How to Impress a Marquess(56)
“And a terrible secret he kept hidden in a box high in an attic under a chamber pot.” He kissed her chin. “And here was that heinous, unfathomable secret: that Lilith, the woman who infuriated him and drove him to distraction, and he were kindred spirits. For that crime, he couldn’t let her near. He couldn’t tell her that he loved her, because he was afraid she would tear his world apart. Ahh, but the flimsy thing fell on its own and then he punched Lord Charles.”
“Wait, you really punched him?” she asked, breaking the precious moment of heartfelt confession. “That rumor was true and not some sensational story for a rag?”
“I punched him three times and in the middle of the annual Marylewick house party ball.”
“That’s perfect!” She pressed her hand to her mouth and giggled, then turned serious again. “I guess that ended hope for your bill.”
He shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“What about going insane, is that true? Or that Lady Marylewick, in a rage, burned down Tyburn Hall? Or that Penelope vowed to divorce Fenmore and run away with a French lover?”
He gently finger-combed her hair from her face. There were many dark times in the last days when he’d entertained the terrible thought that he might never be able to hold her again or have that little mischievous smile light up his senses. Now she was back, filling up his eyes and heart. He would never let her slip from the safety of his love.
“Well, I have gone insane, that is true,” he quipped, letting his fingers trail down her jaw and along her neck. Oh, to touch her! “Insane and lovesick. My mother is in a rage, but my secretary received a letter yesterday concerning a roof leak in the fortress wing, so I assume Tyburn is still standing. Penelope is getting a divorce but not running away. I don’t think she has a lover, French or otherwise. And Beatrice is going to Oxford, provided she is let in.”
“Truly?” Lilith caught her breath. “Truly?”
He nodded, marveling at how he felt her joy as if it were his own.
“Such wonderful news!”
“I have more to tell you.” He cupped her face in his hands and gazed at her. “I’m relinquishing your grandfather’s money to you. It’s yours. You were right. I didn’t know it at the time. I controlled you with the trust to keep you near me. You are free now. All I have to offer is my love, if that is enough for you?”
She closed her eyes, her shoulders shook, and she broke into sobs.
“No, Lilith.”
“I’ve been so miserable,” she cried. “I’ve been trying to have Colette commit suicide. I could only imagine the most horrible of endings for that love we made. And then your story arrived. Please, please tell me this is forever and that it won’t disappear.” She clutched his arm. “I never want to feel the excruciating pain of parting from you again.”
His lips brushed hers. “I am going to hold you close to me for the remainder of our lives, my muse. My love.” He groaned and relaxed into her kiss, drifting in the soul-settling peace of her body pressed against his.
She drew back, smiled, and gingerly touched his chin.
“My beard, or the beginning of one. Does it bother you?”
“I adore it. It’s perfect for the artist that you are. Don’t you dare think of shaving it or not painting.”
“Very well, then, but you, my beloved, better get busy writing. What am I going to read now that you’ve finished Colette and the Sultan? You know I adore Colette. In fact, I’m thinking of taking her as a mistress.” He winked.
“Oh, there will be all new stories to tell. Many exciting, exotic mistresses for you from all over the world. A whole harem of mistresses. You won’t be able to keep up. In fact, I hear my muse calling.”
“Your muse must wait.” He drew her back into his arms. “You’re in my thrall now. No imaginary mistresses for the moment, only one loving, intelligent, spirited, beautiful Lilith. She outshines them all.” Enough with soul-settling peaceful kisses, time for scorching lovemaking. They had so much time to make up for, after all.
The door flew open and the impassioned lovers jumped apart as Beatrice and Penelope scurried in, their robes flapping about their ankles. “It’s true!” Penelope cried. “She is here.”
“Sisters!” Lilith rushed to meet their embrace, their laughter ringing about the room.
Their hug turned into a simple dance. They circled, arm-in-arm. Lilith, flushed with happiness, held out her hand, beckoning George to join. A profound sense of well-being rested in his heart. All the lines and colors of his life were coming together to form a beautiful new picture to be painted: The Maryle Family Dancing.
Order Susanna Ives’s second book
in the Wicked Little Secrets series
Wicked, My Love
On sale now
Keep reading for an excerpt from
Available now from Susanna Ives and Sourcebooks Casablanca
1847
Stuke Buzzard, England
Isabella lifted a delicate, perfectly coiled tendril of hair in the “luxurious shade of raven’s wing” from the Madam O’Amor’s House of Beauty package that she had secreted into her bedchamber.
Her black cat, Milton, who had been bathing his male feline parts on her pillow, stopped and stared at the creation, his green eyes glittery.
“This is not a rat,” Isabella told him. “You may not eat it.”
Unconvinced, the cat rolled onto his paws, hunched, and flicked his tail, ready to pounce.
The advertisement in last month’s Miroir de Dames had read “Losing your petals? Withering on the vine? Return to your full, fresh, feminine bloom with Madam O’Amor’s famous youth-restoring lotion compounded of the finest secret ingredients, and flowing tendrils, puffs, and braids made from the softest hair.”
Isabella typically didn’t believe such flapdoodle. But at twenty-nine, she was dangling off the marital cliff and gazing down into the deep abyss of childless spinsterhood. Now she finally had a live, respectable fish by the name of Mr. Powers, her bank partner, swimming around the hook. After he walked her home from church on Sunday, she had decided not to take any chances and had broken down and ordered Madam’s concoctions. Even then, a little voice inside her warned, “Don’t lie to yourself. Who would want to marry an abnormal, cracked, freakish girl?” All those things Randall had called her years ago. Strange that words uttered so long ago still had the power to sting.
After making excuses to loiter about the village post office for almost a week, Isabella had been relieved when her order had finally arrived on the train that morning, just in time to restore her full, fresh, feminine bloom before Mr. Powers called on bank business. Little did the poor gentleman know that for once she couldn’t care less about stocks and consuls. She was hoping for a more personal investment with a high rate of marital return: a husband.
Standing before her vanity mirror, she opened the drawer, drew out a hairpin, and headed into battle. Her overgrown, irrepressible mane refused to curl tamely, held a fierce vendetta against pins, and rebelled against any empire, Neapolitan, or shepherdess coiffure enforced on it. She secured the first tendril and studied the result. It didn’t fall in the same easy, elegant spiral as in the advertisement, but shot out from behind her ear like a coiled, bouncy spring.
“Oh no, this looks terrible.” She tugged at it, trying to loosen the curl. “I’ll just secure the other. You can’t tell from just one; it’s not balanced.”
Meanwhile, her cat eyed her, scheming to get at those strange yet oddly luxurious rats on her head.
The second tendril was no better than the first. “I look even more abnormal, cracked, and freakish, if that were possible. I knew this was a stupid idea. Why did I even try when I knew it was stupid?” She sank into her chair and buried her face in her hands. She just wanted a husband and children. Why was it so difficult for her? Why couldn’t she be like her mother—graceful and gentle?
Tap, tap.
“Darling, I hate to nag,” Judith called through the door. “But the Wollstonecraft Society meeting is in less than two weeks. You really must practice your speech.”
Oh fudge! Isabella didn’t have time to remove the offending curls. She grabbed Madam O’Amor’s box and shoved it under the bed. Milton, who was teetering on the edge of the mattress, saw his moment and took a nasty swipe at her head.
Judith, founding member of the Mary Wollstonecraft Society Against the Injurious Treatment of Women Whose Rights Have Been Unjustly Usurped by the Tyrannical and Ignorant Regime of the Male Kind, strolled in. Her auburn hair was pulled into a sloppy bun and secured by crossed pencils, her reading glasses sitting low on her Roman nose. Before her face, she held Isabella’s draft of her acceptance speech for this year’s Wollstonecraft award.
“My dear, this is interesting information, but it’s rather, well…boring,” she said. “Unlike you, most people don’t remember numbers and—my goodness, what torture have you inflicted on your poor hair?”
Isabella extricated Milton’s claw from her head and drew herself tall. “I’ve styled my hair into tendrils,” she said firmly. Her companion was bossy and a relentless nagger. Isabella had to put up a strong front.