Rose raised an eyebrow.
“All I need from you is to know where Oliver’s home is located.”
Rose’s face looked impervious to emotion. She stared at Elizabeth as if she was working out all of the possible scenarios that could include Elizabeth needing directions to Pembroke. “I feel another rash decision in the making,” Rose finally said.
“Quite possibly.” Nerves hummed through Elizabeth’s stomach. “But if I don’t do this, I’m afraid the question of what if will haunt me for the rest of my life.”
Rose’s whole demeanor softened. She still looked torn, but also as if she suddenly understood. And since Rose had been begging Elizabeth to tell Oliver of her feelings since the beginning, she figured her sister-in-law would be willing to help. She was right. “It just so happens that your brother went to visit Pembroke earlier and he told me how to get there in the event there was an emergency while he was gone.”
Elizabeth smiled, her nerves taking flight in her stomach again. “Truly? And you’ll tell me where it is?”
Rose nodded and smiled. “But I don’t wish to know anything else about what you’re planning. I’d like to be completely ignorant to the whole scheme in case you bungle it and blame gets tossed in my lap.”
“Deal.”
A few minutes later, Rose was leaving Elizabeth’s room after having relayed thorough directions to Pembroke. Elizabeth watched as Rose disappeared down the long hallway and then she waited, listening for any other approaching footsteps before she left her room and headed in the direction of the family’s wing of bedchambers.
Chapter Thirty-One
Oliver had just settled into a chair and extended his boots toward the warmth when he heard a rider approaching the house. He glanced at the clock on the mantel and saw that it was after eleven: much too late for a casual visit. His heart picked up speed thinking that it might be Kensworth coming to inform him that someone had died.
Or worse: that Elizabeth was engaged.
He shot from his chair and peered out the window. Oh, not Kensworth. There was a young man dismounting from a horse and tying it up to the post outside the house. Oliver wasn’t sure whether that sight was supposed to make him more or less anxious.
Oliver opened the front door of the home and called out a quick, hesitant greeting, waiting for the young man to climb the steps. When he reached the top, the gangly young buck peeked up from under his hat. Oliver blinked rapidly at the blue eyes, as incandescent as illuminated sapphires, staring back at him. “Elizabeth?” he asked in a loud whisper.
She grinned. “Dashing fellow, aren’t I?”
Without saying another word, Oliver took hold of Elizabeth’s elbow and guided her quickly into the study. He shut the door behind them, his hand on the knob and his back to the door, fearful that his maid might discover Elizabeth and think—well, what would she think, exactly? Elizabeth was dressed like a young gentleman. A young gentleman who had no idea how to tie a cravat.
Her hair was tucked up inside the hat on her head and the jacket she wore looked a little too big for her shoulders. The breeches—hang him, Lizzie was wearing breeches—were form fitting to every single one of her womanly curves. No one would ever take a look at that figure and believe she was a boy. He had known her to pull some ridiculous stunts in her time but this was by far the most absurd. Still, why couldn’t he keep from grinning?
“I’m not even sure where to start,” he said, still taking in this new ensemble and shaking his head.
Her eyes were bright with a twinkle of mischief. The twinkle that had stolen his heart several years ago. He had a bad feeling it was going to get him in trouble somehow that night as well. “I will now and for always be jealous of you men and your breeches.” She took a few long, exaggerated steps and then thrust her hands in the pockets. “I had no idea what I was missing! So functional.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Lizzie, please tell me you stole these clothes and there is not some poor chap somewhere wearing your dress.”
A triumphant smile marked her mouth. “I stole them from Wesley’s brother’s bedchamber when he was downstairs.” Her statement, however, only served to remind Oliver that Elizabeth was on an intimate name basis with Hastings and that, if word got around about this little adventure of hers, it would effectively end the relationship she was hoping to gain with the viscount. Why was she even there? Had she not earlier that day proclaimed that their friendship was officially over as they knew it?
Which is why his smile dropped and his words came out clipped. “What are you doing here, Lizzie?”
Her eyes darted away and she bit the corner of her bottom lip. “I like these pockets. I feel as though I could fit so many things in them. What do you carry in your pockets?”
The fire crackled and she stopped to inspect it while moving her hands around anxiously in her newfound pockets. Something was amiss. Why was she there? Why was she nervous?
“Did something happen with Hastings?” he asked, jumping to conclusions and already mentally running the man through if he had hurt Elizabeth in any way. His mind told him to stay put by the door—far away from this unpredictable, anxious Elizabeth—but his feet had other ideas. That was nothing new. His feet were forever disobeying him.
“No,” she shook her head, not meeting his eyes until he stopped right beside her. Her eyes flicked up to his—something lurking he couldn’t put his finger on.
He guided her shoulders to face him and then began assessing her silly cravat. “You simply felt like dressing up and proving to me that you are good at many things—but tying a neck linen is not one of them?” He smiled, hoping to set her a little at ease. Something about her looked like a spooked animal, caught in between the moment of escape or attack.
She blinked a little faster than normal. “I thought I did a rather admirable job of tying this knot.” She patted the wilted, pathetic neckcloth.
“It’s a catastrophe.” He should be prodding her for answers. No. He should be telling her to leave. “Here,” he untied it and began forming a new knot, never thinking the action was too intimate until he heard Elizabeth’s breath tremble. His eyes moved up to meet hers and found her staring at him in a way that ignited a fierce desire in his chest. One he’d been smothering and holding dormant for so long. He was losing the fight.
“Why are you here, Lizzie?” he asked again, his fingers stilled against the cream fabric at her neck. She seemed frozen. “I’ll ask you again. Did something happen with Lord Hastings?”