That Scandalous Summer (23 page)

Liza did not like that expression on him. Advantage, then, to Weston, whose arm she briefly touched. “Newlyweds,” she sighed. Had her touch raised a hint of color in his cheeks? Very promising. “Always stealing off to admire the ferns.”

“Surely, after a year, one would think—” Hollister paused. “Ah, here they come now.”

Her heart lifted. James was a childhood friend, and she had missed him terribly, and so much had happened in his absence, and she could not wait—

Half turned, she came to a stop.

Michael Grey
was walking into the room.

For a brief, stupid second her heart soared. And then reality crashed in and she gaped.

Michael Grey was
here.
Dressed in
evening wear
.

Where had he found formal tails? The suit looked . . . very expensive. And elegant. The snowy white necktie set off his square jaw, his tanned face, to perfection. He was devastatingly attractive; he might have fit in anywhere. But not
here.
He was barging into her
party
!

Shock held her paralyzed, even as Sanburne called out a greeting to her, and his wife—who looked shockingly pretty, much prettier than Liza remembered, her dark hair done up in a stylish twist—lifted a hand.

She could not believe Michael’s gall. To expressly ignore her wishes, to thrust himself upon her friends—for Sanburne leaned over and spoke something in his ear, as though they were not perfect strangers, and in response, Michael laughed and nodded, and—dear God but her heart turned over in her chest, for his laughter was low and rich and musical, and it spoke to parts of her ungovernable by good sense. His eyes met hers, and her skin seemed to come alive with heat.

No. No, no, no.
Weston and Hollister stood right beside her!
Focus.
Focus on his brazenness—his presumption—simply because she had slept with him, he thought he could overrule her wishes, bully his way into her party?

Oh, but they had not
slept
. She could not imagine being calm enough, beside him, to
sleep
—

She lifted her chin. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said sweetly to Weston and Hollister.

“Oh, for certain,” said Weston. “Didn’t know de Grey would be here.”

Her next step hitched. That—she hadn’t heard that right. How would
he
know Michael Grey?

Sanburne and his wife had been intercepted by the Hawthornes. She strode directly for Michael. His gaze lifted. Their eyes locked and for the span of a heartbeat everything in her swelled like a symphony.

She bit her tongue hard as a punishment. What unforgivable
cheek
! Had he gone mad? What did he think he was about?

He did not look away from her as Nigel spoke to him, some remark that caused him to smile faintly. He would not be smiling in a minute!

She drew up before the group. Something in her movement must have betrayed her agitation, for the Hawthornes, ever alert to scandal, broke off their conversations to study her.

Sanburne stepped in front of them. “My God,” he said as he looked her over. “Looking very purple tonight, Lizzie.”

Sanity fell over her like an icy rain. She could not make a scene here. A scene would make the Hawthornes wonder. And the Hawthornes, set to wondering, did not stop until they solved the mystery. “Is that”—she cleared her throat—“is that
really
all you can say, James? Well, I suppose I should be grateful. After twelve months in Canada, it’s a wonder you speak English at all.”

“But that’s the main language of Canada,” said Lydia, Viscountess Sanburne, in tones of puzzlement, even as her husband discarded convention and pulled Liza into a hug.

Over Sanburne’s shoulders she once again met Michael’s eyes.
Get out,
she mouthed.

His smile broadened. “Lovely to see you, Mrs. Chudderley.”

James must have felt her go rigid, for he lifted his
brow in a silent question as she pulled away. “I hadn’t realized you two knew each other,” he said.

What was he talking about? Liza could not focus, for now the viscountess was addressing her. “So good to see you,” Lydia said, and she, rattled enough to forget whom she was dealing with, leaned in to kiss the viscountess’s cheek.

Not a warm and cuddly sort, Lady Sanburne. Reformed spinsters so rarely were. But she proved surprisingly game for Frenchness, even giving Liza’s shoulder a squeeze before retreating to her husband’s side. “What lovely gardens you have,” she said, and darted an abashed glance toward—Michael. “Lord Michael said you had a way with roses. I’d not realized you favored horticulture.”

Lord
Michael!
Roses!
The brazenness! Liza gritted her teeth. “Prowling about, was he?”

“De Grey was always a bit slinky,” Sanburne said.

De
Grey? “This man . . .”

Michael
de
Grey. She knew that name.

Lord
Michael. The de Greys. Why . . .

“Ah, yes,” said Nigel to Michael. “Now it comes to me where I’ve seen you. How fares your brother?”

“Didn’t he just sack you from your own hospital?” asked Katherine with a pleasant smile. “I believe I read something about it.”

Sanburne touched her arm. “Lizzie,” he said in an undertone, “are you quite all right?”

No. She was not all right. Sanburne
knew
this man. Nigel knew
of
this man. Which meant her doctor was no country rustic, but a
fraud
.

And he was watching her with a smile that was distinctly unkind. “More accurately, I would say I stepped
down,” he replied to Katherine. “Other matters required my . . .
particular
attentions.”

Why did those words ring a bell?

She gasped. Those were
her
words—spoken to him . . . about
him
. For, God help her, she had no choice but to conclude that he was the brother of . . .

“The Duke of Marwick is not seen much of late,” Nigel said. “Katherine speculated he might be ailing. But I reminded her, with a doctor for a brother, he’ll have to use another excuse.”

The ringing of the dinner bell saved her. Were it not for the bell, the entire room would have heard Liza whimper.

“So curious,” Katherine Hawthorne said, her voice cutting clearly through the conversations of the six people who sat between her and Liza. “How on
earth
does one miscalculate the number of place settings?”

The answer was simple: one did not know that a
rat
would crash one’s party. But one did not confess such, lest one wished one’s relationship with said rat to receive a very uncomfortable degree of speculation.

Instead, from her place at the head of the table, Liza pretended not to hear. Her wine made a good excuse for inattention. She reached for it—her third glass; she’d managed to drink two, very quickly, as the table settings were rearranged. Yet somehow she wasn’t tipsy. Or perhaps the wine’s effect was indistinguishable from the shock that had already set her head to spinning.

Not only a liar, but brother to the
Duke of Marwick
. No playwright could have designed a better irony. How Nello would have laughed!

Lord Weston leaned in from her right elbow, his face
full of sympathy. “Good help can be very hard to find,” he said.

He had a very nice nose, did Lord Weston. Straight and firm, not at all oversized. His lips were not so full as one might wish, but they were
honest
and did not speak
lies.
“How
true,
” she said.

“Is Ronson slipping? I’ll be glad to steal him away.” This from Sanburne, who sat at her left and, until this moment, had been entertaining himself by flirting with his wife. They made a curious couple, Lydia being a prim and reserved scholar, James being one of England’s handsomest men—and, until recently, one of its most dissolute scapegraces, to boot.

“There is nothing wrong with Ronson,” Liza said. He was probably standing behind her right now. She didn’t dare look. Her butler was capable of the most
tremendous
scowls.

“Dementia, is it?” James asked with interest.

Liza looked very quickly over her shoulder—but Ronson had abandoned his place by the sideboard, probably to check on matters in the kitchen. Thank God! “Only bad tempered,” she said as she turned back. “But his
hearing
is excellent, mind you.”

“All the better,” said James cheerfully. “We can sic him on my father, and hope for a homicide.”

“James,” said Lydia in a chiding tone.

He sighed. “You’re right, Lyd. It would be too cruel to Ronson.”

Liza finished her wine and was gratified by a footman’s quick approach with more. Her staff was excellent. And very prideful. “If you don’t wish your soup poisoned, James, I would confine your witticisms to the guests.”

Lydia abruptly laid down her spoon.

Goodness.
That was a clumsy misstep. She cast a quick look at Weston, who was frowning into his own soup. “Only a joke,” Liza said, and tried to laugh reassuringly, for nobody liked a bitter hostess. Instead her laughter squeaked like a rusty hinge. Or perhaps like something
unhinged
.

No wonder poison was on her mind! Against her will, her gaze swung across the table, to the man who sat diagonally across from Lydia.

Michael de Grey was doing a splendid job of ignoring her. Currently his attention focused on his dinner partner, Baroness Forbes, who had been delighted to meet “the famous doctor.” Apparently she knew
all
about his hospital. Probably she also knew about his
other
talents. That would explain her quivering interest in him.

For Michael de Grey was nothing more than a
rake
! Her
decent,
upstanding country swain was in fact
notorious
for his womanizing exploits—or at least one of them, for Lady Heverley herself still fed the rumors, fanning herself and sighing every time his name was mentioned in public. She was desperate, probably, to remind the world that a man had once wanted her. She must be fifteen years older than de Grey.

But what of it? Michael de Grey was not known for his
select tastes.
No—he was known simply as widows’ catnip!

A flush stung Liza’s cheeks—a violent blush fed by her mortification. Why, now
she
had become one of his desperate widows! One among a great number of women generally characterized as grasping and hungry, avid for the smallest crumb of attention a man like de Grey might cast their way—

“Mrs. Chudderley,” called Katherine Hawthorne in a gay, bright voice. “How grim you look! I suppose I
should look grim as well, were my staff so forgetful! How on
earth
did they miscount the table settings?”

A dozen pairs of eyes swung in her direction—but not, she noticed, those belonging to the widows’ catnip.
He
remained focused on the baroness. Somebody should point out to him that she was not a widow. The
baron
remained very much alive, presiding genially over the foot of the table.

The rat’s hair was too long for a duke’s brother. Where had he gotten that jacket? It molded to his body in a manner that suggested bespoke tailoring from Savile Row. Had he hidden his finer clothing away in that little house he’d rented? Oh, what a laugh he must have had when she recommended Mr. Broward’s haberdashery!

“I’m quite well,” she said. And she would be once she’d kicked the cad out of her house. It would have to be a quiet expulsion, done while the others were distracted. That did not mean it would be
peaceful.
“I confess, it was my fault that we were lacking one cover—will you forgive me, darling, if I admit that it had quite slipped my mind that you were coming?”

Katherine did not miss a beat. “Oh, not in the least,” she said with a laugh. “Why,
I
almost forgot I was coming. These little events do tend to slip my mind!”

On a deep breath, Liza reminded herself that she had invited Katherine for a reason. Excellent training for Jane, and a guaranteed diversion should boredom set in. Nevertheless, at this moment, she wished the woman to the devil, for she needed no distractions beyond the liar two seats away. “I’m sure your social calendar is packed to the gills, darling. But take care; I find regular rest very beneficial to one’s looks. You really should try to make more time for it.”

“Point to Lizzie,” Sanburne said, and picked up his wineglass. But where a year ago he might have drained
it and joined Liza on the fourth round, marriage had altered his habits: when he returned the wine to the table, its level was barely diminished.

Liza, looking from his glass to hers, grew conscious of a strange unhappiness on that count. It was so much easier to drink deeply when one had a companion in it.

Michael was not drinking at all.

Her eyes fixed on his untouched glass. How malicious were his intentions here? The possibilities were dark, though she could not bring herself to believe the worst of them. Even if he knew that Nello had cuckolded his brother, it would make no sense to punish
her
for it. When Nello had taken up with the duchess, Liza had also been betrayed.