Читать книгу Regency Collection 2013 Part 1 - Хелен Диксон, Louise Allen, Хелен Диксон - Страница 39

Lily approached Lady Frensham’s party with some trepidation, not helped by a pessimistic Lady Billington prophesying doom throughout the short carriage journey.

‘I can place no reliance upon Sally Jersey remembering from one day to the next what she has promised,’ she remarked waspishly. ‘She is as changeable as spring weather and as empty headed as a pea goose. She has probably been sympathising with all of Randall’s friends and family and saying what a close escape he had. This will be worse than Lady Troughton’s; you should have retired to the country as I advised.’

But Lady Frensham was, if not effusive, perfectly pleasant, and although Lily received some frankly curious stares, no one cut her except Mrs Cunningham, who pretended, somewhat unconvincingly, that she had not seen her.

‘Knows she made a mistake and does not know how to deal with it,’ Lady Billington opined. ‘The woman still smells of the shop—stop bristling, Lily, the whole point of our efforts are to make sure that you do not!—and she has no confidence, which is why she behaves so. Do not regard her.’

So Lily did not. The evening seemed likely to be pleasant enough, although it would have been nice to have a man with her—Lily still felt vulnerable. What if there were others like Lord Dovercourt who thought she would be so desperate that she would allow any liberties in her pursuit of a title?

And she missed Jack. To have quarrelled with him hurt, although she still could not understand just why that last encounter had seemed so difficult, so charged. Loving him, she felt as though his slightest look touched her bare skin, his smiles kissed her. And his anger burned like a brand.

The major domo was still announcing guests, his loud voice almost muffled by the volume of conversation. Lily looked round, puzzled, from an exchange about the weather with Miss Monroe and her beau. ‘Who did he just announce?’

‘I am sorry, Miss France, I did not hear. Were you expecting someone?’

‘No, no one.’ Shaking her head, Lily made herself concentrate. Miss Monroe was teasing Lieutenant Forrest to organise a picnic party and was begging Lily’s support in convincing him that the weather would hold. She would have to learn to pull herself together if she was going to cope when Jack left London; she could not go on imagining she heard his name when he was not there.

‘Miss France?’

With a gasp Lily turned. Jack was standing just behind her in an immaculate evening suit, his hair rigorously pulled back and tied with a narrow velvet ribbon, his head wound discreetly concealed by a black plaster, which gave him a rakish air.

‘Mr Lovell!’

‘You are annoyed with me,’ he said smoothly with an apologetic glance towards her companions. ‘I promised to escort Miss France and was then held up at the last minute,’ he explained. Lily smiled weakly and took Jack’s proffered arm, letting him steer her to a bench in an alcove.

‘What are you doing here! Miss Monroe must have been wondering why on earth I reacted like that.’

‘Which is why I gave a reason for you to be annoyed with me.’

‘I am still annoyed with you.’ At least, if he thought that, she had an excuse for her pink cheeks. Her pulse was hammering. ‘Where did you get that suit of clothes?’

‘Out of pawn.’

‘They are very fine, and really quite modish,’ Lily observed, attempting to keep the rallying note in her voice.

‘Thank you. I thought them a necessity for London and then realised almost immediately that the money would be of more use, so I popped them.’

‘Popped?’

‘Pawned. I can see you have never had to make the acquaintance of your friendly local pawnbroker, Lily!’

‘But had you the money to redeem them?’ she worried.

‘I risked it on the expectation of your hundred guineas.’

‘You know perfectly well we never agreed that,’ she retorted. ‘How much was it?’

‘I am not going to tell you, and I can afford it.’ He was watching her with a smile in his eyes that seemed almost affectionate. ‘I was teasing you, Lily. You bristle so charmingly. Now that I am here, how do you want me to act? Shall I flirt with you?’ Oh, yes, please … ‘Or do you want me to stand beside you looking possessive?’ Even better.

‘Oh … just pretend to flirt—a little,’ she added hastily. ‘And frighten off unsuitable men.’

‘How will I know them to be unsuitable? Will they come with labels? Titled, amiable, gentlemanly behaviour or Merely a baronet, amorous rogue.’

Lily smothered a laugh, suddenly at her ease with him again. ‘I will signal to you if I need rescuing,’ she promised. ‘Now come and let me introduce you to some of the other guests.’

Jack is perfect at this, she thought as they circulated. He seems to have put on a society gloss along with the clothes. Where has he learned it? Or perhaps he is simply very observant and a good actor.

She watched him chatting easily to a group of officers and the thought came to her, that of all the civilian men in the room, he was the one who could best stand comparison with the bearing and air of command that sat so easily on the senior officers.

He is strong, and he is confident and he is … beautiful. Lily swallowed as a wave of pure longing swept over her. She unfurled her fan and took refuge behind it in the hope of hiding her blushes. He made her feel so wanton, it was outrageous.

In the hope of regaining some composure, Lily turned away and went to exchange smiling insults with Miss Shillington, an adder-tongued young woman who—for some reason, Lily found amusing—whereas most of her critics merely made her furious.

‘My dear Miss France! What a stunning gown! How brave of you to venture out with quite such a weight of beaded trimming; a marvel that you can move at all.’

‘I have the advantage of height to carry it off.’ She smiled at Miss Shillington, a good five inches shorter than she. ‘And what an unusual colour your gown is. So challenging to the complexion!’

‘I am fortunate that I have not a hint of red in either my hair or my skin,’ Miss Shillington riposted. ‘It is simple for me to maintain a ladylike pallor at all times, whatever colour I wear.’

Refreshed by their encounter, the two curtsied and passed on. Lily was still smiling when the orchestra struck up for the dancing to begin and she found, much to her surprise, that her hand was being solicited for a flattering number of dances.

‘But not the waltzes,’ a voice at her shoulder said as she was consulting her dance card in response to a pressing enquiry by Lord Wolverton. ‘You recall you have promised me two waltzes, Miss France?’

‘One waltz, Mr Lovell,’ she said with mock reproof, while the temptation to demand that he dance all of them with her beat at her self-control.

‘The last, then.’

‘Very well.’ She pencilled it in, conscious that her hand was shaking, and was whisked away by Lord Wolverton into the quadrille.

Concentrating on her steps, maintaining a easy flow of conversation, all helped keep her mind off Jack, although she was aware that he was not dancing, simply standing with one shoulder propped indolently against a pillar, watching her. Which was highly gratifying.

She accepted the escort of Captain Eden to supper, enjoyed a blameless flirtation with him, then noticed that Jack had escorted in one of the Miss Wilsons and seemed totally engrossed in her. Perhaps he just did not dance, which did not bode well for a romantic last waltz.

By the time he came to claim her hand she did not know how to feel. ‘You can dance, can you not?’ she hissed as he led her on to the floor. ‘Only you have sat everything out, and I wondered …’

Jack’s brow furrowed as he took her in his arms. ‘I have been watching,’ he said with a note of anxiety in his deep voice. ‘It seems easy enough.’

‘Jack!’ The music started. There was no escape now without dragging him off the floor, or fleeing. Which was worse? To do that and cause speculation about why, or be a laughing stock as they stumbled around the room?

Then she realised they were moving, that Jack was dancing with perfect competence and that the beast was smiling at her with eyes brimming with laughter. ‘You horrid man! You let me think—’

‘It was irresistible, Lily. You should have seen your face. What do you think we do in the north? Paint ourselves with woad and dance round camp fires? Or do you think the fashions have stuck in the last century and the most à la mode dance we have heard of is the minuet?’

‘Woad, of course.’ She was smiling back now, moving within his guiding arms as though she had always danced with him. For a big man he had grace, even if he did not venture any of the more daring turns that made the chaperons tut in disapproval. He certainly had the strength and the confidence to command the floor.

But more than that, the way he held her, the way he looked at her, made her feel both safe and terrified all at the same time. Lily did not realise that the music had stopped until she found that they were standing still in each others’ arms, their eyes locked. The rest of the couples were beginning to leave the floor.

‘I think we had better move,’ Jack remarked, turning and leading her off. ‘Or do you think if we wait they will strike up an encore?’

Blushing, Lily let him take her off the floor. ‘That is quite my favourite dance tune,’ she improvised in a frantic attempt to explain her behaviour. ‘Really, it is quite mesmerising, is it not?’

‘You are quite mesmerising,’ Jack murmured in her ear.

‘I—’

‘Lily dear, I think it is about time we took our leave, do you not?’ It was Lady Billington, her eyes speculative as they moved from one face to another.

‘Yes, of course. Mr Lovell, would you accompany us?’ Her chaperon did not know where Jack was living, nor, Lily realised, who he was, other than that he was injured during the riot outside the house.

‘Of course.’

Lily could see in the light that flickered into the carriage interior that Lady Billington was dozing—or ‘resting her eyes’, as Mrs Herrick always called it. What was Jack thinking about? She could not read his face in the gloom, but he was staring out of the window. Was he regretting that strangely intense dance? Or had it been only she who had felt the tension and the magic?

Lady Billington came to herself with a start as the carriage pulled up at the steps of the Chandler Street house.

Jack jumped down to assist Lily, then declined as Lady Billington graciously offered to take him to his door. ‘Thank you, ma’am, but I would rather see Miss France safely inside.’

They said goodnight to the chaperon and stood looking after the carriage as it rounded the corner. ‘Is anyone awake?’ Jack eyed the front of the house with some misgiving. There was a faint glimmer through the fanlight, but no other signs of life.

‘I have a key.’ Lily produced it, her awkwardness disappearing at the expression on Jack’s face as he looked from the weighty metal object to her little evening reticule. ‘I left it in the carriage,’ she explained with a smile, handing it to him. ‘I always tell the staff to go to bed when I am not sure what time I will get in. I do not see why they should have to sit up and waste their time, simply to open the door to me.’

‘Your maid too?’ She nodded. ‘An original attitude in London society, I should imagine.’ He opened the door and stood aside for Lily to enter. ‘What about the bolts?’

‘I can manage those. Do come in.’ For a moment she thought he would refuse. ‘You can go through the garden door, there is no point in walking right round to the mews.’

The house seemed eerily quiet. It was strange that she had never noticed it before. They stood together in the hall while Lily lit a branch of candles from the single lantern that had been left burning there. The door to the small salon stood open as it always did when she had been out. A light supper was laid out on the table.

‘I am just going to have a glass of lemonade, perhaps a biscuit. Will you join me?’ Jack hesitated and Lily found she was holding her breath. What was he thinking? She wished she had the courage to reach out and touch him, as though by doing so she could read his mind. ‘The decanters are out and the brandy is very fine, I am assured by my wine merchant.’ Would he make some comment about the price of it and shatter the moment?

‘Thank you, that would be pleasant. Unless you are tired?’

Lily led the way into the room, touching fire to candles until there was an intimate, warm light that glowed against the old panelling that she had not yet had replaced. Looking round at it, she suddenly realised what Jack meant about the comfort of old things. ‘Shall I leave this panelling? I was going to have it ripped out, but, seeing it in this light, it is so lovely.’

‘It would be a shame. It is very fine.’

Lily nodded. ‘I will leave it. No, thank you—’ Jack was lifting the jug of lemonade to pour for her ‘—I will try the brandy.’

‘Are you sure?’ He unstopped the decanter, sniffed and gave an appreciative whistle. ‘I will pour you a little. I suggest you inhale only, this is powerful—and wonderful.’

Lily took the proffered glass, kicked off her kid slippers and went to curl up in one of the big wing chairs. ‘Oh! The aroma is delightful.’ She took a cautious sip, coughed and pulled a face. ‘Is it supposed to taste like this?’

Jack laughed as she took another sip. ‘An acquired taste, I suppose.’ They sat in silence for several minutes. More out of nerves than anything Lily took another mouthful of brandy. It burned all the way down to her stomach. Strange, hot, uncomfortable, yet wonderful. It was like the feelings that ran through her body when she looked at Jack, when he touched her.

He took the chair opposite, crossed his legs and gently swung his foot to and fro while he watched the play of light on the deep amber liquid in his glass. ‘It matches your hair.’

‘No, surely not.’ Lily held up her own glass, frowning. ‘I have red hair.’

‘You do not. Your hair is gold and brown, conker and brandy, mahogany and copper. To say your hair is only red is to say fire is only red.’

Lily pulled at the curl which lay on her shoulder and tried to squint at it in the candlelight. It was hopeless. Impatient, she pulled out the jewelled comb that held her topknot of curls in place and tugged. A mass of hair fell down with a heavy, silken slither, showering pearl-topped pins as it did so. She shook her head until it massed around her shoulders and got up.

‘Does it really match?’ She perched on the arm of Jack’s chair, took a handful of hair and brought it close to his brandy glass. ‘Look and see.’

‘I am looking.’ His voice was husky and it seemed to her that his hand shook slightly as he raised it to catch the fall of her hair. ‘Oh, God, Lily, your hair—’

He must have put down his glass, for he was lifting the weight of her hair in both hands, burying his face in it, and somehow she was no longer sitting on the arm of the chair but in his lap, his arms around her.

And then they were sliding, out of the chair, down on to the carpet, at once hard and soft underneath her, the pile prickling where it met her bare shoulders, yielding just a little where his weight pinned her down.

‘Lily.’ It was a question, a statement. It was a demand she did not understand.

‘Yes,’ she answered firmly. ‘Oh, yes, Jack.’

She thought she knew his mouth now, the feel of his lips on hers, the demands he would make, the sweetness he would give her. It seemed she knew nothing at all. Perhaps it was the candlelight, perhaps the flame of brandy, perhaps it was the love she felt for him.

She could hear a soft mewing sound, then realised it was coming from her own throat as his mouth angled and moved on hers. One hand held her head, moving her so he could plunder her mouth at will, yet she felt no desire to struggle or resist him.

The other caressed downwards, over the swell of her breast as she arched under it, his palm cupping her for one aching moment. Her body was alive, filled with new sensations, new heat, new aching and wanting. She moved restlessly against him as his roving hand moulded her waist, her hip. Downwards.

And all the time the drugging caress never left her mouth. His tongue filled her, tormented her, teased with bold plunging, then tantalising withdrawal. She found she could match him in bravery, in demanding, her teeth nipping at the fullness of his lower lip.

Then the air was cool on her legs and she realised his hand was sliding up over her silk-sheathed calf, up past her garter, up to the warm softness of her bare thigh. He moved higher, confident in his mastery of her as if knowing she could no more resist him than take to the air. It should have been embarrassing, she should have been shy. All Lily knew was that she needed him to touch her—somewhere. There.

‘Jack!’ She knew she cried out, felt his kiss swallow the sound as his knowing, skilful fingers tangled in the hot, moist curls, sank into her, found a place that made her sob with need for him to touch it, sob with an exquisite anguish when he did.

‘Sweetheart.’ His face was buried in her neck as he strained her against him, giving her the anchor she needed to hold on to as the blackness behind her lids turned to flame and sparks and her body shattered and spiralled down into peace.