Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness (4 page)

Chapter Four

Brodham lurked alongside a pillar, playing least-in-sight after passing through the receiving line at the Tillney engagement ball.  Gaiety rained down from the gallery above and before him the throng rang with chatter and laughter—but he was feeling older than his years again.  A bit tired.  Perhaps a little empty.

Likely it was just because his plans had been thwarted.  Peter had been obliged to attend tonight, he’d assured him, which meant their trip to Cateswood, Brodham’s primary estate, had been delayed.  Brodham had been looking forward to the country, to the change in scenery, to the challenge of something new, something lasting and concrete.  Land management was a far cry from anything he’d got up to in the diplomatic service.  But a glittering, crowded ball?  He’d attended hundreds, if not more—and this one didn’t hold the added stimulus of an agenda to forward, an alliance to seal or a plot to thwart.

His experienced eye wandered over the crowd, seeing nothing more dangerous than various match-making mamas watching their daughters with zeal and the bachelors with interest.  Abruptly, he stopped, his skin prickling with awareness.  He took an involuntary step forward.

Wrong.  Oh, he’d been so wrong.

There was a plot afoot.  Here.  Tonight.  He stared at the perpetrator as dueling bits of him flared with fury and excitement.

Liberty Baylis.  Standing bold as brass across the ballroom, her curves displayed in a rich blue gown shot with silver and brightened by silver and white embroidery at the bodice and hem.  At ease, she laughed and talked with Miss Jane Tillney.  Miss Tillney, whose engagement they celebrated tonight.  Miss Tillney, who’d written to remind Peter of his familial duty and her expectation of his support.

His gaze darted about.  Peter had slipped away after they arrived.  He stood now at the edge of Miss Baylis’s group, sharing in the conversation, but his gaze was fixed off to the right.  Brodham followed it—and spied Miss Carmichael taking a shawl from her companion as the other girl took the arm of her new partner. 

Damned if the chit hadn’t outmaneuvered him.

Between them, the dance ended and the tableau shifted.  Miss Tillney’s hand was claimed as the next set formed.  Other couples paired up.  Peter edged closer to where Miss Carmichael waited.  And Miss Baylis, left briefly alone, moved off.  Brodham edged back again.  She hadn’t yet seen him and he wanted to keep it that way—wanted to watch the easy grace with which she moved and the smile she dispensed so freely. 

Inside of him, something moved beneath the layers of boredom and discontent that had been building for so long.  Curiosity?  Temptation?  His heart beat with an almost involuntary acceptance of her challenge. 

He stepped out from his hiding place—only to pause as a gentleman claimed her for the dance.  He frowned, and then moved to a spot where he could easily intercept her when she was done.

Liberty’s first ball had become a mixture of triumph and agony. 

The triumph she shared with Lady Tillney—who beamed upon the crowded scene with satisfaction—and with Jane, who gazed upon her handsome fiancée with stars in her eyes.  Liberty’s own coup—Mr. Gardiner—looking dapper in his evening finery, had yet to approach Miss Carmichael, but neither could he wrench his gaze from her for long.

The agony, she suspected was hers alone.

Part of it stemmed from anxious anticipation.  Mr. Gardiner was here.  Surely Lord Brodham must be, too?  Her nerves and her senses were stretched tight with the effort of watching for a sign of him. 

The remainder of her discomfort resulted directly from her current dance partner, Sir Benjamin.

“Lady Tillney has outdone herself,” that gentleman said, examining the decor as they danced.  “No doubt we’ll see shimmering draperies and full floral garlands at many balls after tonight’s success.”

Liberty silently wondered if London’s hostesses wouldn’t rather come up with their own ideas—and if Sir Benjamin couldn’t pay more attention to his steps.

“You must not allow yourself to be intimidated,” he said, turning his gaze back to her.

“I haven’t so far.”  She fought to keep her toes from beneath his heavy feet.

“It’s entirely understandable that you would feel overwhelmed.”

He meant to be kind, she knew.  It was the only reason she curbed her exasperation.  “We do have good society back home, sir.  We’ve balls and assemblies, too.”

“Of course.”  He couldn’t quite hide his condescension.  “But to be sure, English society is something else altogether.  The most exclusive in the world.”  He sighed with satisfaction.  “But you must not fret.  My family has far-reaching influence.  I mean to spread the mantle of it across your fair shoulders.”  He beamed at her.

“You are very kind to offer.”  She was grateful, truly.  He seemed sincere and he’d made the same promise before.  And yet he never actually introduced her to anyone. 

He continued to talk of the good he would do her and she continued to smile and struggle to keep her toes from harm’s way.  As the dance ended, she escaped with the intention of crossing the ballroom to her mother.  She had to push a little against the crowd—but abruptly came to a faltering halt.

He was here.  Lord Brodham.  Her pulse tripped but she managed to keep her feet from betraying her.

Unsmiling, the viscount approached.  With effort she calmed her fluttering nerves.  She’d expected him to be here.  She kept a smile in place and her gaze fastened on his solemn face—no easy task with so much masculine beauty showcased in snug tailoring and fitted splendor.

She decided to count it as the first victory of the evening.

“Miss Baylis.”  He bowed.

“My lord.”  Her curtsy was correct and deeply elegant.  He was here when he didn’t wish to be.  It was her doing.  She could afford to be magnanimous.

“I should perhaps offer my congratulations, but I don’t think I will.  You are very clever, but you’ve only managed to start a war you cannot win.”

Liberty bit back a smile.  “I’d prefer not to fight with you at all, sir.”

He glanced over his shoulder as the musicians struck the first warning note of the new set.  “Then perhaps we should dance?”  He extended his hand.

She hesitated . . . and then set her hand in his. 

Two sets of gloves could not insulate her from the contact.  Her breath caught—just for the smallest moment, but he noticed, exactly as she saw the flare of primitive triumph behind his gaze and felt the answering pull deep in her belly.

The music flowed into the rich, smooth cadence of a waltz.

Oh.  This was a bad idea.

She should devise an excuse.  An errand.  A torn hem.

Instead she let her hand slide up his arm and allowed him to lead her out.  A delicious shiver wracked her when he placed his large hand on her waist—and then they were moving.

She lost the ballroom, the other dancers, any semblance of coherence—they all disappeared in a heated haze.  She’d had such plans for cool discourse and an aloof manner.  All thought of that was gone now, swept away by his warm touch at her side, by the strength of his shoulder beneath her fingers, by the sweet ache of tension that lived in the air between them.

Air that shrunk in volume by the second.  Her eyes half closed and she gave herself up to the music and his guidance as he moved them through the dance.  Her body softened.  This was new territory, exciting and forbidden.  Delicious. 

But not part of an effective strategy.  Suddenly she realized that they were both inching closer, answering some silent, overwhelming pull.  Her gaze widened suddenly and snapped to his. 

He blinked and was the first to pull away, to speak and break the spell.  He cleared his throat.  “This is more pleasant than arguing, is it not?”

“Far more pleasant.”  Dangerously so.

“You dance very well.”

“Thank you.  As I’ve explained once before this evening, we do have ballrooms in America.  And society.  Parties and assemblies.  Although perhaps not as many.”

“All minus the English pride?”

She laughed.  “Oh, there’s pride enough.  And quite a few people who hold family and connections of the utmost importance.  But there are those who value other qualities as well.”

He inclined his head.  “I hope lively young ladies are held in regard.”

She grinned.  “We are tolerated a little better.”

“What qualities do you speak of, then?”

“Oh, it will sound very
American
, but hard work is not looked down upon in the same way as it is here.  We respect ingenuity and new ways of thinking.”  She raised a brow.  “Even daring, occasionally.”

“That does help explain why you admire Miss Carmichael’s actions.  Most everyone here would condemn her, did they know she was the one who placed those adverts.”

Liberty thought a moment.  “I admit, in the beginning I mostly felt sorry for her.  But once I spoke to her I saw how caring she is and I heard her story—I did come to admire her.  She’s facing a future arranged for her without her opinion and approval—and she was content to go along with it until she met your nephew.  She found something better—and she took steps to explore it.  Of course I admire her.  Her actions took courage and faith.  Faith in herself and her own judgment.  And faith in Mr. Gardiner—which you don’t seem to share.”

“To the contrary—I do have faith in Peter, but I also have knowledge.  Life hasn’t always been easy for him.”

“Yes, Jane said he lost his father when he was young.”

“Yes.”  His expression looked almost pained.

“She said that you’ve been a positive influence on him.”

“I’ve tried to be his friend.  Someone he could turn to, someone to listen to his troubles.”

“He seems to be a charming and steady young man.”

“Yes,” he agreed firmly.  “He does.  He has a few weaknesses, as do we all.”  He looked down at her, serious now.  “Events in his life have caused Peter to develop a good deal of empathy and more patience than any man has ever possessed.”

“Admirable qualities, indeed.”

“Yes, but it can be a hindrance.  While he has no tolerance at all for injustice, Peter tends to trust where he shouldn’t.  Or sometimes longer than he should.”

“Ah.  So it’s Felicity whom you do not trust,” she said flatly.

“It’s her feelings for him, rather.”

Liberty’s head reared back.  “It’s her feelings—and her willingness to act on them—that do her credit.”

“Do they?  These feelings that she has for the first young, attractive and eligible man to pay her a bit of attention?”

The music was slowing, the dance ending.  “You think her inconstant.”

“I think her only young and inexperienced.  And I think Peter—”  He bit off whatever he meant to say.  “I don’t wish to see either of them hurt.”

The set ended.  Instinctively they both turned to search out the young couple.  They found them together at the edge of the dance floor, wrapped up in their conversation, alight with dreamy satisfaction, their pleasure in each other’s company plain for anyone to see.

Liberty stood still next to the viscount.  She knew something had passed between them as they danced.  It wasn’t the picture of bliss and utter contentment that those two made.

“I don’t know how you can look at that and see anything but beauty.”  It emerged as a whisper.

What she felt in his arms, standing next to him, it was different.  Tense and heated, full of energy and potential. 

“I do see the beauty,” he answered, low.  “I only fear that it will not last.  And the consequences might be greater than mere heartbreak.”

She looked up at him, drank in the soft lines around his eyes that did not match the hard set of his mouth.  “What will you do?”

She waited, her heart full of fear and hope, while he considered his answer.

At last he turned to her.  “You are convinced you’ve set them on the path to happiness.  I shall see if they can stay the course.”

Chapter Five

Felicity Carmichael tripped lightly down the stairs of her aunt’s lovely townhome.  Her heart took up a beat as lively as her feet as she caught sight of her suitor awaiting her in the entry hall.

Her suitor
.  The words had her flushing with happiness.  Her mother would call her forward, no doubt, but she knew.  With every fiber of her being, she knew.  There had been no doubt for either of them, not since the moment that he’d chased her tormentors away and turned to comfort her.

But Peter looked worried.  She could scarcely bear to see him frown.  With a quick glance about to be sure that they were alone, she slipped close, took his hand and squeezed.

Some of the worry smoothed from his brow and he squeezed her back.  “Are you ready for this?” he asked.  “The day is fine, which means the crowds will be large.”

She nodded.  “What’s bothering you, Peter?” 

He shrugged.

“Is it Brodham?  Are you worried that he’ll interfere again?”

He blew out a long sigh.  “He may.  Perhaps not.  He’s taken a step back since the ball.”  He reached for her other hand.  “Mostly, I just don’t wish for you to resent him, my sweet.  He only means to look out for me.”

She smiled up at him.  “It hasn’t been so bad, has it?  Oh, my aunt has grumbled and I’m sure my mother won’t be happy.  But it’s nothing to us.  We both know that.  And in any case, how can I regard the viscount as anything as a friend when we both only wish for what’s best with you?”

“You’re a darling,” he murmured.  “And Simon will see it soon enough.”

A door slammed above and Felicity took a step back.  “Charlotte will be right down.”

Peter straightened.  “Just in time.  The landeau is just pulling up.”  He offered her his arm.  “Shall we go out?”

It had been easy to do.  Brodham had known it would take only minutes to throw Miss Baylis and her plans off course.

It was her nape that had had him hesitating.  That long, slender column that he’d stared at as they danced.  It held a pulse that had fluttered in time to the beat of his own desire.

And her mouth—it had given him pause too.  A font of wit and sass and defiance, but it had changed as the dance continued.  Softened.  Formed a perfect pink bow that begged to be kissed.

The ball had ceased to be tedious or boring as soon as she’d appeared.

It was a problem.

As was his very physical reaction to her—and hers to him.

But he owed Peter his first allegiance and attention.

So he’d done it.  He’d bowed and taken his leave of Miss Baylis.  He’d crossed the ballroom as Peter led Miss Carmichael out to dance, and was waiting in her family group when they returned.  He’d spoken with her.  Laughed at something she said, and then begged her to dance with him as well.  When the set had finished he’d moved on, but only far enough to drop a few words of praise in just a few ears—the right ears.

Before the hour had been through, the girl’s every dance had been claimed.  Between Peter’s interest and his own—they’d stirred the forbidden pot.  Young women had stared, but the young bucks had swarmed around her—and Miss Felicity Carmichael was now officially in fashion.

On his way out he’d paused to look back and search out Miss Baylis.

She’d saluted him.

Determination had tightened her mouth again.  He’d felt a pang, looking at it.  She hadn’t looked defeated at all, and barely daunted.

The wave of thrilled relief that had washed over him had branded him a fool.

And he still knew himself for a fool, even as he sat on his mount in Hyde Park, scouting for evidence of his mission’s success.

All the signs marked it as an effective counter attack.  From his vantage point on a little rise above Rotten Row he could see Miss Carmichael, her aunt and her cousin in an open landeau.  The carriage could scarcely move forward for the crowd besieging them.  Peter, mounted as well, trailed in their wake, talking to those who fell back, pushed back and replaced by ever more well-wishers and admirers. 

Brodham had watched closely, but Peter had appeared as calm and even-keeled as ever.  Even today, he seemed to be watching the
ton
flock to his young lady’s side with equanimity. 

All to the good.  After several minutes he counted himself satisfied.  And told himself he was not disappointed to have missed Miss Baylis.  He reined about, intent on the Stanhope gate, but pulled up again as he heard the echo of his name. 

“Good day, my lord!”

Liberty Baylis approached, that wide, unreserved smile on her face, her spirits clearly as elevated as those of her high-stepping mare. 

“Good day, Miss Baylis.”

She radiated satisfaction, from the easy line of her seat to the happy flush of her countenance, set off nicely by the lacy collar of her navy habit.  She was different from every English lady he’d ever met—but what made her truly dangerous were the differences she made in him.

“I see you’ve found a more lively spot to ride than that tortoise’s trail?”

“Thank heavens, yes!  Lord Worthe heard that I was perishing for a good ride.  He was kind enough to show me and Jane his favorite routes through the park.”  She nodded toward the Row.  “They have joined the crush now, but I wanted to have a word with you before you got away.”

“You surprise me.  I’d thought you more likely to wish to avoid me.”

“Do you think me such a poor-spirited opponent?”  She grinned.  “I came to congratulate you on your excellent strategy.”

She surprised him again.  His pulse quickened.  And therein lay the subtle threat of her.  Brodham was always the one in control in these situations.  His innate ability to keep himself removed from the emotions of others had protected him when he’d been young.  That same easy distance had undoubtedly led to the success he’d had in diplomacy.  Yet it deserted him when she was near.  It was intriguing, a little intoxicating—and likely a very bad habit to fall into.

“Although I’m vexed at how easily you pulled it off,” she continued, “bringing Miss Carmichael into fashion was a brilliant test.  I freely admit it.  If she was the sort to have her head turned by praise or lavish attention, it would have done the trick.  Fortunately, my faith in her—and Mr. Gardiner’s—has been proven wise.”

“Has it?”  He cast a glance to the young lady’s landau, still surrounded, and Peter, still trailing behind.

“It has.  The girl is everything she should be—gracious to her sudden and newfound friends, friendly to the gentlemen who shower her with compliments.  She talks and dances with them all—but her brightest smiles she saves for Mr. Gardiner—and her waltzes, too.  She won’t dance them with anyone else.”

A smart, strategic response to his move.  Brodham didn’t have time to wonder if it had been the Carmichael girl’s notion—or Miss Baylis’s—before she abruptly held out her hands. 

“Will you help me down?”  She leaned low over her mount’s neck and patted her fondly.  “I’d like to give this girl a chance to calm down a bit before I subject her to that crush.”

He dismounted and went to lift her down.  Why did any proximity to this girl send his senses into disarray?  He could hear the rustle of her petticoats, louder than the beating of his heart.  Her woolen skirts brushed against his thighs as she slid down and the fresh jasmine scent of her hair drifted upward, tickling his nose.  He touched the tiny curve of her waist as briefly as necessity and good manners allowed, then retreated back to his gelding. 

“So what you truly meant was that you caught me up so you could gloat,” he grumbled.

“Well, perhaps just a little.”  She sparkled up at him.

With a grunt he moved off, keeping to the path she’d followed in. 

“You must admit, if you meant to see if she could stay the course, then she’s passed your test easily,” she called, following.

“She didn’t fail abjectly.  I’ll give you that much.”  He kept his gaze focused forward and still his skin prickled with awareness of her.  Still he knew the fluid grace with which she walked. 

“Despite what you seem to think, I’m not a monster,” he threw back over his shoulder.  “I’m not throwing obstacles in the path of true love for mere joy of it.”

“I don’t think that.  I think you are coddling your nephew.”  She’d drawn up even with him and cast a glance askance as she made her accusation.

“Wrong again.  It wasn’t even much of an obstacle.  I merely wish for the pair of them to slow things a bit, to pause to make sure of each other and take in all of the realities of their situation.”  Before she could object—and he knew she wished to—he continued.  “It might surprise you to learn that I’m happy Miss Carmichael has taken the hurdle without hesitation—and treated Peter fairly in the bargain.  It makes me feel a bit . . . safer . . . when I think of leaving him in her hands.”

She stopped abruptly, causing her mare to nose her with impatience.  She ignored the animal in favor of fixing him with a piercing stare.  “Safer?”

Brodham cursed his own stupidity.  The last thing he wished was to prod her into asking questions he’d no wish to answer.

“Safe?” she asked again.  “I don’t think that’s what Mr. Gardiner is thinking when he gazes at Felicity like she’s descended from the heavens on angel’s wings.”  She frowned—and shocked him by taking the conversation in an entirely different direction.

“Is that what you’ll be looking for in a bride, Lord Brodham?  Someone
safe
?”  This time she surged forward, leaving him behind and following the path into a copse of trees without waiting for his answer.

An unexpected turn—and here he’d thought that questions about Peter were the last thing he wished to entertain.  Once more Liberty Baylis proved him wrong.  He was beginning to tire of it—but not of her. 

And therein lay another problem.

He didn’t want to follow her down that particular conversational path.  Yet it was
safer
than allowing her to think too hard about what he’d inadvertently hinted at.

With a sigh he entered the shaded spot.  Squinting, he found her waiting as her mare investigated the undergrowth.  The smile on her face looked forced and unconvincing.  If he didn’t know better, he’d say she looked disturbed. 

He knew a moment’s satisfaction—and that disturbed him.

“You mock me,” he said slowly.  “And perhaps
safe
is the wrong word.  But it would be easier for you to understand if you knew the turmoil I’ve dealt with over the years.”

“Turmoil?”  She sounded skeptical.

“Yes.  I’m afraid it became my specialty.  In my work I’ve been thrust into one uproar after another—and always been expected to ease it, erase it, or convince the world it never happened.”  He shrugged. “It’s exhausting, really.  Disheartening.  It skews a man’s vision of the world and of mankind in general.”  He worried that she was too young to understand, and struggled to find the right words.  “I’ve had more than my fair share of excitement, Miss Baylis—and I’ve no wish for more.  So if I look for someone a little . . .”

“Safe?” she snapped.  “It sounds like just another word for dull.”

He shook his head and stepped closer.  His well-trained gelding followed—and suddenly he and Liberty Baylis were too close—both dappled by sunshine sifting through the leaves above and boxed in by their two browsing mounts. 

She stared up at him, insolent and bold, and all thoughts of Peter, of his past, of some imagined future viscountess, disappeared.  All the sizzling tension that had existed between them in that dance erupted again—growing, expanding to fill their small hideaway.  The
ton
, their battle, the world outside, they all ceased to exist.  There was only Liberty and her pink lips and her challenging gaze and her tempting curves—

And he leaned in to kiss her defiant mouth.  Or perhaps he threw himself over a metaphorical cliff.  The soaring fall was surely the same.  But instead of rocky crags he met sweet lips, soft curves and warm response. 

The impact was just as deadly.  She wrapped him in jasmine and the press of her arms.  It wasn’t enough.  He pulled her closer and she came willingly, her body arching, her mouth giving way, her tongue dancing with his.   

He dived further, drank deeper, demanded more—and she gave it.  This.  Defiant smiles and raised brows and hot, eager kisses.  Somehow he’d been waiting for this, since . . . forever.  It was hot and wet and giving and perfect and his body wanted more.  More. 
More
.  His hands roamed lower, over her back, pulling her tight.  Her breasts moved against his chest and he moaned at the sheer rightness of it. 

Lower still, his hands ventured, past the curve of her back and to the swell of her bottom, luscious beneath the light wool of her gown.  He pressed closer and she hit him just there, at the perfect juncture—

And his gelding snuffed at the pocket where he carried carrots, apples, and other occasional equine treats.

The crackling bubble burst.  It all came swooping back.  Where they were.  What they were doing.  What might happen, were they discovered. 
Hell and damnation.
He never lost his hold on himself this way.  Never.