Page 89 of An Affair with a Notorious Heiress
“With what? Jane Austen? Mary Shelley? Charlotte Brontë? Honestly, Tillie, you can’t say no to the Duchess of Greystone.”
She could and she would. She rose and walked to the window where rain splattered the pane. She needed to be in her garden, digging in the soil, nurturing the blossoms, listening to the bees humming. She’d lived the life of an aristocrat and found it to be a very uncomfortable fit. Once was enough.
Except for the nights when there was a blasted ball that went into the wee hours, Tillie always met him at eleven, precisely, on the dot. His carriage parked at the far end of the drive, out of sight, he waited in the shadows of the trees and hedges near the front steps. Every night. Even if he hadn’t taken Gina somewhere the day before. That part of their arrangement had flittered away, much to his delight.
Sometimes she wore only her nightclothes, sometimes she came to him in evening gowns, sometimes in plain frocks. He determined how they would spend their night based upon what she wore. The night she’d been attired in a simple dress with lots of buttons, he’d taken her to a tavern in Whitechapel where he’d known they’d not encounter anyone of consequence. They’d sat in a corner, he downing ale, her sipping on it, and had speculated about the people within and their happiness. The tavern was a place he enjoyed because it lacked pretense. With Tillie that night, he’d imagined a lifetime of going places with her where they could be themselves.
But if she were not accepted by Society, they would only be able to visit places on the fringes of it. While he enjoyed it on occasion, it wasn’t his world and it shouldn’t be hers. He didn’t want it to be theirs.
When the devil had he begun thinking of never letting her go, of never being without her? He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment. She’d simply become part of his plans, his thoughts. He couldn’t imagine going a day without seeing her, having a night without her in his bed. Hence the request of his mother.
Half an hour later, he began to think the request of his mother was the reason he still stood alone near the hedges. She had told him the invitation had been delivered today. Perhaps he should have warned Tillie it would be arriving, but he’d thought she’d appreciate the surprise.
An hour later, he was fairly certain she had not.
Unfortunately for her, he was not one to be so easily or quickly dismissed. He bounded up the front steps and used the knocker for all it was worth. Waited. Pounded his fist on the door. Waited. Pounded with a bit more ferocity.
The butler, Griggs, opened the door. Before he could say a word, Rexton shoved past him. “Where is she?”
“Her Ladyship has retired for the night and left orders not to be disturbed under any circumstances.”
So she’d expected a disturbance, had she? He headed for the stairs.
“Sir, I must insist you leave.”
He swung around. “Try and stop me. Give me an excuse to introduce my fist to your teeth.” The man might not have bedded her, but he’d bloody well kissed her, had moved his mouth over hers, knew her taste, her—
“Rexton.”
The word sliced through the thickness of the air, through his temper. She stood on the landing in black, buttons up to her chin, past her wrists. Every aspect of her spoke of her displeasure with him.
She started down. He waited. Perhaps he’d misjudged, perhaps another reason had delayed her joining him, but the fact that she didn’t smile, her eyes didn’t sparkle told him that he wasn’t wrong in his assumptions.
“You may retire now, Griggs,” she said as she swept past Rexton and carried on into the parlor.
The butler hesitated. Rexton took pity on him. “She’s safe with me.”
“My concern, sir, is you might not be safe with her. She has quite the temper on her.”
Rexton wasn’t pleased the servant knew her so well, but then he had been in her company for years. He wasn’t certain what his face might have revealed, but the man offered a distinguished bow before leaving. Spoiling for a fight, Rexton strode into the parlor.
No whisky had been poured. Apparently she was spoiling for a fight as well.
“Were you intending to leave me waiting out there all night?” he asked.
She angled her chin, a bit higher than he’d ever seen. “I assumed you’d leave after a while.”
“Why would I when I’d been given no hint anything was amiss?”
“You had your mother invite me to her ball!” she blurted, clearly agitated, her hands clasped so tightly in front of her that he could see her knuckles turning white.
“I did more than that. I implored her to have the damned ball to begin with.”
She swung away from him, marched to the sideboard, poured whisky into a glass, and downed it like a seaman who’d just come into port after years at sea. She spun back around and glared at him. “We should have discussed this before you took any action.”
“I told you I wanted to waltz with you.”
“This is about more than a waltz. I declined your mother’s invite.”
