Fallen (3 page)

"Miss Temple, you amaze me. Perhaps this marriage will do after all."

"Marriage?" she asked faintly.

"Miss Temple? You must see that we… That is, my father insists… Miss Temple?"

When she erupted into rippling peals of laughter, he was offended. True, it had not been much of a proposal, but it was the first of his life and meant a great deal to him. Then her infectious laugh grabbed him and pulled him in to laugh along with her.

What was it about this girl?

"Oh, dear. I am sorry. I had this picture in my mind. I do that, you see. And, well, I can just see your face… when he told you that you were getting
married
!"

Shoulders shaking, she collapsed back on the settee. "Did he… did he do that… that fish thing? What did he call you, a mad despoiler of… of innocence?"

She grinned up at him, stunning him with the sweetness of her smile. Her small, even white teeth gleamed and the tiny suggestion of a dimple appeared in one cheek, giving her a charming off-center look.

Then her words sank in and he stared.

"What fish thing?"

Sobering, she sat up.

"I am sorry, my lord. I have overstepped, of course."

"Explain yourself." He narrowed his eyes at her.

Oh bother, now she had done it. Averting her gaze, Izzy searched for a way out. The ugly, over-decorated parlor simply looked back at her, giving no clues for escape. Warm fingers grasped her chin, and she was forced to look into the hooded eyes of a suddenly dangerous man.

"What fish thing?"

There was no help for it. "Ah, that night, you see, when everyone found you in my bed, and they assumed you had… Anyway,
he
burst in and sort of, well, gaped, you understand, like a fish. Open, shut. Open, shut. Open…" She faded, sure that the heavy hand of the nobility was about to fell her. She watched Blackworth the way a rabbit watches a hawk, with doomed fascination.

His grip on her chin tightened, and his lips compressed to a narrow, whitened line. The tendons in his neck flexed and he began to tremble in… rage?

A great shout of laughter dispelled her fears. He not only laughed, he roared. Dizzy with relief, Izzy decided she liked this man, liked him very much. Perhaps a bit too much.

Her eyes ran over him with hunger she did not want to admit to herself. What a man this was. Tall, yes definitely, with broad shoulders, a wealth of unruly dark hair, and a sensual twist to his lips that made her fight back a responsive shiver.

"A fish?" Blackworth sputtered out. "Oh, God. Wonderful. Fits like a glove." He smiled at her. "That sounds just like something my brother would once have said."

A brother? The mind boggled, that there might be two such beautiful men upon the earth. But no, he had spoken of his brother in the past tense. He was no longer of this world, it appeared.

Izzy stopped smiling. How sad. She knew about such pain, the hollow feeling of loss. She felt it every day. Impulsively, she put her hand over his.

"I am sorry. You must miss him."

Blackworth's smile faded and he gave her a long look. "Yes, I still do. Always will, I suppose. He was my best friend."

"What happened to him? Or do you not care to speak of it?"

"There is little to tell. He died while hunting at Dearingham. No one really knows quite how it happened." His expression was closed and cool once more.

His voice was dispassionate, yet Izzy could see the pain in his eyes. She tightened her hand on his. "Do you have any others? Siblings, I mean."

"No, just Manny and I. An heir and a spare." His lips took a cynical twist.

"Your father did not truly call him that, did he? A spare. How cruel."

"No, of course not.
I
," he said with that same dry smile, "was the spare. I recall that he did say it, often."

Izzy was furious. "Lord Blackworth, I do not like your father. Not at all."

He shook his head in amazement.

"Miss Temple, when we are wed, you mustn't antagonize him. My father never forgets an insult. He could make things very difficult for you."

"Oh, dear. We are back to that, again, aren't we? I am sorry, Lord Blackworth. You seem like a very nice gentleman. But I have no wish to marry."

I am free?

Yet, after the first wash of relief, Eppie realized he could not afford to let her reject his proposal. His future, and hers, depended on this marriage.

"Miss Temple, you know we must marry." He used his deciding argument. "The restoration of your reputation requires it."

"Oh, but I do not wish my reputation restored, my lord." She patted his hand and dropped it back in his lap. "But thank you for your very kind offer."

She rose and gave him a polite smile.

"Now, I expect you must be going. I shall see you out. You have been delightful to spend time with. I do hope you will call again, someday."

Eppie grabbed her hand once more and pulled her back down next to him on the settee.

Too surprised to resist, she sat. "You are a most physical person, aren't you, my lord?" she said, laughing breathlessly.

"I apologize, Miss Temple. I do not usually manhandle women."

She cocked an eyebrow at him, as if reminding him of their first unorthodox meeting. He flushed.

"My dear Lord Blackworth, there is no need for this. Being a fallen woman quite agrees with me. I had no idea how unhappy I was, weighed down by society's demands of virtue and propriety. An unmarried woman's lot is difficult.

"But," she raised an imperious hand to halt him when he began to interrupt, "a married woman's lot is worse. I have no wish to become the property of any man. It wouldn't suit me, I'm afraid. I do not take well to authority," she confided serenely.

"I do not require a man to support me, as I have a small independence left to me by my parents. And as a fallen woman, I may now live alone. I cannot wait to do so, you see. My relatives are parsimonious to extreme and… well, there is no need to go into detail."

She didn't see that she had given much away already. Eppie pictured her life here, with the grim, demanding Marchwells. He looked around the parlor.

In quality, it was almost as fine as his own home. In taste, however, it was ostentatious to the point of ugliness. Tone upon tone of torrid yellow-gold was lavished upon every surface. Draperies, carpets, fabrics, all were a blinding, vile yellow. Textures vied with patterns to nauseate the eye.

He surmised that the Marchwells belonged to the ranks of those who spent their money only where it showed.

"I have no desire to trade my newfound freedom for the shackles of marriage," Izzy said. "Now, I am sure you shall make a fine husband for some other woman, but I have no need of one."

How could he convince her? He considered stealing her away, kidnapping her off to Gretna Green. A two-day journey by coach in good weather…

His mind spun with wild plans, none of them viable. He felt his goal of the last twenty years slipping from his grasp. "No doubt I'll be disinherited by sunset tomorrow."

Izzy gasped. "No! Your father wouldn't, really? Would he? Oh, dear. He would.
Bother
that man!" She sprang from her seat and paced the room.

Idly, Eppingham watched her twitching bottom as she strode before him. What he could see of her figure was not so very objectionable. In truth, she had a rather attractive rear view. He felt a mild urge to discover what was under the hideous dress.

"Come, my lord, we must think. Oh, drat him, anyway. I thought I had already dealt with that problem."

His attention focused. "What does that mean, you dealt with it?"

"Why, confessing to our torrid affair, of course. Something terrible might have happened to you if I had not. And I couldn't very well tell the truth and destroy poor Lady Bottomly." She flapped her hand dismissively. "How can we resolve this, my lord? He mustn't be allowed to get away with this."

He had stopped listening. The room spun around him as if the world had shifted on its axis.

She had sacrificed her good name to prevent his disinheritance? Why would she do that for a stranger, and after the way he had assaulted her? He had thought it all a ploy to gain a wealthy titled husband, yet he could not deny the sincerity of her rejection. She clearly had no intention of manipulating him to the altar. And, she knew about Celia!

Lady Celia Bottomly had everything any woman could wish for: beauty, wealth, and position. Blessings of which Miss Temple obviously had none. Most women he knew were quite envious of the beauty, and would not hesitate to denigrate her. What no one knew—the lady's terrible secret—was how unhappy she was inside that glittering life. Her husband was a vicious beast, her marriage a prison.

Miss Temple had seen through to the heart of both their miseries, his and Celia's, and had diverted a great disaster with one sweep of her dainty hand. And promptly ruined herself in the process.

Eppingham could not grasp such self-sacrifice. His existence was one of gratification and excess. He gave no promises, lived under no vows. With only pleasure to be gained and boredom to be lost, he had experimented widely, shamelessly, with never a care for another. Even his sympathy for Celia was merely a product of his desire to bed her.

"Miss Temple, I—" he began, only to have her swing round to face him.

"Yes! Yes, of course. We must become betrothed!"

"Well, yes, that was my intention—"

"No, no, not
married
. Definitely not. Betrothed!" She smiled at him with great satisfaction. "A nice long betrothal, to let all the furor die down, and then a nice quiet jilting. You see? I'll go about my life, and you'll go about yours, and at the end of, oh, say six months, we'll end it and go our separate merry ways."

Plopping herself down beside him on the settee, she heaved a great sigh. Eppie wondered if she could be as guileless as she seemed. He was accustomed to the skilled manipulation and calculated flirtation of the women in his set. Izzy Temple was as different from that as chalk to cheese.

A betrothal would suit him well enough. Of course, his father would not allow him to break it. But she needn't know that.

"Then it is agreed," he said. "We become betrothed immediately. However, my dear, our courtship cannot progress as you've described. Society would never credit it, and most important"—he raised his hand as she began to object—"my father would not believe it. No, appearances must be maintained, at least for the duration."

Izzy knew he was right. They would have to present the illusion of courtship before the eyes of the aristocracy. She could not allow that horrid man to rob Lord Blackworth of his inheritance.

She understood how important an inheritance could be. Her own would someday mean the difference between a life full of options and a mere existence in chains, intangible but quite real.

The lure of that freedom was all that had kept her sanity at times. Locked into the expectations of her family and community, Izzy had counted the months and years ahead until she should reach a sufficient spinster's age, perhaps thirty or thereabouts.

Then she would take the income that had been accumulating since her nineteenth birthday, and be gone. She knew just where she was going. To the place which was, to her, synonymous with freedom. America.

She smiled to herself. Now, she needn't wait any longer. Perhaps next week she would find rooms somewhere, and she and Lord Blackworth could perpetrate their scheme. At the end of her "betrothal" she would be free and off to begin an independent life in America. She told Lord Blackworth as much.

He shook his head. "Surely you cannot think to live alone now? I have explained this. It would be scandalous if you were to take rooms alone. Appearances must be kept in all things. We must conduct a spotless courtship. I'll escort you about and regularly call upon you here. I know you wish to be free of the Marchwells, but they are essential to our plan."

"No, I cannot stay! You have no idea what the last week has been like. The censure, the stifling—I could not bear six months of it. I so wish to help you, but I cannot stay here long enough to follow through on our agreement." She shuddered. "I am not that brave."

He sobered, realizing the extent of her distress.

"You needn't worry, you know," he said. "After I finish with the Marchwells, they will think they are hosting royalty. And there is no need to wait six months. Until the end of the season will suffice.

"So, you see, my dear, we may go on with our plan. Perhaps you will even enjoy our time together. The fashionable world can be quite entertaining. The Waverlys' ball will open the season in three weeks. We will begin then."

"A ball?" She breathed the word as if she spoke of the seventh level of hell. "What would I be doing at a ball?"

«
^
»

Blackworth frowned. "Of course, you will go. It would be much remarked upon if you didn't."

"Well, I cannot. It simply will not happen," Izzy said, her voice tart.

Blackworth sighed heavily. "You may be right. This whole thing is too much to ask. Perhaps I should simply go back to my father and tell him how I have failed." He sighed once more, rather dramatically. "He'll want to contact his solicitor immediately."

He stood, bowing over her hand. Gazing into her eyes, he gave her a sad smile. "I thank you for your efforts, Miss Temple. I shall always remember you with fondness." Slowly, he moved to leave.

This time, Izzy grabbed his hand with both of hers and yanked. With a yelp of surprised laughter, he landed flat on the settee, his head in her lap.

"You attend to me, Lord Blackworth! I will not let you go. He will not be allowed to do this to you. And if I have to parade myself at a ball and be humiliated, so be it. It will not matter in the end."

He grinned up at her. "Saving me is becoming a habit, Miss Temple."

Her pulse sped. His smile pierced her heart. He was beautiful, like a Greek hero. The solid column of his neck rose from his wrapped cravat, the pulse in his throat beating evenly, unlike her own. She could feel
the
warmth of his body seeping through her skirts into her lap, and nearly shuddered from the clenching in her belly. She remembered the heat of his hands on her that night, and the memory confused her.