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“Your Prince Charming is out there,” she said. “He’s longing to find his true love—he just doesn’t know who you are. But very soon, he’ll find out you’re the one he’s been waiting for, and then—” “He’ll run away screaming.” “No, he’ll take you into his arms, masterfully, and gaze into your lustrous orbs—” “My what?” “—and press his burning lips to yours with passionate ardor—” “You’ve read too many novels,” Lillian said.
Good God, how did you ever become so superstitious?” “Coming from one who recently purchased a bottle of magic perfume—” “I never thought it was magic. I only liked the smell!” “Lillian,” Daisy chided playfully, “what’s the harm in allowing for the possibility? I refuse to believe that we’re going to go through life without something magical happening.
“I’m wishing very hard,” she whispered. “Are you, Lillian?” “Yes,” Lillian murmured, though she wasn’t precisely hoping for Lord Westcliff to find true love. Her wish was more along the lines of, I hope that Lord Westcliff will meet a woman who will bring him to his knees.
“By being the master of the house. Back in America the woman is the ruler of the home, but in England everything revolves around the man.”
“the next time you face a room full of strangers . . . you might tell yourself that some of them are just friends waiting to be found.”
“I was right, wasn’t I?” she asked huskily, unable to look at him. “It was a mistake for us to dance.” Westcliff waited so long to reply that she thought he might not. “Yes,” he finally said, the single syllable roughened with some unidentifiable emotion.
“All husbands are unfaithful in one way or another.” Lillian and Daisy glanced at each other with raised brows. “Father isn’t,” Lillian replied smartly. Mercedes responded with a laugh that sounded like crackling leaves being crushed underfoot. “Isn’t he, dear? Perhaps he has stayed true to me physically—one can never be certain about these things. But his work has proved a more jealous and demanding mistress than a flesh-and-blood woman could ever be. All his dreams are invested in that collection of buildings and employees and legalities that absorb him to the exclusion of all else. If my
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“You clearly have need of a qualified tutor.” His warm breath touched her lips as he spoke. “Hold still.”
“No,” he murmured. “Don’t pull away. Open for me. Open . . .”
“Lillian,” he said unsteadily, “tell me not to touch you. Tell me it’s enough now. Tell me—”
“Lillian—hold still, damn it—Lillian, look at me!” Westcliff waited until she had stilled beneath him. “I don’t want to see you hurt.” “Has it ever occurred to you, you arrogant idiot, that the person most likely to hurt me might be you?”
“Are you angry because I started making love to you, or because I didn’t finish?” Lillian licked her dry lips. “I’m angry, you bloody big hypocrite, because you can’t make up your mind about what to do with me.”
“You do her an injustice by assuming that she could not adapt. Shouldn’t she be allowed the chance to try?” “Blast it, Hunt, I have no need of a devil’s advocate.” “You were hoping for blind agreement?” Hunt asked mockingly. “Perhaps you should have sought someone of your own class for counsel.”
How cavernous the house seemed when it was devoid of guests, with its miles of flooring and infinite clusters of rooms. A grand, ancient house with the impersonal ambiance of a hotel. A house like this needed the happy shouts of children echoing through the halls, and toys littering the parlor floor, and the squeaky sounds of violin lessons coming from the music room. Marks on the walls, and teatime with sticky jam tarts, and toy hoops being rolled across the back terrace.
Staring into her drowsy dark eyes and flushed face, Marcus amended the phrase. Lillian was not disguised. She was foxed, staggering, tap-hackled, top-heavy, shot-in-the-neck, staggering drunk.
“Rest your tongue on the edge of your teeth and . . . it’s all about the tongue, really. If you’re agile with your tongue, you’ll be a very, very good”—she was temporarily interrupted as he covered her mouth with a brief, ravening kiss—“whistler. My lord, I can’t talk when you—” He fitted his mouth to hers again, devouring the sweet brandied taste of her.
“But for some reason,” she continued, “I never want to kiss him the way I do you.” It was a good thing that she had closed her eyes, for if she had seen his expression, she might not have continued. “There is something about you that makes me feel terribly wicked. You make me want to do shocking things. Maybe it’s because you’re so proper. Your necktie is never crooked, and your shoes are always shiny. And your shirts are so starchy. Sometimes when I look at you, I want to tear off all your buttons. Or set your trousers on fire.”
He could no longer deny that for the rest of his life, he would measure every other woman against her, and find them all lacking.
Her smile, her sharp tongue, her temper, her infectious laugh, her body and spirit, everything about her struck a pleasurable chord in him. She was independent, willful, stubborn . . . qualities that most men did not desire in a wife. The fact that he did was as undeniable as it was unexpected.
There were only two ways to manage the situation. He could either continue trying to avoid her, which had been a spectacular failure so far, or he could simply give in. Give in . . . knowing that she would never be the placid, proper wife he had always envisioned having. In marrying her, he would defy a fate that had been scripted for him before he had even been born. He would never be entirely certain what to expect from Lillian. She would behave in ways that he would not always understand, and she would bite back like a half-tamed creature whenever he tried to control her. She was a creature
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“Yesterday,” he told her, “I finally realized that all the things I thought were wrong about you were actually the things I enjoyed most. I don’t give a damn what you do, so long as it pleases you. Run barefoot on the front lawn. Eat pudding with your fingers. Tell me to go to hell as often as you like. I want you just as you are. After all, you’re the only woman aside from my sisters who has ever dared to tell me to my face that I’m an arrogant ass. How could I resist you?” He lowered his head to brush his lips over hers with stunning gentleness. “My dearest Lillian . . . if I had the gift of
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“This wouldn’t be a ruse to lure me into a situation in which you would take unscrupulous advantage of me?” Drawing back to look at her, Marcus answered gravely. “No, I intend to have a meaningful discussion that will put to rest any doubts about marrying me.” “Oh.” “And then I’ll take unscrupulous advantage of you.”
Though he despised the role of a martyr and had never cast himself in that light, he could not help but reflect that for most of his life, his own needs had gone largely unaddressed as he had shouldered his responsibilities. Now he had finally found a woman who offered all the warmth and enjoyment that had been so long overdue him . . . and damn it all, he had a right to demand the support of family and friends, no matter what private reservations they might have.
“You’ve gone mad!” “No, my lady. For the first time in my life I have a chance at happiness—and I will not lose it.”
“Go to the last row on the right, two shelves from the floor,” Lady Olivia advised. “And look behind the books in front. I’ve hidden my favorite novels there—wicked stories that no innocent girl should read. They’ll corrupt you immeasurably.” Daisy’s dark eyes lit up at the information. “Oh, thank you!” She scampered away without a backward glance,
Ah, well, she thought wryly, I’ve gotten this far without any wiles . . . I suppose I’ll do fine if I just blunder on ahead the way I’ve been doing.
“Honesty is overrated. As someone once said, ‘Secrecy is the first essential in affairs of the heart.’ ”
“It was the Duc de Richelieu,” said Lillian, who had read the same book of philosophy during their schoolroom lessons. “And the accurate quote is, ‘Secrecy is the first essential in affairs of the State.’ ” “He was French, though,” Daisy argued. “I’m sure he meant the heart as well.”
“Oh, very well. But heed my words—it wouldn’t be a true love affair if you didn’t have a few little secrets.”
“Oh, Daisy, it’s revolting, the way I want to fawn all over him. I’m afraid that I’m going to do something dreadfully silly today. Burst into song or something. For God’s sake, don’t let me.”
“I love you, Marcus.” Taking the napkin from him, Lillian blew her nose noisily and continued to weep as she spoke. “I love you. I don’t mind if I’m the first one to say it, nor even if I’m the only one. I just want you to know how very much—” “I love you too,” he said huskily. “I love you too. Lillian . . . Please don’t cry. It’s killing me. Don’t.”
“Make love to me, Marcus,” she whispered. His shadowy form loomed over her while his hand played in her hair. “My love,” he said, a note of tender amusement in his voice, “since this morning you’ve been threatened, drugged, abducted, handcuffed, and carried halfway across England. Haven’t you had enough for one day?”
“There is nothing on earth more beautiful to me than your smile . . . no sound sweeter than your laughter . . . no pleasure greater than holding you in my arms. I realized today that I could never live without you, stubborn little hellion that you are. In this life and the next, you’re my only hope of happiness. Tell me, Lillian, dearest love . . . how can you have reached so far inside my heart?” He paused to kiss her damp silken skin . . . and smiled as the wisp of a feminine snore broke the peaceful silence.
