Autumn Rain (11 page)

In a corner, a woman rose, wiping her muddied face with a corner of her shawl. "I ain't—" she began, afraid the proprietor had sold her. Then she realized he'd used her name. "Aye, sir."

"Come on—your mistress is safe."

The woman began to cry. "He'll turn me off—I know it!" she wailed. "I oughter not let her come!"

"Nonsense," he said brusquely, reaching for her. "Come on."

He had to blink when they emerged again into the light, but the woman clutched his sleeve excitedly, shouting, "It's Jeremy—it's Jeremy—oh, praise the Almighty!"

The young man looked as though he'd been in a mill, but there was no mistaking the concern on his face. "The mistress?" he asked anxiously.

"Safe," Lucien told him. "But we've got to get her out of here."

"Oh—aye." The footman nodded sheepishly. "Knew we ought not to come, sir."

"Perceptive of you," Lucien muttered dryly.

Once outside in the street, he frowned. "I'd take you up, but I'd not draw the attention." He looked to where his tiger maintained a determined grip on Elinor Kingsley. "The trick will be to get her home undiscovered." He hesitated briefly, then dug into his coat pocket, drawing out a couple of small coins. "Can you hire a hackney, do you think?"

"Aye, sir," the footman answered, "but the mistress—"

"I'll take her—discreetly, of course. I'd have you get there first, if you can. that you may smuggle her inside."

"Aye, sir."

Leaving them, he crossed the street. "I'm sending them home in a hired conveyance," he told her abruptly. "Get into the carriage."

"But—"

"If you are fortunate, they may be able to get you into your house before any more harm is done. We'll take the long way to give them time."

"I'd go with them."

"Don't be a fool, Lady Kingsley." Catching her about her waist, he lifted her up into the open four-seater, then climbed in after her. She started to sit only to be pushed into the floor. "Lie down," he ordered. And before she could protest, he threw a lap rug over her.

"I cannot see!"

"You don't need to." To insure that she lay there, he raised one leg to rest on the seat across from him. The other foot he placed on her back. When she tried to rise beneath his calf, he growled, "Don't be a ninnyhammer—if you are seen with me, you are done."

But she could scarce breathe beneath the weight of his leg. She tried to wriggle her head from beneath the rug, only to have him yank it back over her. "Lady Kingsley, I am seldom inclined to aid foolish females, and if you insist on drawing attention to yourself, I will wash my hands of you—do you understand me?" Taking her muffled reply for assent, he reached for the reins, clicking them.

The pair of horses surged forward, throwing her flat against the floorboards. Twisting beneath the leg that pinned her down, she grasped his boot and held on, heedless of the impropriety. The carriage sped for several blocks, then slowed to a leisurely pace, and she could hear the earl exchanging occasional greetings with other drivers as though nothing were amiss. Apparently, in the absence of females, gentlemen did not feel it nearly so incumbent to give the notorious Longford the cut.

After the initial shock of lying beneath the shaft of his boot passed, she became acutely aware of the masculine weight above her. It was nothing like the occasional brushing of Arthur's thin, bony leg against hers. There was something alive, virile, something utterly forbidden about Longford's leg resting on her back.

It brought back the girlish memory of his kiss, the memory of his body against hers, and for a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it must be like to be loved by someone like him. And the thought, once freed, frightened her with its very existence. It was as though the thought alone could damn her. She had to remind herself that he cared about nothing.

"Riding all right?" he asked, his voice abrupt, as if he really did not care.

"Yes."

But an idea, however preposterous, once born did not die easily. Despite everything she knew of him, she was fascinated by the feel of him, by the masculine smell of leather. Yet any association with the earl, even an innocent one, would be utter folly—and anything more than that would be ruinous. Longford, Sally Jersey had declared, was too dangerous to touch, for he simply refused to acknowledge the rules.

"Lucien!" someone hailed him.

"Hallo, George."

Lord Leighton peered curiously at Longford's extended leg. "Hurt yourself?"

"It pains me sometimes. I must be getting old."

"At nine and twenty?" Leighton snorted. "I beg you will not say it, for we are of an age." He shook his head. "Must be the war. That the leg that took the ball?"

"Yes—but nothing serious."

"You really going back?"

"Monday."

"Don't know why—it's not as if you had to, is it?"

Lucien shrugged. "The Corsican still straddles Europe—and I see no reason to remain here. Suffice it to say I am going back where I am welcomed."

"You and the Ponsonbys," George sighed, then grinned. "Guess it's in the blood—Mad Jack's son, after all. He was hell-bent for anything good or bad, I am told. He stopped, collecting himself, then added sheepishly, "Sorry—didn't mean—"

But the earl's breath seemed arrested, then he exhaled sharply, releasing the sudden tension in his body.

"There's nothing you could say about him that I don't know, George."

"Shouldn't have said it anyway. You coming to dine tonight?" Leighton asked, turning the subject.

"If you can stand the association."

"I've got good credit—too many matchmaking mamas hanging after me. If I was a gazetted murderer, they'd forgive me for m'fortune, I daresay." He hesitated, then blurted out, "Bad business about Diana. You'd have thought after all these years, she'd have let it lie, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"You seen the brat? Sefton said it don't look like Bell, but that don't mean—"

"No—I haven't seen her. And I don't mean to."

Perceiving that Longford did not want to talk about that either, Leighton tipped his hat. "Until tonight, then."

As the carriage moved on and silence descended once more, Elinor finally dared to ask, "Where are we?"

"Going through the park. I'd advise you to be still, for we are not alone." To prove his point, he hailed another conveyance, calling out, "Hallo, Bell! You are like a bad penny come 'round again. Just talking about you."

"Talking to yourself, old fellow?" Bellamy Townsend chided.

Longford smiled wryly. "It comes from a lack of society, I suppose, but no—it was Leighton." His eyes narrowed. "You look a trifle pulled."

"The pursuit goes slowly. First female as didn't swoon over me within the week."

Elinor's leg cramped, and she tried to shift her weight to ease it. Longford's foot pressed down, warning her. Then he spoke to the viscount more loudly. "You cannot win every ladybird, you know. Perhaps you ought to cut your losses and go for another, more amenable female."

"Really want this one."

"You want them all," Lucien reminded him.

"But this one's different—if she wasn't wed, I'd think her a virgin. Downright skittish. But," he added smugly, "the plum will be plucked before fall, and you can put your money on it."

There was a brief pause as the earl smoothed the lap rug over his leg, then he met Townsend's eyes coldly. "I should not advise putting it on the books, Bell. Old men tend to be jealous."

"He won't call me out."

"No." Lucien's hand rested on Elinor's back for a moment. "But this time I don't think you can afford the damages. He is not like to be as complacent as I was."

"Complacent?" Townsend howled. "You made a dashed scandal of it!"

"Take my word for it—Kingsley would see you ruined—and he's got the money for it." Before the viscount could respond, Lucien flicked the coach whip lightly. "Cannot leave the cattle standing," he murmured apologetically. "Good day, Bell."

"Wait—you going to White's tonight?" Townsend shouted after him.

"Leighton's! You?"

"Almack's! Then to White's!"

The four-seater rolled down the lane, leaving Bellamy Townsend to stare after it.

"We are about out of the park," Lucien told Elinor.

"May I get up now?"

"No. Did you hear enough?"

"My knees are cramping. And he did not say it was I, did he?" she countered.

"Your backside ought to burn. If Kingsley had any sense, he'd apply the cane to it." He was silent for a time, then he spoke again. "What the devil were you doing there?"

She didn't like his tone. "I could ask the same of you," she muttered.

"I was at Carlton House." Later, he was to wonder why he did it, for he was not particularly proud of it, but he reached into his coat pocket and drew out a pin. Tossing it beneath the blanket, he explained, "It's because I have survived."

This time, when she lifted a corner of the lap rug, he did not stop her. She stared at the pin. "The Regent decorated you?" she asked, betraying her awe.

"I told you—I am alive. And you have not answered me."

"I went to buy ribbons."

"One would think you could afford Grafton's," he said sarcastically, "or does Arthur keep a tight purse?"

"Sometimes I tire of the life I lead," she said simply.

"The bored widgeon. I pray you will spare me the tale, for rich, useless women pain me."

"I do not expect you to understand, my lord," she responded stiffly. "And if I am rich, it's because Papa took your advice and sold me."

"You seem to have done rather well."

"I have naught to do but shop and be seen."

"An enviable lot to most—did you not see those poor devils back there?" he asked almost angrily. "They have fought for an ungrateful nation, it would seem. And when Prinny has his way and the stalls are torn down, they will probably perish."

"Parliament—"

"Parliament be damned!"

"It's not my fault they are poor. Indeed, I—"

"You are the problem—aye, and all the rest of us."

"At least I have never been embroiled in an unsavory scandal," she retorted. His leg tensed, and she wished she could call back the uncivil words. "Your pardon—"

"There is no need to apologize for the truth, Lady Kingsley."

"But I did not mean—that is, I understand that the circumstances—"

"You don't know the circumstances."

Apparently, for all his seeming indifference, his divorce pained him still, and she pitied him for it. "She must have been very lovely," she said lamely.

"Very."

"I'm sorry."

He snorted derisively. "For what? I assure you I value my freedom above my pride."

"Perhaps she was merely led into it," she murmured, thinking perhaps that would make it less painful for him.

"I rather think it a mutual leading." He lapsed into a strained silence again. He could scarce blame Townsend, for Elinor Kingsley was an Original—a beauty lacking the insipidity he despised. And if he'd had the time, he might have cast a few lures that direction himself. But he didn't—and he had no business thinking it. No, it was better to pursue those who knew how to play the game— or those who made pursuit unnecessary, the sophisticates among the
demimonde
who understood a business arrangement.

He looked down, seeing the bright, mud-streaked hair, and for all that he told himself he disliked rich, bored females, he could not resist moving his hand to touch the silk of it. And despite what he'd thought scarce a moment before, he considered the possibility he might interest her in a brief liaison. His hand moved lower, brushing the bare skin where her hair fell away from her neck.

She shivered involuntarily, then held her breath, knowing she ought to duck away. Instead, she closed her eyes as his fingertips traced lightly, making her long to be held by a man. If his barest touch could do that to her, she dared not think what his kiss would make her feel now.

He forced himself to remember that she'd been the only one to speak to him, and for that alone he owed her more than this. Reluctantly, he leaned back, warning her, "A word to the wise, my dear—your friend Bellamy is possessed of an utterly inconstant heart. He will lead you to grief, if you allow it."

"It would seem like the pot warning of the kettle," she retorted, trying to hide her embarrassment. "You have not precisely been absent from the tattle-tongues yourself."

"No, but I never promise that which I am unprepared to give. I've never offered any woman constancy to get beneath her petticoat."

"How very crude you are, sir."

"At least I make no pretense of being anything other than what I am. But no doubt the Jersey has warned you to stay away from me." He noted the street. "You can sit now, but you might wish to cover that hair. You can use the rug."

He shifted his legs, and she pulled herself into the seat across from him. "I shall look the veriest quiz," she muttered. Nonetheless, she pulled the woolen blanket over her head.

"I should rather say a ragamuffin."

"What a lack of address."

"Being an outcast, I have little need of any."

"No, I suppose not."

"That's your house, isn't it?"

"That one—yes." She pointed to the large Georgian mansion, its red brick contrasting with the white pillared portico. "Oh, dear." She swallowed, then said hollowly, "Arthur is home."

"Would you have me set you down here?"

"Yes—no—" Her hands twisted the soiled material of her skirt. "It does not matter—he will read me a peal, anyway."

"What do you mean to tell him?"

Her amber eyes widened, then she answered, her voice low. "The truth—and I pray he will not discharge Mary and Jeremy for it. I shall of course make it plain that the scrape was mine, that they attempted to dissuade me."

He stared, oddly drawn to the smudged face and the dirty hair that clung to her neck, and he felt the familiar stirring within. Reminding himself again that he had neither the time nor the inclination to pursue another man's wife, he murmured regretfully, "I should not tell him you were with me, you know."

"I'd not be caught in a lie, my lord."