“We’re not yet wed,” she said, flushing at her hypocrisy. Even as she was trying to contrive a better excuse, Thomas was collecting himself.
“We are not—yet,” he said stiffly. “All the same, it is not improper to embrace the woman one has solemnly pledged to wed.”
“That is so, and I do not mean to be missish, Thomas. Yet I cannot be comfortable—that is, do recollect it has been many years since... since I was a wife.”
He seemed to understand then, because he apologised for his haste. Still, the edge of vexation in his voice warned this was not the end of the matter.
Lilith could not blame him. Neither, however, could she bear his touch—not now, not so soon. She’d endure it once they were wed, as she was obliged, but not before. She hadn’t misled him, she told herself. She’d never pretended passion, never even mentioned love. She’d never been given to displays even of affection... with one appalling exception.
“Modesty, naturally, is always becoming in a lady,” he was saying in his considering, Parliamentary tones. “You are quite right. We are not yet wed—though I assure you I had no intention of anticipating our conjugal vows. In all fairness, I must admit I have not been lover-like. I suppose I have shocked you this night. Let us hope you will not be shocked in future when your husband-to-be wishes to embrace you. I have been preoccupied of late. Nevertheless, I trust you understand our life together will not be entirely taken up with matters of state.”
Lilith nodded and forced a smile.
“Believe me, my dear, I look forward to the peace and intimacy of domestic life,” he went on sonorously, “and to the growth of mutual affection which provides man his greatest happiness. Mutual affection and, of course, such tokens of that esteem as Providence sees fit to bless us with.”
He had no need to say more. Lilith understood him well enough. For all his decorousness, he was a man, with a man’s needs. This man also wanted children.
He left soon after. She bid him a polite farewell then returned to the library to pour herself another glass of wine. Wine perhaps would deaden the vile clamour in her brain.
What of us? Angry, pleading. Against that voice, which made her heart pound even now, the tones of her intended husband, judicious, yet annoyed. Disappointed, impatient—as he had a right to be.
Perhaps it was wrong to marry Thomas. Perhaps he wanted more than she could give, and she’d make him unhappy.
No, of course she wouldn’t. She’d chosen for herself this time. No one had coerced her. She’d known exactly what she was choosing and why, and she’d make the best of it. Thomas would never know a devil possessed her heart.
The devil was not abroad this night. He watched the play at Wader’s for an hour or so and drank a glass or so, and was in his own bed by two o’clock in the morning. At three o’clock, Lord Brandon woke from a disagreeable dream and found himself in process of throttling the pillow—not, as he’d thought, Sir Thomas Bexley.
“By God, woman,” he muttered as he jammed the pillow back into place, “you shall pay for this, and dearly. To keep a man from his proper repose—”
He fell back upon the pillow, his green eyes wide, staring at the canopy above. “Believe me, I will return the favour, Lilith Davenant. Before the week is out, I vow.”
Having vowed so, Lord Brandon ought to have been easy in his mind, but his gaze remained fixed upon the canopy.
He hadn’t meant to speak as he had. It was a tactical error to press her when he’d only begun to win her trust. He’d promised himself he’d keep away from her this night, to make her wonder... and worry. But he’d watched her move, so proud and graceful, through the crowd, talking with her friends. He’d observed the other men as well. He was aware how their eyes lingered upon her imperious face, and dwelt longer still upon her slim, supple form. He’d recognised the instinctive masculine drive to conquer and possess. He’d not very much enjoyed seeing his own feelings reflected in a dozen other men’s faces.
Unbearably restless, he’d gone to her. Then the words, wholly unprepared, had spilled from him, and once begun, he couldn’t stop himself. Some fiend indeed must have taken hold of his tongue. It could not have been his own heart produced that lovesick speech.
Well, he’d never been a saint. Why should he have the patience of one?
Frustration, then. Nothing to be alarmed about. As to the speech itself—there was no harm in seeming lovesick.
She’d left him, true, with a rebuff. Nonetheless, she’d not heard him unmoved. He’d read her inner struggle—a painful one—in her eyes. Even as he raged at her, he’d known she was weakening. Which made him rage all the more within. She wanted what he wanted. Why not yield and be happy? Why should not two adults find pleasure in each other’s arms? And why must those troubled eyes haunt him? No, he corrected, that was only his frustration with her.
It would end soon. The serpent in the garden, she’d called him, unwittingly revealing that she, like Eve, was tempted. Would she fall? She must.
All the same, for all his confidence, Lord Brandon’s eyes did not close again that night.
Chapter Fourteen
On the following day at breakfast, Lord Brandon made a remark regarding what Hell hath no fury like. Though several more specific comments were needed, Lord Robert eventually recollected the long-suffering Elise.
Before noon, Robert was with his mistress. He brought her a bouquet, a box of chocolates, and an exquisite midnight-blue silk shawl.
Elise gazed at these sadly and told him he was too extravagant.
“Not at all,” he said, neglecting to add that Julian had provided the money. “I should shower you with diamonds, you’ve been so patient and understanding.”
“Yes, but I must be. I know you make the sacrifice for me. I never see you now, but for a few hours at a time. Every night you must go about with your friends and be so bored and lonely—and all for me,” said Elise, smiling bravely.
“Yes, hideously bored. But I do bear it for your sake—for ours, I mean.”
She took up the shawl and draped it over her shoulders. “So beautiful, Robin. How lovely it will be with my gown— the wine-coloured one, you remember?”
Lord Robert nodded enthusiastically, just as though he did remember, which he didn’t. His mind was taken up lately with pastel muslins.
“Of course you remember. It is your favourite,” she said, stroking the shawl. “You are so good to me. I think tonight you must have some reward for all your sacrifices. Why do we not go to the theatre? I shall wear the gown and this beautiful gift.”
Panic shot through Lord Robert. Miss Glenwood would attend the theatre this evening, and he’d promised to be there. She was a remarkably open-minded girl. Her aunt, unfortunately, was not. To be seen tonight with Elise was to invite permanent exile.
“I can’t,” he said, thinking rapidly. “Promised to dine at Holland House, don’t you know? Julian begged off at the last minute, and Lady Holland pounced on me so quick I couldn’t think.” This was not actually a lie, Robert told himself. Lady Holland had invited him.
Elise sighed. “Well, it is unfortunate, but I know you cannot be rude to the lady. Still, it is wearying to remain always at home.”
“Perhaps you could visit some of your friends,” Robert suggested. “I think Julian mentioned Bella Martin was having one of her soirees tonight. You like Bella.”
“No, there will be too many gentlemen, and it is so tedious always to be saying no, no. They do not understand I am not the Elise I was. My heart is not free now.” Her smile was tender, but the sparks in her dark eyes made Robert nervous.
“I think I shall go all the same,” she went on. “I shall take my maid. It is better that way. The play will distract me, and I shall not feel sorry for myself.”
His heart sank. If she couldn’t be got to change her mind, it must be Holland House for him after all. Ahead, instead of Miss Glenwood’s lively company, lay a stuffy, stupid evening—not to mention being forced to jump up and
down a dozen times, because Lady Holland was inclined to revise seating arrangements straight through dinner.
Although Robert did not leave his love nest for several hours, nothing he said or did could sway his mistress. As he made his lachrymose way down the street, he wondered why he hadn’t noticed before how obstinate Elise was. Furthermore, something must be done about her taste in perfume. A man ought to be able to breathe in his own lodgings.
The marquess arrived at the theatre earlier than was his custom, and headed immediately for the Enders box. He found Lady Enders, Bexley, Cecily, and Mrs. Wellwicke, but no Lilith. Assuming she must have stepped out with Lord Enders, Brandon lingered. Consequently, he had to endure Bexley’s opinions of the King of Denmark at numbing length. He listened, the time passed, and neither Enders nor the widow appeared.
Finally, minutes before the curtain was due to rise, Bexley paused to catch his breath, and Cecily spoke up.
“Was there a great crowd in the corridor as you arrived, my lord?” she asked. “Lord Enders very kindly offered to fetch me a glass of lemonade, though I would have been happy to wait until the interval. I do hope he won’t miss the opening scene on my account.”
“In such a service, Miss Glenwood, any gentleman would gladly forgo the entire drama,” Brandon said gallantly. “Still, if I spy him, I shall convey your anxiety.”
“There is no need for alarm,” Lady Enders told the girl sharply. “Enders will be along any minute.”
“Yes, how silly of me. I am just uneasy in general, I daresay, on account of my poor aunt. Perhaps I should have stayed home with her after all. It isn’t good for her to be all alone, whatever she says.”
Lord Brandon shot the girl a glance, but she had turned her attention to the stage.