Too Tempting to Resist (4 page)

More.

To his satisfaction, her response was warmly willing. She opened herself eagerly, twining her tongue with his. Teasing, touching—like their bodies, the rules of Polite Society seemed suspended as they hung high above the ground, letting all rational thoughts dance away on the summer breeze.

Eliza.
The musical lilt of her given name rolled so easily off the tongue. It suited her, decided Gryff, for he sensed a simmering sensuality beneath her sun-kissed skin. She was no cold-blooded prude, but rather a delightfully daring wood sprite. A creature of Nature—of dark forests and sunny fields, of windswept moors and swirling waters. Her eyes gave hint of primal passions lurking deep down inside, just waiting to be released.

Without thinking, Gryff moved his hand down over her breast and began a slow, circling massage over her peaked nipple. Its tip traced a spiral of fire along the inside of his palm.

He made a sound deep in his throat and the rumble seemed to break the spell of elfin enchantment.

Eliza’s eyes flew open. “Please, sir…”

“Yes, yes.” Gryff leaned back, reluctantly surrendering the feel of her feminine softness.

“D-down,” she stammered. “We need to get down from here. It’s dangerous—we might fall at any moment.”

Why do I have the feeling that I’m already tumbling in a slow, spinning somersault?
He dispelled the strange sensation with a small laugh. “Very well. Let’s get your feet firmly planted on the ground.”

Hitching her a bit higher, he swung around and braced his boots against the tree trunk. “Keep your arms around my neck, and hold tight,” he cautioned. “This may get a little rough.” Picking his way down through the branches was an awkward endeavor. Twigs snapped, bark scraped.

“Loosen your grip,” he said—and then dropped her heavily the last few feet to the ground.

At the unexpected impact, Eliza lost her footing and sat down rather heavily on the mossy ground.

Grinning, Gryff dropped down lightly and offered her a hand up.

“Thank you for rescuing my cat,” she said with injured dignity.

“And not your person?”

In the shadows of the overhanging leaves, her expression was hard to discern. “I think I would have managed quite nicely on my own,” replied Eliza. She took a moment to smooth her skirts and pick a leaf from her bedraggled hair. “You distracted me with the mention of the light’s effect on the stones.”

“Yes, now that I get a better look at that fetching gown, I can see you have a keen interest in colors,” he murmured, eyeing the paint-spattered muslin. “The design is quite…unique.”

Eliza suddenly looked flustered. “I—I always wear old garments when I…” She let her voice trail off.

“When you paint?” he suggested. “Very practical. And what sort of paintings do you create? Portraits of feisty felines? Scenes of woodland Druids performing their pagan rituals?”

“I—I just dabble,” she mumbled.

“I imagine you are being far too modest, Lady Brentford.” He smiled. “All well-bred ladies are expected to wield a pencil or paintbrush with some proficiency, aren’t they?”

She drew in a nervous breath, though he wasn’t sure why.

“May I see them?” he went on.

“No!” she exclaimed in alarm. “Th-that is, I don’t like to show my sketches to anyone.”

“Oh, come now. Rest assured that I’m not a harsh critic. I enjoy looking at art and in my experience, most females are happy to show off their talents. And yours”—another look at her gown—“appear quite exuberant.”

If anything, his teasing made her even more agitated.

“No, really. They—they aren’t very good.”

They must be truly awful to stir such a visceral reaction, thought Gryff. It would be ungentlemanly to embarrass her by pressing the point—not that his recent actions had been terribly honorable. A gentleman really ought not ravage his host’s sister at the top of an oak tree.

“Forgive me,” he said, sketching a small bow. “I did not mean to upset you. If you wish to keep your artistic talents a secret, I shall, of course, abide by your wishes.”

“Thank you.” Still, Eliza looked a little skittish. She grabbed up her half boots and made a shooing gesture. “If you don’t mind, sir, I should like to get dressed, and it is only proper that I do so in private.”

Gryff couldn’t resist a bit more teasing. “But I’ve already seen far more than your graceful ankle.”

“How very ungentlemanly of you to remind me, Lord Haddan,” she tartly pointed out.

“One of my many sins, I’m afraid,” he murmured. “I often say things that I shouldn’t in Polite Society.”

Eliza looked away, the curl of her wheat-colored lashes hiding any hint of what she might be thinking. “Yes, well, men are allowed to make their own rules. Alas, women are not.”

She was right. He could laugh off the incident, while the consequences for her would not be so amusing.

He backed up several steps and went to stand behind one of the thick-trunked oaks. “There, propriety is satisfied,” he called.

A scrabbling of leather sounded in answer.

“Will I see you at supper?” inquired Gryff.

“Are you
mad
?” she answered. “Sit down at a table full of drunken, debauched louts? God forbid. I shall stay as far away from the lewd jokes and the overflowing piss pots as is humanly possible.” He heard a rustling among the fallen leaves. “You may come out now.”

He stepped out onto the path. “Has your brother no concern for your comfort?”

“Given our previous encounter, Lord Haddan, I should think it would be obvious that Harry thinks of little, save for his own pleasures.” She picked a twig from her hair. “Enjoy yourself among such company, sir.”

He frowned, realizing that she must think him part of their circle. He was, after all, here.

“You and my brother can drink yourselves witless, but I have better things to do with my evening.” Eliza drew back her shoulders and assumed a regal pose—rather endearing given the disheveled state of her clothing and her half-laced boots. “Good day.”

With that, she turned and began walking off…though the attempt at a dignified retreat was nearly upset by her tripping over a root.

Gryff waited a few minutes and then followed discreetly, curious as to where she was going. The manor house was in the opposite direction.

As the path wound out of the trees, he caught sight of her up ahead, hurrying to duck through the stone archway of a walled garden. The slatted gate slammed shut.

Again, he waited a moment and then approached for a closer look.

It appeared a very charming spot. The mortised stones glowed with a buttery warmth, the vines of wild roses adding an exuberant splash of color to the well-worn surface. Thick twists of ivy spilled over the top of the wall, the curls of green like slender fingers swaying in the breeze.

Beckoning him to enter.

Ivy—it signified friendship.

Not likely, given the liberties he had taken with her person, mused Gryff.

He was tempted to click the latch and enter for a closer look. However, despite his teasing comments, he
was
a gentleman. And the lady’s privacy had been violated enough for one day.

“Damn.” Gryff forced himself to walk on past the snug little cottage abutting the garden. “Damn, damn, damn,” he added in a low whisper, reluctantly quickening his steps as he turned down the gravel walkway leading back to the manor house.

There appeared to be more to the widowed Lady Brentford than first met the eye.

But as she seemed determined to keep her secrets well guarded, he was obliged to respect her wishes.

“Oh, you witless, shameless idiot.” Eliza wasn’t sure whether the muttered castigation was meant for herself or the marquess. She kicked the cottage door shut, aware that every fiber of her body was still quivering with heat. It was anger that had ignited such sparks. Anger, and some hidden flame undulating deep down in a place she didn’t wish to acknowledge.

Eliza rubbed at her arms, wishing she could dispel the prickling of her flesh. The imprint of his touch felt branded on her body, and the tickle of his breath seemed to have scalded her skin. Everything about Lord Haddan—his scent, his shape, his sense of humor—was supremely sensual.

Sinful.

“Of course he is sinful, you ninny,” she whispered. “He’s one of the notorious Hellhounds.”

From under the table Elf gave a throaty purr.

“A luscious, long-limbed Lucifer who wreaks the Devil’s own havoc with women,” she added, as if saying the words aloud would give them more force.

Lud, only an utter fool would refuse to recognize the danger.

But her body seemed intent on rebelling against her brain, even though in her heart, she knew it was supremely stupid to desire…things that could never be.

I have an artist’s eye for shape and form, so I can see very well in the looking glass how my face appears.

Even now, she could see a faint reflection in the window glass. Thin and plain. Too strong, too sharp. Men preferred a petite Pocket Venus, not a gangling Diana, Goddess of the Forest Hunt, whose string-bean body was toughened from tramping the fields to gather flowers and herbs for her paintings.

I am hardly a specimen of feminine beauty.

So, Eliza thought wryly, experience should counter imagination.

A man like Haddan was merely bored and passing the time away from his usual distractions by playing silly games with her. If the newspapers and her brother could be believed, the marquess had his choice of lovely ladies in London.

For once, Harry probably had the right of it. Haddan was, in a word, a rake.

A sigh slipped from Eliza’s lips. So was it wrong to want him to touch her? Even if it meant nothing to him?

Of course she knew the proper answer, and yet…and yet…

Yes, Haddan would forget her in an instant. But she would have the memories for a lifetime. A lingering taste of brandy-fired kisses to keep her warm when she escaped to a new life in that snug little Lake District cottage. She would be living alone and isolated, with naught but sheep and gorse—and Elf, of course—for company.

So why should I deny myself a teeny tiny taste of forbidden pleasure before I go?

Men certainly didn’t. It was unfair that they should get to write all the rules. And then tear them up and toss them to the wind whenever Temptation waggled a come-hither finger.

The Marquess of Haddan offered a wildly wicked temptation. A chance to taste passion with a man who possessed wit, charm, and divine masculine beauty.

And he was nice, despite his devilish teasing. Would Harry or any of his wastrel friends have risked life and limb for a cat?

Not bloody likely.

Turning away from the window, Eliza sat down at her worktable and drew in a deep, deep breath.
Choices, choices.
At times, life seemed like such a daunting path, filled with confusing twists and choices at every turn.

Well, if I am going to go astray, I might as well enjoy it.

From the corner of the room came the playful crunch of papers and the flick of a feline tail.

As Elf darted under the storage cupboard, a wistful smile slowly tugged at her lips. Oh, be damned with the consequences, she decided. The chances were virtually nil, but if the opportunity arose to kiss Haddan again, she just might embrace it.

G
ryff peeled off his coat and tossed it on the dressing-table chair. He loosened the knot of his Belcher neckerchief and as it came free, he caught a faint whiff of Eliza’s beguiling fragrance lingering on the fabric. Jasmine and clover, honey and heather—it was unusual. Just like the lady herself.

He couldn’t help but smile.
Unusual.
He had experienced any number of exotic trysts, but he couldn’t remember ever having an amorous encounter in a tree before.

Moving to the casement, Gryff gazed out of diamond-paned windows, taking a moment to drink in the view of the sloping lawns and clustered plantings subtly shaped by a master of landscape design. It had been a good decision to come here, he decided, despite the prospect of a very tedious evening. The glorious gardens and the intriguing widow more than made up for having to spend time with Leete and his circle of boorish friends.

He knew he had a reputation for rakehell behavior that attracted the admiration of would-be blades. And for the most part he was tolerant of pups who nipped at his heels, trying to attract his attention. However, there was something about Leete that made his hackles rise. The fellow was too loud, too loutish, too lacking in common sense.

Perhaps his opinion was colored by Eliza’s comments and the fleeting ripple of fear he had seen in her sea-blue eyes on the night of their first encounter. It was clear that her feelings were more than mere exasperation with boyish escapades…

“What the devil?” Gryff made a face as he turned and caught sight of the tall, imposing four-poster bed in the center of the bedchamber.

“Sorry, sir.” His valet stepped out from the dressing room. “The gentlemen insisted, and I wasn’t sure whether you would want me to stop them or not.”

“Christ Almighty, have you any idea what the bloody thing is, Prescott?” he growled, staring up at the exotic contraption of brass and rosewood that had been hung from a ceiling beam.

With a pained look, his valet handed over a note.

Gryff hesitated a fraction before unfolding the paper.

My Dear Haddan
, he read—already offended by the obsequious assumption of friendship.
In honor of your acceptance of my invitation to stay at my estate, I wished to make sure you did not find country life too dull. Knowing your prowess with the opposite sex, I searched for a special gift that might provide some amusement, and found this Turkish slave bar in a shop that caters to gentlemen and their appetites for adventure. I’m sure you will find a willing wench to fill its shackles when we go to the local tavern tonight. As you see, I do not expect my guests to be monks when they visit Leete Abbey. (Ha, hah!)

“Arse.” Gryff crumpled the missive and tossed it into the fire.

“The staff here seems to be in agreement, milord,” murmured Prescott.

“Indeed?” His valet, whose cherubic looks belied the fact that his former profession was that of a cutpurse, possessed many invaluable skills. One of which was the ability to gather information with the efficiency of a Bow Street Runner—a fact that had saved Gryff from a number of delicate situations in the past. “And why is that?”

“According to the housekeeper, the young master is a profligate wastrel who ignores the estate lands and is beggaring the family coffers with his gambling,” answered Prescott. “Over the last year, a number of servants have been let go because of money. Those who remain are a small circle of loyal family retainers who have been here since before Lord Leete was born.” A sniff. “They all disapprove of his inviting such dissolute friends here for drunken parties. It is thought to be extremely insensitive and improper, given that his sister is the lone gently-bred female in residence, and has no one to protect her from any untoward advances.”

Gryff cleared his throat with a brusque cough. “Given that she is a widow, I wonder, why she is living here? Did her late husband not make provisions for her?”

“Apparently, he was a worse reprobate than her brother, and left her very little. The lands were entailed, and…” Prescott paused. “The housekeeper did not seem to know all the details, save to say that Lady Brentford did not wish to live as a dependent of her husband’s heir.”

No wonder she seems a bit cynical about men.

“It seems that she is very fond of the Abbey and its gardens,” went on his valet. “And it is through her prodigious efforts at economy that the place keeps functioning.”

“Well done, Prescott,” murmured Gryff. “It is always useful to know the lay of the land.”

“Thank you, sir. Shall I lay your navy superfine coat for supper?”

“Yes, that will serve,” he answered. “After that, you may have the rest of the night off. I hear the King’s Arms has very pretty barmaids who serve a decent porter.”

The valet allowed a tiny smile. “You are sure you shall not need any assistance after supper?”

Gryff shook his head. “I have no intention of going out to the tavern with Leete and his friends. I plan to retire early and read, so I would rather not be disturbed. Enjoy a few pints and I shall see you in the morning.”

“Very good, sir.” Prescott withdrew to finish putting the marquess’s clothing in order.

Gryff glanced up at the exotic sex toy, half-tempted to climb up and take the dratted thing down. But on second thought, he decided it wasn’t worth the bother.

Turning away, he went to unpack his valise of books.

Eliza entered the manor house through the scullery, wishing to stay well away from the carousing going on in the drawing room. An incident several months ago had taught her that Harry had no ability—or inclination—to exert control over his friends, and she didn’t wish to repeat it.

It had been embarrassing. Humiliating. That a so-called gentleman should behave like a beast with his host’s sister was…

Her mouth quirked.

Oh, but the encounter with Haddan had been, er, different.

Which begged the question of what the infamous Hellhound was doing running tame with Harry and his friends. She couldn’t really imagine that the marquess had anything in common with such men, despite his reputation as a dangerous rake.

And yet, he was here.

It was a contradiction and a conundrum for which she had no answers.

Men.
The marquess wasn’t the only one whose intentions were puzzling. Lord Brighton, the leader of Harry’s little group of wastrels, had suddenly begun to pay unsettling attention to her. It wasn’t that he had made any overtly improper advances, but the cold, calculating look in his eyes was enough to send a chill snaking down her spine. His words had implied…

Shaking her head, Eliza shifted her thoughts from men to the set of essays that had arrived from Mr. Watkins in the afternoon post. Thankfully, they were far easier to understand and appreciate. The author wrote with a lovely, lyrical style, and his observations and insights on landscape were very thought provoking.

Or was it a “her”?
Watkins had said that whoever had penned them wished for the time being to remain anonymous. To Eliza, that definitely indicated a female.

Her mouth compressed in wry sisterly sympathy. Oh, yes, females had a host of reasons to keep their talents hidden under a bush, so to speak. Money was, of course, one of them. It was grossly unfair that women had so little control over their own finances. And then there were the prejudices of the book-buying public. Art was an acceptable skill for a female to have. However writing—a discipline that demanded intellectual acumen—was considered not only unladylike but also too taxing for the female brain.

Ha! As if men were inherently smarter, simply because they possessed a p—

A hand suddenly shot out and snagged her sleeve as she turned into the shadowed corridor.

“What’s the hurry, Lady Bren’frd?”

Snapped out of her musing, Eliza tried to pull away. In the flickering light she recognized him as one of the carousers Harry had come to befriend in London. Over the past year, he, along with his cousin Lord Brighton, had become a frequent visitor to the Abbey.

“Please let go of me, Mr. Pearce.”

Instead, he pulled her closer. “Oh, come, ’Liza. We’re old friends.” His voice was fuzzed, and his breath reeked of brandy as he tried to capture her mouth with his. “Give me a kiss. After all, widows are allowed a little slap and tickle.”

“I said, unhand me, sir.”

He laughed and tightened his hold. “You ladies always like to make a little game of protesting. Very well, I’ll play along.”

Her heel came down hard on his instep, and as he grunted in pain, she twisted free of his grip. “Be assured, I don’t consider accosting me a sport.”

“Damnation.” He added a more vicious oath under his breath. “You ought to be grateful for my attentions. Face it, you ain’t in the first blush o’ youth anymore.” The undulating flame of the sconce lit the wine-red curl of his leering mouth. “And you’re second-hand goods, if y’know what I mean.”

“So I ought to be honored that you wish to toss up my skirts?” asked Eliza, rubbing at her wrist.

“ ’Arry’s always saying you’re a clever lass.” His leer stretched wider. “I see you unnerstand me perfectly ’bout the privilege o’ having a real man in your bed.”

“Aye, indeed I do,” she replied softly.

“I’ll come to your room later tonight. Discreet-like o’course. No one will know our lit’le secret.”

“Mr. Pearce, listen closely…”

He leaned in unsteadily, groping for her breast.

She slapped his hand away. “If you come to my room, I shall slice off your cock with a rusty razor—discreet-like o’course—and then feed it to the crows who nest in the Abbey ruins.”

His jaw dropped.

“Good—I take it you understand me perfectly. And if you don’t…” Eliza shoved him aside and made to pass. “Well, I daresay it would be no great loss.”

Pearce did not try to stop her, but as she turned the corner, his drunken growl followed on her heels.

“You think y’rself so high-’n-mighty clever, L’dy Brentford. But just wait an’ see.” His snarl turned into an ugly smile. “You’re going t’ pay—and pay d’rly for this.”

“Lord Haddan, allow me to pour you a glass of brandy.” Leete waved a bottle as Gryff entered the drawing room. “You shall have to swallow fast to catch up with the rest of us,” he called. “While you were out tramping those dry, dreary gravel paths, we got a head start in washing the travel dust from our throats.”

“So it would seem.” Gryff accepted the drink but did not lift it to his lips. “The grounds are quite interesting. I understand that Capability Brown designed some of the landscaping.”

Leete stared at him blankly.

“Capability Brown?” repeated one of the viscount’s friends. “I say, ain’t he the jockey who won the fourth race at Newcastle? A
very
capable fellow if you ask me—I collected a hundred pounds on my bet!”

Everyone else in the room dissolved in drunken laughter.

“Ho-ho, Pearce! That’s a rich one!” hooted Leete.

“The plantings look a little neglected,” said Gryff, ignoring the hilarity. “You ought to keep them in better condition.”

His host shrugged off the suggestion. “I’d rather spend my blunt on more interesting things than bloody flowers or shrubs.” Leete sidled closer and gave a knowing wink. “Like gifts to ensure that my friends have a good time here at the Abbey.”

Gryff saw all heads turn to him.

“Aye, we all thought you might enjoy getting a little
lift
to yer sexual performance, Haddan,” chimed Pearce.

More chortles.

“I don’t need any assistance in performing at my peak in bed,” said Gryff coldly. “And if I did, I would not be turning to puppies for pointers.”

“I—w-we—did not mean any offense, milord,” stammered Leete. “It was a jest…all meant in good fun, y’know.”

“Yes, yes, a jest,” echoed the others.

Gryff sipped at the spirits, trying to quell the urge to plant his boot in Leete’s backside.

One of the other men gave a little cough, breaking the awkward silence. “I say, how many rounds do you think the German Giant will last against the Highland Hulk?”

A debate quickly began on the merits of the two pugilists and who would emerge victorious from tomorrow’s combat.

Drifting to the terrace doors, Gryff looked out through the mullioned glass and watched the setting sun paint the distant heathered hills in dusky tones of pink and purple.

Temper, temper
, he chided himself. His mood had turned prickly, exacerbated by his own less-than-laudable behavior and the schoolboy humor displayed by Leete and his friends in hanging the prurient pleasure bar over his bed. However, he had accepted the viscount’s hospitality, and so far he had responded by snabbering over the fellow’s sister and snapping at the hand that was feeding him.

Not well done, Gryffin.

Despite his outward disregard for rules and regulations, there was a certain code of gentlemanly honor that was unbreakable.

“My abject apologies if I have offended you, Lord Haddan.” Leete sidled up to him, wearing a hangdog expression of remorse. “My friends and I were only trying to amuse you. If we went too far, we are sincerely sorry.”

“Let us forget it,” said Gryff. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m a bit fatigued from the traveling, that’s all.”

His host exhaled in audible relief. “Of course, of course. Here, let me refill your glass. I’ve brought up a special vintage from the cellars—I hope it is to your liking.”

Gryff allowed the viscount to pour out a generous measure. Perhaps tonight he would allow himself a temporary return to his old habits of imbibing far more brandy than was good for him.

He had a feeling the evening was going to be exceedingly long and exceedingly dull.

“Fribbles and featherheads,” muttered the housekeeper, slapping another linen serviette atop the growing pile on the table.

“Is something amiss, Mrs. Hillhouse?” asked Eliza, poking her head into the lavender-scented storage room.

“Your brother’s brain,” replied the elderly woman. “It must have sailed off to Cathay, taking with it every last shred of sense and moral decency. And Lord knows if it will ever return.”