Worth Any Price

by Lisa Kleypas

  “I look forward to it,” Nick murmured, taking care to keep his accent clean. Although he had been born a viscount’s son, too many years spent in the London underworld had given him a lower-class cadence and woefully soft consonants. “Westcliff, at the moment what would please me most is to have a drink, and to find company with some delightful temptress.”

  “I have an exceptional Longueville Armagnac,” the earl muttered, clearly eager to escape Nick’s company.

  “That would be most welcome.”

  “Good. I’ll send a servant to fetch you a glass.” Westcliff turned and began to stride away.

  “And the temptress?” Nick persisted, smothering a laugh at the way the man’s back stiffened.

  “That, Sydney, is something you will have to obtain for yourself.”

  As the earl left the terrace, Nick allowed himself a swift grin. So far he was playing the part of spoiled young nobleman with great success. He had managed to annoy the earl beyond bearing. Actually, he rather liked Westcliff, recognizing the same hard-driven will and cynicism that he himself possessed.

  Thoughtfully Nick left the terrace and wandered down to the gardens, which had been designed with both enclosed and open spaces, providing countless pockets of intimacy. The air was dense with the smells of heather and bog myrtle. Ornamental birds trapped in an aviary chirped wildly at his approach. To most it was doubtless a cheerful clamor, but to Nick the ceaseless trills made a desperate sound. He was tempted to open the door and set the damned things free, but it would have little effect, as their wings had been clipped. Stopping at the riverside terrace, he surveyed the dark sparkling flow of the Itchen River, the moonlight that washed through swaying filaments of willow and clusters of beech and oak.

  The hour was late. Perhaps Charlotte was inside the house. Casually exploring his surroundings, Nick wandered to the side of the manor, a residence built of honey-colored stone and cornered with four towers that reached six stories in height. It was fronted with a distinctively large courtyard sided with stabling, a laundry, and low buildings to house the servants. The front of the stables had been designed to mirror the chapel on the other side of the courtyard.

  Nick was fascinated by the magnificence of the stables, unlike anything he had seen before. He entered through one of the ground-floor archways and found a covered court hung with gleaming harnesses. A pleasant mixture of smells filled the air; horses, hay, leather, and polish. There was a marble drinking fountain for horses at the back of the court, sided by separate entrances to the horse stalls. Nick walked across the stone-flagged floor with the light, almost soundless step that was habitual for all Bow Street runners. Despite his quietness, horses shuffled and snorted warily at his approach. Glancing through the archway, Nick discovered rows of stalls filled by at least five dozen horses.

  It seemed that the stables were empty save for the animals, and Nick left through the west entrance. Immediately he was confronted with an ancient ironstone wall almost six feet high. There was no doubt that it had been built to protect unwary visitors from falling over the steep bluff overlooking the river below. Nick stopped in his tracks at the unexpected sight of a small, slim figure poised atop the wall. It was a woman, standing so still that at first glance he thought she was a statue. But a breeze stirred the hem of her skirts and teased a lock of pale blond hair free of her loose topknot.

  Fascinated, he drew closer, his gaze riveted on her.

  Only a reckless fool would balance on that uneven wall, with certain death awaiting if she lost her footing. She did not seem to recognize the fatal drop looming before her. The tilt of her head indicated that she was staring straight ahead, at the night-darkened horizon. What in God’s name was she doing? Two years earlier, Nick had seen a man standing with that peculiar stillness just before he had jumped to his death from a bridge over the Thames.

  As Nick’s gaze raked over her, he saw that the hem of her long skirt was caught beneath her heel. The sight spurred him into action. Moving forward in a few stealthy strides, he lifted himself easily, soundlessly, onto the wall.

  She did not see him coming until he had almost reached her. She turned, and Nick saw the flash of her dark eyes just as she lost her balance. Seizing her before she could fall, Nick hauled her against his chest. His forearm locked securely just beneath her breasts. The simple action of pulling her body against his was strangely satisfying, like a puzzle piece snapping neatly into place. She gave a low cry, automatically clutching at his arm. The loose lock of fine blond hair blew across Nick’s face, and the fresh, faintly salty fragrance of female skin rose to his nostrils. The scent made his mouth water. Nick was startled by his instant reaction to her—he had never experienced such visceral response to a woman. He wanted to leap from the wall and carry her off like one of the wolves that had once roamed the medieval forests, and find some place to devour his prey in private.

  She was rigid in his hold, her breath coming in gasps. “Let go of me,” she said, prying at his arms. “Why the devil did you do that?”

  “You were going to fall.”

  “I was not! I was perfectly fine until you rushed at me and nearly knocked me over—”

  “Your heel is caught in the hem of your skirts.”

  Moving cautiously, she lifted her foot and perceived that he was correct. “So it is,” she said shortly.

  Having rescued people from every conceivable situation, Nick was accustomed to receiving at least a perfunctory show of gratitude. “Aren’t you going to thank me for saving you?”

  “I have excellent reflexes. I could have saved myself.”

  Nick let out an incredulous laugh, both annoyed and fascinated by her stubbornness. “If it weren’t for me, you would have broken your little neck.”

  “I assure you, sir, that this so-called rescue was entirely unnecessary. However, since it is obvious that you are going to persist…thank you. Now please take your hands from me.” Her tone rendered the words devoid of appreciation.

  Nick grinned, appreciating the fearlessness of her manner, despite the fact that her heart was pounding wildly against the inside of his wrist. Carefully he loosened his arm and helped her to turn by slow degrees. She wobbled a little and dug her fingers into his coat sleeves in a spasm of anxiety. “I’ve got you,” he said steadily.

  She faced him, and they both froze as their gazes locked. Nick forgot the wall beneath his feet. It seemed as if they were poised in midair, in a blue wash of moonlight that made everything look unreal. Recognition shot through him like a bolt of lightning. Incredibly, he found himself staring into the features that had almost become more familiar to him than his own.

  Charlotte.

  “I’ve got you,” he repeated with a faint smile.

  Chapter Three

  “Sit,” the stranger told Lottie, his huge hands closing around her shoulders and pushing her down. She obeyed carefully, lowering herself to the wall with her legs dangling. The man swung to the ground, landing lightly from the six-foot drop. He held up his arms for her. Lottie hesitated as a cold fist seemed to squeeze around her heart. Every instinct warned her not to jump into his arms. He looked like a predator waiting to snatch her.

  “Come,” he murmured. The moon struck glints of jolting blue in his eyes.

  Reluctantly Lottie leaned forward with her arms outstretched. As she repelled from the stone surface, her hands settled on his shoulders, and he took hold of her waist. He tempered her descent with an ease that betrayed immense physical strength. His hands lingered at her waist, assuring her balance before he released her.

  Standing with him on the ground, Lottie was struck by his size. The stranger was unusually tall, with broad shoulders, and big feet and hands. Although he was well dressed, wearing the new cut of coat with long lapels, and loose-tailored trousers, his dark hair had been cut unfashionably short, and his face was clean shaven. That was unusual among the elegant crowd at Stony Cross Park. Stylish gentlemen let their hair grow over their collars, and sported si
de-whiskers and moustaches. This man didn’t even have a wisp of a goatee to soften the obdurate line of his jaw.

  He indicated the wall with a jerk of his head. “Why were you standing up there?”

  For a moment Lottie couldn’t speak as she stared up into his handsome face. Nature had been spendthrift with this man, bestowing him with bold, princely features and eyes as blue and intense as the heart of midnight. The cynicism in those eyes was a fascinating contrast to the touch of humor that lurked at the corners of his wide mouth. He looked to be about thirty—the time in a man’s life when he surrendered the last vestiges of callowness and came fully into his maturity. No doubt women of all ages were instantly enthralled by him.

  Gathering her wits, she managed to answer him. “I enjoy the view.”

  “You could obtain the same view from the safety of a window.”

  A faint smile touched her lips. “The view is far more rewarding when there is some risk involved.”

  He grinned suddenly, as if he understood exactly what she meant. His roguish smile was dazzling, nearly causing her heart to stop. Lottie couldn’t stop staring at him. It seemed that there was something important and unspoken in the air, as if they had once met but she had forgotten the occasion.

  “Who are you, sir?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “Perhaps I’m your guardian angel.”

  “You don’t look very angelic to me,” she replied skeptically, making him laugh.

  He bowed and introduced himself. “Lord Sydney, at your service.”

  Lottie responded with a curtsy. “Miss Miller. I am employed as a companion to the dowager countess.” She gave him an openly speculative glance. “The guest list for Lord Westcliff’s house parties is quite exclusive. How did you manage to get an invitation?”

  “The earl was kind enough to offer his hospitality on the recommendation of a mutual friend.”

  “Have you come to hunt?” she asked. “Is that why you are here?”

  “Yes,” he said with a puzzling, ironic edge to his tone. “I hunt.”

  A burst of music came from the direction of the al fresco party, and they both glanced toward the back gardens. “I came to have a look at the horses,” Sydney said. “Forgive me for intruding on your privacy.”

  “Do you intend to return to the party now?”

  His dark brows lifted in teasing challenge. “Are you going to climb back onto that wall if I do?”

  Good Lord, it was preposterous for one man to possess so much charm! Her lips quirked with an irrepressible smile. “Not tonight, my lord.”

  “Allow me to accompany you back to the house, then.”

  Lottie made no protest as he fell into step beside her.

  It was hardly unusual to encounter his sort at Stony Cross Park. Most days, one couldn’t throw a coin without hitting some brawny male in search of sport. In the past two years Lottie had been approached by many of them. But there was something different about this one. He did not have the sense of ease, the aimlessness of the other aristocrats who frequented this place. She sensed the ruthlessness that lurked just beneath his facade. She did not feel quite safe around him. And yet at the same time, she felt oddly compelled to lure him closer, to make him smile again.

  “You seem to have no fear of heights, Miss Miller,” he commented.

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” she said confidently.

  “Everyone is afraid of something.”

  “Oh?” She sent him a provocative glance. “What could a man like you possibly fear?”

  To her surprise, he answered seriously. “I’m not fond of enclosed places.”

  The gravity in his tone made her heart thump heavily. What a voice he had, deep with a tantalizing raspiness, as if he had just awakened from a heavy sleep. The sound seemed to gather at the top of her spine and slide downward like heated honey. “Neither am I,” she admitted.

  They stopped at the door of the south tower, where many of the upper servants, including herself, were housed. Light streamed from the glittering windows and pooled onto the graveled paths. Now Lottie saw that his hair was not black but brown. A rich, dark shade of brown, the short glossy strands containing every shade between maple and sable. She wanted to touch his hair and feel it slide through her fingers. The immediacy of the urge confounded her.

  Stepping backward, she gave him a regretful smile. “Good-bye, my lord. And thank you for being a most agreeable escort.”

  “Wait,” he said, with an urgent note in his voice. “Will I see you again, Miss Miller?”

  “No, my lord. I fear my time is fully occupied by the dowager countess.”

  The words did not dissuade him—she saw it in his eyes. “Miss Miller—”

  “Good-bye,” she repeated warmly. “I wish you a very pleasant stay, my lord.” She left swiftly, conscious of his unnerving regard.

  As soon as Lottie reached her room, she locked the door and sighed. Since she had come to Stony Cross Park, she had often been approached by male guests who had made overtures to her. Until tonight she had never been tempted by any of them, no matter how handsome or accomplished. After her experience with Lord Radnor, she wanted nothing to do with men.

  Had Radnor been kind instead of calculating, gentle instead of dominating, Lottie would have been able to reconcile herself to the prospect of marrying him. However, Radnor’s intentions had been clear from the beginning. He wanted to control every aspect of her existence. He planned to destroy every facet of the person she was and replace her with a being of his own creation. Marriage to him would have literally been worse than death.

  Her parents had refused to acknowledge the obvious, as they desperately needed Radnor’s financial patronage. And it had grieved Lottie to leave them, as she was well aware of the repercussions they would face. She was often haunted by guilt, knowing that she should have sacrificed herself to Radnor for their benefit. However, the instinct of self-preservation had been too strong. In the end, she couldn’t keep from bolting, and somehow providence had led her to Hampshire.

  As Lottie had expected, her freedom had come with a price. She often awakened sweat-soaked and cold from nightmares of being dragged back to Radnor. It was impossible to forget—even for a moment—that he had sent people to look for her. Any perception of safety was illusory. Although her life at Stony Cross Park was pleasant, she was trapped here as surely as the birds in the aviary, their wings clipped to make them into animals neither of the ground nor of the air. She could not go anywhere, or do anything, without knowing that she would be found someday. And that had made her doomed and defiant, and unable to trust anyone. Even a handsome young man with haunting blue eyes.

  Rather than return to the al fresco party, Nick went to his own room. His trunk and traveling case had already been unpacked by the servants. His clothes were neatly stacked in the mahogany gentleman’s chest and hung in the armoire, which was redolent with the scent of cloves.

  Impatiently Nick shed his coat, waistcoat, and his gray silk cravat. Stripping off his shirt, he bunched it in one hand and used it to blot the sheen of sweat on his face, neck, and chest. After dropping the wadded-up linen to the floor, he sat on the bed, which had been fitted into an alcove opposite the door. He removed his shoes and stockings, and lay back clad in only his black trousers, his gaze directed at the wood-paneled ceiling of the alcove.

  He finally understood Radnor’s obsession.

  Charlotte Howard was the most bewitching woman he had ever met. She radiated a remarkable force of will that somehow conveyed the impression of movement even when she stood still. Her body, her face, every part of her was a perfect amalgam of delicacy and strength. He wanted to sink inside that vibrant warmth, ride her to peacefulness, and bury his face amid the silky curves of her breasts. He imagined her relaxed and smiling, her skin flushed from his caresses as they lay together in bed.

  No wonder Radnor wanted her. And yet in his attempts to possess her, the earl would soon extinguish everyt
hing that made her so desirable.

  Nick knew it would be relatively easy to whisk Charlotte away to London before the Westcliffs were fully aware of what was happening. He supposed he should do it in the morning, using the element of surprise to his advantage. Deeply troubled, he laced his fingers behind his head. “I’m not afraid of anything,” Charlotte had told him. Although he didn’t believe that, he admired her for saying it. Of course Charlotte was afraid—she knew what Radnor would do to her when she returned. However, that was not Nick’s concern. His only responsibility was to do what he had been paid for.

  On the other hand…

  There was no need for haste. Why not stay at Stony Cross Park for a few days? He would not be required to report at Bow Street for another two weeks, and the woods of Hampshire were far preferable to the soggy, ill-smelling mess of London. If he remained here for an extra day or two, he would be able to learn more about Charlotte. He needed to find out if she was all that she seemed to be.

  Rolling to his side, Nick considered the idea. He had never broken his own rules before, one of them being that he never allowed himself to develop personal familiarity with his prey. However, he had never been one to respect rules, even his own.

  The thought of Charlotte made him hot and irritable and thoroughly aroused. Gemma had ended their arrangement six months ago, and he had been celibate ever since. It wasn’t that he lacked desire…in fact, he was burning with unspent passion. And he had met many willing women. But he was not interested in the ordinary or the mundane. He wanted a woman who could provide the sexual intensity he needed. Such a woman would either be inordinately experienced in the bedroom…or not experienced at all.

  Reaching over the side of the bed, Nick searched in the discarded heap of his clothes and found the miniature. With an expertise born of habit, he pressed the catch of the enameled case and flipped it open. Settling on his back, he stared into Charlotte’s exquisite little face.