Scotsman of My Dreams (21 page)

“Who was your first conquest?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

He did that when she'd startled him, retreated into faux propriety as if he couldn't believe her effrontery.

“It was a maid at Gledfield, wasn't it? Did your parents ever find out? Or Arthur?”

He didn't answer for a moment. Finally, he shook his head. “You're the most astounding creature, Minerva Todd. Yes, it was a maid, and no, my parents never discovered it.”

“Did Arthur?”

“Yes, and he lectured me extensively on the merits of never taking advantage of the staff. I felt like a worm when he was done.”

“What happened to the girl?”

“She married a miller, I believe, and had a great many little millers.”

“None of them yours?”

“Good God, no. One thing I've been very careful about, Minerva, is not to sow my seed the length and breadth of England.”

But he had one child, a little boy who looked exactly like him.

“And here? Are you never tempted to dabble with the staff?”

The tips of his ears were turning red. Was he angry or embarrassed?

“My staff is sacrosanct, Miss Todd. Even my acquaintances knew that. I would have cut them off without a word if they bothered one of them.” He moved his hand, flexing his fingers.

“Am I not considered staff, then?”

He smiled. “You're speaking of the kiss? Shall I apologize?”

“No, perhaps not. You don't frighten me, either, Dalton,” she said.

She didn't stay to see the effect of her announcement or turn around after leaving, to look back. She walked down the corridor as she had for the last three weeks.

If she turned right, she'd head toward the kitchen, where Mrs. Thompson would greet her, as would Daniels, waiting to take her home.

The housekeeper always sent her on her way with some treat that annoyed Mrs. Beauchamp and made her frown. From the aroma in the air as she approached, it smelled like ginger biscuits.

Today, however, before moving on to the kitchen she stepped into the parlor, went to the window on the far right, and opened the lock.

 

Chapter 25

I
f the Covington sisters could see her, she'd be ruined. The elderly ladies were harmless most of the time, but when they saw something that truly disturbed them, they could carry tales far and wide. She'd often told Neville that if he must come in at dawn, to do so in a way their neighbors couldn't see.

She had to admit, though, that Neville did have a great deal of charm. Perhaps that's why the three sisters never gossiped about her brother, despite the fact that he sometimes staggered home at outrageous hours.

Neville made a point of taking some of Cook's pastries over to the sisters from time to time. He would sit and have tea with them, spending an hour or two at each session. No doubt he was the only male they allowed past the front door.

Of course, they'd seen him grow up. They'd been younger then and walked the neighborhood each morning and each evening, the better to note any changes or deleterious behavior. When Neville decided to climb one of the trees in the park and found himself stuck, it was one of the Covington sisters who brought the news to her. When Neville rescued one of their cats from a chasing dog, they conveyed that information to her as well, along with their gushing praise.

Neville had handled the Covington sisters a great deal better than she had. Perhaps she should have taken them some treat. Or commented about one of the kittens she'd seen sunning in the window. Something other than passively becoming the subject of their intense scrutiny.

She often studied the shards of an ancient pot with the same fixed determination, as if it held a secret she could decipher if she looked hard enough. In the case of the pot, there were facts to be ascertained. She couldn't say the same about her life.

Until tonight.

Tonight, the Covington sisters would have had a great deal of gossip to spread if they saw her surreptitiously making her way to the stable after her own staff had retired for the night.

She climbed the stairs to the room above the carriage bay where the stable boy slept. To her relief, Michael either wasn't yet asleep or roused easily. When she asked him the most important question, he nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, Miss Minerva, I can drive the carriage,” he said.

“Then you may drive me tonight on one condition.”

He was still nodding.

“You mustn't tell Hugh, or anyone else for that matter. Do I have your word?”

Ever since their relationship, Hugh no longer slept above the stable. Instead, he'd taken lodgings elsewhere. She didn't think it was longing on his part as much as tact. If he wanted to bring another woman to his bed, she wouldn't know about it.

Nor, if the truth be told, would she care.

She had enjoyed Hugh. She had learned a great deal from him. He had instructed her in the ways of passion so that she wouldn't die a maiden. She would have at least known then the touch of a man and the joy that came from lovemaking.

She'd been quite willing to live for the rest of her life without duplicating the experience. Hugh had left her with enough lovely memories that it simply wasn't necessary.

Until she met the Rake of London.

She couldn't get the memory of Dalton touching her face out of her mind. Then he'd kissed her. How was she supposed to forget that? Or the yearning she felt the minute the kiss ended?

She wanted him. She wanted to touch Dalton the same way he'd touched her, stroking her hands and fingers over his skin, learning him so she could close her eyes and forever remember every contour of his body.

His rakish smile made her pulse dance. Deep inside, she hurt. Not with pain but something else. An emptiness, a need she'd never before felt. A feeling she knew only he could ease.

She most definitely did not consider him an ogre.

Would he consider her a harlot?

She tucked herself into the carriage, grateful that Michael hadn't lit the lamp on the outside. He was, bless him, quiet as he led the horses out of the stable and down the alley.

What sort of woman lusts after a man who wanted to do damage to her family? That question cut too close to the bone. She pushed it away as well as other thoughts that had nearly kept her in her room, a woman about whom the Covington sisters could find nothing to criticize.

Very well, she could be nearly perfect, but what good was that? She had attempted, for years, to be the perfect older sister for Neville, only for him to reject her training and turn his back on her.

She had tried to be a proper young woman, pushing back her interest in those things that were not considered feminine to pursue. She had made herself miserable for a goodly number of years until it occurred to her that no one truly cared if she was happy or not.

They only cared if she was obeying the rules.

Who decreed that women couldn't wear trousers?

Who decreed that women should wear corsets?

Who decreed that women couldn't be intellectually curious? That she shouldn't want to know about ­people who had gone before, women who had gone before? What had their lives been like? What had they thought or felt? How had they coped with the circumstances of their times?

Who decreed that every woman should marry? And if they didn't, that they were destined to huddle together like the Covington sisters, abandoned little chicks who'd grown up to be scrawny hens.

Who said that a woman shouldn't act on her feelings, even if that feeling was lust?

She could feel her cheeks warm, a heat to match the rest of her body.

Perhaps she should blame Dalton. After all, he had kissed her and started the fire burning. Or maybe it began the very first time she saw him, a magnificent specimen of man regardless of his scars.

She grabbed the strap above the window when Michael took a turn a little too sharply. With any luck, he'd be able to navigate the lane behind Dalton's town house.

To her relief, he didn't have any problems. Although stopping was something he needed to work on, she congratulated him when he opened the carriage door.

“This is the very first time you've ever driven a carriage, isn't it?”

He nodded.

“It's all right if you speak, Michael.”

“Yes, ma'am, it is. But I knew I could do it. I watched Hugh enough years. And I knew I wanted to try.”

She really couldn't fault the boy. After all, she was doing something novel as well.

“Remember our agreement,” she said. “I won't tell anyone you drove if you don't tell anyone where you brought me.”

He nodded again, and this time she didn't try to make him speak.

“Wait here. I might be a little while. I don't mind if you get inside the carriage and sleep for a bit.”

Another nod. She patted him on the shoulder and left him without a word. Perhaps she intimidated him. After all, she paid his salary. Or perhaps he was just simply dumbstruck at her shocking actions. After all, a proper gentlewoman didn't go anywhere without a chaperone, let alone at midnight.

But she'd already been shocking, hadn't she? She had accompanied the Earl of Rathsmere all over London with no chaperone, only the two of them in the carriage. Also, she knew full well that it wasn't entirely proper to be acting as his secretary. If it was, Howington wouldn't have greeted her with a glare every morning.

She made her way around to the side of the town house. Tonight there was a full moon, bright enough to illuminate the hedges and the windows they guarded.

As she stood there, her conscience made itself known.

What on earth are you doing, Minerva? Going to a man's house in the middle of the night for the sole purpose of bedding him? Are you that desperate? Are you that lonely?

Not as lonely as curious. Should she have to bury her curiosity entirely?

Was it a terrible thing to want another kiss? And more? Was she a horrid woman for indulging in hedonism, both in thought and act?

Granted, she was not as schooled in passion as he, but she knew it when she felt it. She knew it when she saw it. His cheeks had been bronzed. His breath had come as fast as hers.

Or perhaps he'd only kissed her because he was bored. He'd been without his companions. He'd willingly made himself a hermit. She might be a diversion, nothing more.

Very well, she'd treat him as a diversion as well. Someone to satisfy her curiosity. But she'd felt that same way about Hugh and look how terribly that had turned out.

She hated dithering. How much better to simply make a decision, to do something rather than worrying about it. She was not the type to hesitate once a course had been set. Evidently, her conscience was not prepared for such a vigorous debate because it suddenly went silent.

The unlocked window slid upward without a sound.

The maid had closed the draperies and Minerva had to fight them for a moment. She raised her leg, grateful for having had the foresight to wear her trousers skirt, and was entering the house when a hand clamped hard on her shoulder.

She screamed.

S
OMETHING WOKE
him.

For a moment Dalton lay there as he came to himself. As it happened every night, he blinked a half-­dozen times, staring into the darkness before realizing it was permanent. One day he would awaken with knowledge of his loss of sight and these first few seconds wouldn't be so jarring.

What time was it? Since he rarely slept a whole night through, it had to be the middle of the night.

Dalton slid his pistol out from under his pillow, holding it in his right hand. He might be blind, but he was damned if he would be a passive target.

Slowly, he sat up, looking in the direction of the sitting room. He'd never thought to lock his door, but maybe it was a practice he should begin.

Had Dorothy known Neville's whereabouts after all? Had she told him that ­people were searching for him? Had Neville decided to finish him off tonight? Or was it Lewis, coming to prove his suspicions correct?

The knock on the sitting room door startled him. He doubted if anyone sinister would announce himself. He put the pistol on the bedside table and got up.

After grabbing his dressing gown and patting himself to make sure all the naked bits were covered, he strode through his sitting room.

“Your Lordship!”

It wasn't like his housekeeper to shout at him.

“Yes? What is it?” he asked as he pulled the door open.

“Oh, Your Lordship, it's a catastrophe for sure. We've the authorities at the door and he's nicked Miss Todd!”

He couldn't even begin to fathom what Mrs. Thompson was saying, so he wordlessly followed her to the staircase and made it down the steps.

The odor of garlic and onion wafted through the foyer. Cook had been in an exploratory mood tonight, producing an Italian dish even though she came from Devon.

“This is the Earl of Rathsmere himself, awakened by all this nonsense,” Mrs. Thompson said, announcing him as if she were a majordomo and this a ball filled with notables.

A male voice greeted him. “Do you know this woman, Your Lordship?

“Oh, do let me go!”

“Minerva? What are you doing here?”

“I found her, Your Lordship, trying to get into your parlor by a window. You should keep those locked, sir.”

“I assure you that I do. And who would you be?”

“My name is Robert, sir. Robert Hinnity. Mr. Wilson set me to watching your house. A good thing, too, or I wouldn't have caught this woman.”

He could just imagine the scene. Mrs. Thompson standing there looking scandalized. Perhaps a maid or two observing the excitement with wide eyes. Minerva, flushed and embarrassed, if Minerva ever got embarrassed. And the righ­teous Robert Hinnity, looking proud at his capture.

“Thank you, Mr. Hinnity, I shall take care of the matter from this point onward.”

“Sir? I should report her to the authorities.”

“It's not necessary,” he said. “I will handle the matter. Thank you for your diligence.”

He heard the door close and turned to his housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, that will be all.”

“Will you be needing anything else, Your Lordship?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

“No, thank you. Go back to your room, Mrs. Thompson. I'm sorry you were disturbed.”

“If you're sure, sir,” she said, reluctance coating each word.

Was she afraid of leaving him alone with Minerva? Why, to protect Minerva's reputation? Or his?

“I am. Thank you, again.”

He heard the sound of slippers on the steps and waited until the only noise in the foyer was the breathing of his companion.

“Is she gone?” he asked, extending his hand.

Minerva put her hand on his, no doubt believing he needed guidance.

“I think so,” she said. How meek she sounded. Quite unlike her.

“Do you want to explain breaking into my home again?”

“Must I?”

“I'm afraid you must.”

“I came to seduce you,” she said.

He had expected a variety of explanations, but not that one. The woman had the ability to constantly startle him into silence. He turned and, still holding her hand, crossed the foyer and began to mount the steps.

She would have pulled away from him, but he kept a grip on her hand.

He had no intention of questioning her in the foyer. Or in the library, for that matter. He wasn't an idiot. If Minerva Todd had come to seduce him, who was he to protest?

Dalton heard the seventh step groan just as it had when he moved into the house ten years ago. He'd had two carpenters look it over, work on it with much banging and swearing and hammering, then proclaim the issue repaired. Only for the sound to come back days later.

He felt for the door to his suite, entered, and closed the door behind them.

“However do you do it, Dalton?” Minerva whispered. “It's black as pitch in here.”

Her emotions came through her speech. He knew when she was sad, when she was irritated and trying not to show it. Amusement danced in her tone sometimes, as if the words themselves were smiling.