“That’s the usual story, isn’t it?” Eliza rolled onto her side, propping herself on one elbow to regard Malcolm. “I’d always imagined myself as a bluestocking, traveling the world and taking lovers at a whim. I am irascible and decadent. A bit whiny, too. Hardly the qualities most men favor in a wife.”
“You certainly are forthright.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And perhaps a bit spoiled.”
“One of my many flaws, I suppose.” Eliza plucked a daisy from the grass and put it to her nose, gazing at Malcolm above its petals. “What, or rather whom, doyousee for yourself, my lord? An actress or an opera singer? Perhaps a continental mistress that you need only see twice a year?”
“My.” He laughed. “Your candor is outlandish, but refreshing all the same. My father wanted me to settle down with one of the local girls, but I’ve always imagined marrying someone more adventurous. Someone a bit less inhibited.”
“Less inhibited?” She gave a coquettish grin. “I’d be curious to hear how I differ from the ladies of Hampshire. And no more of this American girl business, if you please.”
Malcolm leaned back on an elbow and looked up at the sky, thinking. “I’d say it’s your snap, your disregard for propriety, and your marvelous hair.” He wound a strand of it around his finger. “It’s the color of the best kind of marmalade, and I rather like marmalade.” The coil of hair sprung from his grasp and fell back onto the striped cloth of their shared blanket. “And do you find anything at all fascinating about me, Miss Sullivan?”
So much.“Your title,” she teased. “And only that.”
“How disappointingly predictable. Do be serious.”
“You’d want me to show my hand already? Where’s the fun in that?”
He met her gaze, his eyes holding hers captive. “I’m quite adept at games, but I’d prefer not to play them with you, darling. I haven’t had cause or desire to call on a woman for quite some time. You may read my hand however you wish.”
The heady tension that had marked their very first encounter crackled between them. Suddenly shy, Eliza turned her attention to the daisy in her hands, shredding its petals, then tossing it aside. Malcolm sat up and pulled his long-stemmed smoking pipe from his jacket, and without lighting it, let it dangle from his lips. Out over the heath, a thin scrim of golden light was all that separated day from twilight.
“We’re moving into the gloaming, I’m afraid.” Malcolm gestured toward the darkening sky. “Our time together shan’t last much longer if we’re going to care at all about being proper.”
“I’m not concerned. Are you?” Eliza said.
He smiled. “Very well then. Tell me about your New Orleans. I’ve only ever been to New York, when I was just a boy.”
“It’s a strange city, unlike any other, I’d say—embraced by a great, roping river like your Thames that gives and takes life. There’s a white cathedral facing the water, with three spires and bells that chime acarillon on top of each hour. Springtime is my favorite season, when the bougainvillea begins to bloom. The petals dance over the streets, all pink and scarlet. It’s so humid in the summer that to sleep in clothing is foolish, but in wintertime, snow never falls. Autumn is horrid. That’s when the winds come. They howl and shake everything in their path. The floods come after—bringing fevers and death.”
“It sounds terribly dramatic, but you make me want to leave everything I know and go there. Won’t you miss it?”
Eliza swallowed the catch in her throat as she remembered the stench inside the Metairie farmhouse and the greedy buzz of flies in the darkened, sweltering sickroom. She shook her head. “No, my lord. There are certain things I will remember with fondness, but I will never return. I’m a bit like Lot—I’ll only push forward and dare not look back.” She shifted uneasily and studied the scuffed toe of her riding boot. “There’s nothing there for me anymore.”
Malcolm gave a remote smile, as if an old memory had chimed somewhere in his heart. “I admit I’ve wondered if I’d feel the same about Hampshire and Havenwood Manor if I ever left. Everyone sees a crumbling, tired mansion and a scandal. It all feels a bit like a jailer’s chain at times, but I remember when the manor was grand. I have hope that it will be again. Houses have a certain power, don’t you think? Almost as if they’re people—or perhaps characters in a play.”
“Your home reminds me of a house from a fairy tale.”
He chuckled. “Don’t you mean a ghost story?”
“I’d imagine it has all kinds of stories caught up within its eaves. I confess I’ve gone smitten with what might be hidden beyond your gates.”
“I promise there’s nothing more exciting knocking about Havenwood than a few squirrels and bats. Your romantic sensibilities might be disappointed if you’re expecting Northanger Abbey.” Malcolm tucked his pipe into his pocket. “Still, it’s not without its charms.” Hewas pensive for a moment before looking at her again, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Would you like to see it?”
A frisson ran through Eliza. “Do you mean tonight?”
He laughed at her girlish excitement and helped her to her feet. “It’s rather brash, but then again, so is our picnic. The scandal has already been made, I’m afraid, but I’m quite used to scandal. One truly begins living once they no longer hold the opinions of others in high regard.” He pushed a wayward strand of hair away from her eyes, and Eliza shivered under his touch. “And besides ... I’m finding I’m not ready for our night to end just yet. Only do wind your hair up, lest the good people of Cheltenbridge think I’ve led you completely down the path of debauchery.”
Eliza did as he asked, knotting her hair back into her tortoiseshell comb with shaking fingers. They packed up the remains of their repast and mounted their horses. Malcolm led the way back over the heath and onto the lane. The moon had risen over the trees, glowing full and bright as they rode past Sherbourne House, its warm lights shining within. Eliza imagined Lydia watching anxiously through the windows—ever concerned with propriety and caution.
When they reached Havenwood Manor, Malcolm dismounted and produced a ring of keys from beneath his waistcoat. He unlocked the latch on the gate, the jeweled eyes of its twin serpents glittering, and took the reins of Eliza’s horse to lead her through. As he pulled the gate closed and locked it behind them, a brief wave of dismay rose up in Eliza at the thought of confinement and all it implied. What if the stories about him were true?
“I can see your concern. I only value my privacy, darling.” Malcolm offered his hand as she dismounted. “Despite all reports to the contrary, Iama gentleman. Your virtue is safe.”
Eliza took his arm as they made their way up a sloping rise, past a silent fountain with algae greening the curves of the maiden who stood at its middle, her hands raising a chalice overhead. The shrubbery grewclose on the path, thorns reaching out to grasp at Eliza’s riding habit. Within a few yards of the gate, they emerged into a courtyard, knee-length grass sprouting between the pavers. The mansion loomed before them like a vast ship, much larger than it had seemed from her window, its chimneys pushing high into the purple sky.
The heavy door creaked open. A pale face floated in the dark chasm. “Oh, it’s only you, m’lord.”
“I’ve brought Miss Sullivan around to see the house, Turner. She believes it to be full of vampires, ghouls, and all manner of fantastic creatures.”
