His Scandalous Kiss: Secrets at Thorncliff Manor: 6

by Sophie Barnes

  Turning left, he approached the violinist standing furthest away, his music swirling like stardust through the air. It carried Richard forward, all thought of revenge momentarily forgotten as the notes coursed through him, soothing his soul and calming his heart.

  It wasn’t until he’d come within ten paces of the musician that Richard realized that he wasn’t alone. Seated on a stone bench that stood slightly concealed by a neatly trimmed hedge, was the lady he’d seen earlier on the terrace. Instinctively, he froze, his progress halted by the vision she presented. Her eyes were closed behind her mask while a smile of pure pleasure graced her lovely lips. By God, she was stunning, and it was all Richard could do not to fall on his knees before her like a subservient knight to her medieval maiden.

  Instead, he studied the delicate curve of her neck and the vast expanse of pale skin below. Sucking in a breath, he forced himself not to stare or to wonder what it might be like to hold her against him . . . to lay her bare and to . . . He blinked, aware that his heart was thumping loudly against his chest. It couldn’t be helped. She was perfect in every way—curved in just the right places. Christ! His abstinence was clearly trying to knock the gentleman right out of him in favor of welcoming a scoundrel.

  He glanced toward the lake, momentarily wondering if he ought to jump in it. Probably, though the idea of getting wet did not appeal. Of course, he could simply walk away. But he did neither. Instead, he ignored what he should do in favor of what he wanted to do, and took a step forward, the gravel crunching lightly beneath his feet as he did so.

  The lady opened her eyes, her lips parting slightly in surprise as she ran her gaze over him. Their eyes met, and as they did so, Richard felt some invisible part of him reach out toward her. “My apologies,” he said, the words tripping over each other so hastily that he had to make a deliberate effort to slow them. “I did not mean to—”

  Placing her finger against her lips, she urged him into silence, and for a moment, they just stared at each other while the music swirled around them, rising and falling in easy tones. When she patted the seat beside her and gestured for him to join her, he did not hesitate for a second, but neither did he speak. Instead, he gave himself up to the pleasure of sharing this wondrous moment with a perfect stranger while moonlight spilled across the water and stars winked at them from above. Astonishingly, it did not feel awkward in any way, but rather comfortable and . . . right.

  Not until the violinist ceased playing, did Richard turn toward his companion. He had no idea of how much time had passed. “Thank you for letting me join you,” he said, his words sticking together like rubber. Curling his hand around the edge of the bench, he swore a silent oath. Surely he could do better than this!

  She turned to look at him, her eyes meeting his once more. They were just as sharp as they’d been earlier, but he noted now that they were also vibrant and kind. “I was not expecting company, but it does please me to know that I am not the only one enjoying the music this evening. It is impossible to listen to it properly on the terrace though. That is why I came down here, so that I could pay proper attention to it.”

  Nodding, he tried to think of a good response. “I am sure Vivaldi would be pleased if he were still alive and present.” Dipping her chin, she encouraged him to continue. “As for me, I completely understand your reasoning. Music ought to be savored and listened to rather than heard.” Much better.

  “Precisely.” The word was softly spoken and contained a hint of curiosity, or perhaps even suspicion. “Is that why you came down here as well?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “I simply wished to be alone.”

  Her eyes widened. “Then you must forgive me. I did not mean to impose.” She started to rise.

  “No.” The word punctured the air between them, halting her just as he’d intended. “Stay,” he told her softly and with a nod toward the bench. She lowered herself back down. “If anything, I should be the one to leave. You were here first.”

  “I know, but perhaps you are in greater need of this bench than I.”

  The way in which she spoke, with a degree of consideration he’d rarely encountered before, set her apart from any other lady he’d ever met. “Who are you?” he asked.

  Her lips curved to form a partial smile. “I thought the whole idea behind a masquerade was to remain anonymous.”

  “Fair enough.” He considered her a moment. “But I would like to ensure that you are not married, affianced, or otherwise attached. Duels can be most inconvenient, you see, which is why I do my best to avoid them at all cost.”

  A soft melodious laugh broke from between her lips. “You need not fear then, for I am not attached to any gentleman in any way, nor am I the sort of lady who inspires gentlemen to resort to such drastic measures.”

  Her self-deprecation startled him. “Why would you say that?”

  With a shrug, she turned her head away, offering him her profile as she stared out across the lake while wisps of hair toyed against her cheek. “I have always favored my own company, for it allows me the peace and quiet that my soul seems to crave. I am not a social creature, Sir, and as a result, I have never made much effort to be noticed.”

  “You are a wallflower then?”

  She scrunched her nose a little in response to that question. “Yes. I suppose I am.” Meeting his gaze again, she added, “I am also quite fond of books. In case you were wondering.”

  He hadn’t been, but was glad that she’d chosen to share the information with him nonetheless. Wanting to cheer her, he said, “Then I am the most fortunate of men.”

  “How so?” she asked when he hesitated.

  “Well . . . not only have I noticed you before anyone else, but I am also certain that you will be able to speak with me on matters of greater consequence than most.” Seeing her eyes brighten, he decided to try a bit of banter. “Unless of course your preferred reading material happens to be romance, in which case I am entirely doomed.”

  She laughed, just as he’d hoped. Good lord, it seemed like a lifetime since he’d last heard someone laugh. The sound spilled over him, brightening his spirit as it lifted away the darkness.

  “I must confess that I have read all of Jane Austen’s books.”

  He couldn’t help but frown. “Then you have probably acquired some high expectations—expectations that no mortal man can ever hope to live up to.”

  “I am not so certain of that,” she told him seriously.

  Unconvinced, he stared out across the lake, his mood no longer as light as it had been a moment earlier. “Romance novels have nothing to do with reality.”

  She was silent a moment before saying, “Perhaps if you read some of these books yourself, you will find that the heroes win the heroines through virtuous acts like honesty, loyalty, common decency, and a healthy dose of insightfulness, none of which are beyond the reach of any man.”

  “Point taken.” Shifting, he turned more fully toward her. “But you must not forget that in these novels the heroes always happen to be outrageously wealthy and . . . extremely handsome—a state of being which certainly is beyond the reach of most men.”

  “Aha! So you have read Miss Austen’s books! Admit it!” She punctuated her words by jabbing him playfully in the chest with her finger.

  A shock of heat darted through him. Unprepared for it, he instinctively stiffened; astounded by the effect that simple touch had had on him. What was it she had said? With difficulty, he put his muddled mind in order and, realizing that she was staring at him expectantly, said, “I suppose I might have stumbled upon a copy or two when I had nothing else with which to occupy myself.”

  She smiled wryly. “Then you are probably also aware that much of the romance in these books is derived from the possibility that a woman of few means can—by proving her worth—attract the attentions of a notable gentleman. In turn, he allows his heart to lead him into marriage regardless of what Society might think of the matter. The stories are clearly based on Cendrillo
n, which of course is the perfect formula for any fairy tale.”

  He couldn’t help but be intrigued. “How so?”

  She expelled a deep breath. “Because it suggests that the impossible can be attained if we are willing to fight for what we want, make the necessary sacrifices and simply believe . . .”

  Her optimistic outlook was endearing, though he was not so sure that he agreed with it. “You do not consider it wrong for women—or even men—to suppose that the path to happiness is that simple? That there is a secret formula that, if followed, will result in a happily-ever-after?”

  “Based on a few observations I have made, I have concluded that love matches are more possible than we allow ourselves to believe. Especially among the middle and lower classes where financial alliances are not so prevalent.”

  “So what you are saying is that the less wealthy someone is, the more likely they are to marry for love?”

  “It should not be the case, but I daresay that it is.” She fell silent for a moment as if pondering an idea. “Perhaps the greatest problem among our set is our expectation.”

  Determined to keep an open mind, he tried to follow this hypothesis. “You think that marriages are doomed to fail before they even begin because couples enter into them with preconceived ideas?”

  “Precisely,” she said, her eyes brimming with the awareness of mutual understanding. “Aristocrats are raised to believe that love is secondary to wealth, status, and a desirable title. They are taught that they will one day marry for the latter and that they will likely live separate, though comfortable, lives as a result.”

  Richard considered this. He could clearly see the point she was making and found himself agreeing with her view. “Perhaps if they were not so biased from the start, then they would have a greater chance of finding common interests, resulting in more time spent together, which would inevitably lead to some measure of respect and perhaps even love.”

  “At the very least they would probably be more happy than not.”

  Impulsively, Richard reached for her gloved hand and enfolded it in his own, amazed by the sizzling energy spreading from that simple point of contact. “You must give me a name—some means by which to address you properly.”

  A moment of silence passed between them before she said. “When I ordered my gown for this evening, I was inspired by a painting in my bedchamber. I believe it is meant to represent Eleanor of Aquitaine, so I suppose that you can call me Lady Eleanor, if you wish.”

  “Then you may call me Signor Antonio,” he said, supplying her with the same name he’d given Lady Duncaster.

  With a secretive smile upon her lips, she said, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Signor.”

  Raising her hand to his masked lips, he murmured, “Indeed, the pleasure is all mine.”

  Chapter 2

  Mary couldn’t help but be charmed by her mysterious gentleman companion. Who was he? What did he look like? He gave neither away with the silver mask he was wearing, but whoever he was, he had not thought her dull when she’d told him about her fondness for solitude or about her love of reading.

  She considered him now as he sat beside her, his hand still wrapped around her own. A thrill of . . . something she failed to define . . . seeped through her, producing a most unusual sensation in the pit of her stomach. It was almost as if her insides had grown unbearably ticklish.

  Inhaling deeply, she decided to make an attempt at more conversation—something concrete that she could relate to with greater ease than she could to the torrent of unfamiliar emotions coursing through her. “Since you are clearly not a fan of Miss Austen, would you care to tell me which books you do enjoy reading?”

  “You must not misunderstand me.” His words were measured, as they had been throughout their conversation. There was a wariness about him—a distinct hint of uncertainty. Squeezing his hand, she hoped to reassure him. He flinched, but did not pull away. “I think Miss Austen is remarkably talented and I commend her for turning her passion into a success. Furthermore, your assurance that her books can be enjoyed without women imagining that every moment of their lives should be filled with romantic walks and grand gestures, has helped ease my concerns.”

  “That is not to say that romantic walks and grand gestures ought to be dismissed,” Mary told him lightly. “I am sure that most women would place great value on both.”

  “Would you?” he asked her softly.

  An odd little flutter captured her heart. “Since I have no intention of marrying, it does not signify.”

  He said nothing in response, but the look he gave her was so intense that Mary could not help but shift beneath his gaze. If only they could return to the sort of repartee they’d enjoyed earlier. It had been fun, not only in an entertaining way but in an intellectual one as well. Not at all the sort of silly conversations Mary often overheard other young ladies participating in. The superficiality with which most of them spoke had lessened her interest in trying to make friends. In fact, she could say with certainty that she only had one actual friend, and that was Lady Sarah, now Viscountess Spencer, after her recent marriage to Viscount Spencer. Through her, Mary had of course become acquainted with Lord Spencer’s sisters, but Mary couldn’t in good conscience call them friends yet, since she’d spoken to them on only a few occasions.

  “When I was younger,” Signor Antonio said, breaking the silence, “I read a lot of non-fictional books on a number of subjects.”

  “Did you have any favorites?” Mary asked, relieved by the change of subject.

  “I liked Sun Tzu’s Art De La Guerre very much. It is the only book that I have read more than once.”

  “The Art of War,” Mary translated.

  Signor Antonio nodded. “Have you read it?” he asked with interest.

  “Not in its entirety. It was one of those books that I just happened to snatch off the shelf one rainy afternoon and never ended up finishing. As I recall, it was philosophical in nature.”

  “Yes. In my opinion it is the most impressive work on military strategy ever written.”

  She considered this before saying, “Some might argue that Machiavelli’s book, The Prince, is of greater value.”

  “Hmmm . . . Another book that you happened to browse through on a rainy day?”

  Mary couldn’t help but smile, aware that she’d probably surprised him once again. The Prince was hardly the sort of book that most young ladies would ever bother reading. Perhaps they should, so they could enjoy more meaningful conversations with men. “Something like that,” she admitted. She shrugged one shoulder. “As with the Art of War, I failed to complete it, but in this instance, it was mostly because I found it to be entirely too devious and self-serving for my liking.”

  “Deception, as advocated by Machiavelli, can be a powerful tool when used correctly.”

  Something about his tone—a hint of contemplative sharpness—sent a shiver down her spine. “Perhaps, but I believe that it will eventually corrupt the soul and that it is therefore a path best avoided.”

  His hand tightened around hers, almost painfully so, and she instinctively drew back.

  Releasing her, he abruptly stood and stepped toward the lake, offering her his back while he stared out across the moonlit water. “Forgive me,” he said when he faced her again after a long, drawn-out moment. “I am sorry if I frightened you just now, but our conversation . . . it prompted some unpleasant memories.”

  His confession surprised her. “I do not understand,” she said.

  “And you never will,” he told her grimly, “for you have not experienced the horrors of war. Nothing encourages a man to reveal his true nature quite as well as the possibility that he will not survive to live another day.”

  Understanding dawned and she slowly rose to her feet. “You are a soldier,” she whispered through the darkness. He hadn’t read the books they’d been discussing for pleasure alone, but for a professional reason as well.

  “I used to be,”
he quietly murmured.

  Curious, she couldn’t help but ask, “Did you kill anyone?” His eyes widened and she pushed out a breath before lowering her gaze to the ground. “Of course you did. I was not trying to—”

  “It’s all right.” He waited for her to raise her head and look at him before saying, “Wars cost lives. There is no denying that. So yes, Lady Eleanor, I have killed.”

  “And if you had not?” The words swirled softly in the warm night air.

  “Then they would have killed me.” Detecting the anguish behind his words, she felt her chest tighten around her heart, squeezing it until it ached. “To this day, their faces haunt me—the terror in their eyes a constant reminder of the blood I have shed for England.”

  “For freedom.”

  He scoffed at that. “Whatever the reason, the price was too high.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. “But surely you must have saved some lives as well.” When he nodded, she reached for his hand and said, “Tell me about the people you rescued.”

  Dipping his head, he closed his eyes, his bearing so still that she imagined he must be looking into the past. When he eventually looked at her again, his eyes shone like drops of ink. “Perhaps some other time.”

  Mary knew better than to press him for more information. She could tell by the tone of his voice that it was a subject she shouldn’t pursue. Still, she could not help but wonder about his experiences. Had he fought in the Peninsula War, the War of 1812, or the Battle of Waterloo? She’d forgotten to ask. Perhaps he’d even been wounded. If so, then how?

  A gradual murmur of strings rising through the silence drew her attention away from these contemplations and toward the Endurance where guests were presently beginning to gather. “I believe it is time for supper,” she found herself saying. “Will you escort me?”

  He hesitated briefly before offering her his arm. “With pleasure.”

  A gentle tremor swept through Mary’s body as she linked her arm with his, the firmness of him beneath the wool of his jacket making her exceedingly aware of the strength that he possessed. She tried to think of something to say—some inane topic with which to lighten the mood and, perhaps more importantly, to distract her from the way he made her feel. “Signor Antonio, I—”