “Diana chose the green just for Hepplewood. It was always his favorite color.”

“Indeed, and I’m still passing fond of it,” said a drowsy, masculine voice from the door.

Diana’s eyes widened and she leapt from the table, almost oversetting her coffee cup. “Tony!” she cried, rushing toward the door.

Lisette turned around to see a strikingly handsome man in a burgundy silk banyan lingering on the threshold, one shoulder set lazily to the door frame, his blond locks tousled and eyes hooded as if with sleep. He wore a proper shirt and a loose cravat beneath his gown, all to no avail. He still looked like the sort of fellow who should have
sybarite
tattooed on his forehead.

Diana Jeffers had embraced him warmly. Lady Hepplewood observed, her expression bland. “Well, my boy,” she said dryly, “can the pleasures of London truly spare you?”

Diana had led the young man into the room. “Tony, when did you come?” she chided. “Why did you not write us?”

“Good morning, Hepplewood.” Gwyneth handed the fabrics back to Diana.

“Hullo, Gwen. And Mamma, you’re in good looks.” The young man drifted languidly past Lady Hepplewood, who turned up a pale, powdered cheek for his kiss. “And I did write, Di. To Mamma.”

“With no mention of a visit,” said Lady Hepplewood, who did not look all that pleased to see him.

“Well, I finally have some news for you,” he said a little warily. But just then, the young man noticed Lisette, still standing by the sideboard, carefully observing the little vignette.

“Gad!” he said, his eyes drifting slowly over her. “Who is this tall, titan goddess hiding in our breakfast room? And here am I, still in my gown like the veriest sloth.”

He did not, Lisette noticed, actually apologize for his dishabille.

“You have quite missed the excitement, Hepplewood,” said his mother, snapping open a copy of the
Times
. “This is Miss Colburne, Saint-Bryce’s intended.”

At that, the man’s eyes widened, and he shot an almost pained look at Diana. “Saint-Bryce?” he echoed.

“Do call me Elizabeth,” she said, putting down her plate and offering her hand. “And yes, I’m Saint-Bryce’s fiancée. He will be sorry to have missed you.”

“Oh, that.” Lord Hepplewood gave a vague smile and began to heap a plate with food. “The Napier fellow—Royden, isn’t it?”

“You know perfectly well what his name is.” Lady Hepplewood’s newspaper rattled as she turned a page. “When did you arrive, my dear? I did not hear you come in.”

“Caught the last train from Paddington yesterday evening,” said Lord Hepplewood, loudly scraping up the last of the eggs. “Marsh let me in, and I just fell into bed.”

Along with about half a bottle of brandy,
Lisette silently added. It was doubtless a habit, for she could smell it literally oozing from his pores.

Diana set down her fork with a clatter. “Which bed?” she said pointedly.

Hepplewood slid into the chair by his mother. “
My bed
,” he said, as if Diana had challenged him. “The big one in the green room. Papa’s old room.”

“But I am refitting that room,” said Diana insistently. “Didn’t you see the draperies were down? Really, Tony, you must take the yellow bedchamber. Gwyneth is helping pick fabrics this minute.”

Tony shrugged. “Why is it Gwyneth’s choice?” he said. “If it’s anyone’s choice save mine where I sleep or how it’s fitted out, then—well, it’s Miss Colburne’s, isn’t it? This will be her house soon enough. Besides, I like the green.”

“Absolutely not.” Diana rose and snatched up her teacup.

Lisette brightened her smile. “Diana doubtless knows what’s best,” she said soothingly. “And I’m sure
I
have no opinion on the subject.”

“Indeed you do not.” Lady Hepplewood laid aside her newspaper with a
thwack!
“Moreover it amuses Diana to have something to do, so that is the end of it. Now, Hepplewood, what is this important news that could not wait?”

At last a hint of unease passed over the man’s handsome face. “Well,” he said, taking his seat, “you must congratulate me, Mamma. I am to be married.”

“My word!” Gwyneth’s cup clattered onto her saucer.

At the sideboard pouring coffee, Diana turned with a gasp.

Lady Hepplewood had fixed her son with a fierce glare. “I beg your pardon?” she said sharply. “Am I to have no say in your choice?”

“Actually, no.” Hepplewood hardened his gaze. “And I’ve chosen Miss Felicity Willet of Lincolnshire.”

“Willet? Lincolnshire? I never heard of—” Lady Hepplewood lost what was left of her color. “My God, Hepplewood! What have you done?”

“Oh
, Tony
. . .” Diana was staring at him as if he were a ghost.

Only Gwyneth Tarleton appeared less than apoplectic, but not by much. Lisette looked around for a circumspect way to escape.

The gentleman merely snapped out his napkin and forked up his eggs. “I am marrying Miss Willet,” he said. “You said it yourself: Loughford needs a mistress, and I need a wife. She’ll do admirably. And Mamma, before you start, no, you do not know her family. They are Midlands industrial folk, and Mr. Willet is worth at least half a million p—”