Stolen Love (13 page)

"Mr. Rutherford! Mr. Villines! It's simply too wonderful to see you!"

"It is wonderful to see you, Miss Willard," said Ripton, who was slow to let go of her hand.

"Good evening, Miss Willard."

"Good evening? Is that all you have to say to me?" She pretended to be hurt by Nicholas's mundane greeting. "I hope this does not mean you have stopped admiring me, Mr. Villines, for I would not have an easy time learning not to admire you."

"The night is especially wonderful now that I've seen you, Miss Willard." He bent over her hand a second time.

"That's much better." She giggled in delight. "Now, will you sit down?"

"We should love to, Miss Willard," said Ripton. He had somehow managed to find a chair, and he lost no time in placing it as close to Amelia as was possible given the crowd.

"I believe I shall stand here"—Nicholas leaned one elbow against the mantel of the fireplace—"so that I may survey all whom you have conquered." He intended that Ripton should have no more than his allotted hour, and he looked around for a clock so he could mark the nearest minute of their arrival. His attention was soon drawn to a second group that had formed on the opposite side of the room. Havoc Willard, the most conspicuous member on account of his height, stood with his weight on one leg, a hand resting lightly on the shoulder of his niece, the other hooked into the pocket of his waistcoat. They were all listening to something Elizabeth was saying, looking serious while she spoke. Whatever she said had provoked discussion, and the level of noise rose perceptibly.

Nicholas had a view of her profile from where he stood. She was wearing a gown of white satin trimmed with a modest amount of lace. A lace-trimmed scarf graced her hair, and she wore a small medallion on a ribbon around her neck. Mr. Beaufort Latchley was the one unmarried gentleman in the group around Havoc and Elizabeth, and he was watching her with an expression of interest on his somber face.

Latchley, though above thirty years of age, showed no signs of letting his figure go. He stood as straight and looked as trim as he must have been when he was twenty-five. His sharp dark features might even have warranted the appellation of handsome if only his smile were less like a grimace. He was wealthy enough to support a family in style should he ever choose to marry for a second time. Nicholas knew Latchley had pretensions to Amelia Willard and that Amelia had given him reason to think he might have her favor. He wondered why he was not with her now, fighting for precedence over all her other admirers.

Nicholas's musings on the subject were interrupted when Mrs. Benford-Smith and her daughter, Lucy, joined Havoc Willard's group. There was a noticeable stiffening in the attitude of the gentlemen; it was evident the conversation had been changed. Lucy Benford-Smith looked like her mother, light-haired, not tall, with large brown eyes whose expression seemed perpetually bubbling. She was ignoring Elizabeth, solely, Nicholas suspected, because her mother was doing the same. At last, though, Mrs. Benford-Smith turned to say something to Elizabeth. Whatever it was, it made Elizabeth color.

"Will you excuse me, Miss Willard?" Nicholas suddenly said to Amelia. "I should like to pay my respects to your father."

"Of course, Mr. Villines, but I shall miss you terribly if you are gone for very long."

"Good evening, Mr. Villines," said Havoc, shaking his hand with a firm grip. "A pleasure to see you here."

"Ah. Mr. Villines," Mrs. Benford-Smith cried before he could say a word to Elizabeth. "You were sorely missed at the opera. Was he not, Lucy?"

"Yes, Mother, he was." She smiled and held out her hand for him to take.

"And how is Lord Eversleigh?"

"Quite well."

"We are sorry he chooses not to stay in London." Mrs. Benford-Smith shook her head. "Well, and how is your dear aunt?" she continued.

"Fine, Mrs. Benford-Smith. I had supper at Fitzroy Square just the other night. In fact—" He turned to Elizabeth at last. "They especially asked me to give you their regards."

"And they have mine," she answered.

"I have been wondering, Elizabeth, if the orchid I gave you is doing well."

"If you mean have I killed it, no, Nicholas, I have not."

"He looks doubtful," said Havoc. "Perhaps you had better show it to him."

"Yes, please do," he said quickly. "Ladies." He nodded at Mrs. Benford-Smith and her daughter. "Excuse us."

"I must tell you," he heard Mrs. Benford-Smith say to Havoc as he and Elizabeth walked away, "that Mr. Nicholas Villines is a confirmed bachelor."

"If all women were like her, I do believe I would be a confirmed bachelor," he muttered, taking Elizabeth's hand and tucking it under his arm.

"Aren't you?" she asked with a grin.

"It remains to be seen."

"This way." She indicated the direction. They left the drawing room and walked down the hall, away from the stairs. "I thought it ought to be in an environment opposite to your conservatory, so I've put it in the morning room. After my own, this room gets the most light." She stopped about halfway down the wall and opened a door. "Here it is." The servants had left lamps burning, and she crossed the room to where the orchid sat on the ledge of a window seat. "I ask you now," she demanded, "have I killed it?"

Nicholas bent over the pot and poked his fingers into the soil. "Perhaps you're on to something after all," he said. "It looks tolerable." He straightened when he heard the rustle of Elizabeth's skirts.

"Charlotte!" she said.

He looked around. She was by a low sofa near the window seat, bending over and holding out a hand to a small white kitten. "Well, who is that?" he asked.

She crouched down, tapping a finger on the floor in an attempt to entice the kitten to come to her. "This is Charlotte. She was a present from Mr. Latchley. Weren't you?" she said to it cajolingly.

"Mr. Latchley?"

"Yes." She settled herself on the floor when the kitten put its paws on her leg and sniffed her skirt.

Her legs were folded under her, just as she had sat that afternoon when he saw her in the garden. She was turned away from him, and though she could not see him, he saw with a piercing clearness the graceful semiprofile of her face and neck. "When did he give it to you?"

"Oh, not to me," she said with a quick glance back at him. "To Amelia." The kitten was in her lap, turning itself in a circle in preparation for settling down.

"You seem to have adopted it as your own."

He had not entirely shaken off his earlier mood of disquiet. He still felt curiously isolated from his surroundings, from people, even from Elizabeth. When he saw her mouth curving into a smile, he found himself reflecting lazily that it might be pleasant to kiss that mouth. He thought he ought to be shocked at his thoughts and that it was odd he was not. Quite the opposite; he was aroused by her, could feel it increasing, making his belly taut and his skin begin to tingle. But he was so comfortable with Elizabeth, he knew her so well, that his desire for her felt dreamlike and distant; real yet unreal. The tension was pleasant, exhilarating even, and he felt no compulsion to bring himself out of the mood.

"Amelia does not like cats." Elizabeth turned slightly to look at him. "It is the only thing about her that is not perfect."

He sat down on the sofa and smiled at her just before she returned her attention to the kitten. There was something so pure about her in that white dress. Her innocent glances at him, her perfect unawareness of his thoughts, were enticing. It was unthinkable, and still he let his mind linger on the image he had conjured up, of Elizabeth in his arms, of kissing her, of his tongue running over her teeth, into her mouth, enjoying the stealthy titillation of the fantasy.

The scarf in her hair was askew, and he reached to straighten it, leaning forward on the sofa so that his knees were on either side of her shoulders. "There. Now your hair is perfectly arranged." He touched one of the curls. "You've managed a complicated style," he said as an excuse to continue sitting as he was. He wondered what she would do if her told her that just now he wanted nothing more than to ravish her. To kiss her until they were both breathless and then to slowly undress her and teach her how to make him gasp with pleasure.

"It took simply hours."

He watched the rise of her breasts against the modest neckline of her gown.

"Well," she amended, "not hours, but quite long enough." She reached up and patted the scarf. "Enchanting, is it not?" Her backward glance at him was amused.

"If I were not so comfortable just now, I would throw myself at your feet." He tickled her neck through her hair. Oh, he thought, it would be enchanting indeed to whisper in her ear the thoughts on his mind.

"Now, wouldn't that be a sight?" She gave a small cry of disappointment as Charlotte suddenly got up and walked away. "Isn't that just like a cat?" she asked, turning to look at him.

He realized almost immediately that he had let too much show in his gaze. She knew him so well, not even her innocence could keep her from seeing something of the nature of his thoughts.

"This is an agreeable room," he commented into a deep silence.

"I love to read in here," she said at last. She held out her hand. "Help me up, Nicholas."

"I should think the room is at its most charming then," he said when they were both standing.

"Do men do nothing but think of flattering things to say to women?"

"Has someone been flattering you, Elizabeth?" She blushed, and he covered her hand with both of his. "Come now, who was it?"

"Nicholas…"

He did not let go of her hand when she tried to pull away. "Not until you tell me who's been trying to turn your head with compliments. Was it Mr. Latchley?" The look on her face told him he was right, and he snorted. "Oh, Elizabeth. You're a child compared to Beaufort Latchley. Besides, he only wants to make Amelia jealous."

"I did not say it was Mr. Latchley."

He knew she was thinking of that earlier moment, that she must have guessed something of what he had been thinking. It would be so easy to pull her into his arms, he thought. It was tempting, almost too tempting, the way she was looking at him, gray eyes questioning, cheeks beginning to turn pink again. He did not look away.

"Here you are!"

Nicholas turned around. It was hard not to believe the interruption was his punishment for wanting to ruin Elizabeth. It was perverse, he thought, to so badly want a girl as young and inexperienced as Elizabeth.

"Good evening, Mr. Rutherford." Elizabeth walked away from him.

"Miss Elizabeth." Ripton dipped his shoulders in a bow and stood in the doorway, looking from one to the other with an interested expression. "Miss Willard sent me to find you, Nick."

"She must miss your flattery." There was the merest hint of sarcasm in Elizabeth's voice.

Nicholas turned to Ripton. "You may tell Miss Willard you have found me."

"I had the distinct impression I was to bring you back with me." Ripton wandered into the room, watching Nicholas before letting his eyes settle on Elizabeth. "He's positively bent on being difficult, it seems, Miss Elizabeth. I had the devil's own time convincing him to come out tonight, and now he's going to make me break a promise to your cousin. I tell you, it's almost more than a man can take." He sighed loudly.

"I think, Nicholas, if only for the sake of poor Mr. Rutherford, you had better go."

"Truer words were never spoken," said Ripton. "With your permission, Miss Elizabeth." He bowed to her again.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

"I hope I did not interrupt anything important," Ripton said as he and Nicholas walked back to the drawing room.

"She thinks Beaufort Latchley has been making up to her."

Ripton looked at him, both eyebrows lifted in surprise at Nicholas's exasperated tone. He shook his head thoughtfully. "I see no reason why he would not, and perhaps several why he might."

"If he is, it's only because he wants to make Amelia jealous. She's just too innocent to see it. She's too young to have learned what men are like."

"A great many girls are married at her age, Nicholas. Some of them to men Beaufort Latchley's age."

"Elizabeth isn't just any young girl."

"So Mr. Latchley seems to have noticed."

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O
ne afternoon when the Willards were at home, Elizabeth sat in the drawing room working on adding a lace border to a handkerchief. Mrs. Smithwayne and Jane had just left, and Mrs. Willard and Amelia were talking about the shocking decline in Jane's appearance.

"She always was rather too thin in my opinion," said Mrs. Willard. "But now I don't see how anyone can disagree with me." She shook her head sadly.

"She seems much paler than she should be," Amelia agreed.

"Her mother ought to take her out of this horrid London air before the poor girl wastes away to nothing."

"What do you suppose is the cause?" Amelia asked her mother.

"Surely, Amelia, you know the answer to that question," Elizabeth broke in softly.

"I'm sure I don't know, Beth."

"She is in love and believes he loves another."

"But who?"

"It is not my place to break Jane's confidence, Amelia."

"All the more reason, then, for Mrs. Smithwayne to take Jane from London," Mrs. Willard added. "If her heart is broken, it will surely do her no good to daily run the risk of seeing the man who has broken it. Beth, perhaps you ought to counsel Jane to have her mother take her away."

"Perhaps I should," said Elizabeth. "Though I would much rather counsel the gentleman." The sound of someone at the door made her pause. That their visitor was a man she could tell by the footsteps in the hall, and she found herself straining to hear his voice. Her heart leaped when for a moment she thought she heard Nicholas.

Mr. Poyne came in with Beaufort Latchley behind him. Elizabeth sat back, not so much surprised at having been glad to think Nicholas had come as she was dismayed by her disappointment that he had not.