“Of course.” The lady’s clear, dark eyes met Elizabeth’s without guise. “Jasper is who he is because of his past, as are we all, and you would be wise to embraceallthat he is, rather than shun who he was.” She blinked a moment, as if she shoved memories back. She forced a small smile, which gradually warmed until she beamed at Elizabeth, who gaped at how radiantly beautiful the lady had suddenly become.
“He will surprise you, no doubt, as you will surprise him.” Miss Li’s smile held. “But I should like to hear more, my dear, about your feckless papa and sweet, younger sister. And your spectacles, Elizabeth—they are charming on a face such as yours. Were you born with poor sight or afflicted by some childhood fever?”
Elizabeth realized the lady had no intention of telling her a thing more about Baron of Milton. In fact, for the rest of the interview Miss Li grilled Elizabeth entirely about herself.
CHAPTER FOUR
The baron’s wickedness knew no bounds
Elizabeth poked her chin with her quill, hemming. The story was barely an outline in her head, directionless. It needed both defining and fleshing out. Yet it helped distract her from the wicked thoughts she would not admit to having. It was notshewho’d dreamt of the brooding baron’s lustful touch, but theruined lady in her story who could not resist her evil captor.
She reread her last line, picking up where she’d left off.
The baron’s wickedness knew no bounds, for this time he’d bound the lady’s wrists, her tears flowing down her pale
“Drat.” Elizabeth’s ink smeared; she blotted the line as best she could, realizing she’d used the word ‘bound’ twice.
“Lizzie!”Annabelle’s voice carried up from the foyer into Elizabeth’s bedroom. “The Baron has sent more flowers. Red tulips this time!”
Elizabeth steeled herself for another of her betrothed’s wretched notes, in what was becoming a tired joke. Shesprinkled pounce on the page, shook it back into the pot, then laid the sheaf atop her stack and headed down to breakfast.
My dear Elizabeth, I have determined a ride about the park with my betrothed in my new phaeton suits today’s fine weather. I shall arrive at two and expect you, this time, to be punctual. —Milton
Punctual! she fumed. Well, two could play at this. She would indeed be punctual. In fact, she’d be more punctual than he would.
Elizabeth carried the man’s disgusting, ‘declare-his-love’ tulips to the front entrance and dumped the lot upon the step.
Milton drove his new phaeton toward the Winthrop residence with uncharacteristic unease. He’d not intended to reveal his past to his betrothed so soon, but the way she’d taunted him at lunch, flaunting her birth in his face, had been insufferable. Miss Winthrop had demonstrated precisely what he hated about her class—and the very reason he needed her for a wife.
That he’d had to buy his title was a necessity he’d long resisted, because by rights a far greater title ought to have been his at birth. Some gentry chose to elevate their bastards’ stations in life, but his spiteful sire had not. Milton’s father was a different sort of ‘bastard’ altogether: a legitimate bloody prick.
No doubt sweet Elizabeth had been repulsed by his sullied lineage and gone crying to her papa last night to insist he dissolve their engagement. Only Winthrop would do no such thing; Milton had the man by his cobblers. It mattered little which daughter he wed, though Elizabeth’s fierce glare atop heraristocratic neck, starkly profiled on Li’s dais, had made his own bollocks ache.
He was still picturing Miss Winthrop’s charms when he pulled up before her father’s townhouse and lashed the phaeton’s horse to the post. As he approached, he noted petals again stained the ground. He stepped over the blooms in his boots and was about to rap the knocker when the door opened to Miss Winthrop herself, dressed smartly, and on time.
“Why, Miss Winthrop, you?—”
Her frown was severe. “You are late, sir.” She pointed to the foyer’s ticking long-case clock. “It is a minute past two and your note stressed punctuality.”
He hid his grin behind a cough. “Elizabeth, your timeliness astounds, truly. I am so pleased you accepted my invitation for a drive, though I see my bouquets continue to—” his eyes flitted to the red dusting beneath his feet—“disappoint.”
“Indeed, sir, coming as they do straight from a hothouse rather than from true-heated sentiment.”
“Then I shall endeavor to do better.” He extended her his arm. “Shall we?”
Miss Winthrop accepted. As they neared his gleaming phaeton, however, she abruptly stopped. “Goodness, I have forgotten my parasol, and it is much too bright to go without. I shall be but a moment, sir, forgive me.” She headed back inside, leaving him to wait.
And wait he did, for the lady took her time to fetch said parasol, making Milton remove his timepiece from his pocket more than once.
At a quarter past two he began to suspect she’d not taken yesterday’s lesson to heart.
When she at last emerged, she apologized profusely for the delay, though as he handed her up into his phaeton, she waved her parasol all too enthusiastically at the woman next door.
“Hello-o, Lady Stanton! I say, good day to you! Have you met my intended? Docome and greet him. I simplymustshow him off.”
Miss Winthrop swiftly stepped back down from Milton’s vehicle, took his arm again in grip, and marched him determinedly in the direction of her neighbor.
What the devil did she have up her sleeve this time?
