A Bride by Moonlight (31 page)

Though she had to force herself not to stare at Napier through much of the meal, even Lisette could see that Anne, Lady Keaton, was the darling of the family and Duncaster’s favorite grandchild.

The prettiest of the Tarleton sisters, Anne was a petite young lady who possessed Gwyneth’s fine eyes and Bea’s heavy blonde ringlets. Her personality, however, seemed far more outgoing than either of her sisters. Her visit put Duncaster in a rare good humor, and despite the presence of Lady Hepplewood’s nemesis, Miss Willet, the viscount demanded Marsh break out the best wine with every course until Lisette was a little dizzy with it.

As to Miss Willet, she was a handsome if not beautiful girl of perhaps nineteen years old. Thankfully, the chill her presence cast over dinner was not quite severe enough to leave anyone frostbitten, and lasted only through the fish course, for Duncaster seemed disposed to approve of anyone Anne had befriended. Even Lord Hepplewood looked smitten with his betrothed.

This left Lady Hepplewood in the awkward position of staring down her nose at the girl without Duncaster’s moral support. Thus Miss Willet was given the general impression of being welcomed into the family, and if the anxious gazes she occasionally cast in Lady Hepplewood’s direction suggested the girl knew better, the remaining party was merry enough not to notice.

Lisette had had no opportunity to ask Napier about the paper he’d taken from the schoolroom though she burned to do so. The entire household, it seemed, had rushed down the corridors and out of the house to greet the Keatons and their infant son, the latter being swept up affectionately and taken immediately to the nursery by Beatrice and the Keatons’ competent-looking nanny.

Lisette watched Napier now across the dinner table, where he had been situated between Miss Willet and Mrs. Jansen. Though they had not shared so much as an instant alone since bitterly parting in the gardens, she could sense in him tonight some tautly drawn emotion, and could feel his gaze fall frequently upon her from beneath his heavy, hooded lids.

She had accused him last night of having mad notions. Of having come to Wiltshire on a wild goose chase. And though Napier had owned it to be true, in the light of a new day, Lisette had known it for the unfair charge it was.

Napier was not wrong. Something black and ugly hung over this house and over this family. Even now, as wine ran like a Highland stream and toasts were drunk around the dinner table, Lisette could feel the subtle undercurrents as cold as the glass in her hand.

Did Napier suspect Mrs. Jansen of something? It seemed improbable. Nonetheless, Lisette knew the man well enough to comprehend he had not been making idle conversation in the schoolroom. Mrs. Jansen, perhaps, had known it, too.

Lisette remembered with some unease the frisson that had run down her spine upon seeing the governess lock them both into the study. But that had proven to be a silly notion, and one not worth sharing with Napier.

Still, dinner seemed interminable, as she waited, hoping for a moment alone with him. Hoping, foolishly, for a good deal more than that. Though Lisette knew she walked a tightrope where Napier was concerned, her desire for him seemed destined to blind her to all danger. But soon—very soon, if her instincts were right—they would leave Burlingame, and whatever it was that burned between them—call it love or lust or insanity—would be at an end.

For her part, however, Lisette knew what to call it.

And it was not the sweetness and light that the poets praised, but a dark, rich thing that swamped her heart with its weight and curled hot in her belly like a torment. A desire so deep she had begun to feel her need for Napier like an ache in the marrow of her bones.

She knew it was a righteous punishment. To have met such a man at this terrible juncture in her life—well, one could only conclude God’s justice was swift.

Beyond this time and this place, Napier would not pursue her—not in the romantic sense, certainly. Far better she should pray he simply forgot about her, or at the very least, that his steely resolve would keep them apart. For she very much feared that, where he was concerned, hers was not to be relied upon.

She was recalled to the present when, farther down the table, Gwyneth asked for the bordelaise. Still heatedly aware of Napier’s gaze, Lisette lifted the sauceboat with a slightly unsteady hand, then politely turned her attention to the gentleman at her elbow.

Sir Philip Keaton was a reserved gentleman who wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and sported very little hair. But Lisette warmed to him over the dessert course when the young man shyly confessed that his mother was American, then spoke of his happy memories of having attended university near Boston. He even had a passing familiarity with her family’s newspaper.

“I’m surprised you remember it,” she confessed.

“Well, I was living in Cambridge, you see, when the
Golden Eagle
burnt leaving Boston Harbor,” he explained. “It happened quite late at night, and I remember the
Examiner
was the only paper to carry the story the next morning. One couldn’t lay hands on a copy for love nor money.”

“Yes, I recall it,” she said, smiling.

Specifically, she recalled every word, for the story had marked Jack Coldwater’s journalistic debut. Ashton having been drunk as a lord that night and incapable of giving instruction, Lisette had shoved her long tresses into an old cap and pulled on a pair of trousers so that she might go unimpeded about the docks herself.

She had counted on the gloom and the confusion to shield her.

She had not needed it. No one had spared her—or her notebook or her pointed questions—a passing glance. And it was then that Lisette realized how very easy it was to deceive people: how very rarely anyone looked beneath the surface of anything. Instead, people went like automatons through their daily lives, seeing only what they expected to see.

“I thought it an unforgettable story,” said Sir Philip, carefully buttering a bit of bread. “I mean, what with every soul aboard saved. What were the chances, given that frightful fire? And everyone jumping madly into the pitch-black water?”

Lisette laid her fork down a little awkwardly. “Not everyone was saved,” she said quietly. “There was a lady who died the next morning.”

“Ah, water in the lungs?” said Sir Philip sadly. “The effect can be more lingering than one suspects.”

“Actually, it wasn’t that,” Lisette corrected. “It was something rather more freakish. Oh, heavens, forgive me; I’m hardly making pleasant dinner conversation.”

“I believe I brought it up,” said Sir Philip kindly. “By the way, what became of the
Examiner
? Is it still a going concern?”

“I fear it shared the
Golden Eagle
’s fate,” she said lightly, “and more or less sank.”

“Really, must we speak of
business
over our dinner?” interjected Lady Hepplewood, lifting her wineglass as she cut a glance at Miss Willet. “Sir Philip, pray tell us who is in Town this Season? Has your uncle found a husband for that lovely young cousin of yours?”

Sir Philip laughed. “I fear Lady Emily is too choosy, ma’am,” he said. “Uncle declares she’s holding out for a duke.”

“But mightn’t an earl have done at one time?” said Lady Hepplewood with a faint sniff. “I was quite persuaded, you know, that she and Hepplewood were going to make a match of it last year.”

“But I was not
Hepplewood
last year, Mamma,” Tony teased, though Lisette caught a flash of irritation in his eyes. “I was a mere lordling-in-waiting.”

“And now we’re all in mourning,” said his mother tartly. “I wonder you’ve met anyone new at all.”

“I’m afraid that was my doing,” said Anne in a firm voice. “I’ve been having Tony to dinner regularly, along with a few dear friends. It keeps him out of the gaming salons. And I scarcely think my mourning Papa requires I not eat.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Duncaster, motioning for more wine all around. “Perfectly proper, Cordelia, for the boy to dine with his cousin. Besides, neither Hep nor Saint-Bryce would want any of us utterly cast down. Why, I daresay both would be charmed by Miss Willet and happy for Tony.”

“No doubt they would,” murmured Lady Hepplewood sourly.

“How long can you stay, Sir Philip?” asked Duncaster as the glasses were topped up.

“I must return tomorrow afternoon, I’m sorry to say,” the young man said. “We’ve a critical debate in the Commons. But I shall return to escort the ladies home.”

“My dear, you are too indulgent.” Anne cast her husband what looked like a sincerely affectionate glance. “Philip thinks ladies ought never take the train alone.”

“And so they should not,” agreed Duncaster gruffly. “Particularly not
my
granddaughters.”

At this remark, Gwyneth rolled her eyes. Hepplewood shot her a warning glance, and turned the topic back to London. The rest of the meal passed in a discussion of the Season’s debutants, and who amongst them had made the best match. Although Anne had not put off her blacks, Sir Philip sat in the Lower House, which kept them well abreast of society’s goings-on.

As the names were bandied about, Lisette exchanged an accordant glance with Napier, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. They neither of them recognized any of the names, nor did they care. It was an oddly heartening moment, yet it made her realize again how much she wished she’d met him under different circumstances.

That she were a different person.

After dinner, a few brief turns were taken at the pianoforte. Even Miss Willet was persuaded to sing a tender aria while Lord Hepplewood accompanied her. The young man possessed more musical ability than Lisette would have credited, and Miss Willet’s was the purest, most carrying voice she’d ever heard—not that she had a vast deal of knowledge on the subject.

Still, Lisette began to think that perhaps Hepplewood had done very well for himself. Miss Willet gave every impression of being the perfect, well-bred wife. Hepplewood seemed to agree, for as he played the last chords, he cast an affectionate glance up at the girl, and an almost audible sigh ran through the room.

Seated behind them, Gwyneth leaned between Lisette and Diana, both eyebrows lifted. “Good Lord, she’s perfect,” she whispered. “Can it be Tony’s finally succeeded at something that doesn’t involve cards, horses, or whores?”

“Gwyneth, don’t be vulgar,” said Diana hotly.

“I think he really has fallen in love,” said Lisette, leaning into them. “And I fear his mamma will not be well pleased by it.”

Certainly none of them dared speak directly of Miss Willet to Lady Hepplewood. Instead, Gwyneth stood, and proposed the group make up two tables for whist, but Mrs. Jansen excused herself to tuck Beatrice in.

Snatching up her black stick, Lady Hepplewood followed her, clacking off toward the great hall, this time without barking at Diana to come along. Nonetheless, after extracting from Miss Willet the promise of a long walk the following afternoon, Diana dutifully trailed after her, murmuring something about some sewing she needed to finish.

By then Duncaster had nodded off into his cravat again. The evening was over—and, as usual, at a very early hour. Fifteen minutes later, Lisette was strolling out on Napier’s arm, having made it a point to leave the drawing room as he did.

“What did you find this morning?” she whispered as soon as they entered the long colonnade.

He did not pretend to misunderstand. “Besides your foot stroking up my inner thigh?” he murmured, throwing a glance behind them. “I found what I half expected to find all along, I think. But we aren’t going to talk about it here.”

“
Napier.
”

“Lisette,” he said tightly, “hush. These corridors carry like the Royal Opera House.”

Eventually they reached the top of the stairs to a silent, dimly lit passageway, Lisette bristling with impatience. Napier’s bedchamber was second on the right. He stopped before it and set one hand on the doorknob, turning as if to bid her good night.

“Napier, wait.” Lisette set a hand to the door frame, willing him to invite her in.

He did not, but instead stood silent and implacable by the door. “Very well,” he said in his low voice. “I’m waiting.”

Lisette knew, of course, that she should go—that she shouldn’t press her luck or her heart any further. There was a dark edge to his gaze tonight, his jaw rigidly set. But she was a fool.

“You can be a hard-hearted man, Napier, and stubborn,” she finally said, her tone aggrieved. “Will you make me say it, then?”

His mouth turned up sardonically. “I’ve had little luck making you do a blasted thing,” he said, “other than accompany me here—which we’re both apt to regret in the end.”

“Perhaps we should.” Flicking a quick glance up at him, Lisette moved her hand from the door and placed it against his chest. “What worries me is that . . .
I don’t.
”

“Ah, come to dance with the devil again, have you?” he said bitterly.

“Against all wisdom, yes.” Then, rising onto her toes, Lisette leaned near and brushed her lips over his.

Napier’s restraint seemed to snap, his hands catching her shoulders to still her to a kiss that was hard, possessive, and swift. Then just as swiftly, he set her away.

“Damn it, Lisette, we’re fools, the both of us,” he said. “It would be better if we just didn’t—”

“Please, may I come in?” she interjected, glancing at the still closed door. “I’m sorry. I’ve said some things that weren’t—oh, I don’t know!—this trip with you has addled my brain. But we can’t just stand here nattering at one another. If nothing else, may I hear what you learned today?”

“If you come in, Lisette,” he said warningly, “it won’t stop at that.
I
won’t stop at that.”

“And what if I don’t want it to stop?” she asked, her lashes falling half shut. “Do you think I care so little for you, Napier, that I won’t miss this—miss
you
—when it’s all over? That I won’t remember your touch, and sometimes ache for it?”

Napier dropped his hands wearily. “I swear to God, I sometimes think you’d turn a screw into a man’s heart,” he said grimly. “No, I don’t know what to think, Lisette. What do you want from me?”