How to Impress a Marquess Page 14

  “What?” Just capital. She picked the morning of his house party to truly lose her wits.

  “The art from when you were a boy. Penelope preserved it in the attics under a chamber pot. George, you should never have been stopped. It was cruel. The composition, the colors, the light. It’s stunning. You must see.”

  Why the hell was she digging into his past?

  “A chamber pot is its proper home,” he barked. “I have serious—”

  She clasped his hand, trapping it between hers, and held it over her heart. He released an uneven breath as blood rushed to his cock. “Don’t get angry. You must recognize your talent. See all the beauty inside of you.”

  He bit back the harsh words waiting on his tongue and said, with all the control he could muster, “I know you sincerely believe your artist mumbo jumbo. But I’ve serious obligations, Lilith. Important men will be arriving at any time. I must persuade them to vote in their best interest. I don’t have time for your silliness.”

  “You won’t come, will you?”

  “No.”

  “That part of you, that curious, sensitive artist, is shut away forever. You are all grown up. No room for so-called silliness.”

  “Yes. And I would like you to do the same.”

  “Would you?” Still holding his hand to her bosom, she started to sway, letting her full skirt swing about her hips. “Isn’t this gown magnificent? I’m sure the guests will adore it. It will be written up in all the magazines. I think I shall perform my exotic Arabian dance in it.” She lifted his hand and twirled underneath it.

  Wasn’t she clever? In a fast motion, he braced his arm across the small of her back and dipped her.

  She released a surprised squeak.

  “You’ve done this on purpose, haven’t you?” He leaned over, keeping her body trapped beneath his. The vanilla and citrus scent of her skin, tinged with lavender soap, exploded in his mind.

  “Unless you vow to see your art, this is how I will meet your guests.” Her eyes held a bold challenge. “Do you think I’ll make a good impression? Will I help your political ambitions?”

  He took those words as an invitation to examine in the minutest detail how she planned to greet his guests. Starting from the loose locks falling from that ridiculous bun, then to her soft open lips, down the curve of her neck to where her breasts rose over the top of her bodice. He felt her shiver under his gaze, but she kept her dark eyes locked on his face. His cock grew harder. He released an uneven breath through his teeth.

  His lips were so close to that silky skin. He was certain that releasing her breasts from this hideous gown, taking the tip of one into his mouth, licking and suckling it, could calm his anxious thoughts.

  “I can’t now,” he growled between clenched teeth.

  She lowered her head until it dangled beneath his arm. Her breasts slid from her bodice until the very tops of her rosy areolas peeked over the edge of the bodice just below his lips. “Promise me,” she said, all low and creamy. “Meet me in the attics in the fortress wing at two in the morning, when everyone has gone to bed.”

  He released a tight groan. “Good God, I promise,” he cried. “Stop this game.”

  She was too much. All ivory, silk, and heat. He kissed the mound of her breasts with open lips, letting his tongue taste her tender skin. He heard her whimper, the kind a woman makes when lost in the pleasured heat of a man moving inside of her. He drew her closer; no doubt she could feel every inch of his erection against her thigh as his mouth moved closer to dangerous territory at the edge of her bodice.

  He heard the creak of boards under carpet and the turn of a knob. He quickly flipped Lilith up. The door opened; he saw the swish of his mother’s black gown. Dear God, he was as hard as an iron girder. But Lilith, that mysterious, infuriating, and amazing woman, realized his problem and mercifully stepped in front of him, blocking his trousers from his mother’s hot gaze.

  “You—you arrogant, unartistic lump-head!” Lilith shouted at him. “I see nothing wrong with my gown. It’s lovely. You are all cruel to stifle my fashion, my soul’s expression, my being.”

  “Miss Dahlgren, don’t you dare talk such nonsense to the marquess. Put on a proper gown without delay. You will find that I’m not as diplomatic as my son in dealing with domestic matters.”

  Lilith rolled her eyes and stalked away, but when she reached the turn in the corridor, she glanced over her shoulder. “You promised,” she mouthed and then disappeared around the corner.

  “She is untamable and sadly misguided,” his mother said. “It’s that low Dahlgren in her. She has never been anything but resentful and ungracious to our kind overtures.”

  George didn’t trust himself to answer. He spun on his heel and stormed to his study.

  Not ten minutes before, George had been pondering courting a lady guest. Then he kissed Lilith’s breasts. By all measures of correct behavior he should propose. But she could no more be the Marchioness of Marylewick than he could be a Whig.

  Some things were simply too horrible to contemplate.

  If she made a mockery of his party, he would… What would he do? He was running out of options for her. He threw money and marital threats at her and none of them stuck. How did one hold back a human gale?

  He was going to read Colette until the first guest arrived. It was the only way he knew how to prevent homicide at this point.

  In his study, he tried to focus on Colette’s story, but his mind kept wandering to the box Lilith had found. Penelope had told him when he was thirteen that she had hidden his work in the attic, but he didn’t care to see it then because it was filled with the relics of the boy he didn’t want to be anymore. Why now at thirty-one did it matter what was up there?

  He tried to focus on the page, but soon the words faded behind the memory of Lilith’s beautiful eyes, imbued with awe and admiration, when she said, “I’ve seen your art. I’ve seen it. You’re brilliant.”

  Just what was under that chamber pot?

  Twelve

  George was informed that the guests had begun to arrive an hour later. He straightened his waistcoat, smoothed his coat sleeves, and headed down to the great hall, feeling very much like a condemned inmate going to the scaffold.

  He found his mother waiting in the hall like some version of a queen receiving her court. Penelope appeared distraught as she lurked in their mother’s shadow. Across the hall, Beatrice traced her fingers along the leaves of a planted palm.

  “Where is Miss Dahlgren?” George asked, turning about.

  “She’s probably off somewhere distracted by the colorful circus in her mind,” his mother said. “Now let us be content. We are so content.” She sang the last word. “Penelope, dearest, remove that sour frown or you’ll get unsightly wrinkles. Beatrice, my darling girl, what are you doing over there by that plant? Why, no one can see you behind the foliage.”

  “This tropical plant appears to be blighted by a fungus or, perhaps, tiny insects.” Beatrice turned a leaf. “Perhaps this is a new ailment from its nonnative environment? I wonder how I might get a proper specimen to study?”

  “My darling, darling, darling,” Lady Marylewick chimed. “Remember, delicate female conversation. The guests are arriving and I don’t want to hear any more unbecoming, unladylike talk.”

  The bright, lovely fascination on Beatrice’s features drained away. “I’m so sorry! I will be better. I will.”

  Before George could intercede, the front door opened. Mr. Pomfret strolled in a few feet ahead of his wife and daughter. George pretended not to notice Mrs. Pomfret discreetly fussing over her daughter’s gown.

  “Ah, Lord Marylewick, a fine day to begin your house party,” Mr. Pomfret said congenially. He wore a plaid coat and trousers. His hair and whiskers were ruffled from the journey, yet this didn’t bother the plain-spoken, unaffected gentleman.

 
His wife lacked all her husband’s easiness. Her clothes were a little more adorned than was tasteful, and her ornate hair and hint of cosmetics gave the impression of someone who tried too hard. “Tyburn Hall is more magnificent than ever I imagined, Your Grace,” she said, confusing his title. She performed an affected curtsy. “Is there a more superior home in England, my dear Cecelia?” She gave her daughter a tiny tug, pulling her forward.

  “Y-yes, er, I mean no.” Miss Pomfret performed a stiff curtsy, her hands trembling with nervousness. She broke out in a ferocious blush when he bowed in return and mentioned how delighted he was that she could attend.

  Lady Marylewick further undid the poor young lady by gracing her with a compliment. “Such charming conversation,” she said to the girl who had only stammered a few words.

  Mrs. Pomfret seized upon the praise for her daughter. “Thank you, thank you, Your Grace. Miss Cecelia is exceedingly charming in conversation. Everyone says that they can’t wait to converse with her.” Her eyes flickered to George. “No doubt she will not be charming us with her conversation much longer. A gentleman will pluck her away now that she is out of the schoolroom.”

  “A lucky gentleman, indeed,” George managed. All he could think was she wasn’t near the woman Lilith was. Why was he comparing her to Lilith?

  “Come, my dears,” said Mr. Pomfret, realizing his wife teetered dangerously close to impropriety.

  After they passed out of earshot, George’s mother leaned in. “What a delightful mother. Not a hint of vulgarity or ambition.”

  “Mama,” he growled under this breath.

  Where was Lilith? Should he be relieved that she had chosen not to appear? Was he looking a gift horse in the mouth?

  More guests began streaming in. Some were bachelors, whose eyes roamed around the hall, no doubt searching for the elusive Lilith Dahlgren they had heard so much about. Others were families of MPs or important political figures toting a decked-out, nervous daughter, granddaughter, or young female relative of marriageable age. Upon greeting each young lady, his mother would utter vicious little compliments such as “what a darling complexion” about the poor pimple-faced girl or “a delicate figure” about the young lady filling out her dress.

  George was ready to walk out the door, shout To hell with extending the Stamp Duty Extension Bill, unhitch a horse, and ride away.

  And where the bloody hell was Lilith?

  The elderly Lord Harrowsby shuffled in, hunched over his cane. A serious young man attended him. Deaf in one ear, Lord Harrowsby spoke to everyone as if they were standing yards away. “Well, my boy, I almost lost my poor life on your roads. They get worse every year. Now I feel my gout coming on again.” He jerked his head toward the man behind him. “I bring my physician along since that bout of painful indigestion after the Lord Chancellor’s dinner party. Have a weak liver, you see. Vinegary wine brings it on every time. You never know what people are going to serve you.”

  “How’s that weak liver, my lord?” an amused male voice said. “Still has you in the dumps?” In swaggered Lord Charles, with his father behind him.

  Charles’s eyes scanned the grand hall before lighting back on George and his mother. “Lady Marylewick, you are still the most beautiful lady in London after all these years. Pardon me, I forget we are in the country now. And how could I after bouncing and bumping about those potted roads? I positively feel my gout coming on.”

  “That’s what I was telling him,” cried Lord Harrowsby, not perceiving the joke was on him.

  “Were you, now?” Lord Charles replied in all seriousness, except for his eyes, which were aglitter as when he was at Eton, enjoying the casual torment of another boy.

  George made a point to keep his fists from clenching. “I shall send my man to see about the roads,” he replied civilly.

  “Do that, my good man.” Charles edged closer to George as his father greeted Lady Marylewick and Penelope. “Where is she? Where have you hidden her? Are we playing hide and seek?”

  “I assure you that Miss Dahlgren will come down shortly.”

  “How she taunts me,” he mock-cried to the heavens. “All day I dream of—” He faltered. The cynical, bemused expression evaporated from his face. A low hush blew through the room, all eyes turning up to gaze at an elegant young lady dressed in pale gold standing on the stairs. A hot, dizzying wave rushed through George’s head. In his mind, he saw her as a picture, all dazzling gold, red, and light.

  * * *

  Lilith cursed herself for being late. Even after she dressed, she had paced the room. Her mission had been simple: get George to see his art and then go on about her life. See how wonderful you were before you turned into a flaming arse? she would say to him. See how your life could have been? Very well, then. There is nothing more for me to do. Ta-ta. Using her feminine wiles, she had gotten him to promise. That had been child’s play.

  The problem was hers. When she had looked at him this morning, she didn’t see the George she expected. She saw George and lovely blue robin eggs. And when he kissed her breasts and his body reacted to hers, he was George and lovely light dancing on the water. Now as he glanced up at her on the stairs, she had to grab the banister else she might go tumbling down, head over heels. She had always known George was handsome in an empirical, cold, assessing way. George is handsome, and isn’t that a lovely rug. What a fine view from this window, and, by the by, George is handsome. His beauty assaulted all her senses.

  She kept her head high and feigned the strength and confidence she didn’t feel, as she had learned to do during those first excruciating days at a new school. She forced herself not to look at George but at Lord Charles, who gazed at her with a predatory gleam. She stifled a groan behind a gracious smile and swept forward to greet the duke.

  “How wonderful to see you again, Your Grace.” She curtsied. “And Lord Charles.” Lilith tried to keep from peeking at George, else he would flood her senses once more. Nonetheless, her skin tingled at his proximity as if he was touching her all over.

  Lady Marylewick gave her little laugh. “I didn’t realize you were already acquainted with His Grace.” The edges of her smile hardened.

  “I attended school with his lordship’s daughter,” Lilith explained, in the gracious tones befitting a hostess. “Did you not bring her?” she asked the duke. “How I would have loved to have shared a little tête-à-tête.”

  “She was loath to leave my grandson,” replied the duke. “He is almost half a year now, but she refuses to part from him.”

  “Of course she would be,” she said. “A devoted mother. And Lord Charles, you look to be in fine spirits. I hope the journey from London wasn’t too taxing.”

  “Like traveling on a cloud.” Charles gave George a sideways glance, as though sharing a private joke.

  A few more pleasantries managed to slip past before Lady Marylewick retook control of the conversation, at which time the duke noticed an acquaintance entering the parlor and excused himself.

  Charles remained, taking Lilith by the arm. “I must talk to you,” he said in an urgent whisper. “Of the most serious nature.”

  She wanted to resist, but she had to be careful. George needed the man’s vote. She allowed him to escort her to a corner of the hall, partially concealed by a black and gold Greek vase hoisted on a pedestal.

  “Lord Charles, whatever is troubling you?”

  “That you are magnificent. A fine performance. Brava, my dear.”

  “Performance?” She had been lured away so that Charles could flirt! Now all she could do was patiently endure it until she could manufacture what looked to be a natural break in the conversation. She missed her old rag-mannered world where she could say Go to Hades, Lord Charles. Now she felt she was balancing on a spider’s thread.

  “Yes, England’s most gracious hostess, and most beautiful, if I may boldly add.”

 
“Lady Marylewick is the hostess. I’m merely a family member.”

  “Are you really a Maryle?” He leaned closer. “I prefer the Dahlgren. Exciting and enticing.”

  She edged back, but smiled so she wouldn’t give offense. “Be careful, Lord Charles. You might be straying into territory others would call impertinent.”

  “I can’t afford not to be. I must act boldly and swiftly. Look around, Miss Dahlgren, all eyes are on you, except for Lord Marylewick, the old boy, who prefers those proper, simpering, witless types. Ah, see now how this one curtsies before him, a shy, blushing, vacant young thing.”

  Lilith glanced over her shoulder. Another family had entered the hall, this one escorting a lovely daughter in a trim blue gown, her brunette hair falling in glossy spiral curls. She blushed when George greeted her. Lilith felt a nasty pang of jealousy as she watched the girl, but she kept her features cool. She knew Lord Charles, who only played the charming fool, watched for any twitch in her visage, anything he could use to dig into her.

  “That particular female specimen is Lady Cornelia,” he said. “This season’s forerunner in the marital race for Lord Marylewick.”

  It seemed so obvious now, yet why did the knowledge suddenly strike her with such brutal force: of course every young lady of quality would be angling for George. The blinding light of the title marquess outshone the numerous deficiencies of his unyielding personality.

  Why did this bother her? Who George courted shouldn’t be a concern of hers, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to stomp across the room and shout Just so we are clear on the facts of the matter, he kissed me on my breast.

  “Now I have made you quite society’s darling to get you invited to this little party and keep me entertained,” explained Charles. “By Jove, I could not fathom a week of George’s dull political romancing.”

  “This was all your little game? Why?”

  “Do you not know?” He flashed an intimate smile as he set his elbow against the wall and rested his temple in his hand. “Can you not venture a guess?”