* * *
* * *
Hours later Alice lay in bed, sleepless, twisting, restless between her sheets. She couldn’t get Lord Tarrant out of her mind. He’d behaved perfectly politely—apart from initially addressing her without being introduced. So why had she reacted to him that way?
He hadn’t made any kind of nasty proposition—he’d just looked at her with an expression in his eyes, an expression she didn’t even know the meaning of—and she’d fled from his presence like a nervous virgin, which lord knew she wasn’t.
Somehow, he’d stirred sensations in her—with just a look from those hypnotic eyes, like a winter lake, silver against the tan of his skin. Sensations she’d never felt before. Sensations she didn’t want to feel.
I don’t yet know what pleases you.
Yet. As if it were some kind of promise. No one had ever cared to discover what pleased her.
She turned over and punched her pillow.
Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? And how could a mere glance from those eyes feel like a . . . like a caress? It was . . . unsettling. Wrong.
She was too . . . too aware of him. His height, his strength, the faint fragrance of his shaving soap. The indefinable air of masculinity about him.
As if he were some kind of tall, well-made magnet and she some feeble creature made of iron filings.
She punched the pillow again. She was no feeble iron-filing creature. She refused to be.
Chapter Six
The morning after the party, Gerald’s manservant brought up a note with his morning coffee, a message from his mother requesting him to call on her urgently. The fact that it was just after nine o’clock and his mother was sending notes made him think it must indeed be urgent: Mama rarely rose before eleven.
On the other hand, it was Mama sending the note. Gerald finished his breakfast, washed, shaved and dressed, and set off shortly before ten.
His mother’s butler ushered him into her bedchamber, where she sat in bed, swathed in a sumptuous silk dressing gown, propped up with half a dozen pillows, with her writing desk over her knees and correspondence scattered around her.
She presented her cheek to be kissed. “About time, Gerald. I sent that note at quarter to nine.”
He obediently touched his lips to her already powdered and rouged cheek. “What’s this about, Mother?”
“You danced with that gel last night.”
“I danced with a dozen girls,” he said in a bored voice. “I understood that was the point.”
“Don’t be facetious, you know very well which gel I mean—Alice’s foundling.”
“Alice’s foundling?”
His mother made an impatient gesture. “She might as well be. Nobody has ever heard of her. She has no fortune, no looks to speak of and nothing to recommend her. I am told you even asked her for a second dance. Is that correct?”
“I intended to, but she’d already left.”
His mother sniffed. “I warned Alice I would not tolerate her throwing the wretched gel at you. I’m glad to see she listened, for a change.”
“Aunt Alice didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“She introduced you, after I’d specifically ordered her not to.”
Gerald stiffened. “You ordered her not to?”
“Of course. I don’t want you having anything to do with that gel. She is not the sort of gel I want my son to associate with. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, Mother,” he said crisply. He turned on his heel and, fuming, stalked from the room. How dare she think she could tell him who he could and could not see? Or dance with. Or anything.
He set out immediately to call on his aunt. And her so-called foundling.
Really, Mama was outrageous. He didn’t know much about Miss Bamber—and, it had to be admitted, the girl had given him no encouragement—but as for no looks to speak of, what utter rubbish. Miss Bamber was both lively and pretty. In fact, he found her disturbingly attractive. And intriguing.
* * *
* * *
Lucy was on her way downstairs when the front doorbell sounded. She paused on the landing and drew back out of sight, clutching her old carpetbag to her chest. Alice had warned her that after their attendance at her sister-in-law’s party the previous evening, there were likely to be morning calls and that Lucy should be prepared.
But morning calls were conducted in the early part of the afternoon, and yet here it was, not yet eleven o’clock, and someone was at the door.
She glanced down at herself. She was wearing one of her old dresses, worn and faded, too tight across the chest and short, showing her ankles. She hadn’t expected to meet anyone. It was a lovely morning and she planned to spend a few hours painting.
So far she hadn’t met a soul in the garden, only a gardener who’d nodded but otherwise ignored her, which pleased her greatly. Privacy and time to herself were a gift she’d had little of in recent years.
Tweed opened the door. “Good morning, Lord Thornton.”
Lucy drew back, listening.
“Is my aunt in?”
“She is, my lord, but I’m afraid she is not yet ready to receive visitors. However, if you would care to wait a few minutes, I’m sure she will want to see you.” Lucy watched as the butler ushered Lord Thornton into the front drawing room, then mounted the stairs in his usual stately manner.
Lucy crept down the stairs on tiptoe.
“Miss Bamber.”
Blast! Lord Thornton stood in the doorway of the drawing room. Lucy pretended not to hear and hurried on.
“Miss Bamber.” Louder now.
Cursing silently, she turned, clutching her bag to her chest, and gave him a blank, ‘Do I know you?’ kind of look.
“Lord Thornton,” he prompted after a moment. “Good morning, Miss Bamber.” His gaze ran over her, and though he gave no sign that he noticed her shabby old dress, the faint cleft between his brows told her he did. She tensed. It was too close to the clothing she’d worn at their encounter on the road.
What was he doing here, making a morning call at eleven o’clock like some kind of ignorant bumpkin? Lords were supposed to know these things.
He inclined his head. “I trust you enjoyed yourself last night.”
“Last night?” she echoed, as if she had no idea what he was talking about.
His frown deepened. “At the party given by my mother.” And when she didn’t respond, he added, “Almeria, Lady Charlton.”