His Wicked Charm Page 12

  She wished she hadn’t said what she had. He was inconstant, always moving from one thing to another; he believed in all that otherworldly nonsense. His teasing made her yearn to slap him sometimes. But maybe she and her aunt were wrong about him being part of Hetherton’s set. She’d seen him talking and laughing with them at parties; she’d heard of some of the ridiculous practical jokes they’d played. But she hadn’t seen any sign of their wildest sorts of behavior in Con, and it had been some time since she’d heard of him engaging in one of their stunts.

  The last few months, being around him more, she had begun to wonder if what she had taken as impulsivity was actually an ability to think and act quickly. If one looked at his flirtations in a different way, it was good of him not to pursue anyone so intensely that it raised expectations or caused gossip. Of course, why he felt the need to flirt with every woman alive was a mystery—and rather irritating, as well—but it didn’t rise to the level of wickedness. He was quite loyal, at least to certain people.

  She had just been so angry at her aunt for not only saddling her with Cuddington, but also dawdling so much Lilah had almost been late to the station. Then Con had kept goading her until finally she exploded. She wished she could have her words back, but they were irretrievable. He would remember them no matter how much she might try to explain or apologize—and really, apologizing to Con was not something she looked forward to. She would do it of course, because that was polite, but Con would make it difficult.

  It was foolish to be so downcast. It wasn’t as if Con had liked her before her angry, impulsive statement. He found her staid, stuffy and dull. He seized any opportunity to make light of her, always prodding and poking. And, whatever he said, he had avoided her the entire time Lilah had stayed at Broughton House when they’d helped Alex and Sabrina escape.

  But why had he said that at the end? After telling her what a nuisance she was, he’d admitted he’d wanted her with him. He didn’t mean that—but it had shot out of him as if he couldn’t keep from saying it. As if he hadn’t wanted to feel it.

  Then he had pulled her into his embrace and kissed her until she couldn’t think straight—which, admittedly, had not taken long. If she couldn’t deny her attraction to Con, neither could he deny his desire for her. She remembered the heat in his eyes, the hunger with which he’d kissed her, his hard body pressing her against the door.

  If Cuddington hadn’t come in, there was no knowing what might have happened. Lilah supposed that was a good reason to have the woman along, but she couldn’t summon up any gratitude. She wanted to know what Con would have said. What he would have done.

  Any chance of finding out was gone now. Con was deep in gloomy thoughts, not even speaking to her. There was little chance he would kiss her again. Which, of course, was all to the good. She shouldn’t ache for a repetition of the incident. It went so far beyond inappropriate that she scarcely knew what to call it. Vulgar? Licentious? Scandalous?

  What if she was like Aunt Vesta? That was a worrisome thought. No. She wasn’t. Even if she did have these improper feelings, Lilah could control them. Other people must have felt this way and not given in to it. So could she. The current awkwardness between her and Con would help her to do so. She should be glad of it. Really.

  Lilah leaned her head against the cushioned back and closed her eyes. At least she could avoid the heavy silence by pretending to sleep. To her surprise, her pretense turned to reality, but she awakened when the train stopped. She glanced around, disoriented. “What—are we to Bath already?”

  “No.” Con shook his head. “Just a stop to pick up passengers.” He pulled out his watch and opened it. “Still some distance from it, if their schedule is correct.”

  “I see.” She wondered if she’d disarranged any of her hair as she was sleeping. She tugged at the hem of her jacket. At least Con was talking to her. “The weather has been nice.”

  This was precisely the sort of polite social chitchat Con abhorred, but what else could she do under Cuddington’s basilisk gaze? She wondered if the woman really did have instructions from her aunt to report Lilah’s behavior. Con made a noncommittal noise, but apparently he decided to make an effort as well, for a moment later he said, “What is your home like? Barrow House, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She wished he had chosen something else to talk about. “Well, um...” She picked an invisible bit of lint from her skirt. “It’s in the Levels. Do you know anything about them?”

  “Bogs? They were drained, weren’t they, as the Fens were?”

  “Yes. It’s all farms now where there used to be marshes. The land’s flat and crossed with rhynes—that’s what they call the canals.”

  “But what about your home itself? What is it like?”

  Why did he insist on talking about Barrow House? “It’s, um, a little hard to describe.” That was putting it mildly. “It was built during the Tudor era. Actually, it was erected on the foundation of an old castle. It sits on one of the few elevated places in the Levels. You can see Glastonbury Tor from our land—if it isn’t too foggy. We’re not too far from Wells. Wells is quite lovely.” She launched into a description of the history of both the town and the cathedral.

  Apparently the flood of words ended Con’s interest in the subject of her house, and he settled back into silence, though now he studied her rather than the view out the window. Lilah shifted uncomfortably and wondered what he was thinking.

  It was a relief to reach Bath, where they had to change trains. Only one trip a day was scheduled for the short spur to Wells, which meant a two-hour wait, and by the time they reached Wells, it was late afternoon. She was pleased that the only vehicle they could hire was a one-horse trap that seated only two people, leaving the maid to ride in the hired cart with the luggage.

  Glad as she was to be free of Cuddington’s gloomy presence, the knot in Lilah’s chest grew with every minute as they drew closer to her home. It was all dearly, hauntingly familiar. Twilight fog crept in as they drove, gathering above the rhynes and obscuring the road beneath their wheels. Willow trees planted in rows beside the numerous waterways rose above the mist, their drooping branches stirring in the evening air.

  The land rose gradually, and the low-lying fog became patches of mist drifting across the ground. They turned onto the drive leading to the house, and the ache in Lilah’s chest swelled. There it was: Barrow House, looming before them in all its hulking, shopworn grandiosity, a testimony to the conceit of successive generations of Holcutts.

  The house had started as a standard Tudor design in the shape of an H, but the family extended one leg of the H. A later Holcutt had added on another wing perpendicular to the extension, so that now the mansion was a rectangle with a chunk missing in the center of one side, looking more like a blocky backward C. It was as if three separate houses had been awkwardly mashed together.

  All the wings faced inward to the hidden central courtyard, so that from whatever direction one came, the visitor was presented with the rear of the house, giving it a closed, secretive look. It was erected on a foundation of stone, in a flamboyantly Tudor style, the first two sections built of plaster and black wood beams forming geometric designs. The last wing was half-timbered, the lower section dark stone and the upper part decorated with black wooden shutters, carvings and window tracery, heightening the sinister appearance of the place.

  Tudor arches, Tudor roses, trefoils and quatrefoils were everywhere, and slender ornamental brick chimneys forested the roofs. Oriel windows jutted out here and there, dozens of gables faced in all directions, and it was difficult to see how any more glass windows could have been crammed into the walls.

  The gap between the top and bottom of the C opened to the inner courtyard. On the far side of that gap, the original wing jettied, each floor sticking out beyond the one below it. Like many Tudor buildings, it had come to warp and sag under the weight of the third floor, giving
it a vaguely drunken appearance. An incongruous round stone tower bulged from its side.

  In the bright sun of day, it was a decidedly peculiar house, but now, with dusk falling and fog wafting about, it was eerie, as well. Con let out an exclamation, and Lilah glanced warily at him. He was staring raptly at Barrow House, his hands loose on the reins.

  “This is where you grew up?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Amazing.” He looked at her speculatively.

  Lilah felt her cheeks flush, and she turned her head away, chagrined.

  “How could you bear to leave it?” Con went on.

  “You would like it,” Lilah said darkly. She had known he would bedevil her about Barrow House. Whether he scorned her home or delighted in it, it would provide him plenty of fodder for his quips.

  “Of course.” He resumed his study of the house. “It’s fantastical, the sort of place where you can imagine anything happening.”

  “I fear I haven’t much imagination,” Lilah responded crisply. “It’s too large. The floors are uneven, the rooms massive and impossible to heat. It’s an absolute monster of a house.”

  “Yes.” Con’s eyes gleamed.

  They pulled into the large cobblestoned courtyard and rolled to a stop. She saw Con gazing around him with interest, taking in the out-of-place yew tree growing there, the dark stone fountain spouting water from the mouth of a Green Man face and the three sets of grand double-doored entries.

  “Please tell me that if I pick the wrong door, I won’t fall into a pit.”

  “We use the middle one,” Lilah said shortly and got out of the vehicle.

  A startled footman came hurrying out to greet Lilah. Con left the trap to him and caught up with her. Bending close, he murmured, “It’s this house, isn’t it? That’s why you were so reluctant for me to stay here.”

  Lilah stopped, meeting his all too knowing eyes. “Don’t be absurd.”

  He started to reply, but at that moment the front door burst open and a woman swept out. Her face was stamped with surprised delight, and she spread out her arms in welcome. “Dilly! Oh, Dilly, my pet.”

  “Dilly?” Con’s eyebrow quirked up.

  “Don’t. You. Dare,” Lilah hissed at him and hastily shifted aside to avoid her aunt’s embrace.

  The move was unsuccessful, and Aunt Vesta enveloped her in a hug. Though it had been almost ten years, it was painfully familiar. She smelled of the same heavy exotic scent and her embrace was as emphatic. Lilah stood stiffly in her arms. “Hello, Aunt Vesta.”

  Even softened by age, Vesta still cut a dramatic figure. As tall as Lilah, she was considerably larger, her bosom jutting out like the prow of a ship above her corset. Ten years ago her hair had been a lighter gold than Lilah’s, but now it was jet-black, pulled up into an enormous pompadour and adorned with a curling feather.

  A diamond clip anchored the feather to her hair, and more diamonds winked at her ears, wrists and neck. Her dress was black satin, with red and gold flowers embroidered in a diagonal slash across the front. The sweetheart neckline exposed much of her impressive bosom. In one hand she held a fan of white feathers to match the one in her hair.

  Vesta stepped back, holding Lilah’s hands and beaming. “I cannot believe that you are here. What a wonderful surprise! But of course, things always work out just as they ought, don’t they? I’m so happy to see you again. It’s been far, far too long.”

  Lilah refrained from pointing out that it had been Aunt Vesta who had left so abruptly and remained away so long. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  “And who is your young beau?” Vesta cast a flirtatious sideways look at Con.

  Lilah colored. “He’s not my beau.”

  “Constantine Moreland, madam.” Con swept her aunt a bow as grandiose as the lady herself. “At your service.”

  “Oh, my.” Aunt Vesta dimpled at Con, wafting her fan flirtatiously. “You have caught yourself a prize, Dilly.”

  “Aunt Vesta! He’s not—”

  Con, of course, ignored Lilah’s words and flashed a dazzling smile at Vesta. “No, ma’am, it is your niece who is the prize. I was merely lucky enough to be where Dilly could stumble over me.”

  “Con...” Lilah gritted her teeth.

  “Come in, come in.” Aunt Vesta hooked her arm through Con’s and swept him into the house. “I do hope you will call me Aunt Vesta. I feel so close to you already. I can tell that we are kindred spirits.”

  Sourly, Lilah followed them inside.

  “You must be exhausted after that terrible trip,” her aunt said, as if they had trekked through the desert rather than ridden a train for a few hours. “I know you must be famished. I will tell the kitchen to prepare an early supper. But first, no doubt, you’ll be eager to freshen up.”

  Vesta whisked them up the stairs and down the hall. “Here, of course, is Delilah’s room. Ruggins sees to it that it’s always kept as if you’d just stepped out. Now, you, dear boy—I’m sure Ruggins will have the maids up here any moment to set up your room.” She smiled waggishly. “Across the hall and a proper distance away of course. We must observe the proprieties.”

  “Must we?” Con responded in the same teasing tone.

  “I am along there.” Vesta waved vaguely down the long hall. “I have moved into your mother’s old room, dear. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Lilah did mind. She minded a good deal. “Of course not.”

  “It faces the yew, you see, which of course is vital.”

  “Naturally.” Lilah didn’t look at her or Con, just hurried into her room and closed the door behind her.

  She leaned back against the door, letting the tension drain from her. It was blessedly quiet, and though she had not been here since her father’s death two years ago, it was cozy and familiar. The bookcase still held her childhood books. If she opened the small door on one wall, she would find a cunning little playroom tucked in behind a gable, doubtless still filled with her dolls and toys.

  She thought of just staying here and not going down to supper. But that would leave her aunt alone with Con, and God only knew what bizarre thing Aunt Vesta might tell him. Con, of course, would encourage her to talk. No, Lilah had to be there to steer the conversation away from all the topics it would be better to avoid.

  Turning away, she went to the water basin to wash away the dust and grime of the road, doing her best to brush it off her skirts, as well. Still she lingered, drifting about the room, touching her old jewelry box, the crudely stitched sampler that had been her first attempt at needlepoint, the glass dish shaped like a lady’s hand that had held stray buttons and pins, the small chest of her mother’s that had sat for years in her father’s room and had been moved to hers after his death.

  Lilah moved aside the chair that now sat in front of the small door to her playroom, and, ducking her head, she stepped inside. It was dim, lit only from the bedroom behind her, but that was enough to make out the row of dolls sitting on the shelves and the hoop leaning against it. A large trunk beneath the window held her toys; she had often sat there, looking out. On the wall opposite was an elaborate dollhouse atop a child-size table, a matching chair beside it. She had loved that dollhouse; it had been so wonderfully normal, so completely unlike her own jumbled home.

  The air was stale, smelling of the dust that layered everything. Light glinted on the glass eye of a doll. Lilah’s heart clenched inside her chest. This was a house of sorrow. Her father gone. A mother she had never known. This little room, holding the lifeless remnants of the child she had been.

  She left, closing the door behind her and returning the chair to its position in front of the door. This house, this land, might pull her in some visceral way, but Lilah was certain she no longer belonged here.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LILAH DIDN’T NEED to steer the conversation around treacherous w
aters, for her aunt didn’t even mention Barrow House or the Holcutt family. Instead, Vesta and Con kept up a steady stream of chatter about London. What was the gossip? What plays were at the theaters? Who was fashionable and who was not? Judging by their laughter, the chatter kept them thoroughly entertained. It made Lilah twitchy.

  It was a relief when her aunt’s idea of a simple meal—only six courses—came to an end. Con turned down Aunt Vesta’s invitation to an evening of cards and conversation and climbed the stairs with Lilah. At the top of the stairs, when Lilah started to bid him good-night and turn toward her room, Con wrapped his hand around her wrist, saying, “Wait. I wanted to talk to you.”

  Nerves coiled in Lilah’s stomach, but she joined him on the seat at the oriel window. What was he going to ask her? She had been a fool to hope she could keep Con from learning everything about her family. Obviously he and her aunt were quickly becoming great chums.

  “Lilah...” Con sat down beside her, hesitated, then stood up. “I acted abominably this morning on the train. I must apologize for my ungentlemanly behavior.” His words sounded stilted and rehearsed. “For the way I...” Uncharacteristically, he groped for words.

  “Kissed me?” Lilah was swept with relief. This was what he wanted to talk about?

  He relaxed, too, and sat down beside her again. “No, I’d never regret that. It was far too enjoyable.”

  “I have to say, then, it scarcely seems a sincere apology.”

  “I regret that I offended you. I’m sorry that I alarmed or distressed you. That I was boorish or rough. I am not usually so clumsy. I lost my temper.”

  “I don’t understand why getting angry would cause you to kiss a person. I would think that disliking someone would make you want to not kiss her.”