He wanted her, of that he was positive after meeting her again this afternoon. And from his best instincts, he was certain she wanted him, too. She wasn’t young and inexperienced. It had been so long, so long since a woman had actually desired him, and he had seen it in her eyes. Being with her would be all consuming, a numbing of the most perfect kind. She would drug him like a fine, exotic wine.
Will fixed his gaze on the dim lighting of his home in the distance, feeling a stirring of something marvelous, deep within, that had been missing for years. He only wished he didn’t have to wait until Saturday to see her again, to recall such desire one more time. But for now he had much to do. He had the beginnings of a plan.
Chapter 4
The dawn had brought rain to Penzance, but by the time Vivian ascended the stairs of Morning House, the sky had cleared so that the sun shone down in brilliance, lighting the raindrops on the surrounding brush, and making the stone walkway sparkle.
She didn’t want to be here today—and yet she did. Strangely she wanted to see him again, especially after his totally unexpected visit to her home earlier in the week. And she held more than a mild interest in him, she had to admit, for he intimidated her as much as he intrigued her. He was a contradiction, a gentleman to be sure, but one with hidden secrets only barely revealed in his dark, cool eyes and uncommonly smooth, deep voice. Beyond it all, Vivian had to wonder what he had been like as a husband. Was he driven to kill by a woman he hated? Or was he simply mad beneath his cool exterior?
She quickly quashed that idea. If there was one thing she could determine about the Duke of Trent intuitively, it was that he was perfectly sane. But was it possible that such a mysteriously handsome and intriguing man really murdered another human being?
Vivian tried to brush the uncomfortable thoughts aside as she neared the unattractive, black front doors of the estate home. Unlike the inside rooms, the outside building front certainly needed a more inviting look. But then she knew as well as anyone that the duke rarely had guests.
Today footmen stood at attention, obviously expecting her arrival. Immediately, as she neared them, they bowed to her and opened the door, allowing her to enter without a pause in her stride.
Nervousness coiled up within her again. Not from fear of meeting the accused killer this time, but from uncertainty of the afternoon to come.
The butler met her in the foyer, obviously expecting her.
“Good day, Wilson,” she said.
“Good day, Mrs. Rael-Lamont. This way if you please.”
He escorted her to the same library where she’d met the duke earlier. After opening the doors for her, she stepped inside, feeling the southern sea breeze at once as it came through the conservatory windows to cool her face.
“Please make yourself comfortable, madam. His grace will be here momentarily.”
“Thank you, Wilson,” she replied as he closed the door behind him.
Vivian removed her bonnet and placed it over the back of the chair she’d occupied on her last visit. Just at that moment the Duke of Trent walked in through the conservatory in front of her, wearing navy pants and a casual shirt of ecru linen, sleeves rolled up nearly to the elbows, exposing dark hair on his muscled arms and strong hands free of jewelry.
For a moment neither one of them spoke. Vivian gazed into his eyes, her uncertainty conveyed by a sudden wave of shyness.
“Vivian,” he drawled.
I am fighting for my life.
She swallowed, then forced a smile and did her best to relax. “Your grace.”
For a second or two she could have sworn he fought a frown. She hesitated to respond any more since such intimacy disconcerted her more than he could possibly imagine.
He stepped toward her then, slowly, his hands clasped behind him.
“It’s turned into a lovely day.”
“Yes.” She didn’t move.
“I thought we would take luncheon on the veranda. The view is excellent.”
“Of course,” she replied, lifting her bonnet again.
“Leave it,” he said. “You won’t need it.”
She didn’t argue. “As you wish, your grace.”
“Will.”
It seemed so incredibly odd to her to be calling a nobleman of such high rank by his given name. But she could hardly argue when in his company, especially as they were alone.
She tipped her head toward him once. “William.”
He lowered his voice, his eyes probing hers intently.
“Not William. Will.”
‘Vivian clasped her arms at the elbows in some manner of defense, she supposed, having no idea why it should matter. William was indeed more formal.
“Very well, Will,” she repeated as he’d stressed it.
Placing her outstretched hand on his forearm, she felt warm flesh covered with a soft coating of hair. It was the first time she’d touched a man’s bare skin— aside from a hand or a kiss to the cheek—in more than ten years. The feeling of his heated strength brought a rush of titillating thoughts to her, all of them exciting and utterly unwanted at such a delicate time.
They didn’t speak to each other as he guided her out the doors at the far end of the library and into the conservatory proper, a glass-covered extension of the house filled with the sights and scents of plants and a host of flowers, all well maintained. Two or three windows were propped open to the outside air, allowing a mild breeze to enter just enough to keep the area cool. But the view itself, reaching far across private gardens, the sandy shore, and the ocean beyond, was truly spectacular.
“It’s beautiful here,” she remarked with pleasure, allowing her gaze to take in the site before her, the gorgeous backdrop to the estate glistening from the newly fallen coat of rain.
He said nothing for a moment, then, “I thought perhaps you’d appreciate the view.”
She still clung to his arm, it occurred to her. Quickly glancing up to his face, she realized how close she stood to a man who only a week ago was a fantasy of a person, a shadow of gossip and intrigue. Now, touching his flesh, he’d become very, very real.
She must have blushed, for at the moment, he grinned wryly, watching her.
“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, almost thoughtfully.
Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her chest before she could hide that automatic response. He had to notice her sudden trepidation.
“Did you murder your wife, sir?”
His arms flexed beneath her fingers; his body instantly stilled, a flash of… something, shock perhaps, passed over his countenance before his jaw tightened and his lips formed a hard, straight line across his face. She’d struck a very deep chord, as she knew she would from such a question, and yet he hesitated in answering. Just watched her.
Vivian didn’t move her gaze from the directness of his. Then with a twitch of the muscle in his cheek, he murmured, “If I said I didn’t, would you believe me?”
There was a candidness about him that intrigued her, dug deep into her own confused feelings of a past she couldn’t change. Her mouth felt dry, but she had to answer him. He expected it.
“No, probably not,” she returned just as frankly. “I would have no proof.”
After a moment’s pause, he nodded slightly. “Ah. One is always guilty until proven innocent. A fair assessment.” He lowered his voice. “And if I said I did?”
A tiny gust of air shot through the open window beside them, lifting his hair and blowing it onto his forehead and temples. At that moment, he looked young and vulnerable as he waited for her to answer.
At last she breathed in purposefully and forced herself to turn away, gazing out to the ocean beyond. “I have no proof of that, either,” she mumbled a bit tersely. “I think I’d need that before I could condemn you for such a loathsome act.”
“A sin, madam?”
She raised her chin a fraction. “A sin beyond measure.”
“You’re very brave, I suppose,” he said, his tone lig
htening on a wave of black humor, “coming into the home of an accused killer.”
She sighed. “Or very stupid.”
“One only knows what I might do,” he added with a hint of bitterness.
She supposed she could take that any number of ways, but decided on the obvious. “Nonsense. With servants about? And there are any number of people in the village who may be aware of where I am. Perhaps I told neighbors.”
“I think, if I were a gambling man, I would bet my entire wealth on the fact that you told no one, Vivian.”
He’d said that so smoothly, so darkly, she shivered inside and looked back into his eyes.
They shone with an odd mixture of intrigue, skepticism, and perhaps somewhere very far within, an emptiness brought on by years of being alone. Feeling for the sins of his past suddenly put her at a disadvantage—and made her yearn for deeper understanding.
When she didn’t immediately reply, he reached up and touched her fingers, still grasping his forearm, with his own. “Why don’t we discuss stupidity over luncheon?”
She relaxed, pressing her lips together to stop herself from thanking him for that. She had never appreciated a change of subject more.
Vivian lifted her skirts with her free hand as he turned, then the two of them walked side by side, her palm still laying softly on his warm arm, until they reached the opposite end of the conservatory where a meal of simple fare awaited them.
“I thought a salmon soufflé seemed appropriate,” he remarked formally.
Appropriate for what, she didn’t know, and decided not to ask. Instead, she murmured simply, “It sounds delicious.”
They talked little during the meal, and nothing of the stupidity, or rather the reason, for her being there, though Vivian was well aware that he watched her closely. Every time she glanced up she’d catch his eyes on her, or some part of her—a hand, her hair, her lips. Once even on her breasts, which, oddly enough, didn’t bother her. But with such visual attention, she couldn’t eat much. Being in his presence was altogether too exciting, and she had to wonder if he felt the same odd stimulation as well.
To be honest, Vivian had thought about him all night, able to sleep little, tossing and turning with the notion of all the passionate things he might do to her. And those thoughts, however outlandish, secretly thrilled her as much as they scared her. It had been so long—
“What are you thinking?”
His gentle utterance took on complex meaning when coupled with his tone of fascination and a tinge of hesitation.
Vivian almost smiled. In a manner it was somehow endearing.
“Honestly? I was thinking about us, your grace.”
That startled him a fraction. She could tell by the quick lifting of his brows and the tight jerk of his shoulders. Such a reaction made her tingle inside, and her lips curved up in a grin she could no longer hide.
“I know you were once a married woman, madam, but I had no idea your thoughts strayed to the sensual during a meal.”
Vivian felt her stomach lurch at such bold words. The man clearly didn’t know much about women, or consider that he might embarrass her in front of his servants. Then again, maybe he simply didn’t care.
“What makes you think my thoughts were so engaged?”
He eyed her frankly, sitting back a bit in his seat and placing his fork on his plate. “Only a guess.”
She paused for a moment or two, playing absent-mindedly with the linen napkin in her lap. “Tell me, your grace, do you have only this one home, or are there others?” she asked, deciding to change the conversation to something more formal, and infinitely more appropriate.
He sat back in his chair and raked his fingers through his hair, a movement she found remarkably attractive in him.
“I have a cottage in Tuscany, which I don’t get to visit nearly enough, and a townhouse in London, which I’m forced to visit every year.”
“Forced?”
“For parliamentary duties, official and private business,” he replied after a moment, his tone dropping a shade. He glanced away, squinting as he looked beyond the windows to the far-reaching ocean. “I hate the stink of the city—and going to court.”
He’d said that as an afterthought, Vivian decided, and as she wasn’t sure how to respond, she instead took another bite of what had turned out to be a marvelous soufflé—creamy, light, and delicious. But she knew how he felt. The duties of the elite were sometimes annoying in their trivialities, sometimes aggravating in their extreme importance. She was only glad she didn’t have to worry about such things living in the southern beauty of remote Penzance. He probably felt the same way.
Then again, maybe the murder trial had something to do with his hatred of court. Especially since almost everybody still believed he was guilty of the crime, even after five years.
Vivian placed her fork on her plate and patted her lips with her napkin. He turned his attention back to her, studying her for a moment, his head tipped slightly to the side, eyes narrowed.
“You said you were thinking about us?”
Her heart began to race again. Hadn’t she changed that subject?
“You’re certainly tenacious,” she answered quickly, sitting up as straight as possible, hands now clasped together in her lap.
“Very,” he admitted. He rubbed his clean-shaven chin with his fingertips. “You’re nervous, though, aren’t you, to be here alone with me?”
She breathed in deeply, noting how odd it was to be answering such a question while two footmen stood at attention at the sideboard. She tried not to look at them to assess what they might think. They were probably staid of expression anyway, as good servants always were.
“I’m not nervous in the least, your grace,” she replied as calmly as possible. “We made a deal. I am here to honor it.”
His expression never changed, though he did lower his hand back to his lap. The bell from a fishing troller tolled in the distance; the breeze ruffled the leaves on the plants surrounding them, and yet he didn’t appear to notice any intrusion whatsoever, focused so intently on her. It made her squirm slightly in her seat.
“Your grace—”
“Walk with me in my garden, Mrs. Rael-Lamont?”
She blinked quickly at that unexpected turn, her lips parting a fraction. The formality of his demeanor in no way suggested he’d asked her here for a tryst, and yet they both knew he had. Suddenly she felt a bit confused.
“No dessert, sir?”
One side of his mouth kicked up minutely. “I had planned raspberries in sweet cream, but I’ve changed my mind.”
She swallowed and smiled flatly. “Have you?”
Placing his napkin at the side of his plate, he stood and rounded the small table to stand at her side.
“Walk with me,” he insisted gently, his hand extended.
She could do nothing but comply and place her palm in his. A footman immediately moved up behind her to pull out her chair as she gracefully raised her body. When he didn’t let go of her hand, she smoothed her skirt with the other. “Lead the way, my lord duke.”
His eyes roved over her face, and for a second in time, Vivian nearly caught a smile from him again. Then he murmured, “You are most accommodating, madam. I think I shall enjoy your company much, much more than I thought possible.”
Vivian felt her face flush with keen embarrassment. And yet what words went too far when a gentleman spoke to a woman he expected to become his mistress? She had no idea. But she fumed inside from the knowledge that servants speak below stairs and word would eventually spread to the townsfolk that she was now accommodating the Duke of Trent. He had to know that.
With irritation, she tried to pull her hand from his. He held fast for a second or two, then suddenly must have sensed her mortification, as he let go of her without response.
Silently, he gestured for her to follow him to the far corner of the conservatory where, behind a row of potted plants, stood a glass-paneled door in front of a circular, w
rought-iron staircase that led directly to the garden below.
He reached in front of her, unlatched the door, and allowed her to exit ahead of him.
Vivian clung to her skirts, but instead of placing his hand on her elbow, he skimmed her lower back, pressing his palm against her stays to balance her. Or perhaps simply to enjoy a more intimate touch. She really didn’t know. But thankfully near this end of the house, and because of the angle at which they descended into the botanical midst, no one could witness it.
They both stopped short on the brick porch that appeared to stretch along the entire length of the southern facing wall of the house. In front of her, spread out in perfectly tended landscape, was an array of roses and semi-exotic flowers in every color and variety imaginable, green plants and palm trees, all cut low enough to take in the extended view of the sparkling gray-blue ocean beyond the sandy coastline.
“It’s breathtaking,” she said with awe, and unmistakable envy. “It’s surely the most lush garden I’ve ever seen.”
“Indeed.” He paused for a moment, then added, “It’s maintained to my satisfaction.”
“As it should be for one of your rank, your grace.”
“A title is a birthright, Vivian. What I do with my property comes from the human desire within me to relish peace and behold the beautiful.”
She looked up to his face when he said that. He squinted in the sunlight as he gazed out over the water, the breeze again lifting his soft hair, which he brushed aside with his fingertips in the same manner he had before.
It struck Vivian earlier that he looked so very young when he did that, but now she reassessed that thought. It wasn’t so much that he looked younger than his thirty-five years, or boyish for that matter, but that he looked so human—a word that had been used in its negative form repeatedly—inhuman— whenever he’d been described as the accused killer in newspapers across the country, and in drawing rooms across Penzance even to this day. How very… odd that she wasn’t at all afraid of him right now, alone as they were in an enclosure of natural beauty.
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