“It’s all right, miss. I’ve got you.”
In fact, she had him. She clutched desperately, her breath coming in gasps, her heart pounding wildly against him, an indication of her distress. Without letting go of him, her body inched around, turning them both in a half circle so that her back was no longer to the open window. Then, as if feeling safer, she took a deep breath and pushed away from him to brush down her skirts and check her dress pockets, before making a fuss about fixing her hair.
Samuel watched silently as she took apart what remained of her bun, releasing the rest of her silky, shoulder-length strands. Her chaotic mane was white-blonde, the perfect complement to the shocking silver eyes that had locked on his in heartbreaking fear.
She lifted her arms, securing her hair back from her face, the action drawing Samuel’s eyes to her uplifted cleavage. Of course, he was only looking to make sure he hadn’t damaged her dress. The woman was attractive—in a sharp-eyed, determined, intelligent sort of way.
He looked up to find her glaring at him—pointedly. Her composure was clearly recovered.
He offered a smile and bowed. “Miss.”
She ignored him and went to the window, reaching for something. He reached over her head and released the cloak. He thought she gasped, but realized the height might have renewed her fears. She fiercely closed the window, then shut the curtains before accepting her cloak.
“Thank you,” she said, as if it were an effort to express appreciation for saving her neck. “And good evening.” She nodded tersely before walking past him as if nothing had happened.
“Miss, I must insist …”
She continued walking.
“Miss, really. I—”
She spun back, impatient. “Very well. If you must know. I needed a bit of fresh air.”
Air? Uh-huh. He grinned at the absurdity of the comment, wincing slightly at the pain under his eye. Hell, she likely broke his cheekbone when she kicked him. Still, this was the most entertainment he’d had since arriving in England. Her voice, deep and husky, tickled the hairs on his neck, and he rubbed at it curiously.
“Again, miss, I must insist …”
She ignored him, and he was forced to catch her before she exited the room. She whirled in fury, knocking his arm away.
“Ma’am,” he said, “please go no further, or you will regret it.”
“Are you threatening me, sir?”
He thought that would be a bad idea, considering the icicles shooting from her eyes.
“Not at all.” His humor got the best him, his smile clearly irritating her further. “Your dress is tragically ripped in the back, revealing a view that I am genuinely grateful for, but could not in good conscience allow you to expose to innocent men in the foyer below.”
She gasped. Then reached a hand to her behind. Then gasped again. “Damnation!” She pulled at the torn material in dismay. “I loved this dress!”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You should know I’m not normally maledicent.” She sighed. “I mean, given to abusive speech, sir. Least not in public.”
He winked. “Got it.”
“It’s just—”
“Have you ever climbed through a window before?” he asked.
She cut him with her eyes, as if telling him to mind his own business.
“I see. Well, you loved that dress, so all is forgiven.”
“I didn’t ask your forgiveness, sir.”
“Your cloak appears fit,” he said, ignoring her. “Perhaps it would help if you put it on.”
Olivia didn’t want to do anything the man said. She was annoyed at having been caught in such a humiliating situation, but he made sense, and she needed to look as innocent as possible until she was home. At least she still retained the script in her pocket. That much was a relief. Perhaps all was not lost.
She fussed, uncomfortable as he continued to study her, leisurely circling her form as if to judge her appearance acceptable or not. Occasionally he swiped her cloak to either straighten or dust it off. It was disturbing. And uncommonly consoling. His large hands swept firmly down her bodice and legs, igniting her with warmth.
Gads, she was four and twenty—well past heart palpitations. It must be the adventure of the evening. Nearly dying could cause increased bodily distress. She swallowed, realizing she was desperately thirsty. Who was this man?
Not English, she knew, and not known in her circles. Which meant he was not the sort. The phrase annoyed her even as it occurred to her. Certainly there were many who were not the sort, but who were perfectly normal and acceptable.
He came in front of her. Too close. He raised a large, rough hand to her cheek and lifted a strand of hair behind her ear, without touching skin. He didn’t need to. The heat of his hand seemed to blaze a trail across her cheek and over her temple. She took a breath, studying him again.
Yes, a brute. She swallowed hard. A devilishly attractive brute. Over six feet. His hair was trimmed stylishly but overlong on top, causing a wavy lock to fall forward over a broad forehead that complemented the hard, square jaw. There was something very raw about him, relieved only by the golden brown eyes that seemed to exude as much warmth as he did.
“Are you laughing at me?” she asked.
He laughed. “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t dare laugh at a woman brave enough to make an entrance from the sky.”
If possible, his eyes grew warmer, causing Olivia to get hotter. It was the cloak, she realized. Or those lips. They curled. She had never seen lips that curled so sensually. She pushed the cloak off one shoulder for comfort.
“What happened to your face?” Best to distract him from her unorthodox entry.
He touched it gently, as if it was still tender.
“Ah. Struck by lightning.”
“The night is clear. And lightning would have burned.”
“It did.” He answered. “It does.”
She grew warmer under his gaze, uncertain what he might be referring to and desperate to escape him and the museum.
“You should see a doctor. Excuse me. This conversation is highly inappropriate.”
“Wait! Your name?”
“Unnecessary, as we won’t be seeing each other again.”
He followed her out of the exhibit area.
“Are you following me, sir?”
“Never, ma’am. Just going the same way.”
“Oh.” She was flustered. “Does it seem strange that I am wearing my cloak?”
“You should say that you were getting ready to depart, when a friend called upon you to examine the Grecian vases.”
“Yes. Excellent.” She glanced down at the arm offered politely. “Thank you,”—she accepted the arm—“for the useful deception that comes so easy to you, sir.”
“Insults for my help? That’s very English of you.”
She gasped. Then shut her mouth. There was a reason she avoided Americans. Too damned brash.
At the bottom of the staircase she freed her hand, executed a perfect English curtsy, so he would know how it was done, then spun and made for the exit. She would send her groom to find her companion, Mrs. Tisdale. The most important thing was to get safely away from the museum before all hell broke loose.
She reached the exit and smiled pleasantly at the strange man blocking her way. Two more, guarding the doors, joined him.
She nodded politely and begged pardon to pass by.
“You’ll not be leaving anytime soon, m’lady,” the smallest of the men informed her. “There’s been a death. Until all guests are questioned, you’re to remain here, under the orders of the Bow Street magistrate ’imself.”
Olivia swallowed, “A death? Who?” She prayed she appeared appropriately shocked, while the image of the mangled body flashed through her mind.
“Not for me to say—”
A scream above cut him off.
Lady Grayson clung to the rail on the floor above. Olivia and the entire room looked upward at the hysterical woman.
“Lord Grayson,” she cried. “He’s dead!”
Lady Grayson promptly swooned to the floor.
Olivia gasped. Good lord. She had stolen the artifact from Lord Grayson and pulled a man out the window, perhaps causing his ultimate demise. Now Grayson was dead. Who had last seen him? Had he been murdered? The evidence of her guilt rested in her pocket—the translation of the stolen artifact. She would be questioned. Perhaps searched. If they put the two clues together …
Gads. Olivia nearly fell on her feet.
She would hang.
Chapter Two
A firm hand grasped her arm as she tried not to sway at the news of Grayson’s death.
“Come, my dear, it’s going to be a long evening. I’ll find you a seat.”
It was the American, concern reflecting in his golden brown eyes. He offered a warm, safe sanctuary.
“Gra—Grayson,” she stammered, the events of the evening finally catching up with her. “He was a colleague. A friend.” And she had stolen from him! Well, not from him specifically, but he might have borne the blame for it. Now he was dead. And someone had already tried to kill her. They might come back. Her knees folded and an arm circled her back.
“I’ve got you,” he said. Then over her head, to the men at the door, “It’s a shock to us all.”
She realized he endeavored to give her a moment to recover. He knew she knew something. Even so—she was grateful.
The American led her to an area where tables had been arranged for guests to wait. The music continued, but in more soothing tones, and the guests—some saddened, some anxious, some thrilled by the excitement—gathered in groups to exchange theories.
“Olivia!” Mrs. Tisdale called.
Olivia turned to her friend and chaperone, who immediately pulled her from the American’s hold and embraced her before stepping back to study. “You’re pale. Are you all right? Oh, my dear. It’s a terrible shock. Let’s sit you down and get this cloak off—”
“No!” She and the American spoke in unison.
“I’m a bit chilled,” Olivia insisted. “The shock …”
“It’s important to stay warm,” he offered. “Especially after such news …”
Mrs. Tisdale eyed the American, curious. She looked between the two, and Olivia flushed guiltily, embarrassed that her friend of nine years seemed to think she had been engaged in a tryst with the man at her side.
This time Olivia had the satisfaction of seeing her previously composed rescuer discomfited.
He bowed. “Now that you are in safe hands, please excuse me while I find my aunt.”
“Wait!” Mrs. Tisdale insisted.
He paused.
“In light of the circumstances, it seems we must make our own acquaintance.”
Olivia stared bemused as Mrs. Tisdale offered a hand. It was very un-English.
“I’m Mrs. Geoffrey Tisdale. Elizabeth, to my friends.”
He relaxed and took the hand, his beautiful lips curling up on the left, as if reluctantly charmed by her offer of friendship. “Samuel Stafford.”
Mrs. Tisdale gasped, yanking her hand back and pressing it over her heart. Not in shock, Olivia knew, but surprise. At the sight of Mrs. Tisdale’s gaping mouth, Olivia had the good sense to close her own.
Samuel Stafford looked at his empty palm, then lowered it. “Samuel, to my friends.” The smile disappeared. “My reputation precedes me?”
“Oh. Oh, no, Mr. Stafford.” Mrs. Tisdale strove to cover her less-than-gracious response. “No. No. Stafford Shipping has of course become well known in most circles. And your sister … uh … married not long ago, I understand. Quite well, indeed.”
“You’ve met my beloved sister?”
Olivia caught the unmistakable edge in his voice. Whether it was anger at his sister for her behavior or at Mrs. Tisdale for bringing it up, she didn’t know.
“Her Grace? Oh, no. But she is quite … known …” Mrs. Tisdale trailed off.
Olivia knew there wasn’t much more one could politely say about his sister, Alexandra Stafford, now the Duchess of Worthington. Despite a good marriage, she was not quite the sort. A heathen and adventuress, by most accounts—though Olivia hoped to someday meet the woman. However, by the look on Mr. Stafford’s face, he would not appreciate the stories that circulated.
Olivia undertook to alleviate the awkwardness, so also offered her hand. “I’m—”
He cut her off, ignoring her hand. “Unnecessary, I believe, as we won’t be seeing each other again.”
She gasped, stunned that he would turn her own words on her, and quite rudely. She stared at his retreating form—a very large retreating form. It appeared they had insulted him. Huh. From their reputations, Staffords seemed impervious to insult. Or perhaps she had thought them too wild and ignorant to recognize one. Bad form on her part. She had let gossip shape her opinion. Neither fair nor scientific of her.
Despite not having been on her own best behavior, she found that his rejection hurt. Still, she had bigger issues to worry about. Frowning, she turned to her chaperone, whose mouth had dropped open again. Olivia pushed her friend’s chin up.
“Oh dear. That was not well done of me, was it?”
“No, Mrs. Tisdale. But no one is quite as perfect as I am,” Olivia said.
Mrs. Tisdale cocked an eyebrow at her. “Your humor is most dry, my dear.”
“Better to be dry than drooling—but enough.” Olivia fingered the paper buried deep in her pocket. She needed to hide it. “What book did you bring tonight, Mrs. Tisdale? I have a mind to read for a bit.”
Across the room, Samuel found his aunt, Lady Margaret, surrounded by a bevy of elder statesmen. Aunt Maggie was his mother’s sister, and the last close English relative still living. She’d spent several years in Boston with the Stafford clan after her husband died and was dear to him and all his siblings.
He smiled patiently while Maggie instructed the gentlemen on the importance of supporting the arts. Aunt Maggie could often appear absentminded, but behind the soft exterior was a sharp mind that missed nothing. She excused herself to join him.
“What happened to your face?”
“I ran into a statue. Venus or someone.”
“Really, Samuel. I don’t believe that for a second, and neither will the authorities. Do you know anything about this?”
“Nothing.”
“I saw you with Lady Olivia and her companion.”
“Lady Olivia?”
“She’s not for you, you know.”
Samuel froze. “I have no intentions—”
“Heavens, dear. I felt the electricity from here. And your eyes gave you away. But only those who love you would know,” she said.
“Um-hmm. So tell me about Lady Olivia. She was friends with Grayson, you know.”
“Yes. Very upsetting, this business.” Maggie studied Lady Olivia. The younger woman stared at a closed book, deep in thought. “Olivia, hmm. She’s confident, quick-witted, entertaining as a dinner companion, gifted in the classical languages, extremely well educated. In short, an intellectual—though a very frustrated one. Females do meet a few closed doors, you know. It’s unfortunate.”
“You like her,” Samuel accused.
“Immensely.” Maggie tucked her arm through his. “Let’s take a turn about the room.”
Samuel escorted his aunt while she recollected her facts.
“What else?” said Maggie aloud. “Her mother passed I think when she was fifteen. She has a manor home in Ashford left to her by her mother, and one thousand pounds annually, though I don’t know if that goes directly to her or her father. They are very close and work on his research together. He is obsessed with finding ancient Egyptian tombs. I saw him at an event last year, and I know he was leaving for Egypt soon after. A charming man, if a bit of a zealot when it comes to Egyptian mythology and all things Alexandrian. He has passed his passion on to his daughter.”
“And if I may ask, dearest aunt: what is wrong with me?”<
br />
“Nothing, Samuel. You just deserve to have someone in your life much easier than the very complicated Lady Olivia Katharine Hastings Yates. If you must know, before your sister came along, she was considered not quite the sort.”
“Not quite the sort to do what?”
“Not quite the sort to go placidly along with society’s plans for her, for one.”
Samuel sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, I find that unusually admirable.”
She patted his arm. “I know, dear.”
They reached the end of their walk, very near to where Lady Olivia sat. Her companion stood not far away, talking with one of the officials. Lady Olivia looked up from her seat, spying them. Carefully adjusting her cloak, she rose and approached with a gentle bow and a genuine smile to his aunt. He felt his gut clench at the change. The smile transformed the angles of her face into something more elfish and mischievous, relieving the severity of her jaw. The eyes he had thought silver streaks of lightning were a warmer, mysterious gray. The result was engaging. Intriguing. And very interesting.
“Lady Margaret, it’s a pleasure to see you,” she greeted before tilting her head to him. She held the smile, albeit a bit more tentatively. As much as Samuel wanted to be flattered, he was mostly suspicious.
“Have you met my nephew, Lady Olivia?”
“Only informally, I’m afraid, and I don’t believe I made a very good first impression.”
His aunt made the formal introduction, while Lady Olivia continued to fuss awkwardly with her cloak, holding both her reticule and a book. Giving up, she asked him, “My apologies, could you please hold this for a moment?”
Samuel took the book and slid it under his arm before folding both arms across his chest to regard her. Truthfully, he was fascinated. She’d gone from ice queen to bumbling maiden.
She continued to readjust the mink neckline of her cloak, smiling helplessly, until her companion joined them. Samuel took another look at the older woman. Not so old. About his age. Thirty, perhaps. Attractive. Or she would be if her hair weren’t pulled back similarly to Lady Olivia’s. Up and tight. He wondered if they were trying to set a style. He prayed it wouldn’t catch on.
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