Читать книгу The Secrets Of Lord Lynford - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 15

Apparently, she was not in the habit of completing her sentences. She certainly wouldn’t be capable of doing so now. All her mind could focus on was that he was kissing her. The realisation rocketed through Eliza, a bolt of white-hot awareness. There wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t aware of him—the sweet, sharp autumn scent of him in her nostrils, the feel of his touch on the bare skin at her neck, the press of his mouth against hers—all combining to stir her to life, perhaps for the first time.

His tongue teased hers; a slow, languorous flirt confident of its reception. His hand adjusted its position at her neck, tilting her mouth, deepening his access to her until she gave a little moan. She had never been kissed like this, as if the kiss was a seduction within itself, as if every nuance of mouth and tongue and lips communicated a private message of desire designed just for her. She felt herself wanting to give over; there was no question of resistance, no desire for it. She wanted this kiss, wanted to fall into it, wanted to see where it led. Perhaps it led to other wicked desires, other wicked feelings. But only if she let it—and she wouldn’t, she promised herself.

All the reasons why began to reassert themselves, slowly coming back to the fore of her defences after the initial onslaught of this new pleasure. She shouldn’t be kissing a stranger, a man she’d only met once. She shouldn’t be kissing a man with whom she meant to do business. She was a mother; she had to think of her reputation for her daughter’s sake. She was a business owner; she also had to think of her reputation for the sake of the mines. Kisses were for women who could afford them.

The last thought brought her up short. She pushed against the hard wall of his chest. Did he think she could afford to give away kisses? That she’d come out to the garden on purpose to signal her intention—that she was willing to acknowledge and act on the flicker of attraction? Had he taken what she’d intended as an escape as an invitation instead?

The white-hot burn of pleasure turned to heated mortification. ‘My lord...’ She should have been more astute. Widows often had a reputation for discreet licentiousness. The widows the Marquess of Lynford knew most certainly did. But she could not be one of them. It was for that very reason she’d been so careful of her own reputation for five long years. ‘I fear I have given you a most inaccurate impression of myself. I apologise, sincerely. I must go. Immediately.’ Eliza tried to step around him, but all the height and breadth she’d appreciated about him earlier worked to her disadvantage. He was not a man easily evaded. She should have left when she had the chance. She should not have lingered in the garden, tempting fate. She’d come out thinking to put some distance between herself and those dark eyes. But the garden hadn’t been far enough.

He moved, subtly positioning his body to block her departure, a hand at her arm in gentle restraint, his voice soft in the darkness. ‘When will I see you again?’ It was ‘will’ with him, not ‘may’. Lynford wasn’t the sort of man to beg for a woman’s attention. He went forward confidently, assuming the attention would be given. Will. The potency of that one word sent a frisson of warm heat down her spine. His dark gaze held hers, intent on an answer—her answer. Despite his confident assumptions, he was allowing that decision to be all hers.

‘I don’t think that would be wise. Business and pleasure should not mix.’ She could not relent on this or she would come to regret it. An affair could ruin her and everything she’d worked for. The shareholders in the mines would no doubt love to discover a sin to hold against her.

‘Not wise for whom, Mrs Blaxland?’ The back of his hand traced a gentle path along the curve of her jaw. ‘You are merely a patron of the school I sponsor. I don’t see any apparent conflict of interest.’

‘Not wise for either of us.’ If she stood here and argued with him, she would lose. Sometimes the best way to win an argument was simply to leave. Eliza exercised that option now in her firmest tones, the ones she reserved for announcing decisions in the boardroom. ‘Goodnight, Lord Lynford.’ She was counting on him being gentleman enough to recognise a refusal and let her go this time, now that any ambiguity between them had been resolved.

Eliza made it to the carriage without any interference. She shut the door behind her and waited for a sense of relief to take her. She’d guessed correctly. Lynford hadn’t followed her and it was for the best. He was probably standing in the garden, realising it at this very minute, now that the heat of the moment had passed. The kiss had been an enjoyable adventure. It had added a certain spice to the evening, but it was not to be repeated. He didn’t know her. He didn’t know the depth of her responsibilities, or that she had a child—Sophie—the true love of her life.

If he did, he’d most certainly run. A man like Lynford, a man in his prime with wealth and a title to recommend him, was expected to wed a young woman capable of giving him his own heirs. She knew precisely the sort of bride who was worthy of a ducal heir: a sweet, young girl, who had no other interests than stocking her husband’s nursery. Lynford would want, would need, a family of his own. All dukes did. The Marquess would never seriously consider a woman with another man’s daughter clinging to her skirts and who spent her days running a mining empire, any more than she would consider him as a husband.

She would never marry again. She had no inclination to give up her hard-won control over her future and her daughter’s. The risk was too great, even if the cost was also great. Sophie must come first, ahead of her own personal wishes for a family. Eliza had come to such a realisation early in her widowhood and it had been both a relief and a disappointment.

It was the only thing the doting and decent Blaxland hadn’t been able to give her and the only thing she would not risk giving to herself. He’d given her security and a future, but he could not give her a family. Despite ten years of marriage, there was only to be her darling Sophie between them. Another husband, another man, younger, more virile, might provide her with those children, but she did not want to turn her responsibilities over to a husband in exchange, nor could she risk her reputation with the entanglement of a lover. The well-intentioned overture from Miles Detford years ago had shown her how even the smallest misstep could weaken her position.

On either front, she had no business kissing the Marquess of Lynford in the academy gardens. She was the daughter of a mine owner, the widow of a mine owner. Her family came from business. Cits on all sides, including her late husband’s. Such a background wasn’t for a marquess. Eliza knew how the world worked. She could be nothing for him but a brief dalliance until whatever mystery he saw in her was solved. Men could do as they liked. But she would never outrun the stain and neither would Sophie.

That was the lesson she told herself as her coach deposited her at the inn. But it didn’t stop her from dreaming that night of a dark-eyed man who’d called her extraordinary and kissed her body into an acute awareness of itself, who’d made her feel alive in ways she hadn’t felt for years, perhaps ever. There simply hadn’t been time or place for such realisations. There still wasn’t. Whatever that kiss had awakened had to be suppressed. That kiss could stay in her dreams, but it could go no further. In the morning she would wake up, visit the Porth Karrek mine and return to life as usual. As earth-shattering as tonight had been, it simply couldn’t be any other way for her.

It simply couldn’t be this way. The lumber order for the tunnel timbers was excessive. Eliza sat back from the ledgers, hazarding a glance at the clock on the wall of the mine office. It was eleven already. The morning had slipped away while she’d grappled with the receipt, trying to make sense of the overabundance of ordering. She’d meant to leave for home by now and she was nowhere close to making that self-imposed departure. If she left it any later, she’d miss tea with Sophie. She’d promised she’d be back in time and she never broke a promise. But ultimately, she was the one who had to answer to the shareholders in a few weeks at the annual meeting, the one who would be accountable for this over-ordering.

Eliza went to the window and looked down on the bustling scene below: carters pushing wheelbarrows of ore from the mine to the sorters; sorters separating the ore; her foreman, Gillie Cardy, shouting orders. The sight of her mines at work brought a certain thrill, a certain proof that she’d accomplished something. She caught Gillie’s eye and gestured for him to come up. He would know why so much lumber had been ordered.

Gillie knocked on the door before entering, sweeping off his knit cap as he stepped inside. ‘Mrs Blaxland, how can I be of service?’ She liked Gillie. He’d been the site manager even before her husband died. He was competent and knew the mechanics of mining thoroughly, and he’d been a friendly face when she’d first taken over.

She motioned towards the ledgers. ‘I have some questions about the lumber order.’

Gillie chuckled and shook his head. ‘I’m no good at numbers, ma’am. I just do what I’m told. You want someone to find a lode in the mine, I’m your fella. But if you want someone to do the books, that’s not me. I know mining and not much else.’ Eliza nodded. This was yet another reason her schools were vital. People needed mathematics and reading skills no matter what their profession. Education was power and protection. Without it, people were waiting to be victims.

‘I’ve done the sums,’ she assured him. ‘With the amount of timber ordered we could build a tunnel twice the length.’

He twisted the cap in his hand, looking worried. ‘The tunnel is very long, ma’am. We are tunnelling out underneath the ocean.’

Eliza stared at him in disbelief. ‘We are not! We opted not to take the risk at this time.’ Her stomach began to turn. The board had decided at the last quarterly meeting not to go that far.

‘Pardon me, ma’am, but Mr Detford said we were tunnelling under the ocean.’

Miles Detford? He ran the Wheal Karrek mine for her. She trusted Detford, counted him as friend. Miles would never go against the board’s decision or her wishes. He knew how she felt about the dangers of tunnelling beneath the ocean. Surely, there must be some mistake, that Cardy had misunderstood or that Miles Detford had been pressured by someone, because if that wasn’t the case, it meant she had misunderstood—not just the decision not to tunnel, but so much more. Her board was willing to override her decisions.

If it were true, it was a slap in the face. Someone thought she wouldn’t notice, either because she wasn’t diligent or because they thought she wasn’t smart enough. The other answer was even less appealing. Maybe whoever ordered the timbers simply didn’t care if she noticed. Her wishes were to be overridden. Not everyone on the board had agreed about the tunnel. It had been contentious and hotly debated. She’d rather put the money towards mining schools. Others had not felt that way. There was no money to be made from the schools.

Eliza pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to settle the roil that had started with the realisation. After years of proving herself, it seemed things still weren’t beyond that first year. Hadn’t she been the one who had insisted on steam engines to replace the horses? Hadn’t she been the one to institute safety protocols? The worst of it was, she’d thought things were better. But they weren’t. Someone was laughing behind her back, playing her very publicly for a fool.

Already, her mind was running through options. Which shareholders had conspired against her? Was it Isley Thorp or Sir Gismond Brenley, the other chief shareholders? It must have been if they had enough leverage to force Miles Detford into ordering the timbers. Miles would never have ordered them on his own. He would have defended her decision.

She returned to her desk chair and drew out a piece of paper from the drawer, penning a note with instructions. There was no question of returning to Truro until this mess was resolved. She folded the note and handed it to Gillie. ‘Have a messenger deliver this to the town house with all haste.’ Sophie and her governess could be here tomorrow. That would give her time to find suitable living arrangements. The inn wasn’t a decent place for a young girl. But where? Who did she know in town to whom she could turn? Did she dare ask Lynford? He was her only acquaintance likely to have any connections. The thought of Sophie at the inn, driving guests mad with her exuberance, settled it. As hesitant as she was about asking Lynford, she didn’t have a choice. Wheal Karrek needed her and she needed Sophie.

Decision made, she took out a second sheet and penned another note. ‘Take this up to the new conservatory.’ She reread the note, making sure she’d struck just the right tone, short, concise, a very businesslike message, nothing that Lynford would misconstrue as an invitation to continue what they’d started and finished in the garden. Satisfied, she sent Gillie off. That only left sending a note to Detford. Her stomach surged once more at the thought. She settled it with a reminder that this was all a misunderstanding. Miles would come and explain all. She’d been on her guard for so long, it was too easy to see trouble where there was none.