Suzanne Robinson (15 page)

“ ‘Being your slave,’ ” he said as he moved so that his mouth brushed her ear, “ ‘what should I do but tend/Upon the hours and times of your desire?’ ”
¹

His breath in her ear caused her to tingle and inflamed her body in a way Liza had never experienced. Transfixed by the overwhelming sensations, she vaguely realized that he was deliberately wooing her into a state of his own design. Yet somehow she couldn’t summon the fortitude to make him stop. To forgo that hot brandy voice, the heat of his body, the touch of his hand, these were impossible sacrifices. They became even more impossible when he began nuzzling her ear and gently brushing his palm over her breast.

“Do you know how you make me feel?” he asked. “Like Keats’ Porphyro.”

She failed to answer, but it seemed he hadn’t expected her to speak, for he continued.

By the time he finished the last line, she woke from the spell.

“Throbbing!” Liza shot upright and thrust him from her. Pressing her hands to her cheeks, she gaped at him.

He rested an elbow on the arm of her chair and smiled at her sweetly. “You’re shocked.”

“You shouldn’t—ladies don’t—it’s improper, ill-bred.”

“What is ill-bred about poetry? Ah, your mama has taught you that anything to do with bodily function is to be ignored.” He leaned toward her like a conspirator, glanced around the room, then whispered. “We ladies don’t have legs, my dear, we have limbs, and preferably not those.”

He sounded so much like her mother, she forgot her embarrassment and laughed. He grinned at her in response, an honest, uncondemning grin that endeared him to her before she could summon her skepticism. Too late she reminded herself of who he was, what was said about him, and what he might have done. Too late, for he had smiled at her and taken care to show her how to accept her own feelings without shame. Hastily she gathered her embroidery so that she had an excuse to avoid looking into those green eyes.

“I must go to Willingham. I’ve a fitting at a dressmaker’s.” She heard herself chattering, but was powerless to stop herself. “I try to patronize the local seamstresses. Their livelihood is so precarious. If you will excuse me?”

The viscount was looking at her as if he could
tell how badly she wanted to escape. He rose as Mama came noisily into the room.

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Elliot. I was about to offer myself as escort for your daughter on her trip into town.”

“How gallant of you, my lord.”

Dismayed, Liza stuttered, then managed to regain some of her composure. “So kind of you, my lord, but I have my maid.”

“We don’t refuse such gracious offers, Elizabeth Maud,” her mother said. “The others won’t be home for a long time, and I’m sure Lord Jocelin will be glad …”

“Of the lovely, entertaining company,” Jocelin finished.

He smiled at Liza, inclined his head, and offered his arm to her. Thus trapped, she had no choice but to place her hand on his arm. In too short a time she was wrapped in a cloak and ensconced in a carriage. The door closed, sealing her inside with the viscount. Liza gazed out the window as her mother waved good-bye. How in the name of the Almighty had she done this to herself? The last thing she’d expected was to be shut in a carriage, alone, with Jocelin, Viscount Radcliffe.

J
ocelin conducted himself with propriety in the carriage partly because Miss Liza Elliot looked like she would throw herself out of the vehicle if he didn’t. Mostly he did it to confuse her while assuaging her fears. She seemed so uncertain of herself, so retiring. He had thought his gentleman’s training long buried under predatory instincts he deliberately encouraged in himself. To his surprise, Liza Elliot stirred a forgotten chivalry in him. Unfortunately for her, she stirred his more elementary cravings as well. These he succeeded in curbing for the half-hour drive to Willingham. He made polite conversation.

Nevertheless, all the while he was listening to
Liza’s descriptions of the countryside, he was thinking about the way her breast felt and how he breathed in lemons while he was close to her. His trouble arose from the years he’d spent on the American frontier before the war, casting aside the conventions of society. So when Liza aroused him, he descended to the growling, ravening level of instinct, rather like a Rocky Mountain black bear.

Relief came when he deposited Liza at her dressmaker’s. He excused himself on the pretext of exploring Willingham, promised to collect her in an hour, and set off in search of Dr. Lucius Sinclair. He had been waiting for an excuse to visit the town, and hadn’t expected it to come so quickly. Liza would be occupied for some time. He could accomplish what he needed and be back without arousing suspicions.

The doctor’s villa lay on the outskirts of Willingham, down a path called Larch Lane. Although the snow was melting and the path soggy, he left the Elliot carriage behind. It wouldn’t do for the coachman to bring back tales of his visit to an obscure physician. The house lay on grounds surrounded by an ornamental wall. At this time of day the doctor would most likely be in his library or, if he was brave, out for a walk.

Jocelin chose to approach from the rear, and slipped through the back gate. Walking quickly through a snow-covered arbor, he stood behind a thick tree trunk just off the swept stone path through the garden. He surveyed the house for a while, but could perceive no movement through the lace curtains. He was about to go around to the front and present his card when a man came out and paused on the terrace while he buttoned his coat.

Of middle years, he had the appearance of
prosperity—tailored suit, silk waistcoat, boots that obviously cost more than he paid his housemaid in a year. With his neatly cut, graying hair and side-whiskers, he looked like what he was, a successful professional man, a churchgoer, a pillar of the community, God’s own Englishman. Jocelin’s lip curled in distaste.

Dr. Lucius Sinclair waved his arms back and forth, taking deep breaths and blowing mistily, then set off down the stone path through his garden. Jocelin let him march by at his brisk pace, then called after him.

“Dr. Lucius Sinclair?”

The man turned abruptly, bristled, and stalked back to Jocelin. “This is a private house, sir.”

“You are Lucius Sinclair?”

Drawing himself up, the man nodded.

“I’ve come to tell you that Mr. Frank Fawn is dead.”

The doctor gave no sign of recognition, but Jocelin was used to his kind.

“Therefore you will no longer be seeing either Millie or her cousin James.”

Sinclair turned red, then vermilion, and shouted, “Get out! Get off my property!”

“Be quiet, Sinclair, or what I have to tell you will be said in front of an audience.” Jocelin glanced at the house and back at the doctor. Sinclair clamped his jaw shut. “Excellent. I’ve little patience with monsters like you, Sinclair, so I will be brief. I know that you purchased the favors of the boy James Pryne and those of little Millie.”

By now the doctor’s face had lost its tomatolike hue. The longer Jocelin talked, the more Sinclair
resembled a three-week-old cadaver. He interrupted Jocelin.

“She—she could have refused,” he said. “It was her fault. The boy could have said no.”

Jocelin lowered his lashes, and when he next looked at the doctor, Sinclair took a step backward at the loathing he encountered.

“Yes,” Jocelin said softly. “I see. You’re how old, doctor, forty-nine? James is barely fourteen. Millie’s ten. Forty-nine, fourteen, ten. Yet these children are responsible for your abuse, not you. Do you know how many times I’ve heard that from men like you?”

“But—”

“If I hear it from you again, you’ll regret it.”

The doctor’s eyes shifted from side to side, as if he were searching for a weapon in the frozen garden.

“Now, doctor, to the point. I’m not interested in whether you accept responsibility for your crime, and a crime it is, sir. As much a crime as murder. Worse, for you murder children’s souls. No, I’m not interested in your repentance or your redemption. I’m only here to tell you that letters telling of your crimes are due to be sent by tomorrow’s post to all your patients here and in London.”

He paused when Sinclair uttered a strangled exclamation. Jocelin watched with mild interest as the doctor swayed on his feet.

“I’m so glad you believe me. And since you believe me, I’ll take the trouble to point out that an English gentleman faced with a predicament such as yours must think of his family. Take the honorable way out, Sinclair. If you do, the letters will never be sent.”

Not waiting for a reply, Jocelin left the doctor standing in his snow-covered garden and let himself
out through the back gate. As the wrought-iron door clanged shut, he thought he glimpsed something down Larch Lane out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned, he saw nothing. A rabbit out foraging, no doubt. Jocelin set out for town, picking his way through the muddy snow. He was halfway there when he heard a shot from the direction of Sinclair’s house. He paused as the sound echoed through the trees, then set out again, his pace brisk, his lips pursed in a whistle.

He arrived back in Willingham only a little late, and went directly to the dressmaker’s shop. By the time he entered, the familiar blackness of spirits had descended upon him, the inevitable consequence of the ugly task he’d just completed. Fighting a growing sense of hopelessness, he asked for Miss Elliot.

She wasn’t there. He was directed to the milliner’s next door, where he found Miss Elliot trying on a new bonnet. He walked in as she was tying green silk ribbons under her chin. He paused and watched gloomily as she surveyed herself in a mirror. Her hand touched the stiff lace ruffles just beneath the brim, in which nestled pink roses. Suddenly he became alert.

He had left Sinclair feeling dirty; even after he’d heard the shot, he’d felt defiled. Yet as he watched Miss Elliot, his despondency faded a bit. She had removed her cloak to reveal skirts that hung from curved hips. They swept up, gathered by bows to reveal an underskirt of lace that rustled with her movements. He remained silent, listened to that feminine sound, luxuriated in the soft, quick touches of her hands to the bonnet, the roses, and lace.

Here was a world far removed from the evil of Lucius Sinclair and his brethren. Dear Miss Liza Elliot. Untouched by ugliness, with her lacy bonnet
and rustling skirts, she wove a spell of peace, elegance, and femininity. She pulled at the ends of the silk ribbon that formed the bow under her chin. The material hissed, then fell under the gentle tugging of her hands. She lifted the bonnet. An attendant took it, and she patted stray curls back into place.

She selected another bonnet from a stand on a table. Pale blue satin ribbons fluttered as she spun in a circle while holding the bonnet at arm’s length—and his heart spun in a circle with her. He tore his gaze from Liza Elliot and scowled at his wet boots. Silk, lace, and Miss Liza Elliot spinning in a circle.

God, what was this feeling? Why did he want this little scene to go on forever? He took a deep breath. It was dealing with that monster Sinclair. Putting himself in proximity of that kind always made him distraught. Yes, that was it. Nothing more than nerves. This wouldn’t have happened to him out west. He could have fed Sinclair to the Comanches and then eaten a twelve-course meal.

“My lord, I didn’t see you.”

“What? Oh, yes, well, I didn’t want to interrupt your labors, Miss Elliot.”

“I’m ready.”

Was it his imagination? She was looking at him steadily, with an unwavering gaze that was most unlike her. And she had the most peculiar expression on her face, as if she’d just discovered he was a saint. Perhaps she was remembering what he’d done in the morning room. After all, she was as pure a young lady as he’d ever encountered. He must remember to be gentle.

He handed her into the carriage and allowed the sound of swishing skirts to lull him away from unhappiness. Then he saw her boots. They were soaked.
Jolted into vigilance, ever suspicious, he briefly wondered if she’d followed him to Sinclair’s house. After all, there had been that stealthy movement in Larch Lane.

“Your boots, Miss Elliot.”

She glanced down at them as he took his place opposite her in the carriage and sighed, “Yes, my lord. I’m afraid I forgot myself and rushed across the street to say hello to an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in a long time. I was in the snow before I realized what was happening.”

He should have realized how ridiculous his suspicions had been. He could easily imagine Miss Elliot’s becoming flustered and rushing into snow piles. It was much harder to imagine this delicately nurtured creature so lowering herself as to follow a gentleman about by herself.