One Whisper Away (38 page)

There was nothing to do but brazen it out.

 

The faint hint of violets when he’d entered the room had been the first clue that someone else was present as well. The sweet scent was more subtle than the overwhelming gardenia perfume Lady Piedmont wore, but definitely there and, in a library full of the smell of dusty leather and gently decaying paper, out of place.

Then had come the subtle rustle of silk as she moved, giving away her location, which happened to be a settee in a small grouping by the tall windows at the back of the room, where he imagined a lovely view of the garden awaited anyone who sat in the daylight for a quiet afternoon read.

Just the spot he would have chosen. Already, Lord Damien Northfield thought, he was intrigued by the mysterious lady he imagined was in a slight state of panic over her inevitable discovery. That he could tell also, for while the sound of the orchestra in the ballroom still came faintly, her quickened breathing was audible to someone who had spent a great deal of the Peninsular War using all five of his senses to keep himself alive.

He could understand why she might not have announced her presence when he arrived with the rabid Lady Piedmont on his heels, but the real question was, why had she been hiding in the library in the first place?

As he needed that brandy, and he was interested in the answer to that question, he walked down the length of the room, his damned leg aching every step of the way, and said in a neutral voice without even glancing at the settee, “Good evening.”

There was a short silence, punctuated only by the clink as he removed the top of the decanter, and then the splash as he poured some of the liquor into a small crystal snifter.

“You knew I was here?”

Damien liked the sound of her voice. A lovely contralto, carefully modulated, and though it was tempting to turn around and see what she looked like, he denied himself, taking a sip from his glass. The brandy, he was happy to discover, was the best France had to offer and very smooth. “Yes.”

She sat up. He knew it because of the sound of her feet touching the floor and the slight—almost inaudible—creak of the settee’s springs. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why didn’t
you
?” The brandy was heady and he swirled the liquid once before taking a second sip and slowly turning around.

His first impression was that his quiet spy was striking. No, not beautiful—at least not like Lady Piedmont with her generous breasts and flaming hair—but . . . different. Pretty. Memorable even. Her hair was a rich color that in the insufficient light looked light brown with a few golden glints, and her figure was slender, not overly curvaceous, which was pleasing enough, and her skin pale and smooth. Her gown wasn’t beribboned and festooned with lace, but instead simple and yet fashionable, the neckline emphasizing the gentle curves of her breasts, the rose color offsetting the creaminess of her complexion.

She had a very defiant tilt to her shapely chin.

It must have been a personal flaw in his intellectual composition, but he found that militant air fascinating.

“I was here first.”

It was a valid argument, so he shrugged, but he was
watching
her
.
Would he ever rid himself of the habit? God, he hoped so. He was always watching. It was not an option in the existence he’d just shed, and he was uneasily settling into this new one. But he didn’t wish to go through his entire life vigilant and on guard.

“Yes, you were.” Damien took another drink. He’d done countless interrogations, and word had it he was very, very good at it. In fact, he knew he was. “Since there is no one to introduce us, and you just witnessed a rather personal scene, I think informality is in order.” He bowed slightly. “Lord Damien Northfield, at your service.”

There was a perceptible hesitation, and then she said coolly, “Lady Lillian Bourne.”

He hadn’t been back in society long enough to really know any of the current gossip, not that he cared all that much about the generally superficial sins of the aristocracy anyway after so many bloody years in Portugal and Spain, but there was something in her voice that told him she thought the name might mean something to him.

It did actually. It belonged to her. Lillian. He liked it. It was elegant and yet not too prim.

“May I offer my apologies for what you overheard?” It was the least he could do, for if she was an unmarried young lady—and he would stake his life on it—that hadn’t been the most appropriate of dialogue.

“It seems to me you were not the one being improper, my lord.”

Lovely
and
intelligent, the dry note in her observation duly noted. “I was doing my best to dissuade her,” he agreed with a slight, hopefully disarming smile.

“She’s very beautiful.”

He was a little surprised at the directness. “Yes.” He swirled the liquid in the glass, took a sip, and then expounded, “But unabashed pursuit is not appealing to me. I’ve been hunted enough.”

The lighting was dim, but he still caught the flicker of surprise in her eyes. “That is an interesting statement. Are we still discussing eager women throwing themselves into your arms?”

“No.”

“I thought not.”

Anyone else would ask her why she wasn’t in the ballroom, but he rarely inquired directly to gain information. His methods were much more subtle. “Though I confess I am no longer accustomed to the workings of the
ton
.”

Lady Lillian, he discovered then, was not predictable. He anticipated that she would either comment that she’d heard of him or ask him why he’d been absent from the exalted circle he mentioned, but she did neither. Instead she rose in a flurry of rose silk and violet perfume.

“I need to get back to the ball and cannot be seen leaving the same room as you. As unlikely as it would be that anyone would be observing the library, will you still please do me the favor of waiting a decent interval before rejoining the party?”

And here the evening had just taken on a warm new glow and she wished to leave.

Fortunately he was a master at negotiation.

His smile was affable. “Of course.” He paused. “If you will tell me why you prefer this dark library to the festivities.”

“You set
conditions
on being a gentleman?”

Damien didn’t blink an eye. “Absolutely. I think you will find I set conditions on everything.”

Strategy was a simple matter usually. Judge your opponent and react accordingly.

“I will find?” she repeated delicately, and truthfully, he found the phrasing odd himself.

Damien Northfield, who once might have been more important to the campaign on the Iberian Peninsula than even the Duke of Wellington, was not sure how to respond.

“Should we meet again,” he equivocated, glad now for the brandy in his hand. He took a solid sip and watched her give a nod and move gracefully toward the door.

He liked the sway of her hips.

He also admired the curve of her spine, and the soft color of her hair in the lamplight.

Oh, yes,
he vowed silently,
we will meet again.

For she had not answered his question.

The Notorious Bachelors