Once an Heiress (22 page)

“No, sir. I believe she had a meeting with Mr. Wickenworth.”

“At this hour?” Ethan frowned. “When is she expected back?”

The footman’s pleasant demeanor began to crumble under Ethan’s piercing scrutiny. “She didn’t say, my lord.”

Ethan made a disgusted sound. He turned toward the stairs and was halted by the jarring sight of two marble pedestals flanking the banisters, each supporting a porcelain urn.

He pointed at the alien objects and pinned the servant in an accusing glare. “Where did these come from?”

The footman’s weight shifted back and forth on his feet, as though preparing to make a dash for it. “They were delivered this afternoon, my lord. I believe the pillars came from a statuary merchant on Piccadilly — ”

“Were they a gift?”

The servant’s eyes widened and he took a tiny step back. “No, my lord.”

“Have them returned,” Ethan ordered.

The servant straightened. “But Miss Lily — ”

“
Lady Thorburn
should know better than to make purchases she can’t afford,” Ethan bellowed.

He hated the way the servants were all so unflinchingly Lily’s. She’d made him a guest in his own house. It occurred to him to sit them all down and make them write
Lily Helling, Viscountess Thorburn
a hundred times apiece, but it wouldn’t matter. They’d all call her Miss Lily in the next breath.

The blood drained from the footman’s face. His eyes lifted to the staircase.

Ethan turned, expecting to see someone, but there was no one there. “I know it is difficult to see your mistress do without the comforts to which she is accustomed,” he said in a more moderate tone, “but this household is on the tightest of budgets. For God’s sake, man, you’re on Mr. Bachman’s payroll, not mine. Please see to having those pillars and urns returned tomorrow.”

The footman made a whimpering sound, then nodded.

Odd fellow,
Ethan thought as he ascended the stairwell.

He blew out his cheeks, trying to wash away his annoyance. Bad enough that he must confront Lily for not showing at the Holliers’ — he didn’t want another argument about a silly couple of pillars.

A soft glow from the parlor spilled into the corridor as he reached for his study door. He paused and stared at his closed door. Golden lamplight cast a yellow gleam onto the white painted surface. Something was wrong. His brows drew together as he tried to put his finger on the source of his disquiet.

Lamplight.

He turned, a sinking feeling in his chest. Ethan crossed the hall slowly. He braced his palm against the partially opened parlor door and pushed.

And stared, in horror, at a room full of furnishings.

He stepped into the room to gawk at the interior. A claw-footed sofa dominated the new seating area, upholstered in brilliant canary. Bolsters trimmed with black tassels were nestled against each scrolled arm. The sofa faced the fireplace, and was flanked on one side by a chaise-longue upholstered in striped damask, and on the other by two generously cushioned chairs. A two-light bronze oil lamp stood on a little stand between the sofa and the chairs, providing the light that had drawn his attention. At the far end of the room, four wooden armchairs stood around an elegant, circular table. It would be a lovely setting for tea, or an after-dinner game of whist.

“What have you done?” His voice rasped with disbelief. Now he knew what the footman had been so worked up about, and with good reason, he supposed. Two little pillars in the entrance hall were nothing compared to this.

“It has to go back.” He turned on a heel to see his own, stupid decorative platter still residing on the mantelpiece over the fireplace, now nestled amongst an assortment of other
objects d’art
. “Everything. It has to go.” He raked his hands through his hair.

How
could
she? She knew he didn’t have the money to pay for any of this. Unless she was trying to tell him something. The thought niggled at his mind. He plopped into one of the chairs and grimaced at the supreme comfort of the piece. She
would
select chairs he’d fall in love with. “Damn it all,” he muttered.

His fingers drummed against the padded arm, a dull sound swallowed up by the fortune of furnishings he suddenly found himself owning.

Perhaps she meant to have her father give him the dowry money, in which case he could afford a hundred parlors similarly appointed. That was a cheering idea.

Or,
said a cruel voice inside,
perhaps she already hates you just as your mother hates your father, means to destroy you completely, and is having a bit of a lark as she drives you into the ground.

At last, he heard the front door open and close. Her footsteps sounded light on the stairs. She paused on the landing. In his mind’s eye, he saw her pivoting to continue up to the second floor.

“Lil-ady Thorburn,” he called, wincing at his trip of the tongue. It wasn’t as though he’d been calling the woman by her given name for years — why did it rankle so to not use it?

The female in question materialized in the doorway, wearing a fetching ensemble. A white dress skimmed her hips and thighs, while the light gray spencer on top clung to her breasts like the skin of a fruit, tempting him to peel it away. A smart plaid hat ornamented with a black plume sat atop her head at a becoming angle. Neatly arranged curls peeked from beneath the brim, accentuating the perfect curve of her brow and jawline.

His body hardened. Ethan ruthlessly clamped down on his lust. For her own, indiscernible reasons, Lily had chosen to pretend their one night of unrestrained passion never happened. He couldn’t toss her into bed as he longed to do. There were other matters to address, besides. Though stoking his ire for her failure to make their dinner appointment was difficult when she looked so delectable.

The briefest of smiles flitted across her lips, never touching her eyes. Her hands tangled in her reticule cord. “Good evening, my lord.”

Waving a hand, he beckoned her in. “Come and see, my dear. The patron saint of furnishings has paid us a visit. He must have taken pity on our sorry home and granted us a parlor for entertaining.”

With a guarded set to her jaw, she lifted her chin. “There’s no call for sarcasm.”

He raised a brow. “I am not being sarcastic, and I resent the implication. To the contrary, my lady, I feel certain to the deepest marrow of my being that we must have been granted a boon by some supernatural entity — be it sprite, saint, or demon — because the constraints of the present household budget do not allow for costly decorating. Tell me, Lily, where have you been?”

She pressed a hand to her temple. “The way you careen from one point of conversation to another quite makes my head spin.”

Good.
Just looking at her made his head spin, and he couldn’t do anything about it. Fair enough if she was likewise discombobulated.

“Furthermore,” she said, adopting the governess tone he was coming to abhor, “I must once again remind you not to take liberties with my Christian name, please.”

He gave his most self-depreciating smile. “Of course, my dear Lady Thorburn. And yet, I still find myself ignorant as to your whereabouts this evening. If you’d be so good as to enlighten me?”

Lily twitched her skirts to the side as sat on the sofa. She fingered the black tassel on the bolster. “What happened to not interfering in each other’s lives?”

Impossible woman! Why did she have to bristle up like a hedgehog at every turn? “I do not mean to interfere,” he explained. “The Holliers, however, were disappointed that you did not come to supper as we’d committed to do.”
And me,
he thought petulantly.
But you don’t care about disappointing me.

Gloved fingers covered her mouth. “The Holliers!” she exclaimed from behind her hand. “Oh, dear, it quite slipped my mind. When I heard from Mr. Wickenworth, I had to go to his office straightaway. The bill of sale and transferring the deed took longer than I expected. It was careless of me to forget — ”

“A moment.” He raised a hand to halt her speech, waiting to quell the surge of disbelief and shock ringing in his ears. He cleared his throat. “A … deed you say? Bill of sale?”

She nodded. “I bought the property for my school. A lovely situation in King’s Cross — convenient to Mayfair, but still respectable.”

“
You
bought a property?”

Lily shrugged. “With my father’s money, of course. It’s in his name, but I have full legal authority over it. Power of something-or-other, they call it.”

He straightened. “Your father’s … ” His gaze darted around the parlor, taking in the furnishings in a new light. “Did he … ?”

She shot him a half-smile. “No, I did. He gave me the money, yes, but I bought these things. Last week, actually.” She stood up and took a turn around the room. “It’s not finished yet, of course — rugs, new draperies … ”

Humiliation burned his cheeks. “My dear, I must say, I don’t agree with having Mr. Bachman furnish the house. For one thing, I was never consulted in the matter, and this
is
my house. You can’t just begin filling it with things willy-nilly. Secondly, how do you suppose it looks from the outside for … ”

From the mantelpiece, she plucked a bundle of fabric Ethan had not previously noticed. At first he took them for rags, but then he noticed the binding holding them together.

He craned his neck. “What’s that?”

“Fabric samples,” Lily explained. “For the draperies. It would very much
please me
to order the new ones within the week.”

Ethan bit his tongue and slumped back into his chair. She was going to make an issue of this, setting it as a condition of marital happiness.
Fine
. What were a few sticks of furniture, if it ended with him having her dowry?

She brought the fabric samples back to the sofa and sat next to the lamp. Ethan watched her flip through them.

“You missed supper,” he said.

Lily glanced up from the fabrics. “We’ve already discussed that.”

“The Holliers are my friends,” Ethan continued, his tone growing more terse. “You were rude not to send word; I was personally embarrassed, and still haven’t eaten. Not to mention, we’ve scarce done anything together since the wedding.”

“By all means, eat something,” she said, seemingly absorbed in the selection of fabrics. “Oh, I do like this damask,” she breathed. “It would make a lovely spread in my room.”

Her room. Ethan glowered.

The day after the second bout of wretched sexual intercourse, she’d moved into a vacant guest room. Her blasted servants had fetched her entire bedroom ensemble from her parents’ home. She had practically resumed her old life, pretending he wasn’t even there.

Unfortunately, most ladies
did
have their own rooms — he could not deny his viscountess the same. Forcing her to sleep in his bed when she’d made it clear she found the practice distasteful would be counterproductive, in any event.

“I’m sure it would be lovely,” he said.

“Are you?” Her voice carried a shrewd tone that set him on edge. She flipped through the fabrics. “I think this one would do for the draperies in here. What do you think?”

Ethan gave the scrap only a cursory glance, just enough to detect a revolting checkered pattern in black and pea green. Any fool could see it wouldn’t suit the décor, at all. “An excellent selection, my dear.”

Her cheeks flushed in high color. “Fine,” she snapped. “This it shall be, then.”

“I look forward to seeing the finished pieces grace the parlor. They are sure to provide many years of enjoyment.” He slapped a thigh with his hand. “Well, I’m off, then. I just wanted to be sure you hadn’t missed our engagement for reason of illness, injury, or untimely demise.”

When Ethan rose, she inhaled, her lips parted.

He paused, expecting her to speak.
Ask me where I’m going. Ask me to stay. Tell me you miss me like I miss you.

She didn’t, of course.

“Good evening, my lord,” she said with a cool incline of her head.

“My lady.” He nodded once and stepped purposefully out the door, though he hadn’t the foggiest idea where he was going.

• • •

“I ’ear congratulations are in order, milord.”

Ethan looked over the rim of his glass of Scotch. Edmund Ficken stood before the corner table where Ethan had ensconced himself, wrapped in a cloud of cigar smoke like a mist-shrouded wraith in a graveyard. The skinny man clutched the brim of his hat at his chest. Ethan made a disgusted sound before tossing back the remainder of his beverage. “Save the humble butcher act for the rest of this lot.” He jerked his chin to indicate the other patrons of the hell.

Ficken’s gaze skipped over the tables occupied by men and women deep in game and even deeper in their cups. He smiled, a cold, calculating twitch of the lips that cut through the haze in Ethan’s brain like a dunk in an icy pond. “So I shall, milord.” He nodded, a signal of recognition from one swindler to another.

It was the most honest moment Ethan had ever shared with the man, and it unnerved him. In a flash, the ruthless gamester was gone, tucked away, replaced once more by the socially inferior Ficken the
ton
accepted as an entertaining novelty.

The butcher ran a hand over his thin, slick hair. “Are y’not playing? The hazard table looks to have good action tonight.”

Ethan’s eyes slid to the game Ficken indicated. A merry group stood around the table, men with their arms twined around the corset-slimmed waists of painted ladies. As the fellow with the dice rolled them in his hand, the group chorused an anticipatory sound. He threw, and the group let out a simultaneous “Ah!” Then they cheered and clapped, while the caster let out an exultant whoop — he’d rolled the main.

“Lucky bastard,” Ethan muttered under his breath. To Ficken, he said, “Don’t care to play.”

Ficken snorted. “That’ll be the day, eh?” Without invitation, he pulled out the chair opposite Ethan and folded himself into it, resting his hat on his knee. Ethan’s jaw clenched. He occupied himself watching the gamers, hoping Ficken would go away if he ignored him.