The King of Threadneedle Street (7 page)

The persistent silence meant he was too upset to argue. Granted, she had given him a lot to take in. “I suppose we have what people recall later in life as their first romance. We will recover from it, as does everyone else in the world.”

Chapter Four

Love is too young to know what conscience is.

Sonnet 151,
William Shakespeare

Andrew remembered their worst fight. He sat behind the waterfall after Alysia left, thinking about it. Their argument moments ago paled in comparison; at least she hadn’t broken his nose. Andrew smiled, reliving the time that had happened, and he had deserved it. It had been in this very place.

“Andrew,” she said in a falsely sweet voice, “Why did Lord Graham behave the way he did today at the hunt?” Her voice turned up at the end of the question, and Andrew knew she was baiting him, and he was in trouble.

“Behave how?”

“Oh, I suppose I mean the bit about how he thought I would toss more than my hat for you, that I should be too sore to manage sitting in a saddle. And whether you thought I howled louder than the hounds. You know, that sort of behavior, Andrew dear.”

“Hmm? Oh. Yes, Graham does get a bit raucous. It’s no wonder you hear such things when you ride out with the gentlemen.”

“I wouldn’t object to riding with gentlemen, Andrew. I have never seen you and your friends act like cavemen before. What I want to know is, why Graham had such ideas about me. It was news to me, Andrew, that my respectability was in question.”

He knew he had best confess. “Well, Alysia.” He fidgeted in place and stuck out his toes to interrupt the falling water. “You are much admired, Lisa. I should tell you, my friends are fearful envious.”

She grimaced. “Envious? Of what?”

“Hmm.” He bumped his fists together, stalling and trying to find words that wouldn’t anger her even more. “Well, naturally, since we are such good friends, they think we are, well, you know…”

“No, Andrew, I do not.”

“Lovers. They think we are lovers.”

She scoffed, sounding outraged or disgusted? He pushed away the rush of defeat threatening to heat his ears.

“And you of course defended my honor, and have a very good explanation why Lord Graham is still under such an impression?”

Andrew shrugged and cocked his head in apology.

“You
did
correct that false assumption, Andrew?”

“Hmm.”

“Andrew?” She seemed like a volcano about to erupt. When he didn’t answer, she gasped, wide-eyed. “You let them think it’s so?” Her voice shot through an octave. “You let them believe I am your tart? Your strumpet? That I
toss my skirts
for you!”

“I didn’t exactly refute it.”

She made an angry sound half like a shriek. “Why? Why did you
ruin
me?”

“I did no such thing. If anything, the rumors should improve your reputation.” Immediately he realized his mistake.

“You arrogant, egotistical, pox-ridden swine!” Alysia rammed headlong into his chest. The force of her attack caught him off guard and sent him sprawling sideways onto the mossy rocks at the mouth of the cave.

He grabbed at her wrists, trying to contain her wild jabs. His eyes watered as her right hook found purchase on the bridge of his nose. She scrambled for his throat and straddled him. He could see by the fire in her eyes that she sincerely wanted to strangle him.

After a surprisingly difficult wrestle, Andrew finally rolled her onto her back and restrained her wrists. She gasped for breath, cursing and thrashing. For the first time in all the years he had known her, he was truly frightened of her.

“Why?” she whimpered. “Why, Andrew? If I am believed to have loose morals, what chance have I of ever making a match with even the lowest gentry? Even a merchant or clerk won’t have me now.”

Guilt flooded over him, bashing at his mind more effectively than her fists had. He hadn’t thought of those things, only of how proud he was to let his friends think he had bedded her. Everything she had cursed at him was utterly deserved.

“I… I am sorry, Alysia. I am a fool. I didn’t think of that.”

Her eyes flashed with contempt. He was far from forgiven.

“It was such a… pleasure to let them think it was true.” He nearly choked on his words, embarrassed by his stark honesty, “I wanted it to be true. It was selfish and unpardonable for me to use you so. I will tell them I was mistaken, right away. I promise.”

Alysia closed her eyes and made a visible effort to calm herself.

He touched the bridge of his nose, testing the swollen bump that throbbed and tingled.

“I will have the marks to prove my shame, Lisa. They will know you have punished me. I accept my penance gladly,” he said playfully, trying to coax a response from her. “Please say you forgive me?”

She sighed. “You think the world eats out of your hand, Andrew. The damage will be undone merely because you wish it to be so? If only that were possible—”

“I am sorry, Lisa. I apologize. Sorry. Sorry!” He shook his head in frustration, and clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt.

“You can be so thoughtless.”

“Didn’t you hear that I
wish
it were true? I wish you were my lover!” That sobered her. “Lisa, I grow tired of watching men ogle you. And you are only fifteen!” He ducked his head, avoiding her eyes. “I would rather hear my friends speak of you that way in reference to myself than—” He couldn’t finish, didn’t want to tell what they said about her.

He released her hands and propped himself on his forearms on either side of her. The bridge of his nose pulsed with a sharp pain which he tried to ignore. During the course of their wrestling they had rolled into the cave, and they lay on the soft bed of gravel and damp moss. His chest rested across hers, making him aware of the rise and fall of her breathing against his. Her legs stretched out against the side of his, warm and firm. Wet underclothes suddenly became a matter entirely departed from a convenient means of enjoying a swim. Her nails brushed along his scalp as she tousled his hair. She pushed away the locks over his forehead concealing his expression. “Is that true, Andrew? Is that really why?”

“Yes.”

She stroked her fingers from his ear to chin, persuading him to look up at her. He closed his eyes and savored the slow burning sensation. When he dared meet her gaze, he was surprised to see the anger gone. What emotion had replaced it, he couldn’t name.

“I didn’t mean to harm your prospects.” He had to swallow twice before he could say, “I confess I have long assumed you would be mine.” She traced his bottom lip with one finger, watching his mouth instead of his eyes. “I see now that I was foolish and presumptive. I beg you will forgive me.”

“Yes.”

He was too young and ignorant to realize that with her one-word concession, Alysia resigned herself irrevocably to the class of society that was
not
respectable. The demimonde.

Andrew studied her expression, and the thought struck him that she very much appeared as though she wanted to be kissed. So soon after wanting to kill him. He didn’t understand the bizarre workings of her mind.

His hands were already exploring her. He couldn’t believe the softness of the skin on her throat and across her collar. He traced her eyebrows, and her eyes dropped closed. He thought her breath sped. It seemed she was responding to him. A surge of triumph accompanied the realization.

He experimented with teasing her; stroking her lips, toying with her earlobe, grazing his fingertips along the winged shape of her collarbones. Finally she opened her eyes and met his gaze with a smoky desire even his blundering adolescent self understood.

He dipped his head until he was only inches from her face. He held the distance, stunned by the force lulling him in.

Alysia wanted him to kiss her. He knew it.

“May I?” The gruffness of his voice sounded odd to himself.

“Yes.”

He slid an arm under her neck and cradled her head. Slowly he lowered his mouth and brushed his lips across hers. Experimentally, cautiously. He caressed the apple of her cheek and down her throat with his lips, and back again until he coaxed her to part her lips. He closed his mouth over hers, and she answered with the same movement. He kissed her lips slowly, then again deeply, reveling in the luxurious softness of her mouth on his.

The slow burn became consuming. He hadn’t imagined that when he kissed Alysia, he would also
taste
her; a honey, cocoa and spicy nutmeg flavor she always smelled of after breakfast. He moved his mouth hungrily on hers, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him even closer.

He was surprised how naturally the act came, like a conversation. Andrew pursed his lips on her bottom lip and gave it a gentle nibble. She answered with a breathy sigh that made him feel wild.

Feeling daring, he teased her lips with the tip of his tongue, and when she opened her mouth in a gasp, he kissed her as though he was a starving man — desperate, rough. He had no idea where it came from; he couldn’t help it. She raked her nails across his shoulders and kissed him back the same way. She liked it, then.

Acting on impulse, he trailed kisses from her chin to the corner of her jaw, and when he sank his lips into the soft spot where her ear joined her neck, she erupted in a naughty-sounding moan. The single most erotic noise he could imagine. Delighted with his discovery, he kneaded her neck with his lips while she tilted her head and arched her back, offering herself.

He experimented, brushing feathery kisses up and down her neck then attacking her with wild, deep kisses and playful nips with his teeth. She loved all of it; she writhed beneath him, gasping appreciatively all the while. He learned where the nerves on her neck were, where they traced down in sensitive lines.

He made her shudder, made her rise and curl herself around him. Finally as he dotted slow open-mouthed kisses down her neck in a line past her collar and dangerously close to the lace edging of her shift, she exclaimed in a wordless sob and melted into him, meeting every line of his body with her own. He understood then he had conquered her, and that he could have done anything he pleased with her. She would not have protested. She wanted it, would perhaps even beg for it.

Andrew kissed her lips again, incredulous, pondering his newfound power. He resisted the urge to let his hands roam where they shouldn’t, and he banished the thoughts reminding him that kissing was in parody of another act. If he didn’t cherish her so… if she were not so young… If only they were married, then he would gladly give in to the slow burn he finally identified as arousal. If only.

The pleasure of kissing her would be enough for now. He wouldn’t be greedy. The sheer ecstasy of the moment was more sublime than he had imagined. And he had indeed been long imagining this. Andrew grunted in satisfaction and let his mind float away while he submersed himself in the act of kissing his soul mate.

****

The women went to Worth’s in London for Elizabeth’s wedding gown fitting. The men had gone out hunting that morning and Alysia supposed she had the manor to herself. She sat alone in Lord Courtenay’s favorite salon. Daisy, the matronly mastiff, who was too old to go on the hunt, slept on Alysia’s shoes as she sketched on a large pad with charcoal and pastels.

The salon was a splendid art gallery, home to the marquess’ prized sculptures and paintings; replicas of great works, and many original pieces even the Louvre would be proud to exhibit.

Today Alysia was smitten with a copy of the
Dying Gaul
in marble
.
The life-sized piece had beckoned to her the moment she stepped through the doors and saw beams of sunlight displaying the fallen warrior in all his glorious agony. Alysia had been pushing the thought from her mind all morning that her fascination was not entirely scientific. She had been imagining Andrew as a Gallic warrior since he had arrived last week.

She had studied and sketched the statue from two other angles and now sat facing his pierced torso. Perched on his altar-like slab of marble, he seemed to incline his head to her, including her in his suffering. Alysia liked Lord Courtenay’s copy. Ancient, marvelously detailed, and unimproved. She had seen idealized replicas, smoothed and cleaned, and thereby robbed of the interesting elements, in her opinion.

His lips parted in a hiss of pain visible only from below, his head bowed to his chest. From that angle she finally discovered what exactly about the statue evoked her admiration. It was the square, defiant set of his shoulders as he sat upon his shield, confronting death. The idea of railing against a cruel fate — meeting it with proud defiance, struck her as inspiring. And irresistibly romantic.

It also made her feel wretched, to some extent. She couldn’t deny that she desired to fight her own fate, but like the
Dying Gaul,
misery would come whether she displayed bravery or not. The Gallic warrior couldn’t escape his death in battle, and she was doomed to the empty life Andrew so succinctly illustrated for her a few nights past.

The forceful beauty of the art, combined with her own tumultuous feelings, moved her, and she was glad to be alone. She caught a stray tear and cursed under her breath as another dropped onto her sketchpad, smudging the charcoal.

“Such scandalous language from a lady,” came Andrew’s velvety deep voice behind her, raising the hair on the back of her neck with his breath. Alysia cried in surprise, tossing her papers and pencils into the air.

Poor Daisy leapt up in fright and growled. She cast a doggish, annoyed look at Andrew then settled back on the rug, covering a few of Alysia’s pastels with her massive belly. She dropped her head onto her paws and shot a scolding look at Lord Preston.

Alysia was not much more pleased to see him. He bent to gather her things and muttered an apology through his chuckling. Alysia quickly wiped away the remainder of her traitorous tears and hurried to compose herself before he noticed. She held out the case with her eyes cast down so he could place the pencils back inside.