Chapter Six
Several times over the morning Lizzie had decided to send a note to Lord Hawkins explaining she was suffering a megrim and would be unable to accompany him to the village.
Perhaps she was being a coward, but sometimes the way he studied her was terrifying. It was only a matter of time before he recognized her, and the less time spent in his company, the better.
When she had left London, there had been talk that her father had a woman working with him, and the authorities had naturally turned toward her. She’d managed to get through one interview without them hauling her off to Newgate, but it would have been a matter of time before they came back again, asking more questions.
That was when she’d fled, thanks to Lady Franklin.
Aside from the casual reference Lord Hawkins had made the other night to her father being killed, she knew no more than she had when she’d left. She would love to question Lord Hawkins, find out if they were still looking for an accomplice, and how her father had died.
She had loved her father dearly and had always felt cherished by him. In a weak, drunken moment, he’d admitted that his funds were too low to give her a decent come-out, and that was why he’d gotten involved in “despicable matters,” as he had described it to her.
Appalled at the idea that he had sold out his country for her, she’d lashed out at him, and, unfortunately, that had been the last time she’d seen him.
Aside from her concern about Lord Hawkins recognizing her were the strange feelings he aroused in her. She’d never felt this way before, and it was quite disconcerting. When he was near, the sun shone brighter, the air smelled cleaner, colors were deeper, and she was more alive. She snorted. That was ridiculous.
In any event, Lord Hawkins was awaiting her, and she had not sent a note, so she took one last look in the mirror, straightened her bonnet, and picking up her gloves, left the house.
“Good afternoon, Miss Moore. You look charming, as usual.” He smiled up at her as she descended the steps, and little butterflies swirled around in her middle.
“Good afternoon, my lord. I am looking forward to this trip to the village, and of course, the bookshop.”
“Then we shall be off.” He extended his arm, and she took it as they walked the gravel path and climbed into the waiting carriage.
Hawk tapped on the roof of the carriage, and the driver slowly rolled the vehicle away from the house. “How long have you been in Wycliff’s employ?” Hawkins asked.
Lizzie quickly made a quick calculation to avoid Hawkins figuring out when she’d disappeared from London. “More than a year.”
She turned to study the passing scenery, hoping to discourage conversation about her.
Either by accident or on purpose, he ignored her hint and continued. “Why do I feel like you don’t like talking about yourself?”
She smiled. “Perhaps because I don’t like talking about myself. There is truly nothing of interest about me. I am a vicar’s daughter, and I work as a governess. Surely you have met many women of much more consequence than me.”
“You think there is nothing of interest about you?”
She gave her head a little shake. “Very little, to be sure.”
“I don’t think so.” He leaned back to study her. “I find something intriguing about you, but I cannot put my finger on it.”
Her heart stopped. Oh, why did I agree to this trip with him?
After a few moments, he dipped his head. “Very well. We will dispense with conversation about the very boring governess.” He grinned, and she couldn’t help but return his smile. He was a charming man, no doubt about that. She remembered him, along with his friends, Lord Campbell and Mr. Templeton, from when she had attended ton events. She had never met the Duke of Bedford, who had apparently brought her father back from America.
And killed him.
Bedford had been in the military service when she had been a London debutante. At that time Bedford had been Lord Alex, and his brother, the Marquess of Tavistock, the heir to the Bedford dukedom. Both the Duke and Tavistock must have died to leave Alex the duke.
So many questions raced through her mind. So many things she wanted to know, wanted to ask Hawkins, but her own safety relied on maintaining secrecy.
It was a short ride to the village, and in pleasant weather she had walked the distance, but with rain clouds gathering overhead, she was grateful they had taken the carriage. The vehicle came to a rolling stop at the village green.
Strollers and shoppers were about, hurrying along, most likely wanting to get their errands out of the way before the heavens opened up. She took Hawkins’s arm, and he walked her to the far end of the green and pointed to his left. “I think the bookshop first.”
She was grateful for her gloves and the cloth from his jacket and linen shirt separating their skin. Even with all of that between them, her hand tingled as it rested on his arm. As if he read her mind, he pulled her closer and covered her hand with his. Her heart sped up. This trip with just the two of them was not a good idea.
Had she been acknowledged as a lady and not a governess, she would have had a maid with her as a chaperone. Governesses did not require the same stringent guidelines as ladies hoping to make a successful match had to adhere to. With the way her breathing was now increasing, she understood why chaperones were necessary.
The tinkle of a bell greeted them as they opened the door. She loved the smell of books and inhaled deeply. The shop was larger than most small village bookstores. An older man approached them from the rear of the store.
His elf-like face was almost completely hidden by a mustache, whitened by time, with his head covered by an old-fashioned wig, not quite centered on his head. He barely came up to Lizzie’s chin. “Good afternoon, my lady, my lord. I am Mr. Peabody, and I am at your service.”
Hawkins studied her when Lizzie automatically dipped her head, accepting the greeting, and smiled. Oh, dear. Had she acknowledged being addressed as “my lady” with too much familiarity? Hawkins had noticed.
Rather than make a scene over it, she merely released Hawkins’s arm and spoke to the shopkeeper. “Good afternoon, Mr. Peabody. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“Yes, always nice to see you as well.” He turned to Hawkins. “I feel I know you, my lord, but it’s been a while since you last visited.”
“You are correct. I am visiting at the Wycliff Estate. It has been well over two years since I’ve graced my cousins with my presence.”
The shopkeeper nodded. His wig shifted again, resting lower on his forehead. Lizzie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “Please take your time and enjoy your visit. I will be in the backroom going through a new shipment if you need anything.” He bowed and left them.
“Mr. Peabody is such a sweet old man,” Lizzie said as he ambled away. She pulled off her gloves and tucked them into her reticule. “Now I shall do exactly as the bookseller said and enjoy myself.”
“As will I.” Hawkins turned from her and walked to an area against the far wall, and Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief. It would not have been possible for her to relax and browse the shelves if Lord Hawkins had remained next to her.
Her stomach continued to do funny little things when he was near enough to smell the scent of Bergamot, mixed with something minty, and to feel the warmth of his body right through their clothes.
She pulled a book from the shelf and flipped through the pages, but instead of her eyes on the tome, she studied Hawk. It was very easy to see why he disturbed her so. He was truly the most handsome man she had ever seen.
He was long limbed, with powerful thighs covered by tight-fitting pantaloons, and he sported shiny Hessian boots. His shoulders filled out his jacket quite well, a generous chest tapering down to slim hips. His starched cravat had been meticulously tied under his firm, arrogant chin.
She studied the way his straight raven-black hair fell over his broad forehead as he turned the pages of the book he held in his strong hands. She shuddered, thinking of those hands gliding over her naked skin.
Wherever is that thought coming from? Suddenly feeling quite warm, she waved her hand in front of her face, wishing she had one of the fans she’d always carried to balls. Just then, Hawk glanced up at her. His smile did nothing to cool her off.
Lizzie purchased a slim volume of poetry at the bookstore. Next, they strolled to the milliner for two ribbons, a bakery for tarts that Hawk insisted she eat right then, and finally to The Purple Cow pub, where they had tea with small watercress sandwiches and fresh-from-the-oven biscuits.
“I promised not to talk about you, but one thing I must know.” Lord Hawkins grinned at her over his mug of ale.
“I told you I am not very interesting. But I will allow one question.”
He placed his mug on the table and took her hand in his. “If you were not a governess, what would you be, Miss Moore? A princess? A queen? What were your dreams when you were a little girl?”
His hand was warm, strong. His thumb rubbed over her knuckles, and she had the sudden urge to tell him everything. Share the burden she’d borne for two years. She stared into his deep brown eyes and saw more than she wanted to. She tugged her hand back and tilted her head in a saucy manner. “Why would I stop at princess or queen? I would be a king, or a knight in shining armor on my trusty steed.”
He lowered his head, and his mouth moved closer to her ear. “Maybe you need a knight in shining armor, Miss Moore.”
She sucked in a breath. Whatever made him say that?
“Do you?”
She licked her lips, and his eyes moved to her mouth. “Do I what?”
Lord Hawkins took her hand again, holding it tighter so she couldn’t pull away. “Do you need a knight in shining armor?”
She certainly did. But she’d given up that fairy tale two years ago. As if awakening from a dream, she drew back and took the last sip of her ale. “There is no such thing, my lord.”
As if he realized he’d stepped over the line, his shoulders stiffened, and he pushed his empty mug away. “I agree. There are no fairy tales. At least none with happy endings.”
Perhaps there were, but they were definitely not for her. The closest she would ever get to a happily ever after was by reading storybooks to the children.
“Another question.” The rakish gleam was back in his eyes.
“My lord, I allowed one question.”
He placed his hand over his heart and gave her the grin she was sure had women all over London swooning at his feet. “I swear this is my last one.”
“Very well.”
“I asked this of you before, but you neatly dodged the question. Why is a beautiful woman like yourself not married?”
She leaned her chin on her fist and responded, “Why is a handsome man like yourself not married?”
Lord Hawkins burst out laughing. “Touché, Miss Moore.”
He stood and held out his hand. “The sky looks a bit threatening out there.” He nodded in the direction of the window. “I think we have used up all our good luck. It appears we are about to be drenched.” He tugged her forward and, placing his arm around her waist, hurried her to the carriage waiting for them.
Heavy rain came down, and they were both wet by the time they climbed into the carriage. The driver snapped the reins to head the horses back to the estate.
Lizzie couldn’t help herself and began to giggle at the sight of the two of them. Water dripped from Lord Hawkins’s hair, running down his aristocratic nose.
She wiped the moisture from her cheeks with her palms. He grinned back and withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Thank you.”
She began to wipe her face and glanced down at her bodice when Lord Hawkins’s eyes grew wide. The cold rain had plastered her gown against her body, making her chemise and the tips of her breasts visible. She gasped and tried to cover herself by crossing her arms.
“Here.” He shrugged out of his jacket, moved to sit next to her, and draped the garment around her shoulders. Instead of returning to his seat across from her, he continued to hold her. “You are shivering.”
Her heart thumped so loudly, he must have heard it. Her reaction to his nearness frightened her. His warmth, scent, and soft breath on her cheek wreaked havoc with her breathing.
She continued to shake, either from her emotions or the cold. Slowly, almost as if in a dream, his eyelids slid closed and he lowered his head, placing his warm lips on hers.