There was no mistaking the gratitude in her eyes. "That would certainly avert the social disaster I fear looms on the horizon."
"Then let us be off."
As they walked toward the mansion, Elizabeth asked "I hate to further impose upon your kindness, your grace, but would you mind giving my excuses to my aunt when you return to the ballroom?"
"Of course."
She cleared her throat. "Ah, what excuse shall you use?"
"Excuse? Oh, I suppose I'll say you suffered from a fit of the vapors."
"Vapors!" She sounded outraged. "Nonsense! I would never fall victim to such a frivolous thing. Besides, Aunt Joanna would not believe it. She knows I am of a most robust nature. You must think of something else."
"All right. How about the headache?"
"I never get them."
"Dyspepsia?"
"My stomach never causes me discomfort."
Austin fought the urge to roll his eyes heavenward. "Do you ever suffer from any malady?"
She shook her head. "You keep forgetting that I am-"
"Most robust. Yes, I'm beginning to see that. But I fear that any other excuse, such as a fever, would unduly alarm your aunt."
"Hmmm. I suppose you're right. I don't wish to frighten her. Actually, a headache is not far from the truth. The mere thought of returning to the ballroom sets my temples to pounding. Very well," she said with a nod her tone crisp. "You may say I've succumbed to the headache."
Austin's lips twitched. "Thank you."
She beamed at him. "You're quite welcome."
They arrived at the mansion several minutes later and Austin led her through the shadows to a side door almost entirely obscured with ivy. He felt for the knob and pulled the door open. "There you are. The guest chambers are at the top of the stairs. Be careful on the steps."
"I shall. Thank you again for your kindness."
"My pleasure."
His gaze searched her face in the dim light. Even completely disheveled she was lovely. And amusing. He could not recall the last time he'd felt so lighthearted. Pressing concerns awaited him once he returned to the house, yet he couldn't resist prolonging this pleasant interlude for a few moments longer. Reaching out, he gently grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. Her hand was warm and soft, her fingers long and slender. The subtle scent of lilacs again assailed him.
Their eyes met and his breath stalled. Damn it, she looked so delightfully mussed… as if a man's hands had disarranged her hair and clothing. His gaze dropped to her mouth… her full, incredibly tempting mouth, and he wondered what she would taste like. He imagined leaning forward, brushing his lips over hers, once, twice, then deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue into the luscious warmth of her mouth. She tasted delicious, like-
"Oh my."
Her fingers tightened on his hand and she regarded him with wide eyes. Her gaze rested on his lips for several seconds, then she looked away, clearly flustered. Warmth crept through him, surprising him. If he didn't know better, he'd swear she'd read his thoughts.
He was about to release her hand when she gasped. Their eyes met and he noted she appeared suddenly pale. He tried to extricate his hand from hers, but she only tightened her grip.
"What's wrong?" he asked, alarmed at her pallor, unnerved by her concentrated stare. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"William."
He froze. "Excuse me?"
Her eyes desperately searched his. "Do you know someone named William?"
Every muscle in his body tensed. "What game are you playing here?"
Instead of answering, she squeezed his hand between her palms and closed her eyes. "He's your brother," she whispered. "You've been told he died while serving his country." She opened her eyes and the look she leveled at him gave him the eerie sensation she could see right into his soul. "It's not true."
His blood turned to ice. He pulled his hand from hers and stepped back, shocked by her words. By God did this woman know his darkest secret? And if she did, how did she know?
The images he'd spent the last year trying to erase crashed through his mind. A dark alley. William meeting with a Frenchman named Gaspard. Crates of weapons. An exchange of money. Haunting questions. A bitter confrontation between brothers. Then, only weeks later, the news that William had died at Waterloo-a war hero.
His heart beat heavily in his chest as he fought to remain calm. Could this woman be more than she appeared? Could she know something about the letter he'd recently received or the activities William had conducted with the French? Could she be the clue he'd spent the last year searching for?
His eyes narrowed on her pale face and he uttered the lie he'd told countless times before. "William died fighting for his country. He is a hero."
"No, your grace."
"Are you saying my brother wasn't a hero?"
"No. I'm saying that he didn't die. Your brother William is alive."
Chapter 2
Elizabeth felt the onset of the numbing fatigue that sometimes followed a vision. She wanted desperately to sit down, but the suspicion blazing from the duke's eyes held her pinned in place.
"You will tell me everything you know that makes you claim my brother is alive," he commanded in an icy tone. "Immediately."
Dear God, why did I say anything? But even as she asked herself, Elizabeth knew the answer. A young woman's face flashed in her mind… the beloved friend she'd never see again… all because Elizabeth remained silent about a premonition. It was a mistake she'd vowed never to make again.
And the fact that this William was alive-surely that was joyous news? But the hostility and distrust in the duke's eyes indicated she'd spoken too hastily. Yet surely she could convince him she spoke the truth.
"I know your brother is alive because I saw him-"
"Where did you see him? When?"
"Just now." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "In my mind."
His eyes narrowed to slits. "In your mind? What rubbish is this? Are you daft?"
"No, your grace. I… I am able to see things. In my mind. I suppose some might call it a second sight. I'm afraid I cannot really explain it."
"And you're saying you saw my brother. Alive."
"Yes."
"If that is true, where is he?"
A frown puckered her brow. "I do not know. My visions are most often vague. I only know he did not die as everyone believes."
"And you expect me to believe this?"
The icy disbelief in his tone chilled her. "I understand your doubts. That which cannot be explained scientifically is easy to dismiss as fiction. I can only assure you that what I am telling you is true."
"What did this man you claim was my brother look like?"
Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, forcing her mind to empty then focus on what she'd seen. "Tall. Broad shouldered. Dark hair."
"How convenient. You've just described half the men in England, including the Regent himself, who, as I'm sure you know, is very much alive. And it would not be difficult to describe my brother when there is a large portrait of him hanging in the gallery."
Opening her eyes, she said "I have not seen a portrait. The man I saw looked like you, and he had a scar."
He stilled and she sensed his sudden tension. 'Scar? Where?"
"On his upper right arm."
"Many men bear scars." A muscle in his jaw ticked. "If you think to convince me that you possess some sort of magical powers, you've picked the wrong man to ply with your schemes. Gypsy thieves have roamed Europe for centuries, claiming such powers, lying, hoping to trick foolish people into parting with their gold, and stealing it if they failed."