How to Impress a Marquess(9)
Her mouth dropped open as if he had slapped her rather than saved her hide again. He only wished someone would take such good care of him—that he could set down his mantle of worry and responsibility for a day.
“I know all about the so-called finer points of manners, conversation, and delicacy.” She was on her feet now. “I was sent to finishing school not once but twice.”
He refrained from commenting about the waste of good money because he didn’t care to sport a blackened eye to Parliament.
“Has it ever occurred to you, George, that I am the way I am because I desire to be? I am not an ignorant yahoo or a freakish aberration. I know this is shocking to hear, but not everyone finds membership in your elite circle of society the pinnacle of human existence.”
She couldn’t be worked on in this state. Now she waited with her eyes glittering and hands clenched, ready for the battle that he refused to fight.
“Right.” He snatched up a pillow from the sofa and aimed it.
“Don’t you dare!”
He shot her a smile and tossed the cushion in the air. She had to catch it, else it would land on her head. In the meantime, he seized her book of poetry. “Why don’t you tell me what constitutes the pinnacle of your existence during a little stroll in the park,” he said. “You can take Keats along, of course.” But he didn’t relinquish the volume. Instead he walked away with it, using it as a lure.
Four
“Isn’t it a stunning day,” George declared. The sunshine glistened on the lush grass and sparkled on the water. He protected Lilith’s Keats volume in the crook of his arm and beat a steady rhythm with his walking stick. “It inspires one to write poems about the beauty of nature and such.”
“Hand me my book, you vile toad,” Lilith spat. She trailed a foot behind him.
“That’s Lord Vile Toad to you. Or perhaps Lord Vile Fusty Frog is more appropriate. I will also answer to Your Exultant Fusty Frog and Your Fusty Frog Eminence.” And he couldn’t help but add with an arched brow over his shoulder, “And it’s rumored that if you give me kisses, I’ll dispense golden balls.”
“Is that what you call your little surprise last night?” A challenging light burned in her eyes.
That devil inside him, who always came out to play in Lilith’s company, volleyed back. “Little surprise?” His words were inappropriate and ungentlemanly, but he enjoyed seeing her mouth drop. Don’t play with fire or my manhood and not expect to get burned. Frog, indeed.
Alas, his humor was short-lived. Ahead, a cluster of fashionable people strolled, surrounded by several ladies and gentlemen on horseback. George could make out Mrs. Pomfret, the wife of a powerful Tory MP from Yorkshire, and her daughter Cecelia. Guests at his upcoming house party. If he continued down this path, introductions would have to be made, evoking curious inquiries. Lilith, in her angry state, might make a scene. Correct that thought; she would make a scene even if she didn’t open her mouth. She was like a rare white tiger. Stunning, but deadly. He couldn’t release her into genteel society until he had properly trained her.
He seized her arm and veered onto a smaller path protected from view by spreading trees.
She wasn’t fooled.
“Oh, Georgie, were those some of your dear society friends?” Her voice was all saccharine and innocence. She tugged at his arm. “Shall I ask them if they know about your little golden balls? Or will you give me my book back?”
“Truce.” He offered up the book.
“Victory.” She closed it to her bosom.
For several minutes, they walked in silence. He struggled to keep from glancing at her, taking in the way sunlight, filtered through the leaves, fell like lace upon her skin and how the breeze blew her hair willy-nilly about her cheeks. He wanted to somehow preserve this moment. He remembered her words from the other evening: “It’s about capturing the ethereal and fleeting…” In his mind he saw this moment painted, all the colors and textures of the brushstrokes.
“George, why are you staring at me?”
He didn’t realize he had fallen down a rabbit hole of thought. A mental leather strap slapped his wrist, and he hastened to cover his slip. “I’m thinking about what kind of husband would suit you.”
“You mean what kind of husband would suit you for me? Does England have a bachelor diplomat in Siberia or Bangkok?”
“You may laugh, but now is your chance. What kind of man do you desire? What respectable man’s society would represent the pinnacle of your existence so that I may find a genteel version of him for you? Or you can leave me to my own devices. Tell me, how do you feel about musty cigars or reading religious tracts?”
He casually chuckled to hide his curiosity. If she had ever fancied a man, she had never told him about it. He wondered what she found desirable.
“You’re a bachelor and a marquess. It’s more important for you to marry than me, so you can get busy creating a little marquess, and spare marquesses and daughters to barter for powerful clanlike alliances. Tell me what kind of wife you desire.”
“No more games, Lilith. It’s your future we are deciding.”
“It’s not a game. You tell me about you, and I’ll tell you about me. A fair trade.”
“Very well.” He stopped walking. Behind him, ducks skimmed along the water’s surface.
“I prefer…” He paused. On the tip of his tongue was Colette. But he wouldn’t admit he desired a fictional character. That bit of lunacy he kept to himself. “I prefer…a gentle lady possessing pleasing manners and a clear mind,” he said. “She must be charming but never vulgar. She must never embarrass me but assert herself in quiet ways.”
This was harder than he thought. He couldn’t explain that what he wanted was a woman to hold him safe to her body, soothe the restlessness inside him, say the words he couldn’t express, tell him that she loved him only and fully. Instead, he said, “She should be tasteful and understated in her appearance.”
The edge of Lilith’s mouth hiked up in a way that said Are you jesting? “I’m shocked that you are not already married. There are many eligible ladies, as well as sofas, chairs, and ornamental rugs that fit that description.”
“I answered your question,” he said hotly. “And you mocked me.”
She flinched as if he had stung her. When would he ever learn to stop playing her games? He was so busy mentally berating himself that he almost didn’t hear her speak. She was using that unsettling quiet voice again. “I prefer a man who is kind.”
“Merely kind? Not wildly romantic? Handsome in a severe Gothic manner? Brooding? Poetic—a modern Keats? A misunderstood artist?”
“You don’t know me at all.” The wind blew a strand of hair across her mouth. Again he felt the sensation that he was staring at one of those insane Impressionists’ paintings. All the beauty and light assaulted his senses.
“Kindness,” she continued, “loyalty, and a home.”
“Only kindness, loyalty, and a home?”
She thought for a few seconds more. He could see the machinations of her mysterious mind working behind her eyes. “Yes.”
“What about love?”
“I didn’t realize it was in the offering.”
“It could be. I could introduce you to a brooding poet of excellent breeding, competent accounting skills, and deep funds, and you could fall madly in love with him. And then you would have me to thank.”
She walked on. “I think your definition of love and mine are very different.”
“What is your definition?”
“You wouldn’t understand, and you would mock me if I tried to explain.”
He clasped her elbow, halting her progress. “I promise to be deadly serious.”
She clutched her book tighter. On the river, a male duck raised high in the water and beat his wings to challenge another duck. George studied her as she watched the ensuing water fight and heated pursuit across the river.
“I’ll just take kindness and loyalty in a husband,” she said, still looking out at the river. “He must provide me a home, a true home, and he can’t leave me.”
“You should have told me this earlier. There are many more-than-suitable gentlemen who meet the bare requisites.”
“Are there?” she whispered, no hint of the usual derision in her voice. When she turned her head, her large eyes earnest, the tears were starting to collect in the corners. He felt her pain in his own heart again. He longed to hold her, comfort her. Good God, this woman lit up his emotions. One minute he was furious at her and the next filled with sadness.
“Lilith, you could have…bloody hell!”
“What?”
“It’s the Duke of Cliven and his son, Lord Charles.” He nodded to two men strolling down the path. Both men sported canes and carefully tailored clothes.
The elder was tall with powerful shoulders, well-trimmed gray lambchop whiskers, and somber eyes in a lined face. He said very little, but when he did, bills were passed, prime ministers made, and treaties signed.
His third son, Lord Charles, was trim and athletic. Lord Charles was the most dashing, most witty, most sought-after man in London, according to George’s sister. George knew him as his tormentor at Eton, rallying the other boys to ape George in the corridors and hide his Latin work. Now he and his father were the most powerful Whigs in Parliament, their influence spanning both houses. They sat on the fence regarding the Stamp Duty Extension Bill, enjoying letting George toad-eat them.