Too Tempting to Resist (3 page)

Gryff smiled. “I’m not going for the pleasure of the viscount’s company. Leete Abbey is the location of a very fine example of Capability Brown’s ‘grammatical’ landscapes.” And unless he was much mistaken, it was also the location of the viscount’s intriguing widowed sister. Both were worthy of a trip to the country.

“Grammatical landscape?” Cameron waggled a brow. “You are speaking a very odd sort of language.”

“Brown added a new vocabulary to gardening,” explained Gryff. “He spoke of adding a comma here, a colon there…What he meant was, he merely punctuated the natural landscape rather than force it into a formal layout.”

“Interesting,” murmured Cameron. As they reached the front portico, he gave a small salute with his walking stick. “I shall leave you to your commas and chrysanthemums. Enjoy your conversations with the local flora because you won’t be getting any sensible talk from Leete and his pack of drunken cronies.”

Eliza eyed the crates of wine that had come down from London and swore under her breath.

Their longtime butler coughed in commiseration. “It’s a pity His Lordship wasn’t born with your sense. Or rather, that you weren’t born with his…” Another cough.

“With his plumbing,” she muttered.

He bowed his head and remained tactfully silent.

“I suppose you and James had better carry these down to the cellars.” An exasperated sigh leaked from her lungs. “Do your best to moderate the flow of festivities this evening, Trevor.”

“Yes, milady. I shall.”

As the two men hefted a slatted box and staggered for the stairs, Eliza cast a critical eye around the entrance hall. The two overworked maids had done their best in making the place presentable, but cobwebs could still be seen clinging to the corner moldings, and a dull sheen of dust coated the gold-framed scowling faces of her forebearers. Considering the musty aura of neglect pervading the once-handsome woodwork around them, they ought to be raising the roof slates with their scolding shouts.

Assuming the last storm hadn’t blown most of them away.

“Don’t look at me,” she huffed, resisting the childish urge to stick out her tongue at the first Viscount Leete, whose weak chin and piggy little eyes had unfortunately been passed down to Harry. “It wasn’t me who created a…monster.”

A monster whose rapacious need for self-gratification was getting more and more out of control.

Turning away, she walked for the front door, her heels clicking over the stone tiles. At least they had been freshly swept—not that the expected guests would notice such niceties. Rich food and strong drink were all they cared about, along with enough vile-smelling tobacco to add another layer of grime to the plaster ceiling.

The echo of her steps reverberated off the paneling, urging her to hurry. The first of the revelers would be arriving at any moment, and the last thing she wanted was a face-to-face encounter.

Eliza was acquainted with most of the men on the guest list. Like Harry, they were crass, crude, spoiled young aristocrats, too old to be forgiven for their self-indulgent posturing, too young to have acquired any polish or charm. For the most part, they contented themselves with lascivious grins when she passed by, but several had been so rag-mannered as to attempt a few drunken gropes in the corridors. Impecunious widows were seen as fair game. Something to be used and tossed aside, like a soiled towel.

Oafs.

She kicked the door closed behind her, taking savage satisfaction in the loud
thunk
of the ancient oak slamming shut.

“Thank God I need not join them in the dining room,” she informed a twittering sparrow. “While they drink and smoke and tell their stupid, vulgar jokes, I shall enjoy the civilized peace and quiet of my own chambers, along with a book.” Perhaps one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. A crumbling castle filled with debauched wastrels, dastardly villains, clanking chains, and eerie noises would certainly complement her current mood.

Ducking behind a hedge, Eliza crossed the lawns and followed a winding gravel path to a small stone cottage screened by a high-walled garden. Half a century ago it had been the bailiwick of the under gamekeeper, but now it was her own private place of refuge. A safe harbor in a sea of storms. A place where she could let down her guard and be herself.

Whoever that may be.

For longer than she could remember, she had dutifully done all the things asked of her, allowing her own dreams and desires to be bartered, piece by piece, to pay for the pleasure of others.

“Maybe there is no real me left,” she murmured, chilled by the depressing thought.

After fumbling for the key hidden under one of the flowerpots—filled with petunias, which meant “Your presence soothes me”—Eliza unlocked the door and stepped inside.

A warm, syrupy light spilled in through the west bank of windows, and as the first rays touched her shoulders, she felt the tension melt from her muscles. The sight of her worktable, a colorful confluence of paints, brushes, papers, and specimen clippings bunched in jars of water, was always a balm to her spirits. It was cheerful, a sentiment sadly lacking in the main house.

“To hell with Harry and his dissolute friends,” she murmured, determined to keep her brother’s follies from intruding on the rest of her day.

Hanging her shawl on a coat peg, she began to roll up the sleeves of her muslin dress. The garment was, she acknowledged, an unflattering cut and a bit worse for wear. The fabric had been worn by countless washings to a gossamer soft texture, and the sprigged roses had faded to pale pastels. But it was exceedingly comfortable—the paint spatters were like old friends, whose rowdy exuberance always made her smile.

Catching a glimpse of her face in the mullioned glass, Eliza had to look twice. It wasn’t often that she saw her mouth curled upward in a smile. Spots of sunlight sparkled through the reflection of her cheeks.

“Why, I look halfway happy. Halfway carefree.”

She stared at the unfamiliar image for another flickering instant before forcing her eyes away. “Yes, but if I ever hope to achieve the
other
half, I had better get to work.”

Opening her paintbox, Eliza began to mix pigments on her palette. Perhaps on her next visit to the art emporium she would splurge on a few sheets of French laid paper. If Redouté favored the subtle texture for his watercolor washes then it must be—

Meow.

Eliza looked up with a frown. “Elf?” she called.

Another aggrieved yowl, this one sounding fainter.

Oh dear.
What mischief was her cat up to now? Last week he had been sneaking into one of the botanical bandboxes and shredding all of her carefully dried fern plants.

Setting down her brush, Eliza quickly checked the storage closet. “Elf?” she called again.

The feline answer seemed to be coming from outside.

She opened the back door and stepped into the small stone-walled garden. A quick search among the climbing roses yielded no cat. The pink gerberas showed no sign of damage, and the silvery sage was likewise undisturbed, its purple-tipped stalks swaying softly in the gentle breeze.

“Hmmph.” Mystified, Eliza unlatched the gate and walked a short way up the path.

Meow.

She looked left, and then right. And then up.

“Oh, you silly, silly creature!”

Elf’s forlorn purr seemed to indicate his agreement.

“Can’t you come down on your own?” she demanded.

His tail twitched.

“Very well.” Rolling her eyes, Eliza edged around a patch of brambles and approached the stately oak overhanging the shaded gravel.

“Ye gods, why is it that I seem to be surrounded by bacon-brained males?” she muttered as she unlaced her half boots and tugged them off.

No answer floated down from above.

“I’m always expected to pull their fat out of the fire. You know, it would be nice if, for once in my life, some Paragon of Masculine Virtue would come to
my
rescue.”

Meow.

“Yes, and if pigs could fly…” Heaving a wry sigh, Eliza reached up and grabbed hold of a branch.

G
ryff ran a hand over the weathered granite, savoring the contrasting textures of sun-warmed moss and wind-carved stone against his palm. It was one thing to study a portfolio of printed engravings depicting a historic building or landscape. But no matter how detailed, they were no substitute for experiencing the actual site. Bees buzzed in lazy circles around the wildflowers growing amid the Abbey ruins, the low droning a gentle counterpoint to the breeze whispering through the ancient stones.

Taking a seat on the remains of a wall, he shaded his eyes and admired the view. Fields of green and gold surrounded the knoll, the hawthorn hedgerows and stiles giving way to rolling hills and a ruffling of forest that darkened the valley. Outcroppings of rock dotted the meadow grasses, and in the distance a river meandered through the valley, sunlight glinting off the slow-moving water. Gryff drew in a lungful of the sweet-scented air and leaned back against a slab of granite, letting the pleasant warmth radiate through his coat.

It was good to be out of London, away from the gritty coal smoke and crowded streets. The light lilt of songbirds was far more soothing to the ear than the guttural curses of costermongers.
Country life.
The peace and quiet was a reminder that he should be spending more time at his own estate.

Not, he thought wryly, that Haddan Hall needed him. The estate steward, a man who had been there since Gryff was in leading strings, ran things with the well-oiled precision of a naval chronometer. And yet, over the last year, as he had become more serious in his studies of landscape design, he had begun to visualize some changes to the grounds. The view from the west wing of the main house could be softened with a more natural arrangement of plantings instead of the stiff formality of…

But before he embarked on any actual shaping of the earth, he must finish writing the last essay for his book. Seeing the finished words—black ink on white paper—would be a symbolic statement of sorts.

Looking up at the clouds scudding across the sky, he let out a small sigh. Cameron would call it a commitment to his real self.

But that all depended on whether he decided to use his real name as the author rather than a pseudonym.
Truth or…
Distractions and deflections.

After another moment of musing, Gryff edged around to study the subtle design elements that Capability Brown had added to the manor house grounds. The gardens had been sadly neglected of late, but the plan was still visible.

“No wonder Brown is considered a genius,” murmured Gryff, as he pulled out his notebook and jotted down a few impressions, along with a rough sketch.

“Lud, I wish I possessed a talent for drawing,” he muttered, staring at the pencil strokes.

The words provoked a sudden smile. Withdrawing a small watercolor sketch that was tucked between the back pages, Gryff held it up and angled it into the sunlight. It was only a quick, loose study of camellias, but the delicate colors and forms radiated with life. It was…

“Perfection,” he said aloud, echoing the secret language of flowers depicted on the paper.

From the moment he had spied it peeking out from the portfolio of possible artists, he had known it was the perfect style for his book. He had gone through the motions of examining the other artwork, but the flower had already entwined him in its whisper-soft beauty.

Watkins had allowed him to keep it, and promised that working out a contract with the artist should be a mere formality.

A good thing, for Gryff had resolved that he wouldn’t take no for an answer, no matter the cost.

Tucking the sketch safely away, he rose and resumed his walk, choosing a roundabout path back to the manor house that wound down through a copse of tall trees. Sunlight filtered through the leafy canopy, painting hide-and-seek shadows over the ground. Gryff slowed his steps, in no hurry to return to his rooms. Leete and his friends were already half sunk in a sea of claret, so the prospect of a long and well-lubricated supper did not hold much allure. A bunch of young fribbles spouting slurred jests and inane boasts.

Good Lord, was I really so crass and callow at their age?

Quite likely, he admitted with a rueful grimace. He paused to breathe in the woodsy scent of the surrounding trees.

“Elf! Elf!”

Were there mystical wood sprites at play in the ancient oaks? Gryff shook his head, half smiling at the thought. He was tired from traveling and the setting was obviously affecting his head. For an instant he felt like a child again, caught up in the enchantment of some fairy-tale story.

“Oh, hell and damnation!”

No, that was definitely
not
an ethereal forest spirit, but an irate human. Yet oddly enough, the voice did seem to be coming from out of thin air. He looked right and then left. And then, as a rain of leaves floated down from the spreading branches overhead, he looked up. Among the flicker of greens, there was a flutter of creamy lace and lawn cotton.

His brows arched. The sight of a lady’s undergarments was hardly a shock, but the angle of view was a trifle…unexpected.

“Mmmph.” A small thud was followed by another unladylike oath.

Biting back a laugh, Gryff watched for a few moments longer, then tucked his notebook into his coat pocket and shrugged out of the garment. He caught hold of an overhanging limb and hoisted himself into the branches. Up, up he climbed, brushing aside the soft slap of the leaves.

“May I be of assistance?” he asked, joining the lady on her perch.

The breeze must have covered his approach, for she gave a sudden start. “
Oh!
”

Gryff steadied her balance. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, Lady Brentford.”

“W-what are
you
doing up here?” she stammered.

“I might ask the same of you,” he replied.

“I—I am saving Elf,” she replied over the chatter of the leaves.

“Saving elves?” She was either delightfully drunk, or delightfully mad.

“Not
elves
, sir.
Elf
.” She jabbed a finger skyward.

There, a half-dozen feet above their heads, a small striped cat was curled in the crook of a branch.

“He’s afraid to come down,” she added.

“Ah.” Gryff looked from the cat to her. “I might be, too, if someone was shrieking my name loud enough to wake the Devil.”

“Ha, hah, ha.” She didn’t sound amused. “Be advised, sir, I am in no mood for levity.”

“I gathered as much. Ladies don’t usually swear like sailors.”

Her cheeks turned a touch pink. “If you will kindly move aside, Lord Haddan. I need to see if I can reach around the trunk and wedge my foot—”

“No need.” Gryff was already shimmying to a higher handhold. The cat was in a deucedly awkward position, but if he stood on tiptoes, one hand bracing a spread-eagle stance…

“I had better warn you, sir…”

“Don’t worry, Lady Brentford. I spent my boyhood swinging from—”

His words gave way to a grunt of pain as the cat raked its tiny claws across his outstretched hand.

“Elf doesn’t like men,” she finished.

“Thank you,” muttered Gryff. “A useful bit of information to know.”

The cat hissed.

He reached up again, this time more gingerly. Elf struck out with another swipe of his paw, raising a beading of blood, but Gryff managed to catch the animal by the scruff of the neck.

“Might I hand this imp of Satan down to you before he inflicts permanent damage?”

“Thank you,” she said, clutching the squirming ball of fur to her chest.

Meow.
Elf did not sound quite as grateful as his mistress. Wriggling free of her arms, the cat shot down the trunk and disappeared beneath a thicket of bushes.

“Thank you,” repeated Eliza, steeling herself for an explosion of temper. In her experience, men did not react well to attacks on their pride. “I’m sorry you suffered an injury to your hand. Elf didn’t mean any harm. He was simply frightened.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replied lightly. To her surprise he had already started to shimmy up to a higher branch.

Good Lord, was he actually grinning?

“A little spilled blood is well worth this magnificent view.” His boots slid across the smooth bark. “Is that the River Thames?”

“Yes.”

An ominous crackling sounded as he shifted his stance.

She winced. “Lord Haddan, I really think that you should come down from there. Stout as English oak might be, I fear that particular limb is not quite up to your weight.”

“In a moment.” He crouched low. “Look, in this angle of afternoon light, the stones of old Abbey ruins turn the color of sun-drizzled honey.”

Eliza craned her neck, trying to see through the scrim of ruffling leaves. “Oh, you are right.” The color was indeed delicious—and how unexpected that he, of all people, should notice such a detail. “How lovely.”

She leaned down, intent on imprinting the subtle hue on her mind’s eye, but as she shifted again, her foot slipped. Arms flailing, she fought to regain her balance. However a gust caught her skirts and tugged her sideways. The world began to spin and Eliza felt herself falling, falling.

Falling—

And then a muscled arm suddenly caught her around the waist, halting her plummeting drop toward the ground.

“Mmmph.” She gave a little kick, trying to free her snagged toes from the twigs.

“Don’t move! One errant twitch and I might lose my grip.”

With her head hanging straight down, and her legs twisted awkwardly in a froth of skirts, she was in no position to argue.

“Here, let me try to get you untangled.” More crackling. And then she was suddenly aware of a thrum of heat pressing up against her derriere.

Whatever he was doing, it was most…improper.

“Sir—”

“Quiet—don’t distract me.” His hand skimmed along the ridge of her collarbone. “Just let me shift my position,” he murmured, letting it slide lower. A callused palm cupped her breast and then squeezed. “Oops. Sorry.”

She let out a sharp hiss. “Please hurry, I am getting dizzy.”

A tug lifted her up and settled her right against his groin.

How in the devil had she come to be sitting between his legs?

“Stop squirming, Lady Brentford.” Like his body, the marquess’s breath was warm and tingly against her flesh. “Not that it isn’t exceedingly pleasant. But certain parts of the male anatomy respond on their own to friction, and I don’t wish to embarrass you.”

“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?” she muttered.

A zephyr of a laugh tickled against her neck. “I’m just trying to be a gentleman and help a lady in distress.”

“Ha! A true gentleman would not take advantage of the situation to grope a lady’s…chest mound.”

“But it’s such a very lovely chest mound,” murmured Gryff. “Soft and yielding as a ripe peach.” His voice dropped to a suggestive whisper. “I wonder whether it would taste as sweet.”

Eliza felt her face heat from peach to pink to flame red. “Please get me down from here, Lord Haddan,” she commanded. “This instant.”

“I fear that’s easier said than done,” he drawled. “If you’ll look down, you’ll see that your tumble has landed us in a rather precarious position. There is only one way to descend. And you are not going to like it.”

A glance showed he was not exaggerating. She would have to…

“Just get on with it,” she said through gritted teeth, consoling herself with the fact that the embarrassing interlude wouldn’t last long.

He set his big, broad hands on her hips. “Relax. I need to lift you up and turn you around.”

Aware that she was no mere feather, Eliza’s flush deepened. “Lord Haddan. I fear this is not going—”

“Trust me.”

The leaves seemed to spin in a blur of chartreuse and emerald, and suddenly she was straddling his hips, the insides of her thighs kissing against velvet-soft buckskin encasing his thighs.

Oh, Lord, oh, Lord.
But whether her inner self was voicing a plea or a prayer, she wasn’t sure.

With naught but a scant layer of lawn cotton and leather between her and the overtly masculine bulge of his sex, Eliza was intimately aware of his long, lean body. The tapered waist, the chiseling of muscle, the corded legs, now serving as a wildly erotic saddle.

For a fleeting instant, all her wild, wicked imagination could picture was the image of skinny country spinster mounted on a big, dark stallion.

Her pulse began to gallop, sending a frisson of heat racing down the length of her limbs. Her flesh was tingling, and to her acute embarrassment her core was growing damp.

Surely he wouldn’t—he couldn’t—be aware of that.

Or did a rake possess a special sixth sense of seduction?

Her heart hitched and began to thud against her ribs.

Breathe
, Eliza reminded herself. But sucking in a lungful of his spice-scented shaving soap only made her dizzy. Her brain seemed hazed in a swirling, silken fog. Light winked overhead, bright, brilliant flashes of jewel-tone blues and greens. She felt drugged.
Deranged.

How else to explain how all reason went spinning helter-pelter as she clutched tighter to the broad slope of his shoulders and crushed her body to his. A blaze of sunlight melted through the interlacing of leaves, casting patterns of liquid fire over his long, curling hair. Threading her fingers through the silky strands, Eliza tipped up her chin to watch the play of emerald-shaded shadows dip and dart over his features.

Their gazes met, and the rippling intensity of his beautiful eyes suddenly seemed too deep to fathom.

I am in over my head.

“I—I fear this game has gone too far,” she stammered.

His mouth hovered a hairsbreadth above hers. “And I fear it hasn’t gone far enough.”

Swoosh, swoosh.
The rustling of the leaves, soft as satin and lace, rose above the hard-edged whisper inside his head.
Trouble, trouble.
Ignoring the warning, Gryff possessed her in a long, lush kiss. She tasted indescribably sweet, with a tart tang of wild heather and some essence he couldn’t put a name to. He coaxed her lips apart, wanting more.