Authors: Stephanie Laurens
He studied her face, her eyes. “It would be better if you told me what it was you saw in Horatio’s drawing room.”
She considered it.
I saw a brown hat.
A brown hat?
Just a brown hat. I didn’t recognize it and no one’s worn it since.
Then it can’t be that that the murderer’s worried about. What else happened? What were you doing? Why were you there?
“I can’t tell you. Not yet.”
His gaze remained steady, vibrant dark blue, focused on her eyes. “I think you can.”
His voice was soft, low; it sent shivers down her spine. Her impulse was to lift her chin and step back from his arms; before she could, he drew her nearer.
Near enough so the silk over her breasts brushed his coat with every breath; close enough so that his hard thighs brushed hers at every turn.
She was suddenly very conscious of just how physically powerful he was—although he never hid it, he hadn’t before projected it, not like this. Some part of her mind was pointing frantically, urging her to understand how threatening he could be, and give in. Instead, she simply frowned at him. “Not yet. I’ll tell you as soon as I can.”
Her tone was calm and even. An expression of surprise—as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears—passed swiftly through his eyes. Then the blue hardened. Slowly, arrogantly, he lifted one black brow.
She knew that look—could interpret it with ease. “Nothing you can do will change my mind.”
The music stopped; they swirled to a halt by the side of the floor, but he didn’t let her go. His hand at her waist burned through the silk, threatening to bring her hard against him. He lowered their linked hands, lacing his fingers through hers, and looked into her eyes. “Nothing?”
Just that one, soft word.
Phyllida suddenly felt faint. Her knees felt weak. If she didn’t say something soon, he was going to kiss her—right here in the Smollets’ ballroom in front of half the county. He would do it, and delight in the doing. Her heart was thudding; her eyes were trapped in midnight blue. She couldn’t think—not well enough to concoct any evasive plan. And she couldn’t break away.
His gaze grew more intent; his lips lifted a little at the corners. The hand at her back tensed—
“Ah, Phyllida, my dear.”
It was Basil. He walked toward them, not looking at them but surveying his guests. Lucifer was forced to release her. Phyllida edged back.
Reaching them, Basil glanced at them and smiled perfunctorily. “I wonder, my dear, if I could prevail on you to give your opinion of the punch. I’m just not sure . . .”
“Of course!” Seizing Basil’s arm, Phyllida turned him. “Where’s the punch bowl?”
She steered Basil down the room, away from Lucifer, and didn’t once look back.
Despite that, she knew he watched her—kept watching her, waiting for another chance at her. No matter where in the room she went, she felt his gaze on her. Consequently, she was forced to conscript some gentleman—one of her village suitors or one of the others from farther afield who would gladly pay court to her if she gave the slightest sign—as bodyguard. They, unfortunately, didn’t know they were guarding her.
One, a Mr. Firman from Musbury, insisted on fetching her a glass of punch; he left her by a window. Phyllida scanned the crowd; she couldn’t see Lucifer. But the sense of being in danger grew . . . retreating to the withdrawing room seemed a good idea. She turned toward the door—
And walked into a familiar chest.
She all but leaped back. She glared at him. “Stop it!”
He raised his brows, all innocence. “Stop what?”
“This! You know you can’t”—she gestured with both hands—“
seduce
me in a ballroom.”
“Who wrote that rule?” He studied her eyes, then added, “I’ll admit it’s a greater challenge, but . . .”
His voice had deepened to a suggestive purr. Phyllida flashed him a repressive look and turned to scan those nearby, hoping to see Mr. Firman or some other useful soul. . . . Robert Collins was standing quietly by the wall.
Lucifer had followed her gaze. “I thought the hostesses hereabouts didn’t encourage Mr. Collins.”
“They don’t and Jocasta’s no different, she’s just more cruel. She knows inviting Robert will irritate Mr. Farthingale, reinforcing his opposition, which quite ruins Mary Anne’s delight in having Robert here. Robert, of course, is helpless to decline the invitation—he gets so few opportunities to see Mary Anne in such surrounds.”
Phyllida was conscious that, just for a moment, Lucifer’s attention drifted from her. She glanced at him; he was studying the guests.
“Miss Smollet,” he murmured, “seems to have a rather peculiar notion of what constitutes entertainment.”
Phyllida quietly humphed. She was saved from having to find some other distraction by Mr. Firman’s return. He handed her her glass; to gain a moment, she introduced him to Lucifer, only to discover that Mr. Firman had been waiting to talk to Mr. Cynster all evening.
Mr. Firman, it transpired, was the owner of a cattle stud. Phyllida learned that that was a subject on which Lucifer wished to extend his knowledge. Not only did Mr. Firman talk, but Lucifer listened and asked questions.
The opportunity was too good to pass up. Phyllida edged away; Lucifer shot her a glance but was trapped in the ongoing discussion. Mr. Firman was not someone he wanted to offend.
Phyllida gave her glass to a footman, then joined Robert Collins by the wall.
He glanced at her—there was a painful intensity in his eyes that Phyllida didn’t like to see. He pressed her hand. “Mary Anne told me about the letters.” He looked across the room to where Mary Anne stood chatting with two young ladies. “How I
wish
I’d never urged her to write to me.”
The bitterness in his words had Phyllida frowning. “It’s the letters I wanted to speak to you about.”
Robert’s head whipped around, hope naked in his face. “You’ve found them?”
“No. I’m sorry . . .”
Robert sighed. “No—
I’m
sorry. I know you will and I’m grateful for your help. I’ve no right to press you.” After a moment, he asked, “What did you want to know?”
Phyllida took a deep breath. “I have to ask you this because it’s important, and whenever I try to talk to Mary Anne on the subject, she becomes quite hysterical. But I need to know this, Robert—and if I don’t get a sensible answer, I don’t know that I can keep searching for those letters in secret. So tell me—what is it about them that makes them so dangerous to you and Mary Anne?”
Robert stared at her, the image of a rabbit cornered. Then he swallowed and looked away. “I can’t tell you—not in so many words.”
“Generalizations will do—I’ll extrapolate.”
He fell silent; eventually he said, “Mary Anne and I have been meeting secretly for nearly a year. You know how long we’ve waited and . . .” He dragged in a breath. “Anyway, Mary Anne used to fill in the time between my visits by writing to me about our last meeting—about what we’d done and what we might do the next time—well, she wrote in a very
detailed
way.” He cast Phyllida an anguished glance.
She met it, blank-faced. After a moment, she said, her tone flat, “I think I understand, Robert.”
Thanks to Lucifer, she now had some inkling of what could transpire between a lady and a gentleman where desire was involved. And she had no doubt Mary Anne desired Robert—she always had. Phyllida cleared her throat.
“I used to bring the letters with me to our next meeting and we’d try to . . . well . . .” Robert hauled in another breath and rushed on. “So you see, if Mr. Farthingale got hold of the letters, it would be very . . . bad. But if he showed them to Mr. Crabbs—if
anyone
showed them to Mr. Crabbs . . .”
“Hmm.” A vision of the starchily conservative, stern-faced solicitor flashed into Phyllida’s mind.
“I wouldn’t get my registration, and then we’d never be able to marry.” Robert looked at her, his plea in his eyes.
She forced a reassuring smile. “We’ll find them.”
Robert squeezed her hand. “I can’t thank you enough—you’re such a good friend.”
Phyllida took back her hand, and wished she could be a bad friend. But she couldn’t. On top of that, she’d given her word. She turned from Robert—and found Lucifer almost upon her.
She met his eyes. “No!”
A violin sang—they both glanced toward the musicians. Then Phyllida looked back. She considered Lucifer, then stepped closer and flicked a hand against his chest. “Waltz with me.”
He looked at her, arrested. “Why?”
“Because you might as well be useful and I don’t want to waltz with anyone else.”
His arm closed around her and he steered her into the whirl. His eyes searched hers. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“Perhaps.” She was also trying to distract herself, and he was simply perfect for the task.
* * *
How
could
Mary Anne have been so idiotic as to write such things down? Love-induced stupidity—that was the only reason Phyllida could imagine.
The sun shone brightly, the air was fresh and clean as she strolled briskly down the common. Behind her, the Sunday-morning congregation was streaming home. Ten paces to her rear, Jem strode, her concession to male notions of feminine vulnerability. Her aunt and the rest of the females of the Grange were rolling home in the carriage, but she had elected to stroll back via the wood.
And the Manor.
All the Manor’s household bar Lucifer had been in church, even the newcomer, his groom. Bristleford had informed her that Mr. Cynster had elected to watch over the house in light of the recent intrusion.
Phyllida wondered if that was the real reason or whether, given his name, he would prove any less irregular than the other gentlemen of the parish when it came to Sunday services.
Her parasol protecting her from the sun, she crossed the lane and turned toward the Manor. Nearing the front gate, she slowed, considering what excuse to give for calling.
From the shadows beyond the open front door, Lucifer watched her hesitating by the gate. He’d been deep in Horatio’s ledgers when some force had metaphorically jogged his elbow, breaking his concentration. He’d glanced up, then stood and strolled to the library window. His gaze had been drawn to the figure heading purposefully down the common, neatly encased in Sunday ivory, her parasol shading her face, Phyllida’s destination wasn’t hard to guess.
He’d waited in the hall—he didn’t want to seem too eager to see her. That wouldn’t help his cause. His gaze lingered on her figure, on the sweet curves of breast and shoulder, on the dark hair that framed her face. With the glory of Horatio’s garden between them, he studied her, then stepped forward.
She saw him and straightened; her grip on her parasol tightened. Not fear but alertness—a keen anticipation he could feel. He crossed the garden but stopped short of the gate, halting beneath the rose-covered archway. There was a convenient spot where his shoulder could prop; availing himself of it, he crossed his arms and looked at her.
She studied him, trying to gauge his mood. He gave her no assistance.
She tilted her head, her eyes on his. “Good morning. Bristleford said you’d stayed to watch the house. I take it the intruder didn’t reappear?”
“No. All was quiet.”
She waited, then said, “I was wondering if Covey had discovered anything—any wildly precious volume or one containing a reason for murder.”
How much to tell her? “Have you ever heard any rumors concerning Lady Fortemain?”
Her eyes widened to dark saucers. “Lady Fortemain? Good heavens, no!”
“In that case, possibly.”
Phyllida waited. When he continued to simply stand there, his gaze steady, his face uninformative, she prompted, “Well? What was it?”
A moment passed before he answered, “An inscription in a book.”
So she had imagined. “What did it say?”
“What did you see in Horatio’s drawing room last Sunday?”
Phyllida stiffened. The undercurrents in the present scene were suddenly clear. “You know I can’t tell you—not yet.”
His eyes were very dark; they remained fixed on her face. “Because it concerns someone else?”
She pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Yes.”
They stared at each other across the gate to Horatio’s garden. He stood relaxed but still, dark, dangerous, and devilishly handsome, framed by white roses. The sun beat down on them; the breeze wrapped them in its warmth.
Then he stirred, straightened. His eyes hadn’t left hers. “Someday I hope you’ll trust me.”
He hesitated, then inclined his head, turned, and walked back toward the front door.
Three paces and he stopped. He spoke without turning. “Walk back through the village. Until the murderer’s caught, the woods and the shrubberies are no place for you.”
He waited for a heartbeat, then continued on.
Phyllida watched until he’d disappeared into the house. Then she turned. Her mask firmly in place, she beckoned to Jem, who had hung back on the common, and set off—through the village.
Of course she trusted him—he
knew
she did! Phyllida slapped the brass vase she’d just emptied down on the vestry table, then swept back into the nave. She headed for the font.
The flowers she’d arranged on Saturday had only just lasted through Sunday. Wrapping both arms around the heavy urn, she hefted it. Balancing the weight carefully, she slowly edged toward the vestry and the open door beyond; the last thing she needed was dirty water streaks down the front of her muslin gown.
That
would be the last straw.
How could he not know that she trusted him? He did know—he
must
, after their little interlude in the shrubbery. He knew, but he was using the question of trust—her trust in him—as a lever to pressure her.
He wasn’t really talking about trust at all—he was talking about dominance. About the fact that she hadn’t weakened and told him what he wanted to know. If he wanted to discuss trust, what about him trusting
her
? She’d told him she couldn’t tell him, but that she would as soon as she could, and that what she knew was of no consequence anyway!