He felt her sidelong glance, then she looked ahead.
“You’re trying to scare me.”
“Am I succeeding?”
“I’m going to search Upton Grange for Tab’s letter—you might as well accept that. I won’t change my mind.”
They strode along the path in silence.
A silence that seemed full of whirling thoughts, plans, hopes, emotions; Lydia wasn’t sure what, but she could feel the atmosphere between them thickening with every step.
She’d dreamed of him last night. For the first time in years, he’d come to her in that shadowy world, a figure conjured by her heart, by her deepest yearnings. That, of itself, was hardly surprising; she’d dreamed of him for more years than she cared to count, just not recently. But what had unsettled her about this latest dream was that he had no longer been the twenty-two-year-old who had stolen her heart with just one innocent kiss in an orchard; last night, he’d been as he now was—and his kiss had been anything but innocent.
With a wrench, she hauled her mind from reliving the dream; if she did, she’d blush, and he—far too quick where she was concerned—would see, and very likely guess the cause.
The mortification she would feel didn’t bear dwelling on; she’d much rather walk in on a full-blown orgy.
Apropos of which…She glanced at him. “When would be the best time to search Barham’s house? The best time today.”
His face was already set; it couldn’t get any harder. They reached the lane; he turned her along the grassy verge, heading back to the inn. “Later. Early afternoon is usually quietest. The guests are all abed, and the staff have cleaned up, and are back behind the green baize door resting before the evening rush.”
She nodded; that made sense. “Very well. I’ll go back then—”
“No. You won’t.” Ro halted. They’d reached a point opposite the inn; the muddy river of the road lay between them and the front step. He met her gaze. “I’ll go. I know the house. I know where Barham’s most likely to keep any notes of hand.”
She looked up at him, entirely fearlessly, as she always had. Studied him in that calm, collected way of hers; then, it seemed, she looked inward.
A frown formed in her eyes, then she refocused on his. She drew in a quick breath, seemed to steel herself a little. “Thank you for the offer, Ro, but this is my quest. I know going into Barham’s house carries a certain risk, but I want to do it, to sneak in there, search for Tab’s letter, and sneak safely out again. Or at least try. As you said, I’m the sensible sister, the wise, cautious, never outrageous sister.” She paused, then said, “This is my time to act precipitously, to be just a little wild—to do something exciting.”
She held his gaze, then quietly added, “I suspect you, of all people, will understand that.”
He looked down into her clear blue eyes, and wished he could say he didn’t. But he did.
Jaw setting, he bent and swung her up in his arms.
She smothered a shriek, then, as he carried her across the mud-clogged lane, she studied his face.
His features felt like stone; he didn’t meet her eyes.
Reaching the inn, he set her down on the stoop; while she slipped out of her pattens, he scraped his boots on the bar by the door. She opened the door; he followed her through.
Stopping just inside, she looked into his face. “What did that mean?”
It took a moment before he could force the words out. “It means I’ll take you to the Grange. I know how to get you inside.”
Her eyes lit. “You do?”
He was quite sure he was insane even to be thinking of it. “Yes.” He took her arm. “We can discuss it in the parlor.” He propelled her toward the door. “I haven’t had breakfast yet and I need to eat. My brain works much better when I feed it.”
“Lord Alconbury requests the pleasure of Lord Gerrard’s company for revels unfettered to be held at Upton Grange between the 23rd and the 27th of February.” Lydia stared at the invitation Ro had pulled from his pocket and handed her. “That’s from yesterday to three days hence.”
She glanced at Ro, seated at the other end of the small table in the parlor. He was busily consuming a large pile of sausages, eggs, bacon, and ham, washed down with copious drafts of coffee; she’d consented to being served with tea. “What are ‘revels unfettered’?”
He chewed, swallowed. “Exactly what they sound like.”
Looking back at the card, she raised her brows. Apparently she was about to experience an orgy firsthand.
“If you’d rather not go, I’m sure I can manage by myself.”
She looked up to find Ro pushing aside his empty plate. Across the table, she met his gaze. “No, no—as I said, I’m set on excitement, and who knows? It might be quite…illuminating.”
She wasn’t sure but she thought he growled; ignoring the low rumble, she refocused on the card.
Tapping it, she frowned. “This says nothing about any companions. Won’t they think it rather odd if you turn up with a lady in tow?”
She glanced up in time to see an odd look pass through his eyes—wary, cautious, and resigned all at once.
He met her eyes, hesitated. She raised her brows higher.
“A lady, yes.” His accents were clipped. “But a courtesan…no.”
She felt her eyes widen. “I’m to pass myself off as a courtesan?” This quest of hers got better and better. Tab would turn green with envy.
Ro’s lips, already thin, tightened into a grim line. “As I said, there’s no need for you—”
“How do I go about it?” She sat forward, fixing him with eager eyes. “I don’t look like a courtesan—no one seeing me would imagine I am. I presume I’ll need a disguise, or to at least in some way change my appearance. How are we going to manage it? What should we do?”
The look in his eyes made her feel terribly daring, as if she were baiting a tiger. As long as the table remained between them, she felt perfectly safe in doing so, confident she could hide the effect he had on her enough to keep it from him. When he touched her, was close to her, she found it difficult to think; when he’d swung her up into his arms, she’d had to struggle to relocate her wits, but luckily he hadn’t asked her anything while he’d carried her across the road. Interacting with him in this not-quite-acceptable fashion was exhilarating, as if she were flirting, but with something far more dangerous than inconsequential phrases.
As if she were taking a real risk.
Quite why she felt so tempted, why she was giving in to the temptation to tease him she wasn’t sure, but she could see from his expression that he wasn’t, even now, sure if she was intending to or not. Regardless of what his reputation might suggest, she knew he would never step over the line, never retaliate in any way that would shock or frighten her, not Ro. With her, he would always be the perfect gentleman.
That didn’t mean that she hadn’t—wasn’t—fantasizing over not being a perfect lady with him.
Inwardly she sighed; she looked again at the card. Of course she wouldn’t actually do anything outrageous, because as everyone knew, she was the sensible, well-behaved sister.
“The first thing we have to do is find you a gown.” He spoke slowly, each word distinct. “And…we’ll need to do something about your hair.”
“Oh?” She opened her eyes wide. “What?”
“Lord Gerrard! Good afternoon, my lord—welcome to Upton Grange. It’s been some years since we’ve had the pleasure.”
“Good afternoon, Grafton.” In the front hall of Upton Grange, Ro smiled, distantly charming, at Barham’s butler, and continued in a bored drawl, “I’m sure it will prove a pleasure to be back. Getting here, however, sadly was otherwise—my carriage broke an axle in this atrocious mud.”
Ro cast a heavy-lidded look at Lydia, beside him. She was swathed in her cloak and hanging on his arm, doing a reasonable imitation of a petulant pout. Her hood was up, anchored with pins, screening her face from idle observers. “My…lady and I had to
make do with that cart you see rattling away.” He waved languidly back at the drive. “We’re hoping the comfort here will eradicate the memories.”
“Indeed, my lord. Of course.” Grafton, a large, physically imposing, barrel-chested man of limited imagination, signaled to his footmen with exaggerated self-importance. “I trust there were no injuries?”
“My coachman suffered a knock on the head, but is recovering. Our luggage will follow in due course…unless I’m summoned back to deal with the situation. Regardless, as after all these years I’ve finally managed to find time to attend another of Stephen’s excellent events—and my lady, having heard tales of these affairs, was eager for the experience—we came on.”
“The master will be delighted, my lord. We’ve a chamber prepared, if you care to go up?”
“Thank you. I believe we will.” Ro allowed his gaze to linger, openly lasciviously, on Lydia, then he looked at Grafton. “One thing, however—while the lack of our luggage will not severely inconvenience me, my lady dressed for travel and is therefore without a suitable gown for the festivities. As I recall, Stephen keeps a store of attire for just such emergencies.”
“Indeed, my lord. In the Green Room.” Grafton bobbed and bowed as Ro strolled slowly to the stairs. “I’m sure the master would be only too delighted for your companion to make her choice.”
“Thank you.” Ro waved a languid dismissal as he and Lydia started up the stairs in a footman’s wake. “Pray convey my compliments to your master when he awakes.”
“I will, my lord. Certainly.” Halting at the bottom of the stairs, Grafton went on, “I’m sure you recall our schedule, my lord—breakfast will be available in the dining room from four, with dinner to follow at ten o’clock.”
“After which the festivities will commence.” Ro smiled tightly as he went up the stairs; he had indeed remembered Barham’s program—he intended to have Lydia safely back at the inn, with her sister’s letter, by four o’clock. “Thank you, Grafton. If we need anything further, we’ll ring.”
With similar obsequiousness, the footman led them through a gallery and down a corridor to a large bedchamber overlooking the woods to one side of the house.
The instant the door shut behind him, Lydia put back her hood, carefully lifting the material over the knot of sheeny walnut curls that her maid, under Ro’s direction, had fashioned. “Well! That wasn’t so hard.”
“That,” he informed her, his accents clipped, “was the easy part. The part that comes next, and the one after that, might not be so much to your taste.”
Untying her cloak strings, she opened her eyes at him. “So what comes next? A gown?”
He nodded. “Wait here. I’ll go and fetch a few possible outfits, and you can select whichever you fancy.” He headed for the door.
“Wait—I’ll come, too. I can choose the gown there—it’ll be faster that way.”
“No.” His hand on the doorknob, he looked back. This entire plan of his was insane, yet here he was, doing what she wanted. Indulging her with an adventure. Be that as it may, given the other items for borrowing for his guests’ indulgence displayed in Stephen Barham’s Green Room the last time Ro had seen it, he wasn’t prepared to indulge her that far. “You stay here. The fewer people who have any chance to see your face, the better.”
He didn’t wait for any argument, but opened the door and went out, closing it firmly behind him.
They were safe enough for the moment; Barham and all his guests would be sound asleep. They wouldn’t start to stir until after three o’clock. He and Lydia had until then—over two hours—to find her sister’s letter and depart.
But first she needed a disguise.
The Green Room was as he remembered it, but choosing a gown proved more problematic than he’d expected; not one garment hanging in the big armoire was in any way decorous. In the end, he picked out three gowns; with them draped over his arm, he made his way back to their bedchamber.
Lydia was standing by the window looking out; she turned as he entered, then, curiosity in her face, came to join him at the foot of the bed as he laid the gowns out.
He stepped back. “These were the most…normal gowns there.”
“This one’s pretty.” She picked up a sleek gown in cerise silk, reminiscent of something from a sheik’s harem with its overlays of gossamer and tulle. He watched as she blinked, then stared as the various layers shook out—revealing that the opaque silk reached barely to mid-thigh, and featured a plunging neckline that would expose significantly more of her breasts than a chemise.
Lydia swallowed. “Perhaps not.” She could feel faint color in her cheeks as she laid the scandalous gown back down.
An errant thought swirled through her head: Had Ro imagined how she would appear in each gown? Was that how he’d chosen them?
The second gown was fashioned from the palest of pale green satins. She held it up. It took a moment of puzzling before she worked out that it was designed in the manner of a Roman toga—of sorts. It hung from one shoulder, and the drape covered her breasts entirely—but the back was all but missing, down to well below her waist…“I…think not.”
Laying it back down, she reached for the last of the three gowns, a confection in white silk and dark blue lace, praying for a miracle. She couldn’t help but wonder if Ro had deliberately chosen gowns she couldn’t possibly bring herself to wear so she would have to, by her own choice, remain in the room while he searched for the letter.
The last of his selections, however, restored her faith in him, at least as far as his willingness to allow her to join him in the search.
Holding the gown up, she studied it, then turned to the cheval glass in the corner of the room and held the gown against her. “Is it supposed to be a milkmaid’s dress?” Ro shifted to stand behind her. She looked at his face in the mirror.
Studying her reflection, he grimaced. “More along the lines of La Petit Trianon, I expect.”
She looked again at the gown. “You may be right.” The gown was waisted in the style of the last century, the skirts quite full with a ruffled petticoat beneath; her legs would be amply screened. The back neckline was high, shallowly scooped and edged with the dark blue lace, perfectly acceptable even though the dark blue lacings down the center back were far more obvious than the current mode—almost an invitation. Both bodice and skirt were constructed of vertical panels edged with the lace; overall it was a very pretty, frothy gown.
The risqué part—there was one, of course—was the upper bodice.
It was scooped, but the white silk was cut wide and low so it framed rather than concealed her breasts. However, the space between was filled with blue lace; fitting the gown against her, she judged that the lace infill was both dense enough and rose high enough to conceal all she needed to conceal.
She nodded. “This one.” She made her voice firm and definite; she didn’t want Ro trying to argue her out of the adventure. Especially as she was enjoying it—enjoying the excitement, the thrill of the illicit, the unexpected titillation of looming danger.
Glancing up, she saw Ro’s face harden. He’d still been studying her reflection. Lifting his gaze, he met her eyes in the mirror—curtly nodded.
Turning away, he looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “You’d better get into it then. The sooner you do, the sooner we can search.”
And the sooner he could end the torture. Ro couldn’t believe he’d agreed to this escapade, that he’d actually planned it. He was already in pain, and that was only going to get worse.
Holding the white and blue gown, Lydia looked around, but of course there was no screen in the room. Feeling as if his jaw would crack, he said, “I’ll stand at the window and look out. You’ll need help with those laces. Tell me when you’re ready.” He managed not to growl.
With every evidence of cheery enthusiasm—she was patently enjoying every moment—she watched him stalk to the window, then turned to the bed.
Over the rustle of silks, he
heard her humming. He tracked what she was doing by the familiar little sounds; he stared out of the window, but saw absolutely nothing of the trees and unkempt lawn.
In his mind’s eye, the vision of her in the gown took shape. He saw…considered, then decided speaking was the less painful course. “You won’t be able to wear a chemise under that.”
The sudden silence spoke volumes; even the rustling stopped. But then she made a little huffing sound; a second later, he caught a soft swish—and tried not to dwell on what it meant, not to let his mind form the image…
“I’m ready.”
He wasn’t, but…mentally girding his loins, he turned.
She was standing before the cheval glass, the gown’s skirts a froth of silk and contrasting lace about her; she was holding the bodice in place with both hands cupping her breasts—and frowning.
He focused on her back—much safer than focusing on her front. The sides of the gown gaped to well below her waist, waiting to be laced up the center, exposing an expanse of naked porcelain skin he tried hard not to see. Halting behind her, he caught the ends of the laces, and started threading them through the eyelets, expertly tugging them tight as he went.
It was a service he’d performed for countless ladies before; he didn’t need to think to accomplish the task. He fought to keep his mind blank instead, devoid of lecherous thoughts.
He was succeeding reasonably well until she wriggled and said, “I hadn’t realized it was so small.”
He glanced up, into the mirror, directly at the delectable ivory mounds more revealed than concealed by the dark blue lace. Swallowing a curse, he immediately looked down at the laces between his fingers; since the age of sixteen, she’d grown—rather more than he’d imagined.
She wriggled and tugged.
“Hold still.” When she grudgingly did, he spoke through clenched teeth, “It’s supposed to be like that.”
Just like the back of the gown; when hanging, the laces could be done up to the top of the back, but when a woman was inserted into it, the laces only closed to lower midback.