The Revenge of Lord Eberlin (12 page)

E
arly Friday evening, Tobin studied his reflection in the long mirror. He wore formal clothing this evening—black superfine, long tails, a white silk waistcoat and black silk neckcloth. It was the sort of garb one might wear to a foreign palace or a London ball, not to an intimate supper party with one guest.

Tobin did not care. He would have Lily know that he was a man of extraordinary means. He would draw her in, entice her with shiny things and formalities and seduce her slowly into his bed. He intended to possess her completely, and just thinking about how he might do that made his blood rush hot.

He smoothed his hair back from his forehead. It was the color of dark honey, not pale blonde, like Charity’s and Catherine’s. His skin had been darkened by the years spent on various ship decks. He was not quite thirty, but he looked weathered, as if he’d been reared in the Leeward Islands instead of tranquil England.

There were faint nicks and scars in his skin, small testaments to the hardship of his life. Just below his right ear was a small, thin white line from a knife during a particularly memorable brawl in Portugal. It matched a longer scar on his back. On his finger were tiny faint marks, from the nasty bite of a volatile Italian beauty a year or so ago. She had not approved of his leaving port without her and had tried to keep his finger as a souvenir of their heated affair.

Even with the nicks of his life marking his skin, Tobin supposed he was as presentable as any dandy in Paris and London—at least as presentable as the sort of bland fop Lily undoubtedly was on course to marry one day. But even bland fops would not forgive her ruination. How ironic, that Lily would be left with nothing but an empty title when he was through with her, while his title was as meaningless as the paper it was written upon.

Tobin stared coldly at his reflection.
Rise up. Press on.
That was his mantra, which he’d begun to chant to himself when he’d found himself fatherless.
Rise up, press on. Don’t think overmuch. Don’t feel. Rise up, press on. Harder, stronger than before.

“My lord . . . your handkerchief,” his valet said, presenting him with a freshly ironed linen.

Tobin turned away from the mirror, took it from the valet’s hand, and wordlessly left his suite of rooms.

He went directly to the yellow salon, where he would receive his guest. It was small in comparison
to others, and it was here he would share an intimate meal with Lily. A table for two had been set near the hearth. Thanks to Carlson’s attentions, the room was in pristine condition. The flowers had been brought up from the hothouse and arranged in large bouquets that dripped blooms of red, pink, and yellow. The furnishings, recently arrived from Italy, were set upon his new, Belgian wool rug. The draperies, delivered last week, had been hung, and heavy gold rope sashes held them back so that the view of the courtyard, already ablaze with torchlights, could be viewed.

The Louis IV table was covered in Swedish linen. The place settings of fine bone china shimmered in the low candlelight, as did the silver, which was polished to such a degree that Tobin could see his reflection in the wide soupspoon.

Pleased with the setting, he signaled at a footman standing at attention near the door to pour him a tot of whiskey. He tossed that down in the way he’d learned to do as a boy on his first voyage. The sailors made a devilish concoction from stuff scraped from the bottom of barrels and brewed on the ship’s deck. Tossing it quickly down one’s throat reduced the burn. These days, the whiskey Tobin drank from crystal tots was the finest Scotch whiskey available. It didn’t burn, but old habits died hard.

The warmth of the whiskey had just begun to seep into his veins when Carlson entered and bowed. “The Lady Ashwood has arrived.”

Tobin felt a tiny twinge in his chest, and, for a moment, he feared the fever would spread into his bones and his body would betray him. But it passed as quickly as it had come. “Bring her.”

He walked to the hearth where a fire blazed, then stood with his legs braced apart and his hands behind his back. He was uncommonly restless, which he found mildly surprising, since he was no stranger to women. Yet he’d never felt quite like this—

She swept in behind Carlson on a cloud of rich, forest green velvet and organza, and Tobin had to remind himself to breathe. Lily had grown into a stunning woman; the rowdy little girl she’d once been was now a woman of exceptional poise. He’d never expected to find such an alluring woman when he’d come here. Quite the opposite.

The color in her cheeks was high and her pale green eyes were glittering. She regarded him with the cool confidence of a woman who knew she was admired.

Tobin bowed. “Welcome to Tiber Park.”

She said nothing.

Tobin walked forward, took her hand, and bowed over it, kissing her knuckles. “May I say that you look beautiful this evening.”

The color in her cheeks deepened. She glanced sidelong at Carlson.

“You may leave us for now,” Tobin said, and Carlson walked obediently from the room, leaving a single footman standing attentively near the door.

“Please do come in,” Tobin said, sweeping his hand toward a pair of chairs before the hearth. “This is the yellow salon, so named because one can see yellow roses in bloom from the windows.”

Still, Lily did not move or speak. Her gaze was wandering the room, taking in the furnishings. To a casual observer she looked serene, perfectly at ease, yet her gloved hands were tightly clasped before her.

“I have some very fine French wine that I brought to England before the French blockade,” he said. “Perhaps you would like a taste of it to calm your nerves.”

She affixed him with a prim look. “What makes you believe I need to be calmed?”

“Aha . . . so you do speak after all.” He smiled and nodded at the footman. “Then a glass of wine to warm you.”

“Nor do I need to be warmed. Your coachman was most attentive and your coach very nicely heated.”

“I am happy to hear it,” he said with an incline of his head.

The footman delivered a glass of wine to Lily on a silver tray. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“Please be seated,” Tobin invited her, gesturing again to the two winged-back chairs before the hearth.

Lily hesitated, then moved around one chair and perched delicately on the edge of it. She planted both feet firmly on the ground, her back as straight as a ruler. She looked positioned to dart to the door should the need arise.

But Tobin was not an animal, and he would not take his revenge by force. He much preferred to see her crawling to him, begging for his attention.

He flipped his tails and sat on the other chair, sinking back and making himself comfortable.

Lily glanced up, staring curiously at the painting above the mantel. It was a courtly scene in which a young king was the center of attention in a sea of people.

“Is that a Van Dyke?” she asked.

Tobin had no idea who the artist was—he’d bought the painting from a failing estate in England. That was the trouble with being a self-made man—he’d missed instruction in the finer aspects of life, such as the names of renowned artists. He could well imagine that Lily had studied art in some tranquil setting at an age when Charity had been emptying chamber pots. “Are you a connoisseur of art?” he asked.

“Very superficially,” she said. “But my uncle has a pair of Van Dykes, and I thought I recognized the style.” Her shoulders lifted and fell with a small sigh and she looked down at her glass of wine.

“Do you find the wine to your liking?” Tobin asked wryly.

She smiled. “Does it matter?”

“Pardon?”

Lily put the glass aside and shifted that smile to him. “Forgive me for being frank, but it seems to me, since
you have tossed down a gauntlet and I have picked it up, that trivial talk is rather pointless.”

Surprised by that, Tobin gave her a wry smile. “I would agree. What would you like to discuss that is less trivial?”

“Actually,” she said, sitting a little straighter if that were even possible, “if you wouldn’t mind terribly, I am brimming with questions.”

Tobin cocked his head to one side. “About?”

“About . . . everything.
You,
of course,” she said and leaned slightly forward.

Her demeanor reminded him of the girl she’d been, always quite earnest.
You must be the king, Tobin. Queens have kings, and you may sit there on the rock if you like. That will be your throne. Your throne is not as big as my throne, but you don’t need a very big one, do you?

“What about me?” he asked.

“Well . . . you’ve done very well for yourself.”

He shrugged indifferently. “Did you expect less?”

She looked slightly taken aback by his question. “No. I suppose I didn’t expect anything at all.”

That sounded as if she’d suffered no guilt for what she’d done, that the consequences had not weighed heavily on her heart. Tobin felt a tiny tick in his heart, a warning to remain calm or risk the bloody spell. He silently cursed his body and willed himself to hold it at bay.

“No?” he asked with a smile. “Surely you do not mean to say you never wondered what became of Joseph Scott’s family . . . do you?”

“No!” she said, looking appropriately horrified by the suggestion. “I have wondered a great deal about that, naturally. I meant only that you were the last person I would ever expect to see after all this time.”

“Yet here I am,” he said, abruptly stood, and moved to the sideboard. He waved the footman off and pretended to study the bottles there. “I’ve asked cook to prepare some Scottish venison for us this evening.”

“Not grouse?”

He smiled. “Not grouse.”

“I have wondered why you came back,” she said thoughtfully.

He was feeling a bit clammy. It was too warm in here. “Why not?”

“Precisely because you
have
done so well for yourself. One might think you would prefer to be someplace else, given the events that happened here.”

Tobin downed the wine in his glass and poured more.
Rise up. Press on.
“I came back because I had some unfinished business.”

“Ah, yes. Ruining Ashwood.”

He actually laughed at that and turned to face her. She was smiling, albeit ruefully. “I prefer to call it clearing my father’s good name. You do know, do you not, that he didn’t steal the jewels for which he was hanged?”

Lily’s lashes fluttered; she looked down at her lap, turning her head slightly.

“It would seem that you do,” he said quietly as he admired her profile.

“I don’t know any such thing at all.”

“Well, I do,” he said. “What sort of son would I be if I did not wish to restore his good name?” Dwelling on his father’s demise created that strange, feverish breathlessness in him. He could feel it churning in his gut. “Perhaps we should move on to more pleasant subjects.” Lily. She was far more pleasant, if only to look at.

Tobin felt his body relax a little, and he put aside his wineglass and walked back to his chair. He sat, then reached for her hand, taking it in his. Lily flinched, and held her arm stiffly, but she did not pull her hand away.

Tobin turned her hand over so that her palm was facing up. He could see a patch of her skin through the tiny keyhole where the glove buttoned around her wrist, and he pressed this thumb against it, feeling her pulse flutter like the wings of a small bird. He lifted her hand and blew softly into that little circle of flesh.

When he lowered her hand, Lily was staring at him. “What are you doing?” she asked low.

“Admiring you.”

Lily pulled her hand free. “You are so different now, Tobin.”

“So are you,” he said sincerely.

Lily said nothing to that and continued to study
him. “Have you been to the cottage at Uppington Church since your return?”

“I have ridden by once or twice.”

One corner of her mouth curved up. “I have very fond memories of the cottage,” she said softly. “Memories of a boy who indulged a silly girl and accepted any part she desired in her little fantasies. You were very kind to me then.”

Here it went again, the warmth of his skin, the sign of the spell. He settled back, his gaze on the fire at the hearth. He did not intend to stroll through their shared memories.

“Do you recall? When I desired to play alone, you sat on the rock and read your books. So many books, too—I was always fascinated with your appetite for reading.”

“Yes, well, I had the luxury of attending school then.”
Breathe.

“I truly adored you,” she said distantly, and sighed. “Were you aware that I did?”

Adored
him? “I do not recall that you adored me in the least,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps you have imagined so when seeing the cottage after all these years.”

“Oh, I’ve not seen it.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “I think I would find it too painful.”

Impossible. She had lived a charmed life. “What
could you possibly find painful about your time at Ashwood?”

She looked surprised. “Everything,” she said. “It was a time in my life that I cherished. I loved my aunt Althea and my life with her. I loved to play at the cottage, for it was the one place on this earth that I was completely free. And then it was suddenly all gone, and . . . and in a very dreadful way.”

Tobin wanted to tell her what was gone for him, and how very dreadful it had been to see his father at the end of a rope. But as the words formed in his head, his throat felt as if it might constrict if he tried, so he remained silent.

“I know it was far worse for you, Tobin,” she said. “I cannot imagine how you endured—”

He suddenly sat up and caught her wrist. “Lily . . . do you really think you will dissuade me from our bargain with these memories? They only strengthen my resolve.”

Her lips parted with surprise, but she did not respond, for Carlson chose that moment to announce that supper had arrived.