Lady Alderfield glanced about the garden, then gave him a slow, seductive smile. “You’re in no hurry, then?”
He sighed. He wasn’t the least bit tempted by her. Hadn’t been in years.
“I’ll be along in a moment.” He staggered purposely and let his voice lengthen into a slurred drawl. “Just walking off my drink.”
He dropped one hand to his breeches falls, giving the impression that he meant to relieve himself in the hedges. That did the trick. When he checked over his shoulder, Lady Alderfield had gone.
Eliza emerged from the shadowed nook.
She gathered her shawl and drew it tight about her lovely shoulders. “You’re not drunk,” she said. “Why do you pretend to be drunk?”
“Why do you pretend to be good?” He scratched the back of his neck and cast a wistful glance at the marble bench, shrouded in darkness. “I don’t suppose we could return to that moment, even if I made the attempt.”
She fair hooted with laughter, like some pale, long-necked bird of the night. “No. I don’t suppose we could.”
Just as well. He needed to get inside, and quickly.
“I’ll take my leave of you, then. Fare thee well, Miss Eliza. I wish you safe journeys and much happiness. Will you wish me the same?”
She turned her gaze to the path.
“Well, at least promise to hate me for all eternity,” he teased. “I so enjoy collecting those impassioned vows from young women.”
Harry knew he was being an ass, but he couldn’t help it. Perhaps it would be easier this way.
“Don’t fret, my dear,” he said, more kindly. “You’ll have the better of me someday. We’re bound to cross paths again, and I’m invariably provoking.”
With a bow, he turned his back on her, striding toward the house. He could feel her watching him go.
“Wait,” she called.
Harry stopped dead in his tracks. Because when she called to him like that, he couldn’t do anything else.
A flurry of light footsteps on slate brought her to his side. When she reached for him with both arms, he went weightless in his boots.
She didn’t embrace him. Nor kiss him, in some fumbling, innocent way. No, it was so much better and so much worse.
She set about the task of retying his cravat.
“I can’t stand this,” she said, tugging on the rumpled fabric. “Every time I see you, I want to put this straight.”
His cravat wasn’t the only thing she was putting straight. The scrape of starched fabric against his neck made him wild with desire. But he beat down the carnal impulses, resolved to focus on other things. As she worked, he adored the sharp focus in her eyes, the prim set of her lips. He loved that she was fussing over him with such unconscious, obvious affection. His whole body was consumed with a deep, throbbing ache.
She cared.
She cared for him. Apart from Brentley and a few other sometime friends, she might be the only person in the world who did.
And what, pray tell, was the bloody use? She wasn’t allowed suitors yet, and he had no suit to offer, even if she were. Besides, she’d never be satisfied until she had that debut—that one glittering, triumphant night. A silk gown in the latest fashion and a different partner for every set.
“This is my last chance to see you in Norfolk,” she said, working the starched fabric. “Promise me one thing?”
Anything.
Her blue eyes sought his. “If Brentley wants to propose to Philippa, promise me you won’t stand in his way.”
Harry quietly groaned. Ask me for diamonds, won’t you? Ask me for the moon, the stars. Ask me to scale the pyramids of Egypt, swim the Nile, and bring you a necklace of crocodile teeth. Anything but this.
“I can’t promise you that.”
The flash of hurt in her eyes…oh, it destroyed him.
“Fine,” she said tartly, resuming her work with new vigor. “You are the worst person I know.”
“What offenses have earned me that honor? Locking you in a room a year ago with the specific intent to not ruin you? Resolving to keep your sister from a wretched mistake?”
“Just go on. Walk away.” She sniffed. “Leave me behind. Play cards and drink and consort with loose women. Ruin your best friend’s chances for happiness. But know that you’re the selfish one. You accuse me of being anxious to marry off my sister, but you’re just keen to keep your partner in debauchery. If Brentley marries, that would be a real problem for you, wouldn’t it? You’re a man with no income and a dwindling number of friends.” She finished her work with a sharp, ruthless yank that nearly cut off his air. “Who else will put up with you?”
He twisted his neck, rasping for breath. “Who indeed.”
She surveyed her work. Acting on some impulse of dissatisfaction, she reached to tame his hair. As her fingers dragged through the unruly locks, hot sensation swept over his scalp and traveled down his spine.
“There,” she said, standing back. “That’s done.”
Oh, to hell with it. Devil take this night and her lovely face and the hopelessness of it all.