So Enchanting

by Connie Brockway

  “Look, Grey!” Hayden called. “Miss Chase has been painting a watercolor.”

  Grey turned toward his voice. He’d all but forgotten about Hayden and Amelie. The pair was standing a short distance away, Amelie looking coy and Hayden holding up an indifferent study of a rabbit and a pink flower.

  “Most delightful, Miss Chase,” Grey called back, and then, still smiling, muttered, “If you think you are going to manipulate my nephew into a situation where he has no choice—”

  “You are truly becoming quite an artist, Amelie,” Fanny shouted sunnily, interrupting him. “I’ve never seen a prettier carnation.”

  “It’s a rose. Like all the rest!”

  “Ah, yes. I see it now. And speaking of which, darling, why don’t you show dear Lord Hayden the other pictures you painted? They’re on the table.”

  Dutifully, the pair drifted off, Hayden’s head bent attentively over Amelie.

  Fanny watched them with all the appearance of a fond doyenne—if one’s doyenne happened to be a ravishing beauty with flashing eyes and a figure that would tempt a saint—while the birds in the tree redoubled their singing efforts.

  As soon as the couple was out of earshot, Fanny turned to him. “Me, manipulate your nephew into a situation?” she said. “You guaranteed me that your nephew would not act the cad! And here he’s making declarations of love to the girl!”

  “Don’t pretend you aren’t pleased. You have been contriving from the moment we arrived for a match between your charge and my nephew.”

  “Oh!” she huffed, her black eyes snapping. “I assure you I have no wish to see Amelie jeopardize her future for the sake of a pretty-boy layabout!”

  He gaped at her. “Hayden is not a layabout.”

  “Ha!” she countered. “Has he an occupation, a career? What has he done of merit or value for anyone other than himself?”

  Damn the woman, she had a point. She made him feel as if he were applying for the queen’s blessing to a very questionable union, one she had no intention of bestowing. She should be the one trying to win points for her suit.

  “He’s young yet,” he countered, for in truth, Hayden didn’t have a career or employment, or a vocation, or even an avocation—except for impeccable grooming—nor any desire to have any of the aforementioned, as far as Grey could tell. Still, Grey had hopes that in spite of his not needing to make a livelihood, Hayden would develop purpose and ambition as he matured. He was still young. Which would be a strong objection to Hayden’s wedding to this or any other girl.

  Hayden wasn’t ready to take a wife. Why, in Grey’s opinion he himself was barely of an age to consider matrimony. Not that he was considering it. He might end up married to a termagant like Fanny. And what would that be like? To see the battle lights gleaming in the seemingly cool depths of her eyes? Each night to stoke an altogether different fire…

  The woman had him at sixes and sevens. He turned away to collect his thoughts and saw a pair of rabbits frolicking on the spring meadow beyond, a calming sight. They were obviously a fond pair, close enough to— Damnation. Why, the rabbits were copulating like…like rabbits.

  He looked away. Bloody hell. Under the chestnut tree, another pair of the beasts was having at it. Wherever he looked was he fated to be reminded of his celibate state?

  “How long will it last, do you suppose?” Fanny asked.

  Grey’s head snapped around. “Excuse me?”

  “I asked how long Lord Hayden intends to use youth as an excuse for idleness.” She looked him over. “Apparently one can do so for quite some time.”

  He was awed by her nerve. No one of his acquaintance had ever dared to question his value, either materially or socially. He wasn’t applying for some position. He didn’t owe her one word of explanation. “Madam, as you well know, I have an occupation.”

  “Oh, yes. I recall. You annoy ghosts. No, that’s not exactly right. You annoy people who annoy ghosts. How could I forget, when the world is so much safer for your efforts? Indeed, your very name must be anathema to the criminal underground.”

  Again, she dumbfounded him. She was mocking him, suggesting his avocation was petty and unimportant.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you are the most sarcastic woman they have ever met? No. Wait. Don’t answer that. I already know the answer,” he said. “No. But that would be only because you haven’t met anyone in what? Six? Seven years? At least, no one who’d dare stand up to you. You’ve gotten too comfortable playing lady of the manor. It’s made you feel important. It’s given you airs.”

  “I do not give myself airs.”

  “You do,” he said succinctly. He’d segued into a smooth, kindly manner, such as one might employ in giving advice to some pathetic soul incapable of following it. It would drive her crazy.

  “Perhaps acquiring a caustic tongue is inevitable living out here, but, my dear, before you return to society, should you return to society, do endeavor to control yourself lest you end up wanting for dinner invitations.”

  “Oh!” she breathed.

  He smiled. Her affronted expression gelled into a cold, superior smile. He waited, eager to pounce.

  “Happily, my dietary companions, or lack thereof, are no concern of yours. Nor will they ever be.”

  His blood stirred. How dared she tell him what was and wasn’t his concern? The moment he heard she was in London, Paris, or wherever she chose to live after leaving here, he would find her and ask her to dine. Force her to dine, if necessary. Pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, and march her straight into Escoffier’s dining room.

  “Would you care to wager on that, my darling?” he asked softly, and immediately regretted the impromptu endearment, though it was, of course, ironically meant. Luckily, the sound of the birds in the nearby chestnut had increased to a din, masking his words.

  “Come again?” she said, frowning. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “What are those bloody things?” he asked over the birds’ racket.

  “I think they’re larks,” she said, staring in bewilderment at where the chestnut tree was dropping a blizzard of petals as birds crowded its branches, bellowing at a stentorian level.

  “What the devil are they doing?” he asked. How were they to have a sub-rosa conversation with all this noise?

  She frowned at the tree. “I have no idea.”

  He picked up an apple from the bowl on the table and hurled it at the tree. The flock within took flight, leaving them in relative quiet. Relative, because the birds simply moved their noisy chorus to the next tree over.

  Amelie waved from the other side of the terrace. “Is everything all right, Fanny? Lord Sheffield?” she called anxiously.

  “Right as rain, dear!” Fanny called back. “Just a bit of a problem with all those larks.”

  “Oh, let them sing! They know it’s spring and they want to shout their joy!” Amelie called, and blushed.

  Grey shifted his chair closer to Fanny’s so she could hear him more easily.

  “If you are set against that pair furthering their acquaintance,” he said, “why are you so honeyed in your interactions with them?”

  “I might ask the same of you, Lord Sheffield, and I suspect the answer would be identical,” she replied. “Amelie can be stubborn, romantic, and intractable, especially when she perceives herself as being thwarted. I might as well throw her into Hayden’s arms myself as deny her his company.”

  She was right; that was exactly how Hayden would react. “That may be true, but it is the same answer you would have given if you wanted to deflect my suspicions.”

  “Give me strength,” she muttered in disgust. “Tell me, Lord Sheffield, are your suspicions deflected? Have I persuaded you of my pure intentions? No?” Her mouth flattened. “I thought not. At least give me the courtesy of assuming I know exactly where I stand with you, sir. I’m not a dolt.”

  She seemed angry. One might even think hurt.

  “And you still haven’t found your razor,”
she continued tartly. “I refuse to listen to someone who can’t be troubled to shave before visiting a lady. I refer, of course, to Miss Chase,” she ended bitingly.

  “Don’t worry, madam. My unshaven face and I will be offending you only until I can find some way to wrest Hayden from Miss Chase’s company without doing something rash.”

  At this, she blanched. “No. You can’t go,” she said. “You can’t go until you have found out who is trying to harm Amelie.”

  Back to this. How disappointing.

  “I insist that as your brother-in-law’s representative you either discover for a certainty whether Amelie is in danger or remove her from here to her guardian’s home.”

  “Where Hayden just happens to live.”

  “He said he lived in London.”

  “Immaterial. When his father is in the country, Hayden is often at the family estate.”

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “Lord Sheffield, I do not care if Hayden lives in London, Paris, or Calcutta. The one and the only concern I have is Amelie’s welfare, for which you have assumed temporary responsibility. As a gentleman—assuming you still have some pretensions in that direction—of honor—again, perhaps presumptuous, but still supposing your passing acquaintance with the concept—it is your duty—I won’t even trouble to speculate here, but remain naively hopeful—to protect those under your care.”

  If she’d been a man, without a doubt they would have come to blows by now. As it was, he was forced to simply sit and marvel. “You have the most audacious tongue I have ever heard a woman employ.”

  “Why? Because no woman has ever had the temerity to question whether you’re qualified to use the title ‘gentleman’?” she challenged.

  “Oh, no,” he said honestly, “women are questioning that all the time.”

  Ah. Finally. A point for his side. Her spectacular eyes widened, and he’d be damned if the corners of her mouth didn’t quirk upward. She turned her head, stifling a laugh, but not before he’d heard it.

  “No,” he continued, “I refer to your insistence on pointing out my lack of skill with a razor.”

  This time she did laugh outright, and he smiled broadly in response, even as he asked himself why he found such pleasure in the sound of her laughter.

  He watched her, bemused and confused, trying to analyze his response to her. Beautiful as she was, she still wouldn’t be to most men’s tastes. She was too opinionated, blunt, autocratic, and peppery. She would never be a comfortable sort of companion or a comfortable sort of anything else.

  A man would never have the luxury of taking Fanny for granted, ignoring her opinions, or having her dutifully agree with his own. Particularly if they were contrary to hers. He would always need to be alert, nimble of mind and spirit, constantly reevaluating his beliefs and attitude to make sure they would stand if challenged, or she’d cut him to shreds.

  It would be exhausting.

  It would be exhilarating.

  “You are a very difficult young woman, you know,” he said.

  “You are a very difficult man,” she returned, the shadow of a smile still hovering on her soft lips.

  “You didn’t say ‘young.’”

  “So I didn’t,” she agreed.

  “You want me to stay?”

  The lightest flush of pink spread up her neck and tinted her cheeks. “You have to stay until you discover the would-be assassin or else remove Amelie from Little Firkin. Amelie might make light of this threat. Indeed, I seem to be the only one who takes it seriously. But I do.”

  It was too bad, but this part of the game had reached an end.

  “There is no assassin,” he said, watching her closely. “You wrote the letter claiming someone was trying to kill Amelie Chase.”

  Her eyes locked with his.

  “You wrote it assuming that Collier would simply send for the girl and your term of imprisonment here in Little Firkin would be ended. There is no threat to Miss Chase’s life, nor has there ever been, has there?” he asked, his voice softening. “I don’t blame you, Fanny.”

  The color had leeched from her face as he spoke, but her eyes held his steadily. “No. That’s preposterous.”

  She stared at him, white-faced, but before he could respond a movement behind her caught his eye. He looked up to see one of the urns balanced on the balcony rail teetering precariously right above where Hayden and Amelie—

  He leaped past Fanny and lunged forward, thrusting Hayden and Amelie under the balcony as the urn crashed to the ground at his heels.

  “Devil take it!” he swore as Amelie collapsed into Hayden’s arms.

  Above her brilliant red head, Hayden’s eyes, dark in his ashen face, met his. “She could have been killed,” he whispered.

  “I know,” Grey said, moving out from under the balcony. “I don’t see how the damn thing could have just fallen like that.”

  He peered up in time to see a dark shape moving on the balcony overhead, and then an object was hurtling down at him. He dodged, but too late. Pain exploded on the side of his head and he fell, a single thought following him as he dove into blackness: Fanny might not have written that letter after all.

  Chapter 21

  Fanny’s heart stopped as the second urn struck Sheffield. At first, his face betrayed only astonishment, and then he collapsed onto the flagstones and she was on her knees at his side, staring in horror at the gash oozing blood near his ear, matting the dark hair.

  “Oh, dear God, dear God. Please, dear God,” she murmured, laying her fingers against his throat. His pulse beat strongly beneath his beard-rough skin. She closed her eyes, relief making her hand shake, and brushed the hair from his forehead.

  Grey’s eyes fluttered open. “Lord, Fan…you’re…weeping. How…touching.”

  “I am not,” Fanny declared, Grey’s face shimmering before her suddenly blurred vision.

  “What can I do?” Hayden asked gravely.

  Fanny looked up. Hayden and Amelie stood beside her, Hayden’s face pale with concern, Amelie’s hand tight in his.

  “Amelie, fetch some water and bandages.”

  “And some whiskey,” Grey muttered thickly.

  “No whiskey. Water. Go, Amelie. Get Violet and Ploddy, too. We need to get Lord Sheffield inside.”

  “Of course,” Amelie said, releasing Hayden’s hand and hurrying away.

  “I’m going to go have a look around on the balcony,” Hayden declared, avoiding looking at Grey. “That was no accident.”

  “Of course it was,” Fanny said, relief making her sharper than she’d intended. “A cat probably knocked the urn over,” she said. “I saw something moving about up there.”

  “Then it was a damn big cat,” Grey mumbled, gritting his teeth. A stream of blood had begun trickling down the side of his face.

  “We have lots of big cats here. Feral ones.”

  “But what if it wasn’t a cat?” Hayden insisted, his eyes scanning the balcony. “Amelie might have been killed.”

  “And what of your uncle?” Fanny snapped. “He could have been killed, too.”

  “Exactly. I’m going to look,” Hayden said, and took off.

  “No!” Grey protested, struggling to rise on his elbows. His eyes promptly rolled back in his head and he fell back unconscious in Fanny’s arms.

  Fanny didn’t care where Hayden went, as long as Amelie got her water and bandages and some aid. But from where was that aid going to arrive? There was no doctor nearby to help, only Grammy Beadle. Oh, Grey would love that.

  She shifted his head into a more comfortable position and bent to examine the wound. It bled freely, a pool already forming on the terrace. She wadded up as much of the hem of her skirt as she could and pressed it against the gash. He moaned, twisting in her lap, and she winced.

  He was a big, rude, tactless, unkempt brute. True, he was attractive in a rough, elemental sort of way. Like the mangy old tomcat that lorded it over the others in the carriage house, perhaps a shade past his physical pri
me, but still more vital, more powerful, and more dominant than any of the others’ current best.

  Yes, Greyson Sheffield was definitely a dominant sort. And she had never felt more alive than in his company. Combat, she supposed, did that to a person. Which only made sense. In order to survive one would need to be aware of one’s enemy on an almost cellular level. Certainly, that was so for her with Sheffield.

  Not only did her mind seem more agile when she was with him and her anticipation sharper, but all of her senses seemed heightened, too. Her skin tingled with sensitivity, her vision seemed keener, her hearing more acute. She swore she could tell his proximity from his scent alone.

  It was an ungodly provocative scent, uniquely Sheffield’s. Even now she wanted to move closer to him to capture every nuance. Of course, one didn’t go around sniffing unconscious men. It just wasn’t done.

  She shook off the nonsensical impulse, studying the way the shadow of Grey’s lashes formed a crescent on his cheek and the interestingly asymmetrical line of his nose—had it been broken at some point? Relaxed, his mouth lost its characteristic curl of derision. In fact, he looked quite handsome.

  She was being ridiculous. He thought the worst of her, suspected she was hiding something dire from him. And she was: She was hiding her strangeness. The difference that set her apart from everyone else. But mostly, especially him.

  A bee, mistaking the bloodstain on her skirt for a flower, wandered over to investigate. She bent forward to whisk it away and caught a hint of that fascinating scent. Her eyes drifted shut and she sank closer, inhaling deeply. Warmth. How could a man smell warm? And virile. Virility was not a scent. Fascinating.

  “Please, Fan, take off that hat…before it falls off.”

  Her eyes flew open. Grey was regarding her in a woozily amused manner, his blue-green eyes lambent. “Having survived an urn, it would be too lowering to succumb to a hat.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “No,” he said, squinting up at her. “I have a godawful headache and the sun is in my eyes.”

  She leaned back over him, her hat shading him.