Julia London 4 Book Bundle (18 page)

She could not deny the truth—it was
her.
There was something about her that he found repulsive. But how could he show her such incredible passion at night without feeling at least a
little
something? A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and made its lazy path down her cheek and Lilliana squeezed her eyes tighter still. He was destroying her with his lovemaking. When he touched her, when he filled her so completely, he gave her a glimmer of hope that he might one day return her love. And then he would ruin it by leaving her alone and empty when he was finished with her body. It was a searing emptiness. Without true affection, without intimacy, she was like a fruit dying on the vine.

Lilliana swiped angrily at the wet path on her cheek. All she had ever wanted was to soar, and he had given her leave to do that. The only thing he had asked is that she not ride Thunder. She could generally wreak havoc if she wanted, and he did not give a damn, did not so
much as lift that imperious brow. How terribly ironic that she finally had leave to do as she wished, but did not want her freedom. He had taken the joy out of that, too.

She hated him.

Oh God, but she really
loved
him, and it was killing her!

Adrian glanced again at his steward and frowned. Mr. Lewis had sidled over to the window at least half a dozen times now to stand on tiptoe and peer around the corner of the house. “I beg your pardon, Lewis, but may I know what you find so terribly interesting out that window?” he asked blandly as he jotted a number in a column.

Lewis glanced sheepishly over his shoulder. “The match, my lord. I hoped to see a bit of it,” he admitted weakly.

“Match? What match?”

“Why, between Bertram and that groom, Roderick. Surely you have heard of The Match?” Lewis asked cautiously. When Adrian replied he had not, Lewis hesitantly explained to him what was obviously occurring, at that very moment, in the old stables; a little boxing match to settle an old score going back many years between a footman and a groom. It had to do with a woman, naturally, and as they could hardly be civil to one another, Lewis explained it was Lady Albright who had suggested the boxing match as a way to settle the argument once and for all. When Lewis finally admitted he had a few pounds riding on the outcome, Adrian wryly suggested they go see about his wager.

Given Lewis’s description, he expected a little mayhem, but the sight that greeted him was astonishing. Lilliana stood in the center of the ring with the two contestants, whose hands were wrapped in shorn wool. The old stables were packed to the rafters with servants and tenants, all anxiously waiting for the contest to begin. Even Polly Dismuke was on hand, perched on a
barrel in the first row, loudly proclaiming her lad would be the easy winner. More surprising was that finicky Max glared at her from across the haphazardly fashioned ring and shouted back that
his
lad would be the easy victor. Then Lilliana beckoned Mr. Baines forward—who Adrian had thought was hard at work clearing a small field on the east side of the river, and said as much to Lewis.

He would have been, Lewis responded, had Lady Albright not pleaded with him to officiate. Lewis further confided that he believed her ladyship had meant this to be a private affair, but Max and Polly’s bickering about it had garnered far too much interest.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you please!” Lilliana called, and the din lessened considerably. “Mr. Bertram and Mr. Roderick have graciously agreed to settle their dispute in a gentlemanly manner. Mr. Baines?” That man stepped forward like a king, and Lilliana quickly scampered out of the way as he reviewed the rules with the opponents. With great flourish, he began the first round.

Bertram and Roderick started off slowly, cautiously circling each other, oblivious to the cheers and jeers from the small crowd. Mrs. Dismuke, who apparently was an avid fan of boxing, leaned forward on the barrel on which she was perched, her hands braced on her knees, and shouted, “I’ve got a month’s wages riding on you, Bertram! Get those fists up!”

Bertram was the first to throw a punch, and the crowd heaved as one toward the little ring, exclaiming at his skill. Or lack of it—he barely clipped Roderick on the shoulder. The groom’s face grew quite red, and pressing his lips firmly together, he swiped at Bertram, just grazing his ear. The two men, now sporting identical murderous glares, continued circling each other. Mr. Baines rushed from side to side, carefully watching for any sign of unsporting conduct.

Bertram suddenly threw a left jab, followed quickly by a right, winging Roderick hard on the chin and shoulder.
It stunned the groom as much as it angered him, and all at once he was battering away at Bertram. Adrian suppressed a smile at Lilliana’s look of horror as the two men began to whale away at one another, landing blows in the belly, the chest, the chin and shoulders, between strangled cries of pain. The little crowd grew frantic, all shouting at their favorite. But then Roderick punched Bertram in the eye with his right fist, and quickly followed it with an uppercut to the chin that knocked Bertram backward, and the crowd caught its breath.

Lilliana’s hands flew to her mouth as the taller man teetered unsteadily on his feet, staring in shock at Roderick, “Excellent punch, sir,” he gasped, and promptly fell over backward, landing with a thud on the soft earth.

And then it was pandemonium. The crowd roared, Mrs. Dismuke leapt off her barrel shrieking at Bertram to get up, and Roderick gasped in horror, covering his mouth with both padded hands. Lilliana rushed to Bertram’s side and fell to her knees beside Mr Baines.

“Oh God,” Bertram moaned, and gingerly opened one eye, then the other, which was beginning to swell Very slowly, he moved his jaw, then touched his eye. He gasped in horror and suddenly cried, “I concede, I concede!” Mr. Baines shot up from his crouch and turned to the crowd. Grasping Roderick’s hand, he lifted it high in the air. “Mr. Roderick is declared the winner!”

The little crowd went wild. Lilliana tried to help Bertram into a sitting position, Mrs. Dismuke and Max loudly argued their wager, and Roderick was hysterically explaining to anyone who would listen that he had not really meant to hurt Bertram. And as Lilliana searched frantically for someone to help her, she caught sight of Adrian standing in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest, gazing impassively at the melee.

Beside him, Lewis said sheepishly, “I rather thought it would be an interesting match.” An interesting match indeed, Adrian thought dryly. His gaze locked with Lilliana’s
horrified one, and he lifted one brow, silently questioning her. Wincing slightly, she glanced heavenward, then quickly turned her attention to Bertram.

“See to it that the bets are paid,” he said to Lewis, and walked out of the stables. His country mouse of a wife was not only capricious, she was a lunatic. He had not married a demure little flower as he had thought, but a menace to every man, woman, and child who lived on the Longbridge estate.

And something about that notion made him smile.

     
L
ILLIANA DECLARED AN
all-out War.

She tried everything, her actions growing more outrageous every day. It was maddening—it seemed the more she tried, the more indifferent he became. Having long surpassed the desire to please him, Lilliana now sought only a reaction.
Any
reaction.

In her sitting room, she carefully cut the crown from his best hat, thinking about the evening that she had entered the dining room wearing a drape made from a selection of his silk neckcloths. That
had
to be the most enraging. Adrian had peered suspiciously at the garment as she took her seat complaining of a draft, and for a brief moment she had thought victory was in hand.

“A draft, madam?” he asked dryly, and settled back in his chair to study her. “I had not noticed. But I suppose your wrap will come in quite handy,” he had said, and casually motioned for the footman to begin serving.

Her first thought was that he did not realize from what her wrap had been fashioned, and had offered, “I made it myself.” He graced her with the sort of kind smile one reserves for the deranged, and reached for his wineglass. Not only was he bereft of emotions, he was
apparently as blind as a bat. “It took me several days to sew it,” she had added testily.

“Oh? And what did you use to achieve such a … colorful effect?”

Lilliana shrugged. “Just a few pieces of cloth.”

He sipped his wine, regarding her over the rim. “Any particular
sort
of cloth?”

“Well … they might have been neckcloths,” she said, and had looked him straight in the eye, daring him to react.

“I see. Might they have been
my
neckcloths?” he had asked amicably.

“Might have been,” she said, and smiled broadly, waiting for the reprimand, the words of indignation she so richly deserved.

“They make for an unusual design,” he said simply.

Oh
, what an exasperating man! “That’s all?” she had asked incredulously. “But they are your
neck-cloths!
” It was undoubtedly her imagination, but she could have sworn a smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I can see that.”

That was all, nothing more. Furious, she had demanded, “Aren’t you even the least bit angry?”

“Of course not. I want you to have whatever makes you happy, Lilliana. Ah, the beef looks particularly good this evening,” he remarked as the footman place a plate in front of him.

Lilliana stopped her work on his hat and released a sigh of great aggravation. Did
nothing
move him? Apparently not. Having failed to provoke him with the destruction of his neckcloths, she had tried to alarm him. But he did not so much as blink when she spoke of her intention to climb the highest peaks in India. He had merely lifted that intolerable brow and had remarked, “You will need a pair of sturdy shoes.” When she had suggested she would like to sail to the West Indies—on a merchant ship, no less—he had chuckled. “That should prove rather amusing for the crew.”

Nothing
moved him.

But, oh God, he moved her.

In the darkness, he moved her to touch the stars.
“Lillie,”
he would whisper in her ear,
“hold me tight.”
And his strokes would lengthen, driving her to the brink of madness before releasing her into the heavens.

Lilliana paused in her work on his hat, lifting cool fingers to her face as she recalled how, just last night, he had lain there with her in his arms for a few moments afterward, his fingers drifting idly through the curls on her head, his breath steady on her cheek. The intimacy of the moment was more moving to her than the physical lovemaking, so when he had disentangled himself from her, she had frantically grasped his arm. “Adrian,” she whispered, “please stay.”

Gathering her in his arms, he had lightly kissed her temple. “What is it, Lillie?”

Lilliana picked up the shears and renewed her work with a vengeance. God help her, what an
idiot
she was! Of course she had had no idea how to answer—it was such a vague feeling of distress that plagued her, a hopelessness that had no basis in any one thing. Overcome by cowardice at the last moment, she had muttered miserably, “I … I’m cold.”

“I’m cold,”
she mimicked now, and rolled her eyes in frustration as she yanked the crown of the hat from the brim. He had chuckled, leaned down to kiss her, his tongue dancing languidly with hers for a moment, and then lifted his head. “I’ll stir the embers for you.” And he had left her, fumbling in the dark for his dressing gown. When he was through with the fire, he came back to the bed. “Sweet dreams,” he murmured, and kissed her forehead then pulled the counterpane over her shoulders as he always did before disappearing soundlessly through the door.

Lilliana tossed the brim aside and stared blindly at the crown of his hat
Sweet dreams.
Impossible. This loneliness, the emptiness she felt when he left her was killing her, eating away at her very being. Physically, he
gave himself completely to her, and although she enjoyed that—her cheeks burned just thinking about how
much
she enjoyed it—it was not enough. There was no affection, no indication that he cared for her one way or another. And it certainly didn’t help matters that she was such a bloody coward, unable to summon the words she so desperately wanted to say because the fear of rejection stilled her tongue. She would rather not know his touch at all than this painful emptiness.

There was no ready answer for it, and Lilliana worked diligently to transform his obliterated hat into a sewing basket. Once that was done, she discarded the stupid thing in a place he was sure to see it, and made her way to the orangery to work on the portrait of Adrian she had started two weeks ago. Restless, she quickly tired of that, and had the little mare she had named Lightning saddled. As she trotted out of the paddock she thought that life at Longbridge was no different from what she had left at Blackfield Grange.

Why in God’s name had he married her?

It was that she was thinking about when she rode by the Barneses’ cottage on another aimless afternoon ride. Just past the cottage, Adrian and some men were working to repair a granary. She paused, unnoticed by them. Adrian had shed his coat and waistcoat, had rolled up the sleeves and bound his thick sandy hair with a leather tie at his nape. His forearms rippled as he hammered a row of nails into a railing; perspiration stained the back of his shirt. He was built strong and hard, and Lilliana swallowed a lump of strong desire.

As she sat there watching him she heard a whimpering coming from a hut that the sheepherders sometimes used. She looked around and squealed with delight when she saw the litter of puppies in the corner of the small yard. They were yellow puppies, with legs as thick as the wood beams in the ceiling at Blackfield Grange. There were eight altogether, and they swarmed around her when she climbed down from Lightning. Lilliana went down on her haunches and scooped two of them into her
arms; their paws, she noticed, were the size of her palm. They were adorable, and she smiled broadly as she buried her face in the puppy fur.