Julia London 4 Book Bundle (15 page)

“I once came dangerously close to having to defend my honor with Lady Thistlecourt,” Adrian said, chuckling softly. “She can hardly abide my presence since the Wilmingtons’ closing ball last Season.”

“Ooh, you are a
dangerous
gentleman, my lord!” Lady Paddington cried, and playfully slapped Adrian on the arm as Mrs. Clark howled with laughter.

Defeated, Lilliana sagged into her chair and began separating her raisins from her scone, piling them mindlessly
on one side of her plate. Somewhere in the middle of a detailed description of all Lady Thistlecourt’s faults, she caught Adrian looking at her plate. She responded with a heated glare, but he did not so much as blink, and instead responded politely to Mrs. Clark’s inquiry as to his last trip to London. And then Lady Paddington casually mentioned seeing the “unfortunate” Lord Rothembow. A sudden chill seemed to descend upon the room; Lilliana quickly looked up from her pile of raisins.

“Clara!”
Mrs. Clark hissed.

“I am
terribly
sorry, my lord!” Lady Paddington gasped. “I don’t know what I was thinking! You must forgive me!”

“There is nothing to forgive, my lady,” Adrian said coolly. Lilliana looked from Adrian to the ladies and back again. His expression remained inscrutable. “Who is Lord Rothembow?” she asked. Three pairs of eyes suddenly locked on her face.

“An acquaintance, dear. No one you know,” Mrs. Clark mumbled.

Yes, just like everyone else they had discussed! Lilliana put her fork down. “Only an acquaintance? Then why are you so terribly sorry, Lady Paddington?” she asked sweetly, and could almost feel Adrian’s displeasure emanate from across the little table.

“He is my father’s cousin, Lilliana. His son is recently deceased,” he said tightly. Lady Paddington suddenly took a great interest in her scone; Mrs. Clark pretended to closely examine the flowers on the table.

“I am very sorry,” Lilliana said, but she wasn’t sorry, not in the least. How could she possibly know he had a relative who had recently died? It wasn’t as if he had deigned to tell her a bloody thing about himself! If he was uncomfortable, it was his own fault, and she blithely continued rearranging the raisins on her plate.

A man would have to be blind and deaf not to see that his wife was miffed. Lilliana had acted like a petulant
child during their tea with the ladies, digging her raisins out of her scone and making a little mountain of them. Fortunately, the ladies had been so engrossed with the cataloguing of Lady Thistlecourt’s many faults they had not seemed to notice. And when the ladies were finally on their way, Lilliana had gone to her rooms, where she had remained for the rest of the day, refusing even to join him for supper. As she was typically such an unobtrusive sort of girl, taking her meals with him in companionable silence, he could not help wondering what had come over her. He thought to send for her, but then thought better of it. At the mention of Lord Rothembow, he had acquired another one of the miserable, blinding headaches that often came with a reminder of Phillip or Benedict.

Seated in front of the fire in his master suite of rooms, Adrian pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. He had not had a headache in several days now—in the process of pouring his heart and energy into the resurrection of Longbridge, he had managed to push his conscience into some remote and dusty corner of his soul.

For weeks now, he had worked hard in the fields, shored up the tenant homes, pored over the accounts, and planned several extensive enhancements to the mansion. The sweat, the exertion, the mind-numbing review of years of mangled accounting had gradually freed him from the intense guilt that had been eating away at him, little by little. He was by no means completely free of it; God help him, he would
never
be completely free of it. But his bouts of melancholy and blinding headaches were becoming less frequent, and his ability to block the horrible events beginning in Dunwoody and ending in Kealing was growing stronger.

But then Lady Paddington and Mrs. Clark, two old bats who frequented the best salons of London in search of gossip and a card game, had unexpectedly appeared. After an absence from the same salons of more than six weeks, Adrian had been rather delighted to see them and
anxious for news of London. He had been amused by their little tales, eager to hear of friends and acquaintances. The talk of London had left him thinking how much he missed it, and he had been mulling over the idea of leaving Longbridge in the care of his steward, Mr. Lewis, when they had mentioned Lord Rothembow. The reminder of Phillip’s death and his father’s grief—Adrian hadn’t looked at that letter in days now—had sent him spiraling backward into the pit of guilt and desolation from which he had been working so hard to claw his way out.

Speaking of guilt, hadn’t the Princess of the Grange been in fine form this afternoon! How he regretted his hasty decision to marry her! As a result of his rash anger, he had gotten himself a little country wife who no more suited him than he suited her. She would have been much happier in her home parish with Benedict—now
there
was a pair that suited. Unfortunately, he had ruined any hope of that, and despite having realized the gravity of his mistake several times over, it was too damn late. He had no choice but to keep her, and for the most part he had managed to put her out of his mind along with everything else.

Until today.

Until he had seen those gray-green eyes, and the pangs of his old, familiar friend Guilt had crept into his bones.

He sighed and pushed himself from the leather wing chair and strode to the windows of his master suite. Shoving the heavy velvet drapes aside, he stared blindly into the night, wondering how to make life bearable for them both. He should give her an expensive bauble to cheer her; he had never known a woman whose disposition did not improve with an expensive piece of jewelry. He would dispatch a letter to his solicitor first thing in the morning, recognizing that it was a pathetic gesture for having ruined her life but hoping it might at least make her smile. He remembered that smile—broad and
bright and ending in a lone dimple in one cheek. He had not seen her smile for days now.

Except when she lay beneath him.

That sudden thought brought a rush of warmth to his loins. The one thing about her that had surprised him enormously was how unconventional she was between the sheets. Since the first night he had bedded her, she had astounded him with her passion. She was a little hellion, he thought with a wry smile, unafraid to try anything and searing him with her demanding, untutored responses. Hell, he could hardly call her untutored—she was a quick learner and seemed almost desperate to please him. The memory of her mounting him with such exhilaration just last night was making him quite hard. He suddenly pushed away from the window and turned toward the door connecting their rooms.

He entered quietly, but in the faint glow of the dying embers in her hearth he saw her quickly flip to her side, her back to him. Still miffed, he thought as he removed his dressing gown. The Princess did not so much as move when he lifted the bed linens and slid in next to her.

Neither of them spoke. His fingers grazed her shoulder then slid slowly down her arm, to her waist, and over the silk night rail covering her belly. “I had a rather lonely supper,” he murmured against her shoulder. “Max said you were not feeling well.”

“I was feeling perfectly fine,” she muttered irritably.

Interesting.
Definitely not her typically demure reply. He continued his gentle caress, his fingers trailing languidly across the curve of her waist into her hip, then her leg. “Then perhaps you are not quite as enamored of our cook as I am?” he asked pleasantly, inhaling the subtle scent of rosewater in her luxurious hair. She shrugged. His fingers trailed up her leg, over her hip, and up her arm until they reached her shoulder, where he brushed the hair from her neck. “Perhaps, then, it was the prospect of my company,” he said, and feathered her neck with light kisses. She squirmed, moving away from him.
With a quiet smile Adrian slid his hand down her arm until he reached her hand. Grasping it tightly, he pushed it against her belly, forcing her against his body and anchoring her to his chest. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. The salty taste of her tears surprised him as she helplessly jerked her hand from his and pressed her fingers to her eyelids.

He had no idea what had upset her so, but if there was one thing he could not abide, it was a woman’s tears. Not that he had ever really seen them, except on Eloise, the French whore who had fallen in love with him after a particularly memorable night. He hadn’t liked it then, and he didn’t like it now. Gently but firmly he rolled Lilliana onto her back and came over her, kissing one eye, then the other. “Don’t cry, Lillie,” he whispered. “Please don’t cry.” Her tears began to flow then, and he quietly kissed them away while his hands provocatively roamed her body, seducing her to his throbbing arousal. She took several sharp breaths as she fought her tears, and almost reluctantly, he thought, she put her hands on his shoulders, then swept them down his chest, fingering his hardened nippies. With his mouth he teased hers open, then plunged into her warmth, savoring the taste of mint on her breath. His hands roamed wildly now, his senses inflamed by the satin feel of her skin. Her hands, too, ran across his shoulders, his back, and down his torso. And then she reached between his legs, lifted him in her hand, feeling the weight of him.

And pushing him past the point of all reason.

He groaned her name as he entered her; her body tensed at the sudden invasion … “Lillie,” he whispered, “hold me.” She shook her head and tried to resist him. But his knowledge of the female body was the one thing he knew about women with all certainty, and within the space of a heartbeat she was panting and stroking the corded muscles of his back and buttocks, demanding with her hips that he fill her completely.

When they had both found their release in another explosive climax, Adrian rolled to his side, taking her
with him. She made a ragged sound of distress, and confused by it, he held her close. “What has upset you?” he asked softly. He heard her breath catch in her throat, felt her stiffen in his arms. “Lilliana?”

“I … I want to be a good wife,” she began in a whisper.

“You are a good wife,” he said quickly, relieved that was all there was to this show of tears.

“No, I mean a wife you can be proud of.”

Honestly, he didn’t mean to hesitate. But it was enough for her to pull from his arms and roll away, and for him to feel like a cad. “You are,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “a wife any man would be proud of.” Her body shuddered as if he had jabbed her in the back. What a miserable liar he was! He racked his brain for something to say, but with no sense of what had caused this misery, his mind reverted to ingrained, reflexive habits learned in notorious boudoirs. Flattery.

He put his hand on her shoulder and leaned over her, nuzzling her ear. “There are many admirable qualities about you, don’t you know? You are kind, and … thoughtful. And you have beautiful flaxen hair,” he said, grabbing a fistful of her silken mane. It wasn’t a lie—she
did
have beautiful hair. She stirred beside him, turning her face farther into the pillows. “I would imagine that others are quite envious of it.”

“Thank you,” she muttered.

Satisfied that he had at least gotten a response, he rolled away from her. Whatever was bothering her would seem much better by morning’s light, he was certain. Lilliana did not seem the maudlin sort. But she kept her back to him as he got out of bed and slipped into his dressing gown. He leaned over and pulled the counterpane over her shoulder, then kissed her temple. “Sweet dreams, Lilliana,” he murmured, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, and left her room, his appetite sated and his conscience at least appeased.

When the door closed, Lilliana slowly pushed herself
up and glared at it, her brows knit into a deep vee. “He adores my hair,” she muttered to herself. “My
hair!
”

Humiliated by her inability to resist him, fury rifled through her. Damn it, but
he
had come to
her
at Blackfield Grange and offered her a life as his companion! The memory of his blithe conviction that they would suit made her ill—that man had shown her nothing but polite indifference since the moment they had said their vows. His only concession was to stoke her passion under the veil of night, making her believe he desired her with his hands and his mouth but never putting a voice to his desires. Well, perhaps that was because the only thing he could find to admire about her was her bloody
hair.

She hated him.

She threw the linens back and leapt from her bed. Marching to the hearth, she lit a candelabrum, turned on her heel, and marched to a scattering of chairs. Retrieving a sewing basket, she continued her march to her vanity and sat heavily on the little bench. She stared at her reflection a long moment before fishing a pair of shears from the basket. He adored her hair, did he? Well then, he could bloody well
have
it! Lilliana grabbed a handful of the heavy blond locks and snipped.

Her hand slowly came down, and horrified, she gaped at the tress in her hand.
Her hair!
Yes, and what difference did it make? Other than it was one of the few “admirable qualities” about her! With a gleam of fury in her eye, she grabbed another handful.

Polly Dismuke thought Lady Albright had lost her mind. She had arrived later than usual this morning, having quite a head on her after one too many pints at the Dog and Duck on her weekly holiday. And Lord, this time it was a whopper—she blinked several times as she entered her mistress’s rooms, quite certain she was seeing things.

But there was no mistaking the clumps of blond hair
strewn about the little bench at the vanity—big, thick clumps of her lady’s glorious hair. Polly cried out as she rushed into the room and picked up a handful of the shorn tresses, prompting Lady Albright to emerge from her dressing room. Without the weight of a lifetime in her locks, the shoulder-length tresses bounced into a riot of curl. The darker shades of gold, long since covered by the heavier flaxen tresses on top, peeked through, revealing several different shades of blond.