All About Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  He halted a foot away and studied her eyes. “Good morning.”

  There was a light in his eyes, a sliding purr in his voice that warmed her more than the sun. She looked at the bush and concentrated on snipping a nicely opened rose. “Have you found the letters by any chance?”

  “I looked, but I couldn’t find any writing desk, not on the first floor and not in the attics, either. Are you sure it’s not downstairs?”

  She frowned. “I don’t think I missed it.”

  “Perhaps you should visit the Manor this afternoon and check the downstairs rooms.”

  She glanced up, then nodded. “It would be a relief to solve at least one mystery.”

  “As for the question of who murdered Horatio—tell me what happened from the time you walked into the front hall to the time you left the Manor.”

  “I already told you.”

  “Humor me. There could be something, some little thing, that you’ll remember this time.”

  Laying the clippers in the basket, she turned. She recounted her movements as they strolled to the arbor at the end of the garden.

  “So reaching for the hat was the very last thing you did?” He handed her to the stone seat in the arbor.

  “Yes. I thought it was yours.”

  “Mine?” He sat beside her. “My coats are either black or dark blue. What would I be doing with a brown hat?”

  “I didn’t know your sartorial preferences at the time.” She paused, holding tight to her calm, looking at the roses nodding in the heat rather than at him. “Anyway, I went back in the afternoon to arrange about your horses. I thought I would fetch the hat for you. I asked Bristleford. He was certain there’d been no hat in the drawing room when they found Horatio’s body.”

  “And mine.”

  She inclined her head. “And yours.”

  She waited for him to say something about how he’d come to be a “body.” Instead, he sat silently for some minutes, then said, “It has to be the hat. The murderer must be convinced you’ll recognize it.”

  “But I haven’t. That ought to be obvious by now.”

  “True, so he must think you will recognize it—that you’ll suddenly remember. Which means—“ He stopped.

  She looked at him. “Means what?”

  He met her gaze. “That it’s someone you’ve seen often, in that hat.”

  “So”—she drew a tight breath—“definitely no stranger.”

  “It’s someone you know.”

  The words hung in the air between them, chill despite the heat. Phyllida held herself rigidly upright and fought the sudden urge to take refuge in his arms. The seat was short; he’d stretched one arm along its back, behind her shoulders. His chest was temptingly near. The impulse to lean into him, to press her shoulder to his chest, to feel his arms close about her, waxed strong.

  She knew what it felt like to be held in his arms. It felt safe. But . . . she wasn’t the clingy sort.

  She was about to look away, to switch her gaze to the safe subject of the garden, when he shifted. His arm left the seat back and curled about her shoulders; his other hand tipped up her face. His lips were on hers before she knew it, and then she was kissing him back.

  When he raised his head, she frowned at him. “What was that for?” She wriggled upright.

  Lucifer released her. He searched for a light answer; only the truth filled his mind. “Reassurance. You looked frightened.”

  She gazed into his eyes, then lightly shivered and looked away. “I am frightened—a little.”

  “A little frightened is wise, but the murderer is not going to have you, too.”

  She slanted him a glance. “You sound very sure.”

  “I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I won’t allow it.”

  Before she could utter the “Why?” he could see in her dark eyes, he drew her to him and kissed her again. After an instant’s hesitation, she relaxed and let herself flow into the kiss. The rose garden was private; too tempting. Her bodice was open, his fingers fondling one breast when she pulled back on a gasp and looked down.

  “What are you doing?”

  He circled her nipple with one fingertip. “I’m sure you can guess.”

  The gaze she lifted to his face was shocked. “But . . . I’ve told you all I know.”

  She drew back; he let his hand fall. Puzzled, he tried to see her eyes as she fussed, rebuttoning her gown. Her expression was still calm, if just a little determined. Determined about what, he couldn’t guess. “What—?”

  “There’s nothing I’ve left out.” Gown neat again, she picked up the basket and stood. “You know it all.”

  Rising, too, Lucifer was certain that last wasn’t true. An unwelcome suspicion formed in his brain.

  Lifting her head, she stepped out. “I assure you there’s nothing more to be gained from continuing to seduce me.”

  She’d taken only two paces when his fingers locked around her elbow and he swung her back.

  “What did you say?” Eyes narrowed, he looked down at her.

  She returned his gaze; irritation swam in her eyes. “You heard perfectly well.” She twisted her arm; he let her go.

  “Why do you think I seduced you?”

  She drew herself up—suddenly, he could no longer read her eyes. “You seduced me in order to learn what you wanted to know. Now I’ve told you all, there’s no need . . .” She gestured and swung away.

  “That isn’t why I seduced you.”

  His tone stopped her. She took a deep breath, then turned to face him.

  “Why, then?”

  Her challenge rang clearly. Yet she’d asked the very question he didn’t want to face, the one he couldn’t bring himself to answer truthfully. He looked into her dark eyes, and he didn’t want to lie.

  A gong bonged, the sound carried on the breeze from the house. They both looked, then Phyllida turned. “That’s the gong for lunch.” After an instant’s hesitation, she walked on.

  A moment later, he caught up and fell in beside her.

  She didn’t speak again until they were climbing the steps from the sunken garden. “If you meant what you said about allowing me to search the Manor, I’ll come by this afternoon.”

  “I meant what I said, but we can walk back together.” Lucifer halted on the top step. “Your aunt invited me to lunch.”

  Phyllida turned toward the house. “How convenient.”

  His hand on her arm halted her. She glanced back.

  He held out a small pouch. “Before we go in, you’d better take these.”

  Puzzled, she took the pouch. And felt the buttons inside. Heat rose to her cheeks. “Thank you.” Without meeting his eyes, she tucked the pouch under the roses in her basket, then continued along the walk.

  Three hours later, Phyllida sat in a chair before the desk in the Manor’s library, carefully scanning entries in the ledger open on her lap. Seated in the chair behind the desk, Lucifer watched her from beneath his lashes.

  They’d left the Grange after lunch and walked to the Manor through the wood. All the way, Phyllida had maintained her usual calm composure, answering when spoken to but otherwise treating him—reacting to him—as if he were any other reasonably intelligent gentleman. She hadn’t, admittedly, attempted to treat him with the dismissive air she employed with her other suitors, but by the same token, she definitely wasn’t treating him like the man she’d shared a bed with last night.

  He’d spent enough nights with more than enough women to know how they should greet him the next day.

  Not Phyllida.

  Irritation simmered, fed by frustration. He’d turned away from seducing her into telling him all, yet because of her rash actions, and his reactions, he now appeared to have done just that. If truth were told, she had seduced him into seducing her. It hadn’t been his doing that she’d turned up at the Manor in breeches after midnight, searching Horatio’s room. Once he’d found her—well, what was he supposed to have done? B
owed and shown her the door?

  Suppressing a snort, he tried to focus on the ledger before him. The undeniable fact that he’d used his wish to learn her secret as camouflage, a superficial, flippant covering for the deeper, darker truth, continued to niggle and irk. The situation and Phyllida had conspired to trip him up; the reality of his need, the driving urge to make her his, had completed his downfall.

  Why had he seduced her? Because he’d wanted to—needed to. If he told her that, she’d sniff and look away, and continue believing the worst.

  His gaze flicked to her; he was careful not to stare too intently.

  At least she was here, safe and, for the moment, occupied. She’d gone around the downstairs rooms, but the writing desk had not materialized; she’d returned dejected, making sounds about going back to the Grange. He’d suggested she look through Horatio’s ledgers to see if he’d sold the desk.

  He was also going through the ledgers, searching for any entry that might qualify as Horatio’s mystery item. He hadn’t found anything yet.

  His gaze fastened once more on Phyllida’s calm face. He definitely did not like being classed with her other suitors, those who wanted her for material or social reasons, reasons that had little to do with her fair self. They were the ones who had made her lose faith in marriage. The fact that she believed he was like them irked—indeed, irked worse because, from her point of view, he’d been exploiting her, the woman—her emotions, her femaleness—all those qualities the others failed to even see.

  Even if she hadn’t accused him of that, he didn’t like the idea that, in her mind, she might.

  How to correct her misconception? There really was only one answer. Having successfully seduced her once, he was going to have to do it again. And the bar on the jump had just been raised. Indeed, now he thought of it, she’d just become an even greater challenge.

  The thought made him feel immeasurably better. He thrived on challenges.

  Focusing on the page before him, he realized it was the one he’d been on when Phyllida had walked into the room. Stifling a sigh, he fixed his gaze on it, and scanned.

  Minutes later, the latch clicked; Bristleford walked in. “Mr. Coombe wishes to speak with you, sir. Shall I inform him you are engaged?”

  “Coombe?” Lucifer glanced at Phyllida. “Show him in, Bristleford.”

  Bristleford withdrew, closing the door. In reponse to Phyllida’s pointed look, Lucifer murmured, “Coombe called a few days ago wanting first refusal on Horatio’s books.”

  “You’re going to sell them?” She looked shocked.

  Frowning fleetingly, Lucifer shook his head; his gaze swung to the door as it opened. Silas Coombe minced in; Bristleford shut the door.

  “Coombe. You know Miss Tallent, of course.” Rising, Lucifer held out his hand.

  Silas bowed extravagantly to Phyllida, who nodded. Then he grasped Lucifer’s hand.

  “What can I do for you?” Lucifer waved Silas to a chair.

  “I won’t keep you long.” Silas glanced at Phyllida as he sat, then faced Lucifer. “As I mentioned, I’m interested in acquiring selected works from Horatio’s collection. As you’re a busy man and will doubtless have many other calls upon your time, I wondered if I might propose an accommodation that would suit us both.”

  “What accommodation?”

  “I would be prepared to act as your agent in selling the collection.” Silas rushed on. “It will be a very large job, of course, quite a commitment in time, but in the circumstances, I feel the arrangement will serve us both.”

  For a long moment, Lucifer said nothing; then he asked, “Let me see if I understand your proposal correctly. You’re suggesting I should consign Horatio’s entire collection to you, and you would arrange the sales for a commission. Is that right?”

  “Precisely.” Coombe beamed. “It’ll make life much easier for you, especially with settling in—new county, new house.” His gaze drifted to Phyllida, then he looked back at Lucifer. “Why, I’ll even arrange to have the books removed to my house in the interim.”

  “Thank you, but no.” Lucifer stood. “Contrary to your expectations, I have no plans to dispose of any part of Horatio’s collection. Indeed, if anything, I shall be adding to it. Now, if there’s nothing else?”

  Forced to rise, Coombe stared at him. “You don’t mean to sell?”

  “No.” Lucifer rounded the desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Miss Tallent and I have various accounts to check.” He steered Coombe to the door.

  “Well! I mean—well, fancy that! It never occurred . . . I do hope I haven’t given the wrong impression . . .”

  Coombe’s protestations died away. Lucifer handed him to Bristleford, waiting in the hall, then shut the library door. He strolled back to the desk. Phyllida was sunk in thought. “What?” he asked.

  She glanced up, then waved at the door. “I was just thinking. I don’t think Silas has ever worn brown.”

  Lucifer resumed his seat behind the desk.

  Phyllida continued to frown. “What was he after the first time he called?”

  “A book—at least one. Other than that, he was exceedingly careful to give no indication.”

  “Hmm.”

  Lucifer waited, but she said nothing more. After another minute of puzzled frowning, she returned to the ledger in her lap.

  An hour later, Phyllida snapped the last of the recent ledgers closed. “Horatio did not sell that writing desk.”

  Lucifer looked up. “In that case, it must still be here somewhere.”

  “Humph!” Placing the ledger on the desk, she glanced at the window. “I’ll search upstairs tomorrow, but I should return home now.”

  Lucifer rose as she did. “I’ll walk back with you.”

  She looked at him. “I’m perfectly capable of walking through the wood on my own.”

  His jaw set. “I daresay.” Rounding the desk, he waved her to the door. “Nevertheless, I’ll accompany you.”

  She held her ground and held his gaze.

  He stood there, rocklike, and looked calmly back.

  When it became clear he was prepared to stand there all night, she lifted her chin, turned, and swept to the door.

  She left the house with him prowling at her heels.

  Lucifer didn’t let her get out of arm’s reach. If anything happened to her . . .

  It was just as well she couldn’t see his face. If he looked half as grim as he felt, she’d probably stop and demand to know his problem. Not something he could easily explain without telling her she was his. She hadn’t realized it yet, but she would. By the time he finished seducing her again, she would be perfectly ready to marry him without any further explanations.

  He certainly didn’t need any further discussion, not with himself or with her. His role felt just right—it fitted him like a glove. Protecting women had always been his role. Even those he tempted to his bed—there was more than one form of protection. But this, following on a woman’s heels ready to screen her from any danger—this was him. The essential him. A part of him that needed—demanded—almost constant exercise. He’d never gone for long without a woman to protect.

  The twins, his fair and beauteous cousins, had most recently been his release, but they’d turned into harpies and insisted he leave them to their own devices. Under considerable duress and the none-too-subtle threat behind the smothering attention of society’s mesdames, he’d retreated to Colyton—only to discover here the perfect answer to his need.

  What, after all, was he supposed to do with his life if not to have a wife—and a family, too—to protect? What else was he, under the elegant glamour, if not a knight-protector? Until the twins had refused him and his cousins’ marriages had left him too exposed to brave the ton, he hadn’t fully appreciated his own nature.

  To Have and to Hold, the Cynster family motto—he understood it now, appreciated all that it meant.

  For him, it meant Phyllida.

  He followed her through the shadows of
the wood, and considered how best to break the news to her.

  Phyllida plunged a gladiolus spike into the heart of the vase and stepped back. She eyed the arrangement through narrowed eyes, studiously avoiding the lounging presence darkening the vestry door. Collecting a handful of cornflowers, she started setting them in the vase.

  She’d arrived at the Manor midmorning and searched the first-floor rooms, all except Horatio’s and Lucifer’s. Horatio’s she’d already searched; Lucifer’s . . . she didn’t need to check there. While not large, the traveling writing desk wasn’t so small it was difficult to see.

  “How thorough was your search of the attics?”

  He seemed to be following her train of thought. “Very thorough. So now you’ve looked, and I’ve looked—the desk isn’t there.”

  She didn’t look at him—she’d sworn she’d give him no encouragement. If he insisted on clinging to her skirts against her clearly expressed, not to say forcefully stated, wishes, she wasn’t going to put herself out to entertain him.

  Descending from the attics, disappointed yet again, she’d run into Mrs. Hemmings in the front hall. The housekeeper had been flustered. She had a pot of jam at the crucial stage and didn’t dare leave it, but she hadn’t yet done the church flowers. Hemmings had picked the best blooms that morning; they were in a pail in the laundry.

  She’d gladly agreed to do the vases. The notion that the murderer might be haunting the church she’d dismissed as irrational; a brisk walk up the common followed by the soothing ambience of the church had sounded just perfect. Unfortunately, the door to the library had been open. Lucifer had materialized in the doorway—he’d insisted on coming, too.

  A short argument had ensued. Once again, she’d lost. It was becoming a habit—one she indulged in with no one else. Losing arguments was not her forte.

  By not one word would she encourage him further.

  Sticking a finger in the vase, she checked the water. “Too low.” Grasping a jar, she walked to the door, looked out, then stepped into the sunshine. She crossed the few feet to the pump—and listened to hear if he followed. No sound—he must still be brooding darkly in the doorway.

  Indeed, he seemed to find her as irritating—that was not the right word, but it was something very similar—as she found him. Irritating, puzzling, unaccountable. Utterly impossible to comprehend.