The Problem with Seduction (30 page)

Her answering laugh crawled along his spine and reminded him too well of the previous night. “Trestin has improved in many ways since marrying my friend, but he hasn’t changed
that
much.”

Con rose and went around to help her with her chair, then turned back and flipped the innkeeper a coin. It felt like it lightened his pockets by half, but he tried to put it from his mind. Lord Trestin was a good sort, if Con recalled correctly. He might even accept an IOU if it came to it. But in the back of Con’s mind played the knowledge that
she
could afford to open a cottage for a week. Money was like air to her, a commodity she used without thinking about.

As she regaled him with a picturesque description of a place he remembered as barely more than a crofter’s hut, he realized that it wasn’t just her gobs of money that made her richer than he. She lived life, while he’d only been passing through. Had he ever done more than accept what was given to him? Her tale of the cottage restoration left him wondering. He’d tried to be useful, what with sinking his money into the schools and making the odd investment, but he’d never done more than draft a bank note.

She seized opportunity. She
lived
. Her situation wasn’t one most women would want, but she had friends, and even a purpose. She’d made the best of her lot and established herself at the top of her profession. What had he done, but dragged himself from one day to the next?

He wanted to be part of her vivacity. But he couldn’t, so long as he felt like a hanger-on, as he did whenever the topic of money came up. He could almost feel the handful of coins in his purse rubbing together like dry kindling.

Last night had been an aberration. He’d felt like a king for a time, but he should have known his lack of consequence would catch up to him. Her newfound adoration only magnified his shortcomings.

If she had any indication of his maudlin thoughts, she didn’t show it. She touched his hand to punctuate her sentences and granted him warm looks when he remembered to make noises at the appropriate places. Montborne’s fear that she’d been manipulating him looked ridiculous in light of her new adulation of him.

No,
she
wasn’t the problem. He was. If he was to continue on with her—and by God, he meant to—he must do two things to be worthy of her: find a way to be self-sufficient and prove to her that he had as much purpose in life as she did. That she
could
count on him…even if such a promise sent icy chills through his veins.

But that was how he’d come to be unworthy of her in the first place. He was eight and twenty years old, for God’s sake. It was time to act like a man, or else he would end up alone like his oldest brother—and despite Montborne’s protestations to the contrary, the last few months of his moping about the house belied his professed love of being unfettered.

All Con had to do was convince Elizabeth that he was more than the convenient, insolvent clod she’d needed between Captain Finn and herself. Then she’d keep looking at him with that trusting gaze and he wouldn’t feel like such a confounded fraud.

He estimated he had until the end of their holiday to improve himself. If Montborne’s experiences were representative of the whole, women were only blind to one’s faults until the novelty wore off.

He grimaced. He’d have to do better than “best his blockhead of a brother” for his sense of purpose. That was a low bar, indeed.

After another long day of being jostled, they reached Brixcombe only an hour before dinner. Elizabeth closed her pocket watch and tucked it into her reticule. Lord Trestin wouldn’t be enthusiastic about their tardiness, but it couldn’t be helped. This late in the year, the roads were in poor shape from all of travelers escaping London’s insufferable heat.

She pressed her back against the squab and brushed aside the window hanging. From his rear-facing seat across the carriage, Con watched her with open interest. She paid him no mind and craned her neck to see beyond the window. In the few months since she’d left, Brixcombe hadn’t changed a bit, but then this sleepy village nestled just beyond a horseshoe-shaped ring of surging cliffs likely hadn’t changed in four hundred years.

A commotion from the top of the carriage lasted just long enough for her and Con to exchange worried glances. Then the horses drew up suddenly and Elizabeth reached her arm across Mrs. Dalton’s chest, as if she could stop the force of a grown woman and four-month-old being catapulted across the carriage.

Luckily, they weren’t tossed from their seats. Con threw the door open and jumped out. Moments later he returned, bounding into the carriage with the easiness of a man born a dashing rake.

Elizabeth didn’t pause too long to admire his agility. “What’s the matter?” she asked before he had time to settle.

“James, the runner I sent ahead, waved down your coachman. Lord Trestin has extended an invitation for us to stay at Worston rather than at the cottage.”

Elizabeth did her best to hide her disappointment. “That’s very kind of him.”

Con nodded and tapped his knuckles on the coach ceiling. The horses pulled forward and once again, Elizabeth whipped her arm across Mrs. Dalton and Oliver. Con shot her an odd look but then, he couldn’t truly understand the innate need she felt to protect her child, even when her attempt would be futile if put to an actual test. “I take it you’d rather stay at this cottage you spoke of this morning,” he guessed.

Her gaze darted to her lap. Seeing the cottage would have been lovely, though she didn’t think her impulse to stay there was purely for sentimental reasons. It would have been so much more private than the Hound and Hen or Worston. “I don’t want to be a bother, and of course I would be if he were made to open the cottage just for us. Worston is a fearsome place. Have you been?”

Con cast her a commiserating look. “I grew up next door, so yes, I do know what a monstrosity it is. I wondered, though, if it is the thought of staying on with Trestin himself that has brought on your obvious regret. I don’t know him as well as you might think, seeing as how we grew up neighbors, but I
can
say that he isn’t the easiest man to talk to. I never felt slighted in the least to know that he preferred Montborne to me, though Trestin and I are of an age. Antony and Bart have always had their secret language, and Darius and I were conveniently paired. Montborne was welcome to him.”

She frowned. “I like Lord Trestin very much. He can seem cold, but he is kind to me.” It hadn’t always been that way, but she didn’t see the benefit in confirming his poor opinion of Trestin.

“I suppose he must have a quixotic bone in his body. I’m still flabbergasted that he married—” Con winced. “Er, your friend.”

She smiled though his honesty scared her. He meant that Celeste hadn’t been worthy of Lord Trestin. It was only the truth. Still, thinking of him marrying Celeste in spite of her past gave Elizabeth a kernel of hope. Maybe she exaggerated the impossibility of Con’s ever marrying
her
.

“They suit each other very well,” she said, careful not to force too much hope into her words. “He is a steady, dependable sort who is faithful to his family and friends. But,” she allowed, “he doesn’t have many of those.”

Con’s nostrils flared. Why? Because
he
wasn’t known for steadfastness?

Or was he jealous?

He forced a smile to his lips. “Then you shall have to reintroduce me.” It sounded, just the teeniest bit, like a warning.

Her belly fluttered.

The carriage began the steep ascent to Worston. Oliver slept against Mrs. Dalton’s breast. Elizabeth smoothed his hair. She’d cherish these last few minutes before pleasantries were required of her. That would have been a benefit of staying at the cottage: it offered a retreat to collect her thoughts after a day of being subjected to Celeste’s eagle eye.

She caught Con’s gaze. Another benefit? Privacy.

The carriage rocked forward and stopped. Elizabeth lightly touched the back of Oliver’s fist as she waited for the stairs to be set down. Did Worston have a nursery? It must. All great houses must be prepared for the eventual arrival of the heir.

The carriage door opened, letting in a blast of sea air, and she allowed Con to help her down. Lord Trestin was already outside and standing before the formidable white granite steps that spilled from the front door to the impeccably manicured lawn. He waited for Con to escort her, but she saw the question in his amber-colored eyes even from ten paces. What were they doing here?

“Welcome, Lady Elizabeth,” he said, taking her hand, and though she might have expected him to use the name she’d been raised with, it still startled her. Beside her Con stiffened, as he had when he’d seemed jealous earlier. Though why Lord Trestin using her formal name should disturb him, she had no idea.

“Thank you.” She withdrew her hand from the reassuring grip of the man who had taken care of her when her own brother, a man of God, had never so much as sent her a letter. “You’re most kind to invite us here. We would have been comfortable enough in the cottage, I should say.” She smiled to take the edge from her admonishment.

“I wouldn’t hear of it. Not when there are so many empty rooms here.” His amber eyes darkened, perhaps at the thought of his sisters, who had filled Worston’s bright hallways with friendly bickering and the occasional tantrum, until they’d set out on their own after the last London Season ended.

The butler appeared at the top of the stairs. He took one look at Mrs. Dalton and the baby and scrambled down in an agile display at odds with his years. Before Elizabeth could exchange a word with Mrs. Dalton, the young nurse was whisked away. Two footmen materialized and began unloading the trunks and hatboxes.

It seemed Elizabeth really did have no choice in the matter. They would benefit from Lord Trestin’s hospitality, whether they wanted it or not.

After giving her one last questioning look, Trestin turned his attention to Con. They touched the brims of their beaver hats and sized each other up. Celeste would have laughed at their bluster, but Elizabeth had always preferred to observe without drawing attention to herself. Con’s earlier description of the viscount and their childhood left her curious.

“I trust you arrived without issue?” Trestin asked.

Con nodded. “Brixcombe seems exactly the way I left it. Time stands still here, doesn’t it?”

A twinkle came into Trestin’s eye but he didn’t smile. “It did.” Then he caught Elizabeth’s smile and cleared his throat, perhaps moments away from returning her chuckle—nothing he would want to do too soon in front of a virtual stranger. “Lady Trestin is resting,” he said, “but will be down for dinner soon.” His tone turned scolding. “I know that last leg from London stretches interminably, but you’re late. Nordstrom will set you up in your rooms, but I fear there is little time for ablutions before you will need to join me in my drawing room.”

Elizabeth tugged Con’s arm. “Heavens, if things are that dire, please see me in now. I won’t be down to dinner in this dusty gown and by God, I won’t keep Lord Trestin from his schedule.”

Trestin smiled his first real smile since they’d arrived. “Your consideration is appreciated.” He had very little room in his world for exceptions, but he did know how to laugh at himself.

Elizabeth bit back a rejoinder lest Con think she was flirting. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. She hadn’t warmed to Trestin as quickly as Celeste had, but once she’d learned to recognize his wit she’d found she could banter with him endlessly. That was before he’d married Celeste, and before Elizabeth had concerned herself in any way with rules of propriety. Flirting with one’s best friend’s husband showed poor form. She cared about that now.

They followed Trestin up Worston’s granite steps and into a foyer. It opened to an entryway lit by windows built into the supporting structure of a massive onion dome ceiling. Con’s childhood memories likely didn’t extend to an appreciation of Byzantine architecture. He must be seeing it all as if for the first time. He didn’t make any murmurs of appreciation or gasps of surprise, though, as she had when she’d first entered Worston, but he did tip his head back to examine the fresco painted on the inside of the dome and scuffed his boot along the black and white tile floor.

The next quarter hour was a blur of fabric and ribbons as Elizabeth doffed her traveling gown and tidied up her simple chignon with the help of Mrs. Dalton’s agile hands. Belatedly she realized Oliver would have to be fed. She then spent another quarter hour giving him milk and bread and rocking him to sleep—and feeling horribly derelict for her lapse. It wasn’t that the nurse couldn’t handle Oliver’s meal, but the fact that Elizabeth had forgotten. One night with a man and she was already slipping back to her selfish ways? It couldn’t be borne.

After turning him over to Mrs. Dalton, Elizabeth fairly flew down the steps and arrived in the doorway of the drawing room at one minute past. Conspicuously, Lord Constantine was absent. Where could he be?
He
didn’t have a baby to feed.

“You’re late,” Lord Trestin said, rising and giving her a stately bow.