Silver Splendor (4 page)

Lord Nicholas appeared supremely confident of her acceptance. Her throat ached as much from bitterness as from bruises. She assured herself his mistaken opinion of her morals didn’t matter, so why did she feel so hurt?

Elizabeth stepped back, out of his reach. “You intend to rob me of my good name. That’s hardly the role of a
protector.”

Startled displeasure flitted over his features; his face hardened and his hands clenched. “I made you a sincere offer. You’re not likely to get a better one.”

“I
would term your proposal selfish, not sincere, Mr. Ware.”

“Lord Hawkesford.”

His terse insistence on the title incensed her. “Oh, but you’re not
my
lord. In America, terms of respect are for those who earn them.”

His jaw tautened. “You’re being rather judgmental, Miss Hastings. You hardly know me.”

“I know hypocrisy. You’d keep a mistress tucked away while you waltz into society with your oh-so-proper wife and pretend to be a respectable, God-fearing man.”

“I have no wife.”

For some unfathomable reason her heart sang at his curt disclosure. “Regardless,” Elizabeth stated, her fingers molding the clay, “the fact that I was not born into your British aristocracy makes me no less a lady. And the fact that you were doesn’t make you a gentleman.” She paused, disillusionment underlying her anger. “The best I can say of you, Lord Hawkesford, is that you have a pleasing face. Beyond that, nothing about you interests me.”

He stood as stiff and cold as a marble statue. “That’s quite enough, Miss Hastings. There’s no need to belabor your rejection of my offer.”

Abruptly he strode toward her. Fear leapt inside Elizabeth; he looked furious enough to kill. Her hand covered her bruised throat as she retreated a step.

He stopped in front of her. His eyes were as gray and unfathomable as a London fog. Her heart tripped wildly, though somehow she could not believe he meant her harm.

“My coat, miss,” he said, sending a pointed glance at the garment lying on the chair directly behind her. The alarm drained away, leaving Elizabeth feeling slightly foolish.

“Of course.”

Reasoning that the garment was already ruined, she reached for it without regard for her clay smudged fingers. The fabric felt smooth and expensive to the touch, as polished and elegant as Lord Nicholas himself. Awkwardly she presented the coat to him.

He draped it over his arm, but made no move to depart. His eyes studied her intently and fascination kept her rooted. He stood so close she could see the individual strands of dark hair at his temples, the chiseled line of his cheekbones, the sleek strength of his jaw. To her delight she could not detect a single physical flaw. Even his faint, tangy scent held an uncommon appeal. The finely drawn grooves bracketing his mouth warmed the stern beauty of his face. The sudden disconcerting desire to press her lips there swept over her. How could she let this Adonis walk out of her life?

“Forgive me for having offended you, Miss Hastings. You may rest assured that I shall not trouble you again.”

Stunned by the quiet apology, Elizabeth could only gape. Surely the regret on his face was impossible to trust. Lord Nicholas Ware might be handsome on the surface, but he lacked substance beneath.

Yet somehow she wanted to believe him.

Footsteps sounded outside; the doorknob rattled. The tap of a walking stick and the low whistling of a hymn preceded her father’s entrance.

Her heart jolted. His shoulders were slumped beneath his Inverness cape, his billycock hat tilted back on his gray hair. She knew the instant Owen Hastings saw them; the mournful melody ceased in mid note. His hazel eyes widened, focusing first on Elizabeth, then on Lord Nicholas.

Her father’s back went rigid. “What’s going on here? What are you doing alone with this stranger, Libby?”

Pocketing the ball of clay, Elizabeth hastened to his side. “Everything’s fine, Papa. I’d like you to meet Lord Nicholas Ware, Cicely’s brother. Lord Hawkesford, may I present my father, Owen Hastings.”

Lord Nicholas inclined his head in a regal nod. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Hastings.”

Her father glared. “I don’t care if you’re the Prince of Wales.” Grasping Elizabeth’s shoulder, he scrutinized her face. “Are you all right? Has he insulted you in any way?”

Shocked and shamed by her father’s rudeness, she tilted her head at him. The sour smell of rye whiskey told her he’d been drinking, but alcohol usually made him melancholy, not malicious. “Of course I’m all right. Lord Nicholas came to discuss his sister —”

“What’s this?” Owen’s whiskered face went taut with horror as he spied her reddened throat. Abruptly he brandished the walking stick and sprang at Lord Nicholas. “You bloody scoundrel! What in holy hell have you done to my Libby?”

The earl neatly sidestepped the assault. Heedless of the coat over his arm, he wrenched the cane from Owen’s hand. The stick went flying onto the worktable. Bits of clay scattered and a mallet thunked to the floor.

Her father doubled his fists, despite Lord Nicholas’s superior height. “I’ll kill you for harming my daughter. By God, I will!”

“Papa, no!” Shaken by his violence, Elizabeth took hold of his rough tweed sleeve. “You don’t understand. Lord Hawkesford didn’t hurt me — he saved my life!”

Her father started visibly and swung to her. “What?”

“A man followed me home tonight.” Lifting a hand to her throat, she swallowed hard, conscious of the bruising soreness. “I was coming down the street outside when he leapt from a dark alleyway and tried to throttle me.”

“Bless my soul!” Owen muttered, touching her cheek, his face gray with horror. “I knew it wasn’t a good idea to come to London. Are you all right?”

Elizabeth nodded shakily. “Only because Lord Hawkesford happened upon me in time. So you see, we owe him a debt of gratitude.”

“On the contrary, Miss Hastings,” the earl broke in, “you may consider any debt between us cancelled.”

His steady eyes caught hers. Suddenly Elizabeth felt flushed and discomfited… and inexplicably regretful. So he had settled for her grandfather’s ring as payment, after all.

Taking off his hat, Owen raked his fingers through his graying hair. “I thank you for helping my daughter,” he said brusquely. “But if you’re of a mind to demand a lewd reward from her, you’ll have me to answer to.”

“Papa!” Though he’d struck uncomfortably right on the mark, Elizabeth was appalled. “You’re embarrassing me — and Lord Hawkesford.”

His expression stern, her father patted the back of her hand. “I’m sorry to address such matters in front of you, Libby, but you’re far too trusting — you always have been.” He aimed another glower at the earl. “There’s no telling what sort of liberties a man of his position will take. Why else do you think the good Lord says ‘Tis easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God’?”

Lord Nicholas arched a dark brow. “‘Judge not, and ye shall not be judged.’”

Owen scowled. “A high-and-mighty English lord quoting the Bible? I’m surprised you d leave your mistress’s bed long enough to attend church.”

“And where were you when your daughter needed help?”

A dull flush tinged Owen’s whiskered cheeks. “That’s none of your concern.”

“Circumstance has made it my concern. I’d caution you to watch over her better in the future. This is not the sort of neighborhood a woman should be roaming alone.”

“I can take care of my Libby! I don’t need
your
advice.”

“Indeed,” Lord Nicholas drawled, his voice heavy with irony. With unperturbed civility, he swept Elizabeth a formal bow then gave her father a curt nod. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Bemused by his self possession, Elizabeth said, “Thank you.”

The coat draped over his arm, he walked past her scowling father. At the door the earl paused to look back, his eyes as cool as the mist. “Pray keep in mind what I said about Cicely. My decision regarding her association with you is irrevocable.”

The words struck Elizabeth like sleet, driving all warmth from her heart. Despite admitting his mistake about her morals, he still regarded her as an unsuitable mentor. Before she could form a reply, Lord Nicholas left, the door closing.

“Good riddance, I say!” Owen Hastings slammed his felt hat onto a wall hook. “If his lofty lordship thinks he can disgrace
my
daughter, he’ll soon learn his blood isn’t so blue — but red as any commoner’s.”

Stunned by the venom in his words, Elizabeth moved the satchel aside and sank onto the rush bottomed chair. Never in her life had she seen her father exhibit such violent hatred. He was normally a gentle man, soft spoken and kindhearted. He shared food with a needy neighbor when their own cupboards were bare. He’d nursed her sick mother when Elizabeth had been too exhausted to stay awake. She had even seen him carry a mouse outside rather than kill another living creature. Only twice since their arrival in England had she glimpsed his dislike for the nobility, once when a duke’s passing landau had spattered him with mud and once when reading a newspaper recount of the old scandalous affair between Lord Blandford and Lady Aylesford.

Her father jerked off his cape and hurled it onto the bed. Muttering curses, he paced the room. Somehow she had to reach the tender man she knew and loved.

“Papa?” she said, leaning forward. “Lord Hawkesford meant me no harm. He acted the perfect gentleman.” A blush warmed her cheeks at the memory of his ungentlemanly proposal.

“Gentleman, pah!” Angrily her father ruffled his fingers through his sparse gray hair. “This is all my fault. I should have warned you about these lords — scoundrels, every last one of them. Think they have the God given right to any woman who strikes their fancy.”

“You shouldn’t condemn an entire class because of a few wicked men.”

He shook a stubby finger at her. “They’re all cut trom the same cloth, take my word for it. They’re snooty and patronizing, don’t care a whit for anybody but themselves.”

“It’s not like you to be so unfair, Papa. Why do you despise the nobility so?”

His cheeks paled beneath his gray whiskers. Or was it just a trick of the wavering light? Before she could decide, he swung away and busied himself making tea over the spirit lamp.

“No particular reason,” he said over his shoulder. “Guess it just seems wrong to me after living so long in a country where bloodlines don’t limit a man’s success.”

His vague answer bothered Elizabeth. “You’ve never said much about our life here in England before we moved to America. Where did we live?”

“Yorkshire.”

“Shouldn’t we have gone there, then? I thought that’s one of the reasons we came, so you could contact old friends.”

“I’ve posted a few letters, but haven’t received any replies yet.”

His back was turned so that she could not see his expression. Had a clash with a peer prompted their move to New York when she’d been a child of two? “Did you work for a nobleman in Yorkshire?”

Owen’s hand tensed around the chipped ironstone teapot; then he laughed heartily. “Of course not, Libby. I’ve never been one to consort with aristocrats.”

“But what about Mama? She came from a genteel family. She gave me her father’s ring —”

“All of her relatives are dead,” he said dismissively.

“So you see, Libby, there’s nothing to tell. You’re best off forgetting the whole rotten lot of them.”

Elizabeth sighed. She could make no such sweeping denunciation of the nobility. At least Lord Nicholas had the decency to apologize. And he had saved her life when many people would not have bothered with a stranger.

A shudder seized her. Just a few days earlier no one had stopped to help when a fast moving hansom cab had knocked her into a gutter. Not even the driver had paused to see if she were hurt.

“It’s curious, isn’t it,” she mused aloud. “Tonight was the second time in less than a week that my life was endangered.”

Tea leaves scattered as her father jerked around, spoon in hand. “What?”

“Remember the hansom cab that nearly ran me down in the Strand?”

“Bless my soul, yes.” The spoon clattered to the floor. “The two incidents can’t possibly be related,” he said, as if trying to convince himself. “They just can’t be.”

“Of course not. I wasn’t trying to suggest they were — I was only commenting on the peculiarity of the coincidence.”

Owen’s brow remained furrowed as he stared at the marks on her throat. “Great God, you might have been killed tonight.”

Seeing his horror brought a resurgence of that helpless terror, that dreadful panic. Elizabeth quivered, tears pricking her eyes. “Oh, Papa,” she cried, rushing into his arms. “I was so frightened. If Lord Nicholas hadn’t come along…”

“Hush, little one. Try not to think about it anymore.”

Burying her face against the solid warmth of his chest, she breathed in his familiar rye whiskey scent, rubbed her cheek against his rough coat. With the soothing stroke of his hand on her hair, the tide of fear inside her began to ebb. He had always been there to shield her from harm, but her mother’s death the previous autumn had ended that. Grief made her father seek solace in drink, and Elizabeth became the strength in the family. When he expressed homesickness for England, she readily agreed to the trip, hoping the change in surroundings would cheer him. Since their arrival a month ago, though, he had sunk into deeper despair.

His arms tightened. “This is all my fault, Libby. I should have been there to protect you, both times.”

The anguish in his voice shot to her heart. Elizabeth drew back to study the familiar sad lines on his whiskered face. “Please don’t blame yourself, Papa. I should have known better than to stay at Westminster until almost dark.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought you here. Perhaps we should have stayed in New York.”

“But then I wouldn’t have been able to see all the old monuments and churches here, to visit all the art museums. You’ve given me a wonderful opportunity, Papa.”

“I’m glad for that. If only…”

“If only, what?”

Sighing heavily, he shook his head. “If only I had the money to find us lodgings in a safer neighborhood.”