Authors: Lisa Kleypas
For some reason her admission made him smile. His fingers moved to her throat, tracing the fragile line with a sensitivity that made her breath catch. Tugging the peasant blouse back up to her shoulder, he retied the frayed ribbon that secured the neckline. “Then I’ll stop,” he said. “Come—I’ll take you to the house.”
He stayed close to her as they continued through the forest, occasionally moving to push a branch out
of the way, or taking her hand to guide her over a rough place on the path. As familiar as she was with the woods of Stony Cross Park, Lottie had no need of his assistance. But she accepted the help with demur. And she did not protest when he paused again, his lips finding hers easily in the darkness. His mouth was hot and sweet as he kissed her compulsively…swift kisses, languid ones, kisses that ranged from intense need to wicked flirtation. Drugged with pleasure, Lottie let her hands wander to the thick dishevelment of his hair, the iron-hard nape of his neck. When the blistering heat rose to an untenable degree, Lord Sydney groaned softly.
“Charlotte…”
“Lottie,” she told him breathlessly.
He pressed his lips to her temple and cuddled her against his powerful body as if she were infinitely fragile. “I never thought I would find someone like you,” he whispered. “I’ve looked for you so long…needed you…”
Lottie shivered and dropped her head to his shoulder. “This isn’t real,” she said faintly.
His lips touched her neck, finding a place that made her arch involuntarily. “What’s real, then?”
She gestured to the yew hedge that bordered the estate garden. “Everything back there.”
His arms tightened, and he spoke in a muffled voice. “Let me come to your room. Just for a little while.”
Lottie responded with a trembling laugh, knowing
exactly what would happen if she allowed that. “Absolutely not.”
Soft, hot kisses drifted over her skin. “You’re safe with me. I would never ask for more than you were willing to give.”
Lottie closed her eyes, her head spinning. “The problem is,” she said ruefully, “I am willing to give you entirely too much.”
She felt the curve of his smile against her cheek. “Is that a problem?”
“Oh, yes.” Pulling away from him, Lottie held her hands to her hot face and sighed unsteadily. “We must stop this. I don’t trust myself with you.”
“You shouldn’t,” he agreed hoarsely.
The sounds of their breathing mingled in the darkness. He was so warm and strong that Lottie could barely keep from flinging herself at him. Instead she forced herself to think rationally. Lord Sydney would be gone soon, and the memory of this night would fade in time. She was not so weak-willed, or foolish, that she could be so easily seduced.
“At least let me walk with you to the house,” Lord Sydney urged. “If we are seen together, you can explain it as a chance meeting.”
Lottie hesitated, then nodded. “And we’ll part company at the back terrace?”
“Yes.” Offering her his arm, Lord Sydney accompanied her to the double-sided stone staircase at the back of the manor. They were both silent as they ascended to the terrace that overlooked the main gardens.
Abundant light from the great hall shone through the glittering multipaned windows and French doors. The terrace, often the location for guests to smoke and drink port, was unoccupied, as nearly everyone was either in the village or playing cards and billiards inside.
A lone figure relaxed in a chair by the railing. He drew lazily on a cigar, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that drifted in the air like a vanishing wraith. The scent of expensive tobacco tickled Lottie’s nostrils as she reached the top step.
Her stomach flipped uneasily as she realized who the man was.
“Lord Westcliff,” she murmured, curtsying automatically. Uneasily she wondered what he would make of the fact that she was accompanied by Lord Sydney.
The earl remained seated as he surveyed the two of them. The refracted light from the windows gleamed on his coal black hair and cast angular shadows across his blunt, strong features. “Miss Miller,” he said in his gravelly voice, and nodded coolly to her companion. “Sydney. What convenient timing. There is a matter that I wish to take up with you.”
Certain that her employer was displeased with her, Lottie lowered her gaze to the stone flagging of the terrace. “My lord, forgive me. I went to watch the festival in the village, and—”
“You did more than watch, it appears,” Lord
Westcliff observed mildly, his keen gaze sweeping over her rustic attire.
“Yes, I took part in the Maypole dance. And Lord Sydney offered to escort me home—”
“Of course he did,” the earl said sardonically, taking another pull on his cigar. Blue-gray smoke whirled and eddied upward. “There is no need to look so distressed, Miss Miller. As far as I am concerned, you are not prohibited from seeking entertainment in the village—although it would doubtless be wise not to mention such activities to the dowager countess.” He gestured with his cigar. “You may go now, while I discuss a few things with Lord Sydney.”
Lottie nodded in cautious relief. “Yes, sir.” As she began to depart, she was astonished to feel Lord Sydney’s light, restraining hand on her arm.
“Wait.”
Lottie froze in utter confusion, her face flooding with color. She could not believe that he had dared to touch her in front of the earl. “My lord,” she murmured in protest.
Sydney did not return her glance; his gaze was fixed intently on the earl’s harsh features. “Before Miss Miller takes her leave, you had better tell me what this is about.”
“This is about your so-called family,” Lord Westcliff said softly. “And your so-called past.” The quiet words rang with condemnation. Lottie realized from the earl’s expression that something was very wrong.
If any warmth had lingered from the enchanted moments in the forest, it vanished abruptly.
Bewildered, she stared at Lord Sydney. His face had changed somehow, no longer quite so handsome, but suddenly hard and cold. To behold him now, one would believe that this man was capable of anything. Suddenly, she could not believe that a few minutes ago she had kissed that stern mouth, that his hands had caressed her intimately. When he spoke, even his voice sounded different, his accent a bit coarser. The aristocratic veneer had been stripped away, revealing the stony layers beneath. “I would prefer to discuss this in a more private setting,” he said to the earl.
Westcliff inclined his head with icy courtesy. “There is a study in the family wing. Will that serve?”
“Yes.” Sydney paused deliberately before adding, “Miss Miller will accompany us.”
Lottie stared at him blankly. His request made no sense. Suddenly she felt cold all over, and a shiver chased down her spine. “Why?” she asked through dry lips.
“She has nothing to do with this,” Lord Westcliff said curtly, rising from his chair.
Lord Sydney’s face was dark and still. “She has everything to do with it.”
Lottie felt herself turn white. The entire surface of her body seemed to prickle and burn, as if she had fallen into a frozen pond. She found it difficult to speak or move as a paralyzing suspicion crept over her.
The earl dropped his cigar to the terrace and crushed it with his foot. A touch of uncharacteristic impatience edged his tone. “Miss Miller, will you be so kind as to join us? It seems that we have a small mystery to solve.”
Nodding in a puppetlike fashion, Lottie followed the earl into the house, while her instincts screamed for her to flee. She had little choice but to play the scene out, however. Forcing herself to behave calmly, she went with the two men to the private study, its rosewood paneling glowing ruddily in the lamplight. The room was hard and uncompromising, with minimal upholstery and sharp angles, and no ornamentation save for a pristine row of stained glass windows.
As Lord Westcliff closed the door, Lottie took care to keep as great a distance between herself and Sydney as possible. A sense of foreboding nearly made her ill. She could not bring herself to look directly at Lord Sydney, but she was intensely aware of him.
Lord Westcliff spoke. “Will you have a seat, Miss Miller?”
Lottie shook her head dumbly, afraid that if she moved at all, she might collapse.
“Very well.” The earl’s attention moved to Lord Sydney. “Let us begin with the information I received today. Immediately upon your arrival at Stony Cross Park, I undertook to make certain inquiries about you. I suspected that you were not being entirely truthful in some regard, although I could not quite put my finger on what it was.”
Lord Sydney appeared relaxed but watchful, his blue eyes hard as he returned the earl’s stare. “And the results of your inquiries, my lord?”
“There is no Viscount Sydney,” Westcliff said bluntly, ignoring Lottie’s gasp as he continued. “The family line ended approximately twenty years ago, when the real Lord Sydney died
sine prole mascula superstite
—without surviving male children to establish a legitimate claim to the title. Which begs the question…who the hell are you? And what is your purpose here?”
“I’m Nick Gentry.”
Although Lottie had never heard the name, Lord Westcliff seemed to recognize it. “I see,” he said softly. “That explains Sir Ross’s involvement. You’re about some business for Bow Street, then.”
Lottie gasped in astonishment as she realized that the stranger was a Bow Street runner. She had heard of the small, elite force of officers who did everything from solving murder cases to serving as bodyguards for royalty. They were known for their ruthless efficiency and courage, and had even achieved a celebrated status in higher social circles. No wonder this man had seemed so different from the other guests here.
“I hunt,”
he had told her, conveniently omitting the fact that his prey was the two-legged variety.
“Not always,” Gentry said in response to Westcliff’s question. “Sometimes I accept private commissions.” His gaze moved to Lottie’s tense face. “Two months ago I was hired by Lord Radnor to
find his runaway fiancée, Charlotte Howard, who has been missing for two years.”
Lottie was utterly still, while cruel pain burst inside her chest and leaked all through her. Her mouth shook with violent denial, but no words would come out. Instead she heard a high-pitched, incoherent cry, only later realizing it had been her own. She was not aware of moving, but suddenly she was across the room, clawing at Gentry’s dark face, while rage and terror swooped around her like attacking buzzards.
A savage curse rang in her ears, and her wrists were snatched in crushing vises, but she did not, could not, stop struggling. Sweat and tears poured down her face, and she breathed in sobbing screams, fighting for her life, for the freedom that was being ripped away from her. Somewhere in her mind she knew that she was acting like a madwoman, that this would do her no good, but she could not seem to stop herself.
“Stop it, Lottie,” Gentry snarled, giving her a hard shake. “Calm yourself…for God’s sake—”
“I won’t go back!” she shrieked, panting furiously. “I’ll kill you first, oh God, I hate you,
hate you
—”
“Lottie.” The cold voice of sanity cut neatly through her writhing torment. It was Lord Westcliff’s voice. One of his powerful arms slid around her from behind, and he hauled her away from Gentry. She reared back against him like a terrified animal. “That’s enough,” Westcliff said against her ear,
his arm tightening into a steely band. “He won’t take you, Lottie. I swear it. You know that I always keep my word. Now take a deep breath. Another.”
Somehow the earl’s stern, quiet voice reached her as nothing else could have, and she found herself obeying. He guided her to a chair and forced her to sit. Lowering to his haunches, he pinned her with a steady, black gaze. “Stay still. And keep breathing.”
Lottie nodded jerkily, her face still streaming. “Don’t let him come near me,” she whispered.
Standing, Westcliff shot the Bow Street runner a glance of obsidian ice. “Keep your distance, Gentry. I don’t give a damn about who has paid you to do what. You’re on my estate, and you’ll do nothing without my consent.”
“You have no legal claim on her,” Gentry said softly. “You can’t keep her here.”
Westcliff responded with an arrogant snort. Going to the sideboard, he poured a small quantity of amber liquid into a glass. Bringing the liquor to Lottie, he forced her trembling fingers around the vessel. “Drink this,” he said curtly.
“I don’t—” she began, but he interrupted in a tone of absolute authority.
“Now. Every drop.”
Grimacing, she downed the liquid in a few gulps and coughed as her lungs and throat were filled with velvet fire. Her head swam, and she regarded the earl with watering eyes. He extracted a handkerchief from the inside of his coat and gave it to her. The linen was warm from the heat of his body. Blotting
her face with it, she sighed shakily. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely. She kept her gaze fastened on him, unable to look at Gentry. She had never dreamed that such devastation was possible…that her ruin had come in the form of a handsome man with cruel eyes and raffish charm…the first man she had ever kissed. The pain of betrayal, the crushing humiliation of it, was too great to bear.
“Now,” Westcliff said evenly, taking a chair beside Lottie’s, “your reaction to Mr. Gentry’s revelation would seem to confirm that you are indeed Charlotte Howard.” He waited for her brief nod before continuing. “It is also true that you are betrothed to Lord Radnor?”
Lottie was reassured by the earl’s powerful presence, knowing that he was the only thing that kept her safe from the predator who lurked nearby. Staring into Westcliff’s blunt features, she struggled for the right words to make him understand her situation. As the earl saw her agitation, he surprised her by reaching out and taking her hand in his square one. His grip, so strong and secure, seemed to drive away the incapacitating fear. Lottie was amazed by his kindness. He had never shown her this kind of consideration…had never seemed to take much notice of her, actually.
“It was never my choice,” she told him. “It was arranged when I was a child. My parents promised Lord Radnor my hand in return for his financial patronage. I have tried very hard to accept the situation, but Radnor is not rational—not sane—in my
opinion. He has made no secret of his plans—he regards me as some kind of animal to be trained to his satisfaction. Suffice it to say that I would be better off dead. You must believe me, I would never have resorted to this otherwise—”