Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah Page 11

  ‘You’re angry with me.’

  ‘I’m mad as bloody fire! The last time I saw you, you told me that you were perfectly content with your own company—this, despite the fact that you have admitted several times that you’re lonely. You encouraged me into telling you things I’ve never talked about—and yet you are like a clam. And that night—you kissed me as if you were starved of kisses. If I hadn’t dropped that portrait you’d have done a damn sight more than kiss me, but the next day you turn the cold shoulder on me. And now you swan in after almost three weeks of silence and demand—of course I’m angry with you, what did you expect?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked,’ Deborah said miserably.

  ‘No, you should not have.’ Elliot kicked at a smouldering log in the grate. Ash floated up from it, marring the polished perfection of his Hessians. He hated losing his temper. He hated that white, pinched look on Deborah’s face, and hated himself for having caused it even though she deserved it. He hated himself even more for caring. He dug his hands deep into his pockets and leaned his shoulders against the mantel, warring with the urge to agree with her outrageous request simply because he wanted to.

  Deborah twisted her gloves round and round, pulling the worn leather completely out of shape. Seconds stretched and still Elliot said nothing, his expression withdrawn, the lines around his mouth deep grooves. His anger sapped her will, for it was wholly justified. She was a fool to have come. ‘You are quite right, I shouldn’t have asked. I beg your pardon, I will go now.’

  He watched her get to her feet. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets as she pulled on her gloves. Her hands were shaking. She was biting her lip, unable quite to look him in the eye and he felt like an utter bastard, even though he was right. He was absolutely right, dammit!

  Deborah got to the door. She was leaving. She was walking away without a fight, even though she had a cause worth fighting for. She was walking away, just as she always did. She hesitated with her hand on the brass door handle. She hadn’t even tried to explain. She owed it to herself to at least do that much.

  She let go of the latch and turned around. ‘You’re right,’ she said shakily, ‘I shouldn’t have asked to come with you, but I did none the less because I have a very good reason for doing so. It’s not as good a reason as yours. I could lie to you, I could say that it’s just because I want to help you fight your battle, but I wouldn’t presume, even though I can empathise, and more importantly I won’t lie to you. If you will do me the courtesy of listening—which is more than I deserve, I know that—then I will explain. If my behaviour has already put me beyond the pale, I’ll understand.’

  It felt like a victory, simply having had the courage to stand her ground. She was breathing fast, as if she’d been galloping over the Downs, as if she’d been running, and the exhilaration of it was the same, too. She remained where she was, hovering at the door, for the moment not caring what Elliot said, just happy to have spoken up for herself. She was almost surprised when he crossed the room to where she was standing. His nearness made her heart beat even faster. His expression was still grim, but at least he was looking at her and not beyond her.

  Their eyes met; for a startling moment all Deborah could think about was kissing him. For a second, an infinitesimal second, she gazed at him, imagining that kiss, dark and hot and velvet. He would thrust his tongue into her mouth, pull her tight against him. It would not be a gentle kiss, no sweetness nor restraint. She would clutch at him, pressing herself shamelessly into the hardness of his chest, his thighs, wanting to be crushed into oblivion. She would kiss him fervently, longingly, as if she would drain him of his strength in order to bolster her own.

  Her skin heated. Her breath quickened. She saw it in his eyes, a recognition of the direction her thoughts had taken, and drew herself back, looking away, plucking at her gloves once more. ‘Will you allow me to explain, Elliot?’

  It had cost her dear, to turn around like that. It had cost him dear to let her go. He was still not sure that he would have, was irked at his relief in not having to, but already his curiosity had begun to subdue his anger. Already, whatever it was about her that plucked a chord in him had overcome his resolution. ‘I will listen, but I make no promises,’ Elliot said gruffly, leading her back to the sofa.

  Deborah chewed on her lower lip, her thoughts turned inwards. Then she nodded, the way Elliot had noticed she often did when she had come to a decision, and he struggled to contain his smile. She straightened her shoulders, tucking a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear, another endearing habit he’d noticed. She had the look of one preparing for battle. He eased himself back on the sofa a little, because the proximity of his knee to her was distracting. His anger was forgotten. Once more, he was simply intrigued. ‘Go on,’ he said gently.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I will.’ Deborah nodded again. ‘You must be aware by now that my circumstances are somewhat straitened.’ She spoke quietly, looking not at him, but at her hands. ‘My jointure is—well, according to Lord Kinsail it is more than adequate, which perhaps explains his reluctance to pay it regularly.’

  ‘Surely the terms of your husband’s will, your marriage settlement…’

  ‘Are not the point, Elliot. The point is that I would prefer not to be beholden in any way to my husband’s estate.’ Glancing up at him, she realised that her words were very much open to misinterpretation. ‘Goodness, don’t look like that. I’m not about to suggest that you cut me in on your profits,’ she said with a horrified little laugh. ‘No, I meant that I—what I am trying to say is that I have found an alternative way to earn my bread. I have taken up writing.’

  Whatever he had been expecting, it was not this. Elliot sat bolt upright. ‘You write—what, exactly?’

  ‘Books.’

  ‘You never fail to surprise me. What sort of books?’

  ‘Novels. You will not have read any of them, they are not—they are written for—they’re not your kind of thing.’

  ‘What kind of thing are they, then?’

  ‘Just stories.’

  ‘For children?’

  ‘Good God, no,’ Deborah replied, looking appalled. ‘They are sort of adventure stories. Revenge allegories. For adults.’

  She was blushing. He tried to snag her gaze, but Deborah remained fascinated by her hands. ‘Revenge? I remember now, you told me you recognised vengeance—was that what you meant, that you write about it? Do you not think that is a rather strange topic to choose?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they are about, save that they are books, that they sell well and that my publisher says that this next one will sell even better. Enough for me to be able to dispense with my jointure.’

  ‘Why would you do that, when it is your legal entitlement?’

  ‘I don’t want it. I don’t want anything from the Kinsails. That is the point of my writing, to be free.’

  ‘That is an odd choice of word for financial independence.’

  Deborah shrugged.

  ‘I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.’

  ‘In my latest story, my heroine carries out a robbery and…’

  ‘Wait a minute. You’re not telling me that you’ve put what we did into a book?’ Elliot said slowly.

  ‘I know, I should have told you, but…’ Deborah twisted her gloves into a tight knot. ‘I’ve changed the details obviously, you need have no fear that there is anything which will betray us. She—my heroine—acts quite alone, and though she does escape by a rope, it is not a portrait, but a statuette she takes.’ Her voice faded into a whisper. Put like that, it seemed heinous not to have told him. ‘I assure you Elliot, no one would realise—save you, of course, and you are not likely to read it.’

  ‘On the contrary, I shall make a point of doing so.’

  ‘No! Good God, no! It’s not your sort of thing at all.’

  There was no doubt about it now, Deborah was blushing furiously. ‘What on earth have you written that you’re so embarrasse
d about?’ Elliot asked.

  ‘Nothing! I’m not embarrassed.’ Aware that the blush on her cheeks gave lie to her words, she tried to cool them with the backs of her hands. ‘I have never told anyone about my work. No one save my publisher knows, and even he pretends to be in ignorance of my real identity.’ She risked a look at Elliot, a smile that was almost impish. ‘He knows my name full well of course, but he pretends not to. He calls me madam,’ she said in a fair imitation of Mr Freyworth, ‘and only when he is annoyed with me, or very anxious to persuade me of something, does he resort to my lady.’ Her smile faded. ‘He resorted to my lady when he read my latest story. He thought my description of the theft had great authenticity. In fact, he liked it so much that he insisted I include another. He told me that such a book would run into several editions. Several, only think of it. I can’t tell you how much that would mean to me, Elliot. I tried, I really did try to make something up, but I could not.’

  Silence, but this time she had no difficulty in reading the look on his face. He was aghast. ‘You don’t think it’s a good idea,’ Deborah said, nodding her head matter of factly, ignoring her sinking heart. ‘And you’re right. It’s not. I should have seen—only I was so very eager to do as he asked because of the sales…’

  ‘You’ve come here to ask me to take you with the Peacock so you can put it in a book.’

  Deborah cringed. ‘Yes, yes, I know, when you put it like that…’

  ‘Having already written our first little outing into that same book so successfully that your publisher wants another?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But your imagination has failed you, so you want me—I beg your pardon, the Peacock—to fill in the gaps. Have I that right?’

  Deborah nodded mutely.

  ‘And the reason you need to write books in the first place is because you won’t take what you’re legally entitled to from your dead husband’s estate?’

  ‘I won’t take it because I don’t feel entitled to it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She shouldn’t have said that—Elliot was far too perceptive. Deborah stared, wide-eyed, fighting the urge to flee. He wasn’t angry any more. He wasn’t looking at her in that hard way, though his mouth was still grim. She looked down at her gloves. They were quite ruined.

  ‘Deborah?’

  There was a hint of impatience in his voice now. ‘I wasn’t a very good wife,’ she said.

  He had to strain to catch her words, and when he did, he almost wished he hadn’t, for it was impossible not to be touched by such an admission. Elliot disentangled Deborah’s gloves from her fingers. Her hands were icy. He clasped them between his own to warm them. ‘From the little you’ve told me,’ he said carefully, ‘he wasn’t a very good husband.’

  ‘We shouldn’t have married. He was only interested in my money, I told you that.’

  ‘It is your money which provides you with your jointure, Deborah.’

  ‘It’s not mine, not any more. I don’t want it. I don’t deserve it. You don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m trying to.’

  ‘You can’t, Elliot. I can’t talk about this. I’m sorry,’ she said wretchedly, snatching her hands free of his and scrubbing at her eyes. ‘Thank you for your time. It’s too much, I understand that, but I appreciate your having listened.’ Once again, she made for the door.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Make something up.’ Deborah smiled bravely. ‘I’m a writer, it’s what we do—invent things. I should go now.’ She held out her hand.

  Elliot took it, but did not let it go. He felt like a complete heel in the face of such spirit. After all, was she really asking so much? What if he chose one of the safer jobs, one of the ones he’d actually put to the bottom of his list because it would be so boring? Whatever went on between her and her husband, she had obviously suffered. Who could blame her for wishing to sever the ties with his family? Who would not honour her for wishing to be independent? If he managed the risk, would it be so wrong to take her, knowing that by doing so he was helping her fulfil a most worthwhile ambition? She had already proved herself reliable, capable. Wouldn’t it be wrong not to take her?

  ‘Elliot?’

  ‘Does it really matter so much to you?’

  ‘It’s not just about the money. It’s freedom, a chance to forget the past. To try to forget the past, at any rate. But it’s my past, not yours. I should not have…’

  ‘I’ll take you.’

  ‘Elliot!’ Deborah’s smile faded almost immediately. ‘No, I can’t let you. You’re just feeling guilty because I’ve been so pathetic.’

  ‘It’s because you’ve not been pathetic and it’s nothing to do with guilt.’

  ‘I can’t let you.’

  ‘I want to.’

  ‘No. You said yourself it would be too risky. What if I did something stupid?’

  ‘You won’t. I won’t let you,’ Elliot said, exasperated by her protestations, for now that he had decided, he had set his heart on it.

  ‘I might, though. What if I cried out, or dropped something, or—?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Deborah, I’ll take you! I want to take you!’ Elliot exclaimed.

  Annoyed to discover how much he wanted to, he pulled her towards him. She stumbled and his arms automatically went around her. She smelled of lavender. Her eyes were melting brown. Close up, they were rimmed with gold. A pulse beat wildly at the base of her throat. Her lips were the most seductive pink. He wanted to kiss her. The way she looked at him, she was expecting him to kiss her. Was this why he had agreed to do as she wished, for more of her kisses? No. No! There were other reasons. Plenty of reasons, though he couldn’t remember them right at this moment, when the softness of her breasts pressed his chest, when he could feel her breath on his mouth.

  ‘I want you.’ She had not moved away. She’d made no attempt to free herself. ‘I want you to come with me, I mean,’ he said raggedly. ‘If it means so much to you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Deborah’s heart beat wildly. She wanted him to kiss her. She was so sure he would kiss her. She touched the scar which sliced his brow. He was so very male, yet it did not frighten her, merely heightened her own sense of being female. Jeremy had never—but Elliot was not Jeremy. ‘If you’re sure. I won’t let you down.’

  ‘I know you won’t.’ He kissed her then, but it was the merest touch of his lips before he drew back. ‘I don’t want there to be any more misunderstandings between us,’ he said. ‘I did not agree to help you in return for your kisses.’ A wicked smile teased the corners of his mouth. ‘I do want your kisses, make no mistake about that, but only when you are ready to give them to me.’

  Deborah shivered. She wanted to, but she was afraid. But she wanted to, despite the fact that she knew herself lacking in some essential ingredient which made other women desirable. Reluctantly, she stepped clear of Elliot’s embrace. ‘I understand,’ she said tightly.

  ‘Good,’ Elliot replied, wondering if he did. Until he had met Deborah, he had considered himself rather well versed in the ways of women. Where other men declared roundly that they wished their wives or lovers would simply say what they wanted, Elliot relished feminine subtleties and nuances, the complexities and layers in women’s language which made them so very different from his own sex. But Deborah was not so easily read. Had she wanted him to kiss her or not? Did she want him? He had no idea.

  ‘Will you send me a note with the arrangements, as you did last time?’ she asked, interrupting this rather frustrating chain of thought.

  Elliot nodded. ‘In a week or so. I’ve nothing planned yet, it takes time.’

  ‘I could help you. I could help you with your reconnaissance, and your—whatever it is you do in your planning.’

  ‘To put in your book?’ he asked quizzically.

  She hadn’t been thinking of her book. ‘Yes.’ Deborah bit her lip. ‘No. I mean I would like to with your permission, but that’s not why I suggested it. I’d like to help. An
d I’d like to—to be with you. Because I want to.’

  She said it so defiantly, tilted her chin at him in that way she had, that Elliot couldn’t help laughing. ‘Then I would like that, too,’ he said.

  ‘What is it you gentlemen say? We have a deal?’

  ‘We have a deal,’ Elliot replied, though he kissed the fingers she held out, rather than shaking them.

  Watching from his doorstep as her cab rumbled over the cobbled streets in the direction of Hans Town, he realised that the fog of ennui which had accompanied him like a sodden pack of kit, all the way from London to Hampshire and back again, had now departed along with the bitter taste of rejection. There was no need, yet, to solve the thorny question of the future. Deborah had given him plenty of other things to think about.

  She had been most coy with regards to her writing. He wished she could bring herself to confide in him, but he could not see the harm in failing to wait for her to do so. He poured himself a glass of Madeira and took a sip, rolling the wine around his mouth, enjoying the rich, fruity taste of it. It brought back an image, of a night at the royal palace in Lisbon, a ball, a dusky beauty, the scent of bougainvillea. So long ago, he felt as if the memory belonged to another person entirely.

  Elliot took another sip of wine. So many times since the war had ended, he had wished himself back in those days, but right now, the present was much more interesting. The past was fading, dimming in comparison to the promise of the next few days. He finished his wine. His hand hovered over the decanter, but he decided against another. He had some digging to do and this kind of digging required a clear head.

  Chapter Six

  It was too dangerous for them both to reconnoitre, he told her when she suggested it. Though the job was a simple one, Elliot was thorough and Deborah was

  studious. They were poring over his sketches of the house and grounds together, papers and notes scattered over the polished table in his small dining room, when Lizzie came upon them.

  They did not hear her at first; she had waved aside the servant’s offer to announce her. Standing in the doorway, she watched them, the flaxen-haired stranger and her brother, looking younger and more carefree than she’d seen him for years. They were seated side by side. Elliot’s arm lay on the table, almost but not quite brushing that of his companion. She was reading something, a frown making question marks of her fair brows, so deep in concentration that she didn’t notice the way Elliot was looking at her. Lizzie’s own brows shot up. She must have made a sound, for Elliot looked around, quickly gathered the scattered papers together and got to his feet.