Suzanne Robinson (17 page)

To her chagrin, knowing the truth had made her vulnerable. The viscount made an unlikely crusader. When he had turned seducer, she hadn’t been prepared. It was hardly her fault. After all, her first season had lasted only a few weeks. Young men had been interested in her, or rather, her inheritance, but she had only to open her mouth to send them fleeing as before a plague of horseflies. No, she hadn’t been prepared, for no one had ever made love to her. She should be ashamed of herself for liking it so much.

She was ashamed. The viscount had almost seduced her in her own carriage. Liza’s fingers fumbled over the piano keys as she remembered the encounter in the morning room and the ride home from Willingham. Jocelin Marshall might be a compassionate savior of children, but he was ruthless when satisfying his own appetite. This knowledge was why, for the last two weeks, she’d attached her self like a shadow to the other female guests.

Her choices were limited, however, for only two ladies besides herself and Mama remained in the house party. Honoria was one, and the other was the dowager Lady Augusta Fowell, relict of Lord Watkin Fowell. The dowager wallowed in piety and was always recommending improving tracts for Liza to read.

In its composition, Papa had been quite obvious about the purpose of this house party. If she had been one of the gentlemen invited, she would have decamped upon surveying the dearth of female company. That none had left said more about Papa’s wealth and influence than about Liza’s attractions. Of
this fact she was quite aware. To make matters worse, more gentlemen had arrived last week. Among them was Asher Fox, political aspirant and friend of the viscount. She suspected Papa had invited him at Marshall’s instigation, for the three had had several prolonged conversations over port in the library.

Whatever Papa’s intentions, Fox’s presence enabled her to observe him in light of the possibility that he was a murderer. After discovering Jocelin’s innocence, she’d tallied up her diminished list of suspects. It still included Arthur Thurston-Coombes, Halloway and Lord Winthrop. Fox was on the list as well, but she found herself reluctant to consider the heroic Fox among them, or the charming Coombes. In fact, the more she watched the two of them, the less they appeared as murderers. However, she couldn’t logically exclude them yet. Dear Lord, she would be glad when she solved this horrible mystery.

Liza struck the last chord of the song as Arthur Thurston-Coombes and Nick Ross ambled into the room. Honoria curtsied as they applauded, and Liza tried to slip away unnoticed. However, Nick was too quick for her.

“Miss Elliot.”

Nick bowed to her. Liza sighed, for Mr. Ross had taken to teasing her whenever they met. What made her suffering worse was that Mr. Ross was almost as handsome as his friend the viscount, though much easier of manner. To be teased by a man who resembled the fabled Tristan without his Isolt or his melancholy embarrassed her tremendously.

“Miss Elliot,” Nick Ross said again. “Shy Miss Elliot, do you know that you’re causing great suffering in this house?”

Liza rose from the piano bench, and Mr. Ross
was there to offer his arm, the pest. He conducted her on a perambulation about the room.

“I?” she asked.

“Yes, you, Miss Elliot.”

Mr. Ross smiled down at her, and Liza remembered to cast down her gaze. She was supposed to be a reticent, maidenly thing.

“Can it be that you haven’t noticed how old Jocelin agonizes over your failure to give him your company?”

Liza stiffened. “I feel I’ve shown his lordship every courtesy.”

“Of course you have, but poor old Jos had hoped for more. He languishes, a pale knight sickening for want of the company of his lady love.”

“Really, Mr. Ross, you sound like Sir Walter Scott.”

“Won’t you have pity on poor Jos?”

“I have every intention of seeing that my guests are comfortable.”

“How kind of you.” Nick looked over her shoulder. “Then here’s your chance.”

Liza turned to find Jocelin Marshall bearing down on her. One look at his dour countenance was enough to send her scurrying from the room with stuttered excuses to Nick. She skittered past the viscount, causing him to hesitate and then scowl at Nick.

Liza almost ran out of the music room. She couldn’t help it. Jocelin Marshall frightened her. Mama and Papa would be furious, but she didn’t care. Her purpose in coming home had been served. She couldn’t endure another afternoon of conversation in which Papa and his male guests talked politics while she was expected to listen and nod in blind agreement.
And of course there would be the viscount, casting covert glances at her that made her cheeks burn.

He had a way of catching her eye and talking to her without speaking. He could be all the way across the room, but his gaze would say, “I want to kiss you again,” or “Remember how I touched you, I want to do it again.” Each unspoken phrase made her tingle and grow hot at the same time. She couldn’t endure that again. Just contemplating the possibility had made her nervous. She would calm down by skating at the pond.

Leaving word that she’d gone poor-visiting, Liza escaped to the frozen pond with Emmeline and a pony cart. Bundled in her skating costume, she left the maid with hot tea and fruit turnovers while she glided across the ice. After a few minutes of racing around the pond, she began to make jumps and spins. The concentration necessary to leap in the air from thin blades on ice soon drove the tension from her body.

Throwing a leg out, she began a dizzying spin, the force of which made her feel as if she could whirl out of her own body. She smiled as the revolutions slowed, and gently touched her toe to the ice. Without waiting for her momentum to diminish, she began to glide again. Emmeline was watching her from the pony cart, and Liza waved. The maid waved back, then called out and pointed to something behind Liza.

Liza glanced over her shoulder in time to see a tall raven swooping down at her. Jocelin Marshall raced toward her, bent as he came near, and scooped her up in his arms. She gasped and clutched at the lapels of his long black coat.

“Put me down.”

“Ah, the snow swan has much more spirit than the little house sparrow.”

She dared not kick him, for he might drop her. His body shifted, and she realized he was going into a spin.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Hush. Trust me.”

Without effort he twisted and launched into a spin. The sensation of floating made her grip him around the neck and bury her head in his shoulder. Feeling as though she were in the midst of a cyclone, Liza gritted her teeth and hung on to him. Finally he slowed and then stopped. She lifted her head to find him grinning at her. She scowled back and kicked her feet.

“Now, now, Miss Elliot,” he said. “I’ll start spinning again.”

“Put me down!”

“Your cheeks are flushed.” His gaze roamed over her face and settled on her lips. “I wonder how fast your heart is beating.”

“Put me down, you, you—”

He dropped the arm that supported her legs, and she sank, leadlike, with a jolt. At the same time, he crushed her to him with his other arm. While she struggled to maintain her balance, he put a hand over her heart.

“I can’t feel it at all,” he said in mock surprise.

Then he slipped his hand inside her mantle. Liza squealed, then cut off her cry as she remembered Emmeline. His hand snaked over her breasts, then disappeared. He captured her hands while she sputtered in outrage.

Furious at being handled like a pony, she wrenched her hands free and sprang away from him.
She was off before he could stop her, but he came after her. His stride was much longer than hers. She looked over her shoulder to find him gaining on her as she raced across the pond. Suddenly a desire for revenge overcame her. Churning ahead of him, she turned quickly and sped in the opposite direction. She rushed headlong at him, then abruptly turned sideways. The blades on her skates shaved ice, plowing it up in front of her and into the viscount’s face.

She heard him suck in his breath as ice battered his head and shoulders.

She laughed and shouted, “Don’t breathe!”

Too late. He scrambled to a halt and inhaled with the shock of the barrage of ice, then choked. His eyes widened, and he coughed, spewing out ice. Then he shook his head and sent a spray of ice shooting at her as she circled him. Shielding her face with her arms, she giggled as Jocelin puffed and gasped. He scowled at her while he brushed his coat, his hair, his face. Ice speckled his shoulders, his brows, and there was one fleck on his nose.

She glided up to him and flicked the ice off his nose. “You missed some.”

“Hang it!” He wiped a gloved hand over his face.

“There’s more on your shoulders.”

“You think I don’t know that, woman.” He slapped the lapels of his coat, missing the ice shavings on his shoulders completely.

Liza disciplined herself not to smile at his pique. She didn’t think he knew that his cheeks were red with chagrin. Neither did he suspect he reminded her of a boy whose attempt to gain the notice of a girl by pulling her braids had elicited revenge instead of admiration. He shivered, and Liza began to feel
remorse along with her amusement and gratification. Nevertheless, it served him right to be the one discomposed for once.

While he recovered, she had the chance to study him. His hair had fallen across his brow, which was furrowed from irritation. Straight, dark brows drew together. His lips, normally two lush curves, had thinned as they pressed together. His lower jaw was wide, his chin slightly dented.

Taken individually, each feature seemed pleasing. Put them together, and the whole called to mind a sensual, fallen angel, the lips soft, the eyes startling in their emerald brilliance. His looks suited his changeling temperament. He could dazzle and beguile, then without warning turn brooding and remote.

He sighed, then turned up the collar of his coat. He gazed at her, and his eyes burned bright against the glaring whiteness of the surrounding snow. Folding his arms across his chest, he braced himself on the ice.

“You’re a dangerous little thing,” he said.

She smirked at him. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

“Jocelin, Miss Liza. After nearly freezing and choking me to death, you may as well call me Jocelin.”

He shivered, and she grinned. “Serves you right.” His eyes squeezed almost shut, like half-moons, as he scowled at her.

“It was your fault,” she said. “You—you touched me.”

“Damned if you aren’t a different woman when you’re out here.”

She immediately stared at her skates and lowered her voice. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I’m so flustered.”

“I don’t believe you anymore, Liza.” He
sounded bemused. “No, sweet Liza, I don’t think I believe you’re half so meek and timorous as I once thought. Or is it that I’ve brought out the viper in you?”

He was edging closer to her. Too late she noticed his proximity. When she tried to bolt, he caught her arm and swung her in a circle. She ended up in his arms. He captured the knot of hair at the back of her head and forced her to look up at him.

“God, you make me burn, Liza, sweet. I never knew how exciting it could be to educate an innocent.”

“My lord, you forget yourself.”

“Hardly. My self is in pain at the moment, and it’s your fault.”

“If you’re cold, you should let me go and return to the house.”

He frowned at her. “Cold?” He grinned at her as he ran a hand down her back to her buttocks and pressed her close to his groin. “Innocent indeed. I wasn’t talking about the cold.”

At this, her anger burst out of control. Crying out, she wrenched free and tried to shove him away. He slid backward on his skates and snatched her wrist as she thrust at him. He swung around, taking her with him, and before she could stop him, he was turning in a circle, rapidly. She yelped and grabbed his arm. Her body sailed around, faster and faster. She braced her legs and leaned into the spin, annoyed that he’d caught her unaware.

Burning wind cut at her face. He was grinning at her and laughing. Furious, she finally took a deep breath and shouted at him.

“Stop!”

“Promise me a forfeit.”

“Please.”

“Promise.” He pulled her closer, as if to kiss her, while they spun.

“I promise!”

She felt a tug on her arms. Jocelin slowed and pulled her to him. Chest heaving, she stumbled against him, still annoyed. She turned her back to him and began patting her mussed hair and rumpled skirt. Her effort at ignoring him failed, however, because he glided up to her back and stood so close, she could feel him even though he hadn’t touched her. She edged away from him under the pretense of adjusting her skate. She licked her lips. They were dry, and her throat was even drier. Still, her discomfort came more from contemplating what forfeit he would demand. Would he make her kiss him? Surely not in front of her maid. She looked up at him, but he seemed to be concentrating on some difficult problem. Finally he glanced down at her. Her discomfort grew, for he raked her face with a glance at once hungry and possessive.

“A forfeit, Liza, sweet. You owe me a forfeit, and I’ve decided what it is to be.”

“I’ll not kiss you.”

He laughed and took her hand. “For shame. A lady of breeding never breaks her word.”

“Let me go, you, you—”

“I had so hoped you wouldn’t take after your mother in this habit of not finishing sentences.”

“I won’t pay. You … you lecher. Heavens, I hate the way you treat me as if I had the brains of a sheep.”

He dropped her hand just as she yanked it, and she lost her balance. Liza fell on her bottom with a screech. She scrambled, trying to get her feet under
her, but he stepped on her skirts. All she could do was glare up at him.

“Liza Elliot, you’re a viper.” He lifted his other foot and straddled her. “And a breaker of promises. And you lie to yourself.”

“I do not,” she ground out between clenched teeth.

Jocelin crossed his arms and let his gaze travel over her body. His tone softened. “I want your forfeit, and I’m going to get it.”

“You will not. I’m not a child to play silly games.”