Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman (22 page)

Had he been too dismissive? Greville tried to interpret the swift glance exchanged between husband and wife.

Before he could decide whether it would be better or worse to elaborate on his refusal, Lady Englemere said, ‘We won't press you, then—on this occasion, at least! But we both hope you will soon make us a longer visit. Your sister Joanna wed one of our dearest friends and we would like the opportunity to know you better, too.'

After a further expression of thanks, Greville took his leave, wanting to make a swift exit before his face or voice revealed anything further to Englemere's keen-eyed lady.

Outside the Englemere town house, he paused. It was only a short drive to Upper Brook Street. It was now mid-morning, late enough that even the newest Diamond of London society should be awake. He could make that call now and reassure Amanda her father was recovering well, something doubtless still of concern to her.

For moment, he let himself think about seeing Amanda Neville. Longing rose in him, fiercer and hotter even than his desire.

He ached to inhale the scent of her perfume, gaze into the azure depths of her eyes. See sunlight gleam in the gold of her hair. Hear the musical lilt of her laughter, so full of life and joy it made him smile just to listen.

See her…with Trowbridge at her side?

The earl's son might be there even now, if he were courting her as assiduously as Englemere said.

Though he truly hoped she would marry well and be happy, he wasn't sure he had the strength of character to witness her with the earl's son without succumbing to the impulse to smash his fist into Trowbridge's perfect nose. Knowing Amanda was happy, perhaps some day he'd be able to purge her from his heart and mind.

After a few more moments' pondering, he decided to call
regardless. Were their positions reversed, he'd be incensed to know someone with first-hand knowledge of a matter dear to him had not bothered to take the few minutes necessary to bring him the latest news about it.

He'd make a short call, reassure her and leave.

And shut out of his mind the fear that purging her from his heart was a task not even her marrying Trowbridge could accomplish.

W
hile Greville lingered outside Englemere House, on the other side of Mayfair, Amanda was riding in Green Park with Mr Hillyard.

‘You're rather vigorous for one who was up so late,' Hillyard said, reining in his gelding beside her mare after a brisk gallop.

‘If you can't keep up, stay home and sleep,' Amanda tossed back.

‘Wonderful advice…as long as I'm not sleeping alone.'

‘An uncommon event, I imagine,' she returned tartly, making Hillyard throw back his head and laugh.

It had become a game between them—he dropping innuendo-filled remarks to try to embarrass her, she refusing to blush and, instead, flashing back at him.

Obviously not yet conceding the point, he gave her a lascivious glance. ‘Are you sure, before you trade the exhilaration of being fêted for the boredom of wedlock, I can't persuade you to be indiscreet—
again
?'

This trick went to him, for she felt her face colouring.
Brazening through, she said, ‘It's never been established—beyond in your wishful thinking—that I ever
was
indiscreet.'

He gazed at her knowingly, making her feel for one panicky moment as if he could see through her mind to that passionate episode. ‘Oh, I'm nearly certain of it. However, before you wed my eminently proper cousin, you might consider which man you want waiting in your bedchamber every night.'

She couldn't help it; the image flooding her mind wasn't Lucien Trowbridge or any of the other gentlemen who now filled the entryway with their floral tributes and crowded Lady Parnell's drawing room. Instead, she saw auburn hair curling over a collar, full, sensual lips curved in a crooked smile, felt fiery kisses claiming her lips, trailing up her throat while knowing fingers set her calves, her thighs aflame… Anguished longing pierced her, and for a moment, she wished she'd never left Ashton.

She pulled herself from that reverie to find Hillyard giving her a knowing look. But instead of tweaking her about her lapse, he surprised her by saying, ‘Passion is a gift you don't want to squander on the wrong man.'

Hadn't Greville once said almost the same, that her ‘unruly nature' would be treasured? Maybe that was why she liked Hillyard, with his rogue's smile and outrageous comments; his irreverent tone and frank speech reminded her of the unconventional Greville.

However, though she felt more at home with Hillyard than any other gentleman she'd encountered in London, she didn't wake in the morning yearning for his company. Nor was she ever tempted to seize his face and kiss him until her knees were weak and her stomach churning and her body mad for completion.

‘Both of the prime contenders for your hand, my peerless cousin and the bane of his existence, Lord Melcombe, are
unlikely to be as adventuresome in the bedchamber as a lady of your beauty and…spirited nature deserves.'

Refusing to blush again, she flicked him with her whip. ‘Wretch! That last remark is too outrageous to deserve a reply. But why do you call Melcombe the “bane” of your cousin's existence? I thought Lord Melcombe and Trowbridge's father were allies.'

‘True, but of all the suitors crowding about you like eager puppies, my cousin considers only Melcombe a true rival.'

Amanda shook her head dismissively. ‘I don't believe Lord Melcombe's intentions are serious. We discuss only politics.'

‘I never claimed Melcombe had finesse. But the fact remains that in the three years after his wife died, he attended not a single ball or rout; now he squires you about the dance floor at every event you grace with your presence. Society considers his attentions marked enough that it might even change the odds at Brooks's, which are now running heavily in favour of Trowbridge. Better enjoy my disreputable company while you can; if Lucien thinks Melcombe is gaining on him, he's likely to get a jump on the competition by making you an offer immediately.'

‘He'd make me an offer to “get a jump on the competition”?' she echoed. ‘As if I were some…game to be snared?'

‘Ah, but you are, my dear. A lovely fox to be run to ground.'

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Was that truly how Trowbridge viewed her—as a trophy to be bagged? ‘Perhaps I'll just run away instead,' she replied and kicked her mare to a gallop, laughing as she left Hillyard behind.

A good gallop always cleared her mind. She'd been in London a month now, and was no closer to making up her mind about her ultimate choice. She hardly needed Hillyard's unwelcome news to alert her to the fact that Trowbridge and several others had grown so assiduous in their attentions that
offers of wedlock would almost certainly be forthcoming in the near future.

She ought to be delighted. Wasn't this exactly the outcome she had dreamed of for many long years? Except…except she still hadn't quite found what she was seeking.

She absolutely loved the political dinners she'd attended. She found the exchange of ideas stimulating, and the fact that the principles discussed over the dinner table could become the policy of the nation excited her.

She liked and admired Trowbridge and respected Lord Melcombe, both men who could offer her a permanent position in that world. But no one save Hillyard amused her as Greville Anders had. And not one of them came close to engaging her heart, mind and senses with the power and immediacy of that forthright former sailor.

Damn and blast, she'd didn't have to decide this minute. She'd think no more on it now.

Hillyard caught up to her and conversation turned to Lady Parnell's upcoming ball as he escorted her home. Noting it was late enough that her sponsor might already be receiving morning callers, she rode her mare around to the mews and entered the through the garden door, not wishing to meet anyone until after she'd changed into something more presentable than her mud-spattered habit.

Crossing to the service stairs, she encountered Kindle, about to carry a tray of refreshments up to the parlour. ‘A gentleman just called for you,' he told her.

‘Who?' she asked idly, pulling off her gloves.

‘Not a London gentleman,' the butler replied, the edge of disdain in his voice indicating the caller's appearance must not have met his exacting standards. ‘A countryman. He'd come from Ashton Grove, I believe. He said he'd leave you a note.'

Greville? Her heart leapt. ‘Is he still here?' she demanded.

‘He might be. I left him with pen and paper in the library, composing his—'

Ignoring Kindle's startled look, she turned away from the butler in mid-sentence, picked up her skirts and practically ran up the stairs. Rushing down the hallway, she skidded to a halt outside the library door. She paused there, brushing mud off her skirts, thinking she probably should have asked Kindle to delay the gentleman until she tidied herself and changed her gown.

But, oh, if it was Greville—and who else could it be, coming from Ashton Grove?—she couldn't stand to wait an instant longer. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door and walked in.

Behind the desk, a lock of auburn hair falling across his forehead as he bent over, his eyes on the note he was sanding and sealing, sat Greville Anders. Her heart swelled, as effervescent with delight as if champagne rather than mere blood infused her veins, while excitement blazed through her like a dozen Congreve rockets set alight.

Since in Kindle's immaculately run household, well-oiled door hinges moved silently, she had several seconds to run her gaze fondly over his features—broad shoulders, noble profile, tempting lips—before he sensed her presence and looked up.

Surprise, then pleasure lit his face. ‘Miss Neville,' he said, rising from his chair. ‘I feared I'd missed you. How good it is to see you again!'

‘It's wonderful to see you, too, Mr Anders.' As she'd hoped, he came around the desk…walked towards her…took her hand.

An immediate, intense zing of connection sparked between them, stronger than ever after so long an absence. Her eyes fluttering shut, she inhaled sharply, savouring the contact, feeling it in every pore.

When she opened her eyes, his vibrant gaze was fixed on
her, his lips slightly parted, as if he, too, had been struck to the core. She felt an almost overwhelming desire to seize his face and kiss him, as she had that last night at Ashton Grove, but before she could get her tingling limbs to react, he released her hand and stepped back.

Finally remembering her manners, she said, ‘Won't you take a seat? Can I offer you some wine?'

To her vast disappointment, he shook his head. ‘No, thank you; I mustn't keep you long. I just rode into London briefly to consult with my cousin and intend to depart first thing in the morning, but I knew you would wish to have a report about your father.'

‘If you are here, he must be improving,' she said, knowing he would never have left if Papa was in any danger.

‘He's doing very well. Not yet back on horseback, but moving about the house at will, able to take over the ledgers and consult with Mr Smith, whom I put in charge of overseeing the estate until I return.'

Relief filled her—and gratitude—that he had been kind enough to take time from his quick visit to give her the news in person. ‘Thank you so much for stopping by to tell me.'

‘And what of you? We know from Lady Parnell's reports that your début has been the resounding success everyone expected. Are you finding London to be everything you had hoped?'

‘It's exciting, energising and exhausting,' she said, delighted to share her experiences. How she'd missed simply discussing daily events with him! ‘It's such a thrill to attend a dinner and hear Lord Holland or Lord Liverpool or Lord Landsdowne speak about current policy! Though the balls and theatre and shopping are delightful, being able to associate with the leaders of government is by far the best part.'

Was she only imagining it, or did his pleased expression dim? Before she could decide, the momentary distress, if such
it was, vanished and he smiled. ‘I'm glad for you. Once again, may I wish you every success?'

He bowed, obviously about to make his exit.

‘You mustn't go yet!' she cried. ‘That is, I've not had a chance to enquire about your plans. Has your cousin been able to obtain your release from the Navy?'

‘He has, although it will take a bit longer, I am told, for the official document to be sent to the Coastal Brigade office.'

‘So you'll be at Ashton Grove for some time yet?'

‘Until my release arrives, in any event. But rest assured, I shall not depart until your father is fully recovered…or until, as Althea is urging him, he hires a manager to take over the more exhausting work.'

‘What will you do then?' she asked. The idea of him leaving Ashton was oddly disquieting, ridiculous as that reaction was. He was only a guest; she'd known from the first his stay would be temporary.

‘I've enjoyed assisting your father with the estate. I believe I'll look to purchase a property of my own, or, failing that, find a manager's position at a large estate.' He gave her the quirk of a smile. ‘Remain in the country somewhere, doing highly unfashionable but deeply satisfying work.'

‘You…wouldn't consider staying on with Papa?' she asked. At Ashton, where in future, she'd at least have excuse and opportunity to chat with him.

He paused for a long moment before replying, ‘I think it would be wiser for me to…go elsewhere.'

So she wouldn't tempt him to folly again? Or had her presence—or absence—nothing to do with his plans? Oh, how she wished she dared ask! But with this strange sense of disquiet squeezing her chest, she couldn't seem to recapture the warm intimacy they'd shared that night in the library, when she'd felt free to make the most personal enquiries.

He'd fallen silent, too, and now stood simply looking at her.
That intense, compelling gaze travelled from her face down to her slippers and back up, as if he were memorising her every feature. ‘I'm glad you've found your heart's desire,' he said at last. ‘Goodbye, Amanda.'

His tone was soft, almost like a caress, but there was a finality about it that suddenly made her fear she would never see him again. Before she could speak or call him back, with the powerful, sinuous grace with which he always moved, he walked swiftly through the door and closed it behind him.

She stood motionless, irresolute, half-wanting to follow and call him back. But what could she say? He obviously had business elsewhere. Seeing her couldn't have been that important to him, if he had planned such a short visit in London. He was moving on with his life, leaving her to move on with hers.

Was she really ready to do that? All her memories of Ashton Grove came rushing back: Papa on horseback, consulting with the tenants; the hills rising purple in the mist beyond Mama's garden; even argumentative Althea, tossing her head at Amanda. A wave of homesickness more acute than anything she'd felt so far swamped her.

Then there was Greville, walking and riding with her, advising her about Althea, diffusing the tension between Papa and George. Longing welled up, sharp enough to bring the tears to her eyes. She dare not even think about Neville Tour.

He was turning into an excellent manager, Papa had written her; the household staff had reported back compliments they'd received about his work from the tenants. He had a talent for engaging people, her father observed…hardly surprising to her, whom he'd engaged from the very first.

Praise Heaven that Papa was feeling better and might soon be able to resume his duties. After which, Greville Anders would leave to take up a new challenge at some other grand estate, perhaps even one of his own.

By the end of the Season, when she returned to visit Ashton,
he might be on the other side of England. She might just have shared the last conversation she would ever have with him.

‘Goodbye, Greville,' she whispered, the burn of tears at the corners of her eyes intensifying.