Too Tempting to Resist (16 page)

“Accept you and I shall be enslaved in a marriage where I am forced into criminal activity, with no control over my person or my purse.”

A wicked grin. “Pick your poison.”

He had her trapped between a rock and a stone, and no matter which way she turned, it seemed that the rough-cut slabs were squeezing in with unyielding force.

No, I won’t let myself be crushed
, vowed Eliza, though in meeting Brighton’s gaze, it was hard not to let her resolve waver.

Swallowing a surge of panic, she made her mind focus. “H-how much does Harry owe you?”

The question seemed to take him by surprise. His brows pinched together as he growled. “Why do you ask?”

His wary expression encouraged her to press on. “How much?” she repeated a little more forcefully.

Brighton hesitated and then named a figure that nearly made her swoon.

Steady, steady.
Eliza forced herself to think. “That’s a great deal to recoup through selling forgeries. I wouldn’t imagine that you are taking the chance to offer my copy at a legitimate auction house, so I am curious—where do you seek a buyer?”

“I don’t see that such information is any of your concern,” he replied slowly.

“On the contrary, sir. You are asking me to enter a lifetime business arrangement, so I have a right to know whether it has a chance of being profitable.” The past few years of dealing with Harry had taught her to put on a brave face. “I’m not nearly as stupid as my brother. If I am going to put myself under your thumb, I want some assurances that I’m going to get something in return.”

He narrowed his eyes in a calculating squint. “You may prove even more useful than I thought. Very well, there’s little harm in satisfying your curiosity.” His self-assurance was back. “The painting is currently being offered for sale at a flash house here in London.”

Eliza remembered overhearing Harry use the term when he and his friends had been discussing a rash of robberies in Mayfair. “That is a place run by some unscrupulous person who sells stolen goods brought to him by thieves.”

“A private emporium,” agreed Brighton with a smirk. “Open only to a select clientele.”

“I see.” An idea—an admittedly wild idea—was beginning to take shape in her head. But conventional wisdom wasn’t going to save the day. Lowering her lashes, she swirled the spoon in the now-melted ice. “Please, sir, this quite a lot to digest. I—I need some time to think about it.”

“Go ahead. But keep in mind that there’s only one choice that will save you and your brother from ruin.”

“Harry knows about your offer?” she asked.

“But of course. And he’s given it his enthusiastic blessing.”

Eliza expected no less, and yet it still hurt. Taking care to keep the hollow ache in her chest from echoing in her voice, she said, “If there’s nothing further to discuss, I would like to return to Gunter’s.”

The baronet leaned in as she accepted his arm. “Smile, Lady Brentford. You wouldn’t want people to think we weren’t the happy couple, would you?”

A patch of pale lavender petunias caught Gryff’s eye.
Damnation—Nature seemed to be sending mixed messages regarding Lady Brentford
, he thought wryly. The flowers said “your presence soothes me,” while his brain was communicating exactly the opposite signal to his body. He tried to dispel the strange prickling sensation on his skin by loosening the knot of his cravat. The grit from travel was rubbing a bit raw, and the sooner he returned home to a bath and fresh linen, the better.

Seeing that Eliza and her companion had moved out of the shade, Gryff turned up a parallel path and moderated his pace.

“I’m not spying,” he muttered slowly. “I’m merely observing.”

And he didn’t much like what he saw.

Her face looked like a marble mask, a pale, lifeless stretch of stone, save for two hot spots of color painted along the ridge of her cheekbones. Despite the sunlight, her eyes were dull, reflecting a hard-edged glimmer that lacked any inner fire.

He knew her well enough by now to sense that something was wrong.

His gaze flicked to Brighton, who in contrast appeared smugly satisfied with whatever had just passed between him and the lady.

The couple left the garden and crossed back to the tea shop. Gryff halted inside the gate and under the pretense of consulting his pocket notebook, slanted a sidelong look through the wrought iron bars. A few moments later, a grinning Brighton and Leete emerged from the interior and sauntered off, looking for all the world like two schoolboys who had just stuffed themselves with sweets.

Recalling the night he met Eliza and her half-jesting wish that he kick some sense into her brother, Gryff was tempted to follow them and thump a pair of rumps. But then, the jingle of the tea shop’s bells drew his eyes back to the ornate entrance. Eliza was leaving, followed by a young abigail.

Let her go.
Bloody hell, he had enough trouble of his own without seeking more.

“Yes, but a gentleman does not turn his back on a damsel in distress.” As the low mutter trailed off, his lips quirked up. And rescuing
this
particular damsel had become something of a habit.

Slipping though the opening, Gryff hurried to catch up with his quarry.

“Lady Brentford! What a surprise to encounter you.” He touched the brim of his hat. “I didn’t realize you were planning a trip to Town.”

The greeting drew a slanted glance. He saw only a flicker of her shadowed lashes and then her eyes snapped back to staring straight ahead. Her unladylike hurry had her bonnet ribbons flapping around her cheek, further obscuring her profile.

“Why would you?” she replied coolly. “I am not in the habit of confiding my personal plans with strangers, sir.”

Gryff gave a pointed look at the abigail, who immediately dropped back a discreet distance. “I should hope that we are rather more than strangers, Lady Brentford,” he murmured, hoping to soften the jut of her chin.

His words drew no hint of a smile. Instead she tightened her jaw and started walking faster, despite the limping hitch in her stride. “Oh, and just what exactly are we, Lord Haddan?”

The visit to Gunter’s appeared to have left a sour taste in her mouth.

Without giving him a chance to answer, she went on in a rush. “As far as I can see, men are wont to see a female as naught but another of their countless toys, to be used until it breaks or ceases to amuse.” Her half boot scraped against the pavement as her lingering limp caused her to stumble over a rough patch of cobbles. Gryff reached out a steadying hand, but she jerked back out of reach.

The misstep seemed to goad her to greater ire. “A toy can simply be discarded, and a new one acquired to take its place.”

Leete must have done something to strike a very raw nerve.

“I saw your brother leaving Gunter’s,” he said. “I take it he has done something to upset you.”

She kept walking.

That the baronet may have stepped in to try to comfort her did not improve his own mood. “It may be none of my business, but I would counsel you not to seek solace from Sir Brighton. His reputation is not one that should engender much confidence in a lady.” As he spoke, Gryff was uncomfortably aware of the irony in his words.

Eliza did not throw them back in his face. She merely replied, “You are right, sir. It’s none of your business.”

Gryff refused to be brushed off. “Lady Brentford, you are clearly upset. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Satin snapped in the breeze, the ribbons tangling and pulling her bonnet slightly askew. A sharp exhale blew them clear of her pinched mouth.

“Forgive me for sounding shrill, Lord Haddan,” she answered after a moment. “I appreciate your concern, but it is a private family matter.”

There was little he could say to that, save to incline a polite nod. “It is I who should apologize. I did not mean to cause you further distress.”

“It’s not you who are to blame.” A nonchalant shrug punctuated the reply, but as she stepped through a patch of sunlight, he caught a quicksilver glimmer of moisture clinging to her lashes.

Repressing a frown, Gryff pretended not to notice. Looking up at the carved cornices and mortared brickwork of the building up ahead, he spent the next few strides mentally pummeling her brother for upsetting her. A bleakness had wrapped itself around her, snuffing out every bright spark of her spirit.

And what of Brighton?
Surely he deserved some of the blame, for whatever he had said to Lady Brentford, it had brought her no comfort. Gryff thought of her hands clenched around the dish of melting sorbet, and was suddenly reminded of Cameron’s comment about the baronet being a thoroughly dirty dish.

Gentlemanly scruples demanded that he honor the lady’s request to respect her privacy. But no such code covered the baronet. Another glance at Eliza’s stiff-legged gait and steeled spine and Gryff made up his mind.

Brighton needed further scrutiny.

“I turn here, Lord Haddan.” Eliza paused just long enough to let the abigail catch up. “So I will bid you adieu.”

“Are you staying long in Town?” he inquired politely. “If so, perhaps you and your friends would like to attend the theater?”

“No, my business is finished here,” she said brusquely. “I intend to return home on the morrow.”

“Ah. Another time, then.”

“Yes, another time.” She turned, her dark skirts flapping like stormclouds around her legs. “Goodbye, sir.” Reverberating off the surrounding stone, the words took on an echo of finality.

Gryff watched until the two figures were swallowed by the slanting shadows. “Goodbye,” he repeated. “But only for now.”

I
n the mist-swirled darkness of the midnight hour, her plan seemed even more absurd than it had in broad daylight. Eliza lingered at the mullioned window, tracing a random pattern on the fogged glass. If only she could spot a pinprick of light through the pall of coal smoke hanging over the London rooftops. A star to help her find her way.

The ticking of the mantel clock did not offer much encouragement. Amplified by the nighttime silence of her guest bedchamber, the sound took on a doleful rhythm.
Hope-less, hope-less.

“It may be hopeless,” she whispered. “But I have to try.”

She lifted the flickering candle and carefully drew the numeral “2” through the silvery vapor that had reformed on the pane. Her plan had two parts. First, she had to raise enough money to pay off Brighton. Second, she needed to locate the incriminating painting and somehow get it back.

“Oh, and while I am at it, why don’t I conjure up a turbaned genie who will crown me the Queen of Sheba and whisk me away to a land of milk and honey.”

For a lingering moment, she let the image of a magical hero wrap around her like a swirl of sweet-scented smoke. He had long, dark hair, green eyes, and a musical laugh that made her heart dance against her ribs…

Eliza blew away the thought with a mirthless laugh. Fantasizing that Haddan would swoop in to rescue her was just as unrealistic as dreaming of magic lamps. That she had, against all reason, against all resolve, allowed her emotions as well as her body to succumb to his charms, was only further warning that he was a dangerous distraction.

“I can’t afford girlish dreams,” she whispered. “Not when reality requires every ounce of my strength.” The challenges facing her were daunting, to put it mildly.

Her hard-won savings would cover maybe half of Harry’s debts. As for the other half…The reflected light caught the rueful quirk of her lips. “I suppose I could make more forgeries and sell them on my own,” she said to herself, drawing another little squiggle on the glass. “At least I would profit from my crimes, and have control over my own destiny.”

Unfortunately, what she knew about the fine points of engaging in illegal activities could be painted on the head of a pin.

“Money,” she muttered, focusing on the problem in front of her rather than the nameless longing fluttering inside her chest. “There aren’t many ways for a female to earn more than a few paltry pennies…”

The flame shivered in a whoosh of breath as she suddenly thought of someone who might be willing to offer her advice.

After all, the battle would not be won by the faint of heart.

Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh.
Gryff paced along the silk-fringed perimeter of the Turkey carpet, his slippered feet kicking up a soft, sinuous whisper. Left abandoned in the shadows, the empty desk chair sat in silent reproach as he passed it yet again. He gave a guilty glance and kept going, too restless to settle down with his pens and papers.

Damn.
He knew he should be obsessed with his writing and not with a country widow whose troubles were none of his concern. She did not want his interference, and had said so in no uncertain terms.

And yet her eyes had sent a far more ambiguous message.

Her anger could not quite overshadow the ripple of longing, as if for one instant she had been tempted to confide in him.

“Damn.” Out of habit, his steps veered to the side table, where he poured himself a large tumbler of brandy. Several months ago, solving a troubling conundrum was simple—all he had to do was simply pickle his wits in several bottles of potent spirits. “It is far easier to be a rogue than a man of conscience,” he muttered, lifting a baleful salute to the marble bust of Socrates set atop the manuscript cabinet.

Perching a hip on the corner of his desk, he twirled the glass between his palms. The color of the liquid, spinning from deep bronze to amber gold in the glow of the argent lamp, reminded him of Lady Brentford’s unruly curls dancing free in the fresh country sunlight. A bold, bright spirit ought not be dimmed by dark shadows. They had hung beneath her eyes like bruises.

His gaze moved to the gilt-framed watercolor by Redouté that was leaning against the curio cabinet. It was still half-wrapped, with only a hint of the rose showing.

“Have you any advice to offer on the situation?” he growled. “A rose ought to feel an affinity for a lady in trouble.”

The leaves hung limp and lifeless.

A sigh—or was it a snarl—slipped from his lips. After a brooding moment, he set the glass down and turned to ink instead of brandy.

Inspired by the memories of her unfettered reactions to the landscape of Leete Abbey, he began to write, the words flowing fast and furious. For nearly an hour the only sounds in the library were the hurried scratch of the nib and the faint hiss of the glowing coals burning down to dark embers in the hearth. When finally he put down his pen and scraped back his chair, the skewed stack of papers on his blotter held a finished essay.

“She is my Muse,” he murmured, slowly skimming through the scrawled pages. “Like Linden, Lady Brentford helps me see things that I would miss on my own.” This essay was his best yet, the tone both lyrical and down to earth. It bothered him that the laughter had died from her voice, and he felt helpless to do anything about it.

“What are you doing holed up like a monk doing penance in his cell?” Cameron lit the candelabra by the doorway with his single taper. “Ye gods, don’t you find it rather depressing to be sitting here in near darkness?”

“I’m brooding,” he shot back. “So the ambiance is appropriate.”

“Oh?” His friend raised a brow. “About what? Linden?”

“And a lady.”

“Ah. I should have guessed that a female would be involved.” Cameron crossed to the hearth and propped a boot on the brass fender. “The one you were watching outside of Gunter’s? With a look, I might add, that would have melted a hogshead full of iced chocolate cream.”

“I can’t explain it. I seem to be besotted,” admitted Gryff. “Smitten like a schoolboy.”

“You who have resisted the charms of every Beauty and Temptress in Town?” His friend sounded amused. “I take it the lady in Grosvenor Square was Leete’s sister—the one with whom you had that tasty dalliance.”

A growl warned Cameron that any risqué remarks would not be welcome. “Yes, that was Lady Brentford,” added Gryff. “And I fear that she may be in some trouble.”

“Seeing as Leete is her brother, I don’t doubt it.”

“Stubble the jests. This isn’t a subject for levity,” he snapped. The image of Leete laughing with the baronet prodded him to ask, “What do you know about Brighton?”

“Not much, save that he and his cousin are considered very unsavory fellows by some of my acquaintances.”

“Why?”

Cameron shrugged in response. “I’ve never asked. But I can make some inquiries if you like.”

“Thank you, that would be helpful,” replied Gryff. Pursing his lips in thought, he drummed his fingers on the blotter. “Speaking of Linden, have you learned anything more?”

“My friend has taken a little jaunt to the country. But I’ve another idea on how to get information,” replied Cameron.

“I think I’d rather not know what it is,” he said.

“I think you are right,” quipped his friend.

Once his chuffed laugh had died away, Gryff stared moodily at the barely glowing coals. “I feel so bloody useless. Is there naught I can do but sit and wait while you take action?”

“You
are
in a strange mood.” Cameron came over to the desk and eyed the glass of brandy. Seeing it was untouched, he lifted it to his lips. “May I?”

He gave a curt wave.

“Might I ask another question?” Without waiting for an answer, Cameron continued. “Why do you care so passionately about Lady Brentford and her problems?”

Gryff didn’t quite know how to articulate his feelings.

“Well, I had better get to work,” said his friend after downing the brandy in one quick swallow. “You are far more entertaining company when you’re not blue-deviled.”

“I appreciate your touching concern for my state of mind,” he said gruffly. “By the by, is there a reason you stopped by in the first place?”

“I just happened to be in the area and saw a light in the library window,” answered Cameron vaguely.

“To see the library, you have to be in passing through one of the back alleyways.”

His friend merely smiled. “I’ll stop by again as soon as I have anything to report.”

“Blue-deviled,” muttered Gryff as the door clicked shut. Perhaps it was because he was tormented by the sparkle in his mind’s eye of rich sapphire, its brilliance clouded by the shadow of men—

Men.
He suddenly sat up a bit straighter. Had Lady Brentford’s sarcastic comment of men and their toys been directed at
him
, as well as her brother? At the time, he had been too concerned by her troubled face to give the words any heed. But now, in the dark, quiet depths of the night, with no distractions save for his own introspective thoughts, the statement came back to haunt him.

“Oh, surely she doesn’t think that
I
see her as simply an object of amusement.”

In answer, the oppressive silence in the room seemed to grow louder.

Gryff made himself think back on their encounters. And in each one there was no denying that he had behaved like a snapping beast, pawing, poking, prodding—entirely for his own pleasure.

No, not entirely
, he amended. She had seemed to enjoy their intimacies as well.

Still, despite the self-serving platitudes, he was for a moment overwhelmed with a sense of shame.

Picking up his little notebook, he slowly thumbed through the pages, rereading his scribbled record of her comments throughout the afternoon.

“I need to clarify some things between us, Lady Brentford,” he muttered. “Whether you want me to or not.”

Eliza added a small splash of water to her mixing palette and carefully wet her paintbrush. “A touch of burnt sienna,” she murmured, drawing the soft sable bristles over a square of dried pigment, “will tone down the brightness of the cerulean blue…”

She had arrived back at the Abbey at a little past noon, and for the moment, there was nothing more she could do to put her plan into action. On the morrow, she would ride over to ask Gussie for a council of war. Her old governess would be eager to help do battle against Brighton and his terrible ultimatum.

With her sharp mind, of course, thought Eliza wryly, and not with her frail body.

Though on second thought, she could picture Gussie seeking to slice off the baronet’s potato finger with her pruning shears.

The image cheered her mood considerably.

As did the wash of color taking shape on the thick sheet of watercolor paper. Painting allowed her to escape from her worldly worries, if only for a short interlude. The act of creating shapes and textures, of mixing shades and hues, of adding line and detail was supremely satisfying.

Sitting back, she studied the specimen she had clipped from her cottage garden. It was a purple columbine, whose message was “I intend to win.” “Perhaps later, I’ll cut a bouquet of chrysanthemums,” she said to Elf as the cat jumped up onto her worktable. “Which mean ‘abundance and wealth.’”

Meow.

“Right, this columbine does look a little wilted. Shall we go gather a fresh one?”

Meow.

“How refreshing to be in the company of such an agreeable male,” she quipped, watching the marmalade tail disappear out the door. “Harry and his friend are beasts.”

As for Haddan the Hellhound…

She gathered her paintbox, sketchpad, and water jar, deciding the day was much too nice to remain cooped up inside. Besides, Haddan made her think of sunlight drizzling through leaves like liquid honey, of breezes soft as a whispered laugh, of meadowgrasses dancing to the freespirited notes of the songbirds.

To be sure, the marquess had a devilish charm, but the moniker of “hellhound” did not really fit the man she had come to know.
Her
Haddan was no hard-hearted predator, no rapacious rogue. He was funny, sensitive, compassionate, and…

Nice.
That summed it up succinctly.

“He’s nice,” said Eliza loudly. “But I’m never going to see him again.” She drew in a lungful of air and held it, waiting a moment for the pain in her chest to subside.

“I can live with that,” she murmured, setting down her things and moving to the flower beds. Forcing herself to forget his kind offer to help, she plucked a freshly fallen oak leaf—which symbolized bravery—and stuck it in the twined coil of her hair. “I cannot depend on anyone else to fight my battles. If Brighton is to be beaten, I must find a way to do it myself.”

Gryff reined his horse to halt by the stone cottage and dismounted, careful to keep the well-wrapped bouquet from being squashed. It had taken several stops to find a flower shop that offered purple hyacinth, which said “please forgive me” in the language of flowers. He would add his own embellishments to the basic message—he glanced at the age-blackened oak—assuming she didn’t shut the door in his face.

Leaving his mount to graze in the shade of the trees, he approached the entrance and gave a soft knock.

No answer.

Frowning, Gryff waited a few moments, uncertain of what to do. Not wanting to cause her any embarrassment at the manor house, he had decided to pay a discreet visit to her hideaway, hoping to find her alone. Given what he had to say, a private meeting would be best.
Just the two of them.

Clearing an odd nervousness from his throat, he knocked again.

Still no stirring from within.

“Hell and damnation,” he muttered. “Some imp of Satan must be conspiring against me—”

Meow.

Speak of the devil. Looking up, Gryff saw the cat curled atop the gated archway. “Halloo, remember me?”

The cat twitched its whiskers.

“Why, thank you for the kind invitation,” he said, trying the iron latch. It released with a raspy
clink
.