“No, he doesn’t.” Anne looked directly at Jon and her eyes flashed defiance.
Oh he’d take of that. With pleasure. His blood heated.
But first he needed to dispatch Highsmith. He turned to the younger man. “She’s not your concern, James.”
Highsmith puffed out his chest. “See here, the lady clearly has a preference for me.”
Annoyed, as if by a gnat, Jon grasped him by the lapels and shoved him back. “You should think carefully about how far you’d like to press your imagined advantage.”
Highsmith paled several shades, then he flicked his hazel eyes to Anne, as if seeking reassurance. Still directing her glare at Jon, she didn’t even notice. Highsmith’s expression fell. Then he readjusted his jacket and straightened his shoulders. “Well, Ruel, I shall press it as far as you choose—y-you are not the only gentleman so handy with a rapier.”
The humour of the situation gripped Jon and he chuckled coldly. “James, you’re drunk and in no shape to contest the matter. I think you should go back inside.”
“
You
go back inside.” Highsmith pushed at his chest with both hands.
“Hear me, James—if you don’t make yourself scarce, I am going to knock you on your bony arse, hard enough to break it,” Jon said, before giving the puppy a shove, pushing him several feet back. Then he turned to give Anne a steady stare. “Well, my lady?”
“I don’t have a preference for either of you. I was merely overheated and I wanted some air.” She jumped to her feet and attempted to flounce past.
He took her arm. She turned reckless, rebellious eyes up to his. God, she was gorgeous. She pulled against his grasp. He took her by both arms and held her firm. “You’re tired and you’ve had too much to drink, Lady Cranfield. You should go to bed.”
“You. Have. No. Say. In
anything
I do.” Her claret-tinged breath teased him. She renewed her struggles, thrashing wildly in his arms. Her struggles grew weaker and, almost of their own accord, his hands caressed her arms, just beneath her puffed sleeves. She panted furiously, her face flushed and glowing with a fine sheen of sweat. Sweat that he could smell—a spicy, feminine scent mixed with her rose-lavender perfume. Her eyes looked almost black, mirroring every bit of the hunger pounding through his veins.
Chapter Five
Jon bent down, put his mouth on Anne’s, cupped her cheek with his hand and forced her mouth open to accept his tongue’s hungry thrusts. God, she tasted sweet. All claret and sexual fire.
He’d never met a woman who was so badly in need of a good, hard fucking. A very hard fucking. It showed in every move, every sideways glance. Why was she making things so difficult? He dropped his other hand to her arse and pressed her ruthlessly to his loins, so she could not mistake his own feelings.
“I don’t believe this.” Highsmith’s voice broke the moment.
Jon lifted his head and laughed, low and ominous. “James, why don’t you go frig yourself or something?”
“L-lady Cranfield, you actually mean to let him order you about and put his hands all over you?” Highsmith said, his voice resonating with stunned outrage. As if it had never occurred to the senseless puppy that the lovely lady might be using him for ulterior purposes.
“Answer him, Lady Cranfield—tell him to go back inside.”
She buried her face in his jacket. God, he was fed up with female theatrics. He wouldn’t allow it this time. He threaded his hand into her carefully arranged spill of curls and pulled her face back.
He looked into those heavily lashed, large, lapis eyes. Eyes a man could lose himself in. Then he saw it—the fear that flickered there. The desperate, silent plea for escape.
Instantly, he understood. She wasn’t Cherry or any of the other spoilt society ladies he’d taken to his bed. She protected herself with that layer of pride and superiority—protected herself so well that she had no one to confide in or lean on—but underneath, she was too soft, too vulnerable. She seemed to trust no one, least of all herself. She wasn’t creating a scene to please her own vanity or taste for drama. She wasn’t acting this way because she wanted to manipulate. She reacted because her own feelings were too frightening and powerful for her.
He let her go.
She fled in a rustling of skirts and soft shoes pattering on the garden stones.
On his feet now, Highsmith made to follow her. With exasperated resignation, Jon caught up with him and grabbed the younger man roughly by the back of his collar. “Don’t even think about following her.”
* * * *
Jon raised his glass to his lips. Even the burn of fine brandy couldn’t warm him. Hours had passed, yet Francesca’s last words still chilled his blood. He stared into the fire. His mind wouldn’t stop spinning possibilities. Francesca’s cousin’s son for one. A young, handsome man with avaricious, dark eyes and a twist of cruelty to his overripe mouth that any inexperienced young woman might mistake for strength.
He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to think about her any longer. He just wanted to pack his things and return to London and lose himself in the pursuits of the city. He wished he’d never met her. Never set eyes on her. Because he didn’t want to feel the protective tugging in the centre of his chest every time he saw her. Every time he thought of her.
He took another drink, deep and long. Damn it all. He didn’t want to be needed—by anyone. He just wanted to be left alone. However, even if she was not aware of it, he had recognised the light in her eyes. The idealism of a naïve girl who sees what she wishes to see in a man, trying to justify her desires. Trying to turn mere lust into something loftier.
He was no one’s hero.
There were no heroes in this world.
But someone had to help her. Someone also had to show Anne her true nature before her instincts worked to lead her into the hands of a bully.
And he’d seen enough apathy and turning away from responsibility during his time in the dragoons. Wait… Who said he was responsible for Lady Cranfield? She was no one to him.
Yet she was radically different from the other women of her class whom he had known. He wanted to experience her difference.
He had despised William
Bourchier—a feckless, brainless puppy, just like Highsmith and any number of Mayfair gentlemen. Soft, spoilt creatures who had never been tried by life. Jon stared down at his glass of brandy; his half smoked cigar. What had he become? Was
he
all that different than any other Mayfair gentleman? He was living without purpose or any real plan.
He’d entered the dragoons full of idealism and the desire to be of service, as most untried young men would be. Yet what good did it do to try to make a difference in this miserable world? New Orleans had been the most shattering disillusionment—a needless loss.
The commanding officers above him had chosen not to attack the vulnerable city but had chosen instead to camp at Lacoste’s Plantation. The Americans had attacked while they rested and it had set in motion a chain of events—a hesitation to take action—that had led to their eventual harsh defeat in January.
As for Jon’s battalion, they had been made part of the reserves, and that had been the hardest thing of all to accept. The British had suffered devastating losses while Jon, who had expected to be killed in battle, had been relatively safe and sound with his men as they’d guarded the hospital.
Obviously he’d been mistaken. He hadn’t been meant to die in battle. Then, with the war over, he’d been given the news that his cousin, the heir, had died. His grandfather had demanded that he return home at once. But Grandfather hadn’t lived to greet him.
Ruel was suddenly the earl.
His grandfather’s image intruded on the moment, curdling in his guts. The stern, frowning face; the cold eyes and deep, autocratic voice. When Jon had been a child, Grandfather had always seemed ten feet tall. Jon laughed at the memory. The almighty earl. The old bastard had crossed him at every turn but he couldn’t keep him from inheriting. Jon had never wanted the title—never even expected it. Now Jon was the almighty earl. God’s final, ironic jest.
Captain Jonathon Lloyd was the identity he’d fought and sweated blood to create, a man who had full possession and power over his destiny. All that had changed. The Seventh Earl of Ruel was a nobleman who owed a duty to the people of his estate.
Yes, he was angry about it. Even after all this time.
Yet there was nothing he could do. He had to marry. He had to create heirs. There was no one else to do it now.
He’d never shirk his duty.
So here he was, biding his time until he would marry. A sensible, practical, legal arrangement with a reasonable woman. Her mourning period was finally up. They would marry. He would settle down and what? Spend his days hunting and drinking and eating large suppers in the country? Spend his winter seasons in town, drinking, gambling and chasing opera dancers? What else was there? The great wars had all been fought and won—won by other men. He curled his lip and laughed softly to himself. He’d become exactly what he despised most—a useless Mayfair gentleman.
But before he gave himself over to the estate, he could take this opportunity to experience something rare and different. The attraction between them demanded it. If he didn’t take what was being offered to him, he would wonder his whole life what it would have been like. He knew it would eat him up inside.
“You’re soft on her…”
Cherry’s words echoed in his mind. Yes, he was unexpectedly—and unequivocally soft on the lovely Lady Cranfield. Her pleas for help called to something in him that had been dead—or maybe just sleeping—since Badajoz, since New Orleans. That idealism which had made him believe he was a leader, the advocate and caretaker of the men under his command. Some of those men had been mere boys when they first came under his wing. Frightened, lost little pups. Knowing what it was like to feel alone and lost in the world, he’d tried to make a difference in their lives.
Now he might also be able to make a difference for Anne. She was so afraid of life. She’d been beaten down by what had happened with Cranfield.
Obviously, she had failed to please Cranfield in bed. Failed also to give the earldom an heir. Failed, at least in her own mind, perhaps, to save him in the accident.
Maybe she had withdrawn because she was afraid of failing again.
The thought settled into him uneasily and it could lead to only one conclusion; a conclusion he’d run from all this time. Maybe he wasn’t trying to do anything now because he, too, didn’t want to deal with the risk.
Fear of risk was the worst of all—the most inexcusable sort of cowardice.
Someone had to help her.
No one else appeared to care except for him.
It wasn’t as if there wouldn’t be rewards for him.
She just might prove to be the most sweetly submissive experience of his lifetime. He wanted to experience her. He wanted to get to know that sensual creature who peeked at him sideways through her lashes. Not to mention how much he wanted to possess her broad, round arse.
He refocused his attention on the conversations and card games occurring around him, scanning the chamber until he spied Mr David Kean. He arose from his chair to have a word with that gentleman.
* * * *
Anne came clawing up out of slumber, chased into wakefulness by terror. The screams still echoed in her ears. Too much wine; far too much wine.
Thud.
Her throat constricted and her gaze flew to the ceiling. Shadows stretched and shrank on the ceiling, the candle flickering on her bedside table.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
She placed her hand over her leaping heart.
Thrump, thrump, thrump.
There were no horses waiting to come crashing their way through her ceiling. It was just her heartbeat resounding in her ears.
Weak with relief, she laughed softly, shakily.
She glanced at her sideboard, lingering on the decanter filled with claret. Then she put a hand to her head. No, she definitely did not need any more spirits tonight, else she’d have a headache. But neither did she wish to be alone with her fears unleavened by drink.
She could call Nellie. But was this to be pattern to the rest of her life? Trapped in this grand old house, sleeping with her maid in her room?
Pensive, she placed her fingers to her lips. Her mouth was sore to the touch.
Ruel’s savage kiss.
Energy charged through her blood. Oh, God. The whole scene that had preceded the kiss came rushing back in her memory. Her atrocious behaviour; flirting openly with Highsmith in front of Francesca and everyone
.