After coming this far, he wasn’t certain he could rein in his destiny, turn his fate around, and return the way he’d come. He wasn’t even certain he wanted to. But the question of Eliza Summersby remained foremost in his heart.
She would never be a duke’s daughter.
Mightn’t she settle for being Lady van Bergen, instead?
CHAPTER THIRTY
The weather was too fine to remain indoors. On such rare, glorious days when spring began to give way to summer, Eliza had sat in the park or strolled the embankment by the river, but now she roamed the private garden of Green Street to enjoy the warmth of the sun teasing the change of the seasons.
The paved footpaths were bordered by low, box hedges and flower beds. She admired the wooden benches and water features, the lush, manicured lawns and broad, leafy trees. It was a private piece of paradise amid the nosy bustle of town, yet Eliza gladly abandoned it for the confines of the house.
The chiming of nearby church bells tolled the hour, signaling that the time had come for Mark to return from the Bank. He would want his tea, though she intended to lure him out of doors for a ramble among the rosebushes to bolster their appetites.
She met Mark in the hall. He handed his hat and gloves to Pearson, and then shrugged off his frock coat, draping the somber black wool over the newel post. With his arms clad only in his shirtsleeves—how different from the starchy, sober façade he presented to the world outside their walls—Mark wrapped Eliza in a warm embrace.
“Bloody hell, I’ve missed you,” he said, holding her close. “I feared the workday would never end.”
She buried her nose against his collar, relishing in the warmth of his neck and the masculine scent of his shaving lotion. He felt firm, strong, and virile, and Eliza wrapped her hands around his waistcoat, deepening the embrace. His hips met hers, and her soft skirts swirled around the long, lean legs of his trousers.
He was her friend, her lover—andhe’dmissedher!
Ignoring Pearson, who stood in stoic shock, Mark dipped his chin to kiss her lips, claiming her mouth in a slow and thorough caress. Eliza’s heart danced in her chest. Her fingers splayed at the small of his back, stroking the silk of his waistcoat, pressing him nearer to her than was seemly.
She wasn’t a virgin miss. She wanted him in her arms, on his knees before her, on his back beneath her. She longed to draw him into her bed, but Sir Mark van Bergen was a gentleman. He regarded her as a lady—even when her mind was wanton.
For a moment, their mouths moved tenderly together, and then he pulled away, asking, “How was your day, Eliza?”
They linked hands as she guided him down the corridor toward the garden.
“Ann called,” she said, “Your sister thinks I should be more ambitious in my reading choices, but I confess I’m intimidated to tackleThe Amateur Cracksman, even though it’s only a collection of short stories bound in cloth, like chapters in a book.”
“Raffles is a good start—you’d like his character,” Mark explained. “He’s a gentleman thief, always one step ahead of his foes, and outsmarting the inspectors at Scotland Yard. It’s thrilling stuff, really. Highly entertaining.”
“He sounds like the bloke for me.” She laughingly teased him. “Why don’t we read the first installment together tonight, and you can remind me where my loyalties lay.”
They descended the stone steps leading to the paved footpaths and grassy lawn. The late afternoon sun overhead was still brilliant despite the hour. He and Eliza meandered along the perimeter of the garden in full view of his neighbors.
Anybody might peek through the muslin curtains of their bow windows to spy on them.
Eliza delighted in being seen publicly on the arm of such a handsome, distinguished man. It might be fun to read about a gentleman thief, courting danger and living a thrilling existence, yet she desired a steadier sort of hero with a career, a home, and a family he treasured. She needed to know that the man she loved would come home safely each night, never behave distastefully, and always be faithful and honorable.
Mark was the man of her dreams—and her dreams were quickly becoming reality.
Nestled amid a border of gently swaying ornamental grasses, stood a marble fountain. The stream of water arced and played, splashed and sprayed against the smooth, cool stone lining its shallow basin.
He eased her down onto the rim of the pool. They sat together, enjoying the sound of the water and the refreshing mist against their backs. Mark was silent for a lone moment before finding his tongue.
“Eliza, I must ask you some questions about your past…”
She wrinkled her nose, disappointed in him.“Why?”
“Don’t you wish to know where you came from? Don’t you care to know your story?”
Shrugging, she replied, “I used to be curious, but not anymore. I don’t see how my birth makes any difference now. Maybe I ought to ‘let sleeping dogs lie’, as they say.”
Eliza dropped her hand to let her fingers trail through the crisp, clear water of the pool. She missed her mother, a most respectable woman reduced to demeaning work and destitution for the sin of falling pregnant. Mother never regretted Eliza’s birth, and she had never allowed Eliza to feel embarrassed of her humble origins.
But there had been money once, a steady income from a distantly benevolent benefactor, and Eliza had always wondered what had happened to drive that man away.
