Too Tempting to Resist Page 3

  “They are sleeping off their midday meal.” Yawning, Gryff turned the page. He, too, was feeling a little drowsy, having been up most of the night writing. “Feel free to leave anytime.”

  “I plan to, but I was hoping that you might like to accompany me. I have a pretty little pistol that I acquired in Paris, and I thought you would enjoy helping me test its accuracy at Manton’s shooting range.”

  “Unfortunately, I have another engagement,” answered Gryff.

  “Ah.” Cameron’s mouth curled up at the corners. “With Linonia’s lovely wife?”

  “No, that was over long ago. I—” Gryff frowned as a flicker of candlelight winked off something lustrous tangled in his friend’s sherry-colored hair. “Bloody hell, is that a pearl hanging from your earlobe?”

  “Yes. And quite a nice one, don’t you think? It belonged to King James, or so the legend goes.” Brushing back a curling lock, Cameron fingered the filigree gold setting. “You should think of getting your ear pierced.”

  “Ha!” Gryff gave a low snort. “I’m not about to let you stick another cursed needle into my flesh. I’m still angry at you for convincing me to get tattooed by that Jamaican sailor in Bristol when I was three sheets to the wind.”

  “Why? Rufus is a very skilled artist.” Cameron flashed a grin. “And you have to admit, the ladies find it rather alluring.”

  True. The fanciful dragon curling down from his navel seemed to fascinate the opposite sex. Indeed, Lady Chatwin had been so captivated that she had found an Indian artist to put a butterfly on her buttocks…

  “So admit it, the pain was worth the pleasure.”

  At that, Gryff had to laugh. “Perhaps. But no earrings.”

  His friend smirked. “Jewels seem to drive the ladies wild. Just a small glimmer has them unlacing their corsets in a hot and lathered heartbeat.”

  “I manage to loosen corset strings without the aid of flashy baubles,” said Gryff dryly. His gaze drifted to the tall case clock in the corner of the room. “Look, talk of sex is quite titillating. However, I have to be off.”

  “Anywhere interesting?” asked Cameron, rising as well.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. If you must know, I’m paying a visit to Watkins & Harold.”

  Cameron lifted a brow. “The publishers?”

  “Yes,” answered Gryff. “They want to print my essays on The Great Estate Gardens of England—in an illustrated folio edition, no less. I’ll need to add a few more new ones to finish the collection, but for the most part it is done. The most important thing is to pick an artist to do the paintings from which the engravings will be made. Watkins wants to show me a few examples this afternoon, so that we may make the final choice.”

  “Congratulations.” For once, Cameron’s tone was entirely serious.

  “Thank you,” he said, hoping the boyish excitement percolating inside him was not too obvious.

  His friend spotted the wrapped package propped against the leather chair and picked it up before Gryff could stop him. “Is this one of them?” he asked, taking a peek beneath a corner of the brown paper.

  “No, no, an artist of Redouté’s fame would be unlikely to take on such a commission, even if he were residing in England.” Gryff made a wry face. “Besides, his style is not exactly what I have in mind. I want something more…whimsical.”

  “Whimsical.” Cameron looked a bit bemused. “Not normally a word I associate with you.”

  It was said lightly, and yet his friend’s quick retort stung a little. “Just because I don’t walk around looking like a bloody pirate…” Gryff’s gaze flicked to Cameron’s cravat, which, though knotted in a flawless Mathematical style, flaunted its wearer’s highly irreverent attitude to the world. “That doesn’t mean I have no imagination,” he growled defensively.

  “Having read your essays, I’m aware of that,” responded his friend with a small smile. He shifted slightly and took a long moment to polish the single dagger-shaped fob hanging from his watch chain. “I was referring to the fact that hiding your artistic talents under a bush, so to speak, seems to be making you more and more tense and unhappy. Why not allow your real self to bloom?” The walking stick tapped, tapped against the painting. “There is, you know, nothing unmanly about having a love for flowers. Stop keeping it a secret.”

  “Ye gods, you are one to talk about keeping secrets.”

  The light died in Cameron’s eyes as if a shutter of steel had slammed down over his gaze. “True,” he said, assuming his most irritating drawl. “It’s far easier to see faults in one’s friends than in oneself.”

  “Since you are the one who brought up the subject of secrets, why the devil are you so close-mouthed about your background?” demanded Gryff. “Though we’ve known you for years, neither Connor nor I have a clue as to your family or where you were raised.”

  “That’s because like the djinn in Scheherazade’s Arabian tales, I simply emerged from a magic brass lamp in a puff of smoke.” Then, with practiced ease, Cameron quickly deflected the talk to another subject. “Tell me more about the illustrations for your book. I am curious—if Redouté’s renderings are not to your liking, what sort of style do your seek?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” Gryff abandoned his interrogation, knowing that it was pointless to press Cameron for personal revelations. “It may sound silly, but I’ll know it when I see it. There is a certain…Oh, merde.”

  “What?” Cameron looked around.

  “It’s Leete, that obnoxious pup from the country. And he appears to be headed our way.”

  Sure enough, the viscount teetered in the doorway of the reading room for a moment before cutting a patter of quick, unsteady steps to intercept them.

  “L’rd Haddan! Demmed fine show y’ make at Jackson’s yesterday. Lud, what I wouldn’t give f’ a right cross like yours.”

  Gryff flexed a fist, sorely tempted to stop the young man’s tipsy yapping with a punch to the jaw.

  “There’s a big mill taking place near my estate in Oxfordshire next week—y’ know, the Scottish Highland champion te fight the German Giant from Hamburg. A few of m’ friends coming t’ stay with me…don’t suppose y’ would care t’ join the party?”

  Actually I would rather break my knuckles one by one with a smithy’s hammer than endure a fawning pack of puppies trying to win my regard.

  “Thank you for the offer, Leete…” Gryff paused.

  Leete.

  “Perchance would your estate be Leete Abbey?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied the baron eagerly. “Most of t’ grounds are covered with cursed gardens ’nd crumbling ruins, but the manor house is a proper place of masculine refuge.”

  Cameron’s mouth curled in contempt. “I doubt—”

  “The mill sounds like it might afford some amusement,” interrupted Gryff. “Thank you. You may count on my presence.”

  Leete’s ruddy face split into a fuzzy grin. “Excellent, excellent! I promise y’ll have a good time, sir.”

  “Have you taken momentary leave of your senses?” demanded Cameron as the viscount tottered away. “The fellow is an unmitigated ass. What in the name of Hades made you accept his offer?”

  Gryff smiled. “I’m not going for the pleasure of the viscount’s company. Leete Abbey is the location of a very fine example of Capability Brown’s ‘grammatical’ landscapes.” And unless he was much mistaken, it was also the location of the viscount’s intriguing widowed sister. Both were worthy of a trip to the country.

  “Grammatical landscape?” Cameron waggled a brow. “You are speaking a very odd sort of language.”

  “Brown added a new vocabulary to gardening,” explained Gryff. “He spoke of adding a comma here, a colon there…What he meant was, he merely punctuated the natural landscape rather than force it into a formal layout.”

  “Interesting,” murmured Cameron. As they reached the front portico, he gave a small salute with his walking stick. “I shall leave you to your commas and chrysanthemums.
Enjoy your conversations with the local flora because you won’t be getting any sensible talk from Leete and his pack of drunken cronies.”

  Eliza eyed the crates of wine that had come down from London and swore under her breath.

  Their longtime butler coughed in commiseration. “It’s a pity His Lordship wasn’t born with your sense. Or rather, that you weren’t born with his…” Another cough.

  “With his plumbing,” she muttered.

  He bowed his head and remained tactfully silent.

  “I suppose you and James had better carry these down to the cellars.” An exasperated sigh leaked from her lungs. “Do your best to moderate the flow of festivities this evening, Trevor.”

  “Yes, milady. I shall.”

  As the two men hefted a slatted box and staggered for the stairs, Eliza cast a critical eye around the entrance hall. The two overworked maids had done their best in making the place presentable, but cobwebs could still be seen clinging to the corner moldings, and a dull sheen of dust coated the gold-framed scowling faces of her forebearers. Considering the musty aura of neglect pervading the once-handsome woodwork around them, they ought to be raising the roof slates with their scolding shouts.

  Assuming the last storm hadn’t blown most of them away.

  “Don’t look at me,” she huffed, resisting the childish urge to stick out her tongue at the first Viscount Leete, whose weak chin and piggy little eyes had unfortunately been passed down to Harry. “It wasn’t me who created a…monster.”

  A monster whose rapacious need for self-gratification was getting more and more out of control.

  Turning away, she walked for the front door, her heels clicking over the stone tiles. At least they had been freshly swept—not that the expected guests would notice such niceties. Rich food and strong drink were all they cared about, along with enough vile-smelling tobacco to add another layer of grime to the plaster ceiling.

  The echo of her steps reverberated off the paneling, urging her to hurry. The first of the revelers would be arriving at any moment, and the last thing she wanted was a face-to-face encounter.

  Eliza was acquainted with most of the men on the guest list. Like Harry, they were crass, crude, spoiled young aristocrats, too old to be forgiven for their self-indulgent posturing, too young to have acquired any polish or charm. For the most part, they contented themselves with lascivious grins when she passed by, but several had been so rag-mannered as to attempt a few drunken gropes in the corridors. Impecunious widows were seen as fair game. Something to be used and tossed aside, like a soiled towel.

  Oafs.

  She kicked the door closed behind her, taking savage satisfaction in the loud thunk of the ancient oak slamming shut.

  “Thank God I need not join them in the dining room,” she informed a twittering sparrow. “While they drink and smoke and tell their stupid, vulgar jokes, I shall enjoy the civilized peace and quiet of my own chambers, along with a book.” Perhaps one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. A crumbling castle filled with debauched wastrels, dastardly villains, clanking chains, and eerie noises would certainly complement her current mood.

  Ducking behind a hedge, Eliza crossed the lawns and followed a winding gravel path to a small stone cottage screened by a high-walled garden. Half a century ago it had been the bailiwick of the under gamekeeper, but now it was her own private place of refuge. A safe harbor in a sea of storms. A place where she could let down her guard and be herself.

  Whoever that may be.

  For longer than she could remember, she had dutifully done all the things asked of her, allowing her own dreams and desires to be bartered, piece by piece, to pay for the pleasure of others.

  “Maybe there is no real me left,” she murmured, chilled by the depressing thought.

  After fumbling for the key hidden under one of the flowerpots—filled with petunias, which meant “Your presence soothes me”—Eliza unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  A warm, syrupy light spilled in through the west bank of windows, and as the first rays touched her shoulders, she felt the tension melt from her muscles. The sight of her worktable, a colorful confluence of paints, brushes, papers, and specimen clippings bunched in jars of water, was always a balm to her spirits. It was cheerful, a sentiment sadly lacking in the main house.

  “To hell with Harry and his dissolute friends,” she murmured, determined to keep her brother’s follies from intruding on the rest of her day.

  Hanging her shawl on a coat peg, she began to roll up the sleeves of her muslin dress. The garment was, she acknowledged, an unflattering cut and a bit worse for wear. The fabric had been worn by countless washings to a gossamer soft texture, and the sprigged roses had faded to pale pastels. But it was exceedingly comfortable—the paint spatters were like old friends, whose rowdy exuberance always made her smile.

  Catching a glimpse of her face in the mullioned glass, Eliza had to look twice. It wasn’t often that she saw her mouth curled upward in a smile. Spots of sunlight sparkled through the reflection of her cheeks.

  “Why, I look halfway happy. Halfway carefree.”

  She stared at the unfamiliar image for another flickering instant before forcing her eyes away. “Yes, but if I ever hope to achieve the other half, I had better get to work.”

  Opening her paintbox, Eliza began to mix pigments on her palette. Perhaps on her next visit to the art emporium she would splurge on a few sheets of French laid paper. If Redouté favored the subtle texture for his watercolor washes then it must be—

  Meow.

  Eliza looked up with a frown. “Elf?” she called.

  Another aggrieved yowl, this one sounding fainter.

  Oh dear. What mischief was her cat up to now? Last week he had been sneaking into one of the botanical bandboxes and shredding all of her carefully dried fern plants.

  Setting down her brush, Eliza quickly checked the storage closet. “Elf?” she called again.

  The feline answer seemed to be coming from outside.

  She opened the back door and stepped into the small stone-walled garden. A quick search among the climbing roses yielded no cat. The pink gerberas showed no sign of damage, and the silvery sage was likewise undisturbed, its purple-tipped stalks swaying softly in the gentle breeze.

  “Hmmph.” Mystified, Eliza unlatched the gate and walked a short way up the path.

  Meow.

  She looked left, and then right. And then up.

  “Oh, you silly, silly creature!”

  Elf’s forlorn purr seemed to indicate his agreement.

  “Can’t you come down on your own?” she demanded.

  His tail twitched.

  “Very well.” Rolling her eyes, Eliza edged around a patch of brambles and approached the stately oak overhanging the shaded gravel.

  “Ye gods, why is it that I seem to be surrounded by bacon-brained males?” she muttered as she unlaced her half boots and tugged them off.

  No answer floated down from above.

  “I’m always expected to pull their fat out of the fire. You know, it would be nice if, for once in my life, some Paragon of Masculine Virtue would come to my rescue.”

  Meow.

  “Yes, and if pigs could fly…” Heaving a wry sigh, Eliza reached up and grabbed hold of a branch.

  Chapter Two

  Gryff ran a hand over the weathered granite, savoring the contrasting textures of sun-warmed moss and wind-carved stone against his palm. It was one thing to study a portfolio of printed engravings depicting a historic building or landscape. But no matter how detailed, they were no substitute for experiencing the actual site. Bees buzzed in lazy circles around the wildflowers growing amid the Abbey ruins, the low droning a gentle counterpoint to the breeze whispering through the ancient stones.

  Taking a seat on the remains of a wall, he shaded his eyes and admired the view. Fields of green and gold surrounded the knoll, the hawthorn hedgerows and stiles giving way to rolling hills and a ruffling of forest that darkened the vall
ey. Outcroppings of rock dotted the meadow grasses, and in the distance a river meandered through the valley, sunlight glinting off the slow-moving water. Gryff drew in a lungful of the sweet-scented air and leaned back against a slab of granite, letting the pleasant warmth radiate through his coat.

  It was good to be out of London, away from the gritty coal smoke and crowded streets. The light lilt of songbirds was far more soothing to the ear than the guttural curses of costermongers. Country life. The peace and quiet was a reminder that he should be spending more time at his own estate.

  Not, he thought wryly, that Haddan Hall needed him. The estate steward, a man who had been there since Gryff was in leading strings, ran things with the well-oiled precision of a naval chronometer. And yet, over the last year, as he had become more serious in his studies of landscape design, he had begun to visualize some changes to the grounds. The view from the west wing of the main house could be softened with a more natural arrangement of plantings instead of the stiff formality of…

  But before he embarked on any actual shaping of the earth, he must finish writing the last essay for his book. Seeing the finished words—black ink on white paper—would be a symbolic statement of sorts.

  Looking up at the clouds scudding across the sky, he let out a small sigh. Cameron would call it a commitment to his real self.

  But that all depended on whether he decided to use his real name as the author rather than a pseudonym. Truth or…Distractions and deflections.

  After another moment of musing, Gryff edged around to study the subtle design elements that Capability Brown had added to the manor house grounds. The gardens had been sadly neglected of late, but the plan was still visible.

  “No wonder Brown is considered a genius,” murmured Gryff, as he pulled out his notebook and jotted down a few impressions, along with a rough sketch.

  “Lud, I wish I possessed a talent for drawing,” he muttered, staring at the pencil strokes.