That Scandalous Summer (40 page)

She sat up, too, and kissed him again, lingeringly, her cooling skin moist against his own, moist with their combined sweat. On her lips he tasted a message he would not, he
refused
to hear.

He pulled back from her. “Answer me!”

“I want the best for you,” she whispered. “That is what love means.”

“The best for you is me.”

No reply to that. He gritted his teeth. “And if a child comes from this?”

“I will tell you,” she said. “We will deal with it then. But I think it unlikely. My cycle only just ceased.”

She had all the answers, and none that he wished to hear. He stood, grabbing at his clothes. “Promise me you’ll make no decisions until we see each other next.”

“Yes,” she said. “I promise.”

•   •   •

Michael left the next morning, an hour after dawn, as the sun climbed the sky through banks of scarlet clouds. But Liza was not at Havilland Hall to see him off. She had kept a brave face for him until he’d left her bedchamber, and then she had let herself weep until her throat ached. For a time, terrible thoughts had transfixed her—ways to make Marwick bow to their will; ways to
make
him approve her—and then sanity had settled over her again.

Finally, at the first hint of light, she had abandoned her bed for the woods. The lake gleamed under the dawning light, but she lingered there only a quarter hour before continuing onward.

Until the last few minutes, she did not admit to herself where her footsteps were taking her. The graveyard looked a peaceful sight, the headstones casting long shadows across the grass. Her mind was curiously quiet as she opened the gate, the latch squeaking.

A bundle of fresh roses lay atop her mother’s grave, the scarlet leaves gleaming with dew. She reached down
to pick them up, drops of water soaking through her sleeves, the flowers’ rich, dark scent making her dizzy. She blinked hard. Lack of sleep, and perhaps a few lingering tears, blurred the words chiseled into her mother’s headstone.

Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death.

“Mama,” she said softly. The lifting breeze gently touched her cheek; it carried the scents of summer, a hint of the day’s oncoming warmth, the trace of smoke from some hearth where the morning meal was being warmed.

She went to her knees in the grass. Carefully she laid the roses back in their place.
From me, Mama. They were always from me
.

She’d been so afraid to face this place. Shame had kept her away. But her mother was not here. And even if her mother had lingered in this place . . . she would never have judged Liza so harshly.

That voice in her head . . . it had always been her own.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

A flutter of movement from the corner of her eye: a small brown finch had alit on her father’s grave. The bird tilted his head, eyeing her.

How had Mama borne the separation from him? She had mourned, but she had never lost herself in her grief. Her kindness, her compassion, her gentleness—they had never diminished. She’d always had love to spare.

Michael was right. Every child required an example. And Liza would learn from her mother’s.

She rose to her feet. Strange, that even as her beloved left her on a London-bound train, as she stood in a graveyard surrounded by fading names and forgotten
souls, she might, at last, feel her loneliness lift. Alone, but not lonely.

With her mother’s death, she had imagined that she would never again find someone to love her unconditionally. But she had forgotten that there would always be someone who did so: she, herself.

You are a wonder,
Michael had told her.

She was determined to be nothing less. But if she failed, sometimes, to live up to his view of her . . . then she would love herself anyway. Never again would she allow herself to do otherwise.

“Sweet dreams, Mama.”

Turning on her heel, she started back for the house.

•   •   •

Two hours later, she sat at her dressing table, half listening to Mather’s recital of the morning’s business. Tomorrow the remaining guests departed, and their travel arrangements involved a good many particulars, all of which Mather seemed to have well in hand.

“And the Forbeses are taking the earlier train,” Mather said, “but that should not pose a problem, for Lord Hollister arrived with his own equipment, and is glad to take Lord Weston and Mr. Tilney to the station in his vehicle.”

“That’s fine.” Liza looked over her powders and rouges and kohl. Her hope was to assemble a face that did not look puffy and red from last night’s weeping. “You and I will go in the pony cart, then. No need to rush Jane; she can join us at her leisure.”

Mather frowned. “But . . . where are we going, ma’am?”

“To the station. I want to be on the first train as
well.” She tapped the lid on the powder jar, then decided against it. No amount of cosmetics was going to make her look beautiful today. The idea, strangely, did not bother her in the least.

“I—I hadn’t realized,” stammered Mather. Poor girl; she never liked sudden changes of plan. “But the town house is closed, ma’am. I’ll need to wire the staff there at once—”

“Oh, they can open the shutters after we arrive,” Liza said. She had two pieces of business that could not wait on such niceties—an appointment with Nello, followed immediately thereafter by a visit with the Duke of Marwick.

“Another thing,” she went on as she turned on her stool. “You must prepare to soothe the staff. My financial plight will soon become public. I expect the staff will be very uneasy about it. You must assure them that I have no intention to let anyone go.”
Yet.
“Not without proper notice,” she added. She could hold on for another six months, give her employees a generous measure of time in which to find new positions.

It was a mark of her surprise that Mather fell into a seat without asking for permission. Such a stickler, she was. Liza would miss her terribly.

“I don’t understand,” the girl said. “Why would—that is, how would anyone know of it?” Her russet brows dipped suddenly. “
Mr. Nelson
. You mean to . . .” Her lips folded abruptly, trapping the thought unspoken.

Liza shrugged. “It was bound to come out eventually.” And certainly would, once Nello realized she had thrown him to the dogs—or rather, to the Kingmaker. For she had no intention of protecting him. The more fool he, for imagining she might place her pride, and
her prospective financial gains, over the chance to see him squirm.

Mather studied her a moment. “Very well,” she said slowly. Then, as Liza started to rise: “There is one more thing, madam.” She held out a letter.

Taking it, Liza caught her breath. It was not addressed to her.

She looked sharply up at Mather. “Why bring me this? You should have posted it onward to Lord Michael.”

Mather’s lashes lowered, veiling her expression. On a girl best known for her bluntness, this abashed look screamed as loudly as a confession. “I thought you might like to read it.”

Liza realized she was gaping. “Why, you cunning little thing! Have you been taking lessons from the Hawthornes? I would not read another man’s letters.” No matter how burning the temptation was, now that Mather had suggested it. “Why on earth—”

But she stopped as Mather’s brows rose to a speaking arch.
Come now,
that look said.
I’m no fool
.

Liza sighed. “Was it so obvious, then?”

Mather shrugged. “Sometimes I eavesdrop, madam. It’s a vice.”

“Heavens, Mather. Do I even
know
you?”

The girl reddened. “I worried last night that Mr. Nelson would not behave. I wanted to be ready to help should he . . .” She scowled. “And one can hardly say he behaved, at that! Such a nefarious scheme.”

So she knew about the matter of Marwick? “Gracious, what
else
have you overheard?”

“From the Hawthornes’ talk, enough to gather that you were right: Lord Michael is not a suitable solution
to your financial difficulties.” Mather’s jaw was assuming its most mutinous cast. “However, it took no eavesdropping to see how you might wish it otherwise.”

A brief silence opened, which Liza did not know how to fill. Her secretary would have made a very good spy! “You understand most of it, then. I still won’t read that letter.”

Mather’s hands twisted together in her lap. “Then I have another suggestion. You won’t like it, though.” In a great rush, she said, “You may use those letters to blackmail the duke into accepting you. To—to force him to pay off your debts, as Mr. Nelson suggested, but also to give his blessing to your wedding with his brother.”

Liza sighed. She might have been shocked . . . had the idea not crossed her mind in the hour before sunrise. “But I couldn’t,” she said—gently, for judging by the increasing pallor on Mather’s face, her secretary was also seeing the ill in it. “Lord Michael loves his brother. When the truth came out, how would it serve me any good for him to know that I had held those letters over his brother’s head?”

Besides, she had a very different threat in mind for the duke. Not being in the habit of blackmail, she could only assume that threats were best issued in the singular.

“No, of course that wouldn’t suit,” Mather said. “But if somebody
else
were to employ the letters for your sake—”

“Goodness, no. I wouldn’t drag anyone else into this mess.” Her eyes fell to the letter in her hand. It seemed to grow hotter the longer she held it. “And I can’t read this,” she said, thrusting it back at the girl.

“But . . .”

Mather looked highly agitated now. As Liza studied the girl, a terrible suspicion overcame her. “Mather, how did you know that Lord Michael required his brother’s approval to wed?”

If possible, Mather went even paler now. Her freckles looked livid.

Liza groaned. “Do
not
tell me you read it.” Her eyes fell to the seal, which appeared unbroken. Mather was gripping it so tightly that her knuckles were white.

“I . . . won’t,” said Mather, her tone muted.

Liza covered her eyes briefly. God help her. “You are
not
to tamper with correspondence! Never, ever again!”

“I won’t, ma’am! I
promise
you!”

“Then . . .” Her hand fell, and she drew a great breath. “You seem to think I would find its contents interesting. Tell me—why is that?”

Mather swallowed audibly. “I expect . . . if you were to read this letter . . . you would gather how deeply Lord Michael cares for you . . . and how much an
ass
is the Duke of Marwick!”

Liza managed a smile. “Well,” she said. That put paid to the last of her hopes—a hope she had not realized until this moment that she’d been nursing in the most private corner of her heart. “No need to read what I already knew.”

“He has closed the hospital! Shut it up and turned out the patients!”

She sucked in a breath. That, she had not known. And it made her mission in London all the more urgent. “Mather, be
sure
to book those tickets for us—the earliest train, please. I mean to be in London by tomorrow midnight.” She paused. “And—post the letter onward for me, will you?”

“You are a better person than I,” Mather said hoarsely—startling from Liza another laugh.

So. It seemed she
would
keep laughing, then, no matter what. That was good to know. Perhaps she did not have her mother’s kindness—but her gift for merriment would never fade, even in sad circumstances such as these.

“Mather,” she said, “that is a
very
flattering verdict for me, and a very
grim
one for you—
despite
your talent for espionage. Now, take that letter away—and make sure the seal appears unbroken.”

“Yes, ma’am. At once.”

For the second day in a row, Michael sat down across from his brother. Today he would not scream. Today he meant to match his brother for coldness.

“Thank you for seeing me,” he said calmly. If they were going to end up in court—if history was determined to repeat itself—then he would, at least, edit it somewhat. The newspapers would have no cause to report screaming fights and vitriol. The aggrieved party would provide no nasty quotes.

“I confess, I was surprised to hear you announced,” Alastair said. Once again, he sat behind his desk. Jones said he spent most of his days here in the study, and still refused to budge from the house. His decline had grown more marked, particularly in his alarming gauntness; had he been a patient seeking help, the sight of him would have alarmed Michael into ringing for hot broth and a hearty repast.

But though Alastair’s flesh was sallow and withering, his will remained hard as diamond.
It is for your own good,
he’d said yesterday.
A widow, a notorious whore, no,
I will not approve of such. You waste my time and insult my intelligence with this proposition.

The memory made it easy to hand over the sheaf of papers. He felt nothing as he watched his brother look over them.