When Angels Fall (7 page)

Lissa worriedly put down the teapot. Alone, she faced her nemesis. There was no need for pretense now.

“Why have you come back, Ivan?” she demanded in a whisper.

With his frame more than filling the large easy chair, he leaned back and touched his fingertips together. He stared at her over his hands. “I’ve come for the country air . . . you see, Nodding Knoll left me with such pleasant memories.”

Liar, she wanted to say, then her gaze skimmed over his scar and she thought better of it. “You could have come back sooner, I daresay,” she accused.

“So you’ve missed me?” He leaned forward and grasped her hand, which was resting next to the teapot. Shocked by the warmth of his calloused palm, she immediately wanted to pull back. But he wouldn’t let her. He held her hand tightly. Although he didn’t hurt her, she could not pull free.

“I haven’t missed you,” she whispered, tugging futilely at her hand.

“But maybe you have. Shall we go to the stables and see?” The corner of his lips lifted in a smile.

“You cad,” she hissed, this time violently shoving on his arm.

“Here we go! Freshly made this morning!” Evvie breezed into the parlor with a plate full of biscuits. Immediately Ivan released her. Not expecting it, Lissa was thrown against the tea table.

Quickly she scurried back on the sofa as far from Powerscourt as she could get. As Evvie brought her a cup and saucer, she regained some of her composure.

“Will you be staying at the castle long?” Lissa asked, once more striving for polite conversation.

“Long enough,” Ivan stated. He smiled sardonically as he leaned to retrieve his teacup.

Now most definitely rattled, Lissa struggled for a reply. Trying desperately to think of one, she looked all around the room, everywhere but at Ivan; for every time
she looked at him, all she could see was that vicious scar and the promise of revenge in his eyes.

Trying to look as cool as possible, she lifted her teacup to her lips, but, of course, she had forgotten to pour herself tea. Caught in the act, a small furrow appeared in her brow.

“Your sister makes a good cup of tea, don’t you think, Miss Alcester?”

Her gaze met with his. Wicked amusement sparkled in his eyes, but she was not about to let him unravel her further.

“Yes, Evvie always does.” In an attempt to ignore his stare, she almost took another sip from her cup. Appalled, she turned to Evvie, hoping that somehow, she would sense how things were going and start up some conversation. But to her dismay, her sister only sat silently beside her, half frowning, half smiling; panic and joy written all across her features.

Lissa swallowed hard. She turned once more to their overwhelming guest. “So, Lord Ivan, how do you find Nodding Knoll? Has it changed much in five years? Or have you been away four? It’s so hard to keep track of time when you live in a little village as we do.” She smiled, but it was a bit too bright.

“It’s been five. And yes, it has changed.” His glance flickered over the shabby interior of the cottage. She colored with embarrassment.

“But not so much that you don’t recognize us, my lord?” Evvie finally chimed in, trying desperately to cheer things up.

“No, not that much.” He looked at Lissa. She looked away.

“Well, the next time you come to tea . . . t-that is,” Evvie stuttered, “if there is a next time . . . that is, of course you’re certainly invited anytime, my lord, anytime
. . .
that is . . . well, when you do you must tell us all about your life in London, isn’t that right, Lissa?”

“Yes, of course.” She reassured Evvie with a touch on her arm. “But I’m sure Lord Ivan has better things to do with his time than dazzle us with his social triumphs, isn’t that right, my lord?” She gave him a glittering stare.

He suppressed a smile. “On the contrary, I invite you both to Powerscourt anytime to hear about my triumphs.”

Or
be
one of them, Lissa thought unkindly.

“But now, I’m afraid you must excuse me,” he announced.

“Leaving so soon, Lord Ivan? I had hopes you’d stay for dinner.” Evvie stood and held out her hand.

Lissa looked up at her sister as if she’d gone mad. She for one wasn’t about to serve this man shepherd’s pie at their tiny kitchen table.

“A gracious offer, made by a gracious lady.” Lord Powerscourt stood, then reached for Evvie’s hand and took it in a warm grasp. “However, I must refuse. I have another engagement.”

“Miss Alcester,” he said to Evvie in farewell. Lissa watched her sister return his smile. To her bemusement, Evvie actually looked sorry to see him go.

Powerscourt then turned to her. Filled with sudden trepidation, Lissa stood, still keeping hold of her empty teacup.

“Miss Alcester.” He nodded to her coolly. But before she could respond in kind, his eyes suddenly filled with some unnamed emotion. He raised his hand and ran one strong finger down her left cheek, exactly mirroring the path of the scar on his own. Paralyzed by his touch, Lissa closed her eyes and wondered if she was capable of fainting after all. Her heart stopped in her chest and she gasped for breath. Her hand immediately went to her cheek and held the spot that still tingled from his touch. In her state, she was unaware as her teacup slid from her grasp and fell with a dull thud to the carpet.

At Evvie’s gasp, she opened her eyes. But by this time, Ivan Tramore was gone.

“Mr. Billingsworth! How . . . charmingly . . . forward you are!” Lissa exclaimed the next day as she sat in the Billingsworths’ parlor. She smiled and tried to ignore the liver-spotted hand that rested on her knee. But she was successful for only about three seconds before she nervously rose from the tufted loveseat and stood by the mantel.

“Lizzy, old girl, there’s no need for shyness now! I know you didn’t come here to visit my daughters. It’s clear you’ve reconsidered my suit. And by God, I won’t make you sorry you did! So come now and sit beside me. I want to converse.” Wilmott Billingsworth patted the ruby-velvet upholstery next to him.

At one time, most definitely in the century past, he had been a handsome man. He still sported a hopelessly old-fashioned “parricide” collar, and she couldn’t help but remember the fable about a boy who had worn such a high, pointed collar, he’d accidentally slit his father’s throat. But despite Wilmott’s passé attire, one could still consider him handsome, in a grandfatherly way. The look he gave Lissa now, however, was far from grandfatherly.

He smiled coyly at her. Wilmott’s teeth were a bit yellow from age, but at least, Lissa told herself, he had all of them. Just like an old wolf’s, she couldn’t stop herself from adding. Quickly chastising herself, she daintily smiled a refusal. Already she had a headache.

“Lizzy!”

Her azure gaze slid over to the loveseat where Wilmott sat. She despised that name: Lizzy. It made her sound like a barroom serving wench.

She closed her eyes and wondered how she was going to endure this courtship. Her honor wouldn’t allow her to
be anything less than a devoted wife to the man she married—no matter whether she loved him or not. Yet how was she going to give Wilmott her unwavering devotion when she could barely stand to be in the same room with him? Whatever made her think she could do this?

Ivan.

Unconsciously her hand swept her left cheek. Then as if she’d just realized what she had done, she angrily opened her eyes. She wasn’t going to allow that gypsy to disparage her. She might not be rich, but she wasn’t so poor that she had to stand by impotently taking all of his smug looks. And that . . . that . . .
pity
in his eyes! She silently moaned, remembering how Ivan had looked yesterday as his gaze had swept Violet Croft’s interior. He certainly wouldn’t pity her if she were mistress of Billingsworth Manor!

Her black thoughts turned to that very morning. She had readied herself with a vengeance to call upon the Billingsworths. Deaf to Evvie’s pleas, she had put on her old dark blue tartan dress printed with pink rosebuds. She chose the gown not so much because it was her best, but because it was of a modern design that hooked down the front—and she was able to dress without her sister’s unwilling assistance. Fastening the last hook at her throat, she had pulled on her white muslin undersleeves. When her
engangeants
were snugly tied around her elbow, she gathered her mother’s old sovereign purse and walked downstairs, all without hearing one word of Evvie’s pleading. She had been out the door before George had even left for school.

Her visit to the manor had been ostensibly to see Honoria and Adele, Wilmott’s daughters. But it was obvious from the moment she was shown into the ladies’ parlor that the two Billingsworth spinsters did not appreciate her coming to call. As Lissa already knew, Honoria and Adele were as tight with the family money as two wealthy penny pinchers could be. And from the time of their
mother’s death, the two spinsters had always made it clear that they had no desire to share the Billingsworth guineas with a usurper.

When Wilmott finally joined them, Lissa was already desperate to leave. Honoria had been kind enough to call for refreshments, yet Adele—like one vulture recognizing another—examined their guest as if measuring her for a coffin. Needless to say, Lissa barely touched her tea.

Honoria and Adele made their exit only after several meaningful looks from their father. With his daughters out of the room, Wilmott brazenly took a place right next to her on the tufted loveseat. She had tried to continue their conversation, but Wilmott was too busy sneaking an arm around her shoulders to respond. Now was the fourth time she’d felt compelled to stand at the mantel. Watching Wilmott rise to join her, she found she could take no more.

“Good heavens, look at the hour!” she exclaimed, nodding to the longcase clock out in the foyer. “I am sorry to be leaving so soon but I do have a previous engagement.” She scurried past Wilmott and retrieved her gloves and purse from a giltwood console near the doors. “Do tell your delightful daughters that I shall call upon them again soon.”

“Lizzy! I insist you let me take you home!” Wilmott took her arm and led her into the foyer. There he barked out orders to his butler to summon the Billingsworth carriage.

“You shouldn’t trouble yourself, sir, I can find my way back to Violet Croft.” Nervously she put on her gloves. If Wilmott had tried to maul her in the parlor, what would he attempt in the confines of his carriage cab?

“Far from being a trouble, it is a pleasure!” Wilmott bade her wait on a small silk-covered bench beneath the grand staircase. She fiddled with her gloves, a small frown marring her perfect brow. She had to think quickly of an excuse to walk home.

“While we’re waiting, my dear”—Wilmott’s voice intruded upon her thoughts—“I’d like to speak with you about something.”

Startled, she looked up. Was he going to propose so soon? Good God, she would be debauched before the carriage could even get to her cottage door!

“Certainly, sir. What is it?” she whispered despairingly.

“The castle. There’s to be a small soirée there week after next. Of course, Honoria and Adele will be along,” he added fretfully as if this were actually not a point to be rejoiced upon, “and I would very much like you to accompany us. I’d like to show you off to old Powerscourt.”

Powerscourt.
She rubbed her temple with her gloved hand. Would that name not go away? Somehow she could already picture the amusement on Ivan’s face when she arrived at the castle on Wilmott’s arm.

“Oh, dear, I don’t think—”

“Father!” A hushed voice from the staircase interrupted her. Looking up, Lissa saw Honoria glide down the staircase like a wraith, her long, skinny frame and tight, graying bun only accentuating her ghostly appearance. An embarrassed flush colored her face, and she seemed hesitant to speak in front of their guest, but the matter must have been of some import for she began anyway. “Father, before you go, the cook is out of mutton and we must go to market and buy some.”

“Mutton be damned! Can’t you see I’m busy!” Wilmott snapped.

“Yes, I quite see,” Honoria said meaningfully, making Lissa color. “But, nonetheless, we must have some dinner.”

“That cursed cook! That pilfering witch! I’ve given her the household allowance! How can she need more!” In his anger, Wilmott’s face turned beet red.

“You don’t give her enough, Father, that is why we run out before the month is over.” Honoria was blushing
furiously now and Lissa began to feel sorry for her. It seemed her father was even more of a skinflint than she was.

“I’ll be right back, my dear,” Wilmott said to Lissa, resuming his pandering tone. He patted her hand and walked to the library with Honoria. Lissa could hear his lecturing until they disappeared down the passage, but long afterward, phrases like “the sinfulness of flagrant spending” and “the purity of the thrifty home” still made their way to the foyer.

Thoroughly chagrined, Lissa sat in the huge marble foyer until the carriage arrived. When she heard the steely creaks of its wheels on the cobbles, she immediately stood and allowed the butler to help her to the conveyance.