Julia London (73 page)

He spoke so earnestly, she believed he felt the turmoil, too. Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t deny it.”

His eyes seemed to glow like fire. “When I see you, when I am near you, I lose myself. I—” He caught himself. He straightened, looking blindly over her shoulder. “I just lose myself,” he repeated beneath his breath, and pulled her into his embrace.

God, she had been lost since he first appeared at Rosewood. Even then, she had wanted this man with all her heart. Confusion, extraordinary longing, and a sense of terrible distress rifled through her. She buried her face in his shoulder. “I am lost, too,” she muttered, unconsciously voicing her thoughts aloud. “But it is so wrong! Nothing can come of it.”

She felt the tension in his body, then his hands slid from her, falling leaden to his sides. “I know, angel. It can never be,” he mumbled wearily. “It can
never
be.”

He sounded so ravaged that her heart sank with despair. He had just ignited a flame in her that would not be doused, not for the rest of her life, she was quite certain. It was so grossly unfair. She turned away from him, blinking back a rush of tears as she fumbled madly with her hair. “I … I want to go home,” she gasped.

“Of course.” He gestured solemnly toward the path, his eyes downcast. Desperate, she preceded him, walking swiftly to the phaeton, afraid to look back. When she reached the carriage, she tossed her bonnet onto the seat and hauled herself up, afraid that he would touch her and start
the inferno blazing in her again. He climbed up beside her and wordlessly signaled the chestnut forward.

The drive around the park was painfully silent, and she was relieved to see Lord Westfall waiting for them near the entrance. He was grinning, and as they rolled to a stop he reached down to pat the mare’s neck.

“Fine mare, Alex…” He paused, glancing at Lauren. A strange look came over his face that she immediately read as disgust. Mother of God, she could have died of shame. Lord Westfall flicked a cool gaze to Alex. “I should see Countess Bergen home,” he said curtly, and slid off the horse.

Alex did not hesitate to trade places with him. He mounted the mare swiftly, then glanced at her, his blank expression seemingly carved from stone. “Good day,” he said, and turned the horse in the direction of Pall Mall. Her chest tightened painfully as he galloped away.

The carriage abruptly swayed, bringing her back to her senses. She glanced shyly at Lord Westfall. He was obviously trying very hard to pretend as if nothing was amiss, but was failing miserably in his efforts. She had never felt more ashamed in her life.

Nor had she ever felt more terribly confused.

Still highly agitated by the experience in the clearing, Lauren stomped into the town house and flung her bonnet onto an entry table, not noticing Davis until he picked it up. “Parlor,” he announced, and extended a hand for her reticule. Marvelous, she thought. Ethan would probably demand to know if she had gleaned Lord Westfall’s annual income during their drive.

But it was only Paul and he was alone in the parlor. She suppressed the urge to groan as his eyes swept her disheveled appearance, from the top of her head where wisps of hair had come loose from her attempt at a coif, to the grass stains on the hem of her gown. He raised a brow high above the other. “Dear Lord, were you caught in a storm?”

With a harried shrug, Lauren looked down at her gown. “The wind is bit brisk today.”

“It looks as if your carriage rolled over,” he said, eyeing her suspiciously.

“The grass was wet.”

Paul frowned. “I understood you to say that Lord Westfall was driving you.”

She did not like the tone of his voice at all. On top of everything else, it was enough to drive her to drink. She marched to a cart in the corner of the room and picked up a decanter of sherry. “He
did
drive me. But we met his cousin, and Lord Westfall wanted to ride his horse. It’s from Rouen, and he is quite fond of horses, so while we were waiting, we had a short turn about,” she muttered evasively.

“We?” Paul asked.

Good heavens, was this an inquisition? “His cousin,” she said, frowning.

“His cousin? Who is his cousin?” Paul demanded.

“The Duke of Sutherland,” Lauren muttered.

“The
Duke
of
Sutherland
?” her brother loudly exclaimed.

Lauren impatiently discarded the sherry. “Yes! The Duke of Sutherland!”

“He is engaged!”

“I am aware of that!” she snapped, and picked up a bottle of whiskey.

Paul moaned irritably. “This won’t do, not at all. You are inviting scandal!”

That did it. She set the whiskey aside and turned to face her brother. “I went for a
drive
, Paul, a simple drive! Why on earth should that invite scandal? And just what do you think I have to
protect
from scandal?”

Clearly taken aback, Paul peered closely—a little too closely to suit her. She suddenly feared he could see Alex’s kiss on her lips, and turned abruptly, picking up a decanter of port. “You have your good name to protect, and you know it,” he said softly. “You cannot hope to make a decent match if there are salacious whispers about you and Sutherland. And rumors certainly won’t help his work.”

“
His
work?” she asked, flabbergasted.

Paul suddenly sat forward, his expression earnest.
“Don’t you know who he is, Lauren? He is, at the moment, the
only
champion of reforms in the House of Lords!” Lauren made a sound of impatience in response to that; Paul’s face darkened. “Let me say it another way. If, by some bloody miracle, the reform bill should pass the Commons, it must then pass the Lords! Sutherland is the only one who can see it through, and I daresay even
he
can’t do it without Whitcomb’s support! Rumor has it that Whitcomb is lukewarm to reform for several reasons, and would probably welcome a good excuse not to support his future son-in-law!” he exclaimed. At Lauren’s look of bafflement, Paul fell backward in his chair, exasperated. “Don’t you
see
? Sutherland’s progressive leadership could be squelched with just a
hint
of scandal, and
particularly
one affecting his fiancée!” he declared roughly.

Confused at his reasoning, Lauren frowned. “I don’t understand what that has to do with—”

“It has everything to do with Rosewood!” Paul loudly interjected. “The taxes are killing us, you know that! The laws are designed to protect the wealthy, not people like us—”

“The land is overused at Rosewood, Paul!
That
is what is killing us!” she countered angrily.

“It would not matter if Rosewood were the most fertile land in the country! Unless something is done about high taxes, we cannot afford the labor necessary to
work
the land! And the only person powerful enough or influential enough or
willing
to change all that is
Sutherland
!”

Stung, Lauren shrugged indifferently. Paul fairly exploded. “Don’t pursue him!” he shouted.

Outraged by that accusation, Lauren gasped. “I am not
pursuing
him!”

“Sutherland is above your reach. He is one of the most influential peers of the realm, and he is to be married at the end of the Season. If
he
is paying
you
any particular attention, it is because he would trifle with you!”

She gaped in disbelief at her brother, who was now, apparently, an expert on the Duke of Sutherland. What could he possibly know?
He
had never met Mr. Christian or been kissed by a duke. He had no idea the myriad feelings that man could evoke, feelings that were
still
rifling through her and turning her inside out. She placed the port on the drink cart. “I have had a rather long day. Please excuse me.” Turning on her heels, she walked swiftly to the door.

“Do not see him again, Lauren,” Paul warned.

She whipped around, her eyes narrowed with anger. “I understand the duke resides on Audley Street, Paul. Perhaps you should dispatch a messenger to inform him that as I am so wholly unsuitable as a
friend
, he should cease to present himself every blasted place I go!” she exclaimed, and sailed through the door before he could utter another word.

   Several miserable days followed in which she could think of little else than Alex. As if it made any difference, she mourned the fact that he was so far above her in social situation.
Miles
above her—so high that she could no longer even pretend. Mr. Christian, the stuff of her dreams, was gone, and in his place was the very handsome Duke of Sutherland. She rebuked herself for desiring him so completely and hopelessly,
particularly
since he was engaged. Particularly since he was so bloody
prominent.

She read every paper she could get her hands on, devouring the news of what was happening at Parliament with a mixture of awe and resignation. Some said the Duke of Sutherland was a Radical, a dangerous man with a dangerous agenda. Others said his progressive thinking was just what the country needed, that his foresight was inspirational. The middle class cheered his efforts; the Quality sniffed disdainfully that his quest for economic and social reform would lead to Catholic seats in Parliament. Some editorials hinted that his motives were not altogether pure—the duke’s
shipping empire stood to gain from the very reforms he touted.

Nonetheless,
The Times
called one of his many speeches to the august membership of the Lords brilliant. He argued that unfair representation and oppressive taxation, the very reasons England had lost America, were now the very reasons England could lose its own people. Reform, he insisted, was not an academic debate, but imperative to the health and well-being of the Crown.

As political pundits argued in print whether Sutherland was helping or hurting the reform movement, on one thing they all agreed: Reform could not pass the Lords without the influence of the Duke of Sutherland, and Sutherland could not garner enough influence without the Earl of Whitcomb. No one could dispute the importance of the Christian-Reese family alliance.

But the dailies gave every indication that the Earl of Whitcomb was less than enthusiastic about reform—apparently, the popular earl did not want to include Catholic emancipation in the reform movement. He was purported to have said that while some change was vital to the nation, too much change was dangerous.

As Lauren pounded her fist into her pillow for the hundredth time one night, she realized Paul was right. Alex was fighting an uphill battle, a battle for reforms that Rosewood desperately needed. Any hint of impropriety would taint what good he had done or could hope to do, particularly, she gathered, among the old guard, who did not tolerate public indiscretions. And as nothing could
ever
come of her consuming desire for him, her only hope was to put him out of her mind, to avoid him at all costs.

If only it were that easy.

God help her, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel his hands and lips on her. She could still smell his cologne, see his handsome face and green eyes. His kiss had ignited a fire in her that was left smoldering, and nothing, apparently,
would extinguish it. God knew she had tried, but she was incapable of suppressing her thoughts of Alex of the overwhelming desire to be held by him again. He had awakened in her the powerful desire for a man’s touch. The fiery kisses they had shared had only scratched the surface of what she instinctively knew could be between a man and a woman, and she ached to know it all, to feel him inside her, his hands and mouth on her skin, his breath on her neck. And damn it, it seemed
nothing
would ease such extraordinary yearning—as the poet Keats had once put it,
“yearning like a God in pain.”

But it could never be.

Nothing short of a miracle could change anything. There was nothing she could do but put him out of her mind, once and for all, and concentrate on the task of finding a suitable match. She had to think of Rosewood, and above all, she had to stay away from him. It was bloody impossible to be near him and not want him, and utterly devastating to desire him so fiercely.

Lauren tried to cope by focusing on a weekend trip to Rosewood. Ethan had finally relented, and they planned to leave in two days’ time. The anticipation helped to buoy her spirits, and she busied herself as best she could. She took to visiting the Haddington Road Infirmary to fill the time. She had gone once with Paul to visit an old school chum of his who had fallen into ill health. As they had walked down the corridor, several patients looked up, hopeful that they had come to visit them. Realizing how lonely some of them were—particularly the elderly—Lauren had been drawn back. It meant so much to the patients, and it filled a void in her.

She donned a new soft-green gown one glorious morning after a solid week of putting Alex from her mind. It was a perfect day for the Darfield garden party, and she had promised Abbey she would come. Actually, she was looking
forward
to the garden party, anxious to pass the time until the
following morning when they would leave for Rosewood. That, she mused, was a sign she was finally able to put some distance between her feelings for Alex Christian and the reality of who he was—the Duke of Sutherland.

   Alex Christian, however, was a man obsessed.

Taunted by her memory, he had tried to erase Lauren’s image with copious amounts of port, but it had not helped—nor had what little sleep he had gotten. He was not even deterred from his thoughts after meeting Lauren’s rather odious uncle in the company of Mrs. Clark and Aunt Paddy one day, or the rather frightful discovery that the ignominious man was a childhood chum of Mrs. Clark. There was nothing on God’s earth that could turn his thoughts from the angel—not Marlaine, not his impending nuptials, not even Lauren’s very cool behavior toward him.

Two nights past, he had bumped into her at the Fordham mansion. Although she had managed to avoid eye contact with him, he had been unable to keep his eyes from her. In a sumptuous gown of ice-blue silk that left little to his imagination, she had smiled thinly, mumbling her rather terse responses to his small talk, all the while studying the tips of her slippers. And then Madgoose had intervened. That damned German was beginning to irritate him greatly—so greatly that he had walked away without even excusing himself.