by Cheryl Holt
“If your son finds out I’m in here,” Dudley said, “there will be hell to pay.”
“He won’t find out.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He’s with Miss Lambert. He’ll probably be with her all night.”
“In her bedchamber?”
“Yes.”
She walked to her dressing room, and he followed, being a man accustomed to lingering in a woman’s private quarters. From the moment she’d first noticed him, she’d suspected a lusty character. With that dark hair and those seductive brown eyes, that tall frame and muscular physique, he was a sin any female would gladly commit.
She sat on the stool and studied herself in the mirror as she drew the combs from her hair and let it tumble down her back. She was putting on a show for him, wanting him to watch, wanting him wild with desire, but would he be?
He could have had his pick of several neighborhood widows, but she’d snagged him before anyone else had a chance. But with her being so much older than he, would she keep his attention?
He was casually lounged against the doorframe, observing as she went about her simple feminine rituals.
“Miss Lambert told me,” he said, “that Penworth is strangely enamored of her.”
“Why would it be strange? She’s very pretty and very sweet. It’s not odd that he’d be enchanted.”
“Will he ruin her?”
“Yes. He’s a healthy, red-blooded male. What would you expect?”
“Could he fall in love with her?”
“Are you joking?” She spun around and scowled. “He’s his father’s son. He’s not capable of that sort of strong emotion. Charles drummed it out of him when he was a boy.”
“What will happen to her?”
“I suppose what happens to all girls like her when a handsome nobleman becomes interested. He’ll trifle with her until he grows weary or until she winds up pregnant. Then? I can’t guess what John might do.”
“Would he ever marry her?”
“Stuffy, fussy John?” she scoffed. “No, he never would. Miss Lambert is so far beneath him that I’m amazed he can see her.”
“If he gets her pregnant, I’ll kill him.”
His ferocity made her imagine that he might actually perpetrate violence, and she reveled in that type of passion. It was a rare man who exhibited it.
He came over and hauled her to her feet, then led her to the bedchamber. He rolled onto the mattress and tugged her down with him. She stretched out atop him, and she arched like a lazy cat, relishing the feel of his body beneath hers.
“You’re awfully friendly with Miss Lambert,” she said, glaring down at him.
“I am,” he agreed, but offered nothing more, which infuriated her.
She hated that he wouldn’t confide in her, and she hoped his reticence wasn’t because he and Miss Lambert were lovers. Though Barbara was loathe to admit it, she worried he might be smitten by the engaging, much younger woman.
“Why does she call you Dubois?”
“I’m a charlatan and a fraud. It’s one of my false names.”
“Really?”
“I speak fluent French, too, with a very sexy accent. Women drool over me.”
“You’re a man of many talents.” She grinned, not able to discern if he was telling the truth, but fascinated that he might be. “What are you? A spy? A bandit who’s wanted by the law? A traitor to the Crown? What?”
“Something much worse.”
“Worse than a traitor, spy, or bandit? What could be worse than those?”
“You’d be surprised.”
She sat on her haunches and grabbed the lapels of his coat.
“Spill all, you knave!” she commanded. “What are you about?”
“I’m a sorcerer.”
“Would you be serious?”
“I can make a woman fall in love with the man of her dreams. I can make the man in question return her affection.”
“You expect me to believe such a ridiculous tale?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“All right, Mr. Sorcerer. If you’re so powerful, can you make my son love me again?”
He smirked. “I’m a sorcerer, not a miracle worker.”
She snorted with disgust. “You’re impossible.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why won’t you divulge your background?”
“You’ll like me more if I keep it a secret.”
“No, I won’t,” she pouted.
He chuckled. “You’re horridly spoiled, and I can’t abide that you display it so blatantly. I’m not certain we’ll get on all that well.”
“Trust me: We’ll get on just fine.”
“As long as I don’t provoke your temper?”
“Yes, and as long as you always let me have my way.”
“Now that I can’t promise at all.”
She was tired of waiting for him to kiss her, tired of waiting to learn what it would be like, so she bent down and kissed him first. He was aggravated that she’d taken charge, and he flipped her onto her back, seizing control of the embrace. He was very adept, very thorough, so it was as delicious as she’d predicted.
She probably should have forgone an affair, should have focused her energies on reestablishing her connection to John, but she was terribly nervous as to how events would unfold. Her confidence would surely be bolstered by being involved with Phillip Dudley.
If she had a paramour, she would feel younger and stronger, better able to maintain the pretense that she knew what she was doing. Dudley—for his part—would bring intrigue and excitement to her life, and he would provide the added benefit of keeping her occupied so she didn’t fret over her troubles.
Whenever she thought about John, she panicked. What if he evicted her? Where would she be?
She was desperate to block out any anxious rumination with a bout of rough, fast sex, yet Dudley was in no rush, being perfectly happy to dawdle.
There was no hasty groping, no fumbling with her skirt, no race to the next level. He simply kissed her, then kissed her some more, until she grew impatient. Why didn’t he hurry, the oaf?
Perceiving her dismay, he pulled away and peered down at her.
He had the shrewdest way of looking at a woman, as if he could see to her soul, and she didn’t care for the sensation. In light of her notorious history, there was plenty she liked to conceal.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing, why?”
“All of a sudden, you’re tense as a board.”
“I have a lot on my mind.”
He laughed. “I haven’t distracted you from it?”
“Of course you have,” she gushed, worried she might have bruised his poor male ego.
“I know a thing or two about amour. If I can’t entice you, you’re obviously not in the mood.”
“I’m absolutely in the mood!”
“There’s no need to continue.” He patted her on the shoulder, then slid away and sat up. “I’ll come back another time.”
Her panic soared. Recently, she’d been deluged by her pitiful reflections. She had too much to regret, and she wasn’t eager to be by herself. Dudley had been invited to her room so she could keep her demons at bay for a while.
He couldn’t leave! How would she fill the quiet hours till dawn?
“Don’t be a boor,” she scolded, sitting up, too. “Turn off the lamp, and we’ll start in again.”
“You want to have sex in the dark? Why? Do you think—if I can’t see you—your upset will be hidden from me?”
“I’m not upset!”
He studied her again, those astute eyes digging deep, and she squirmed with discomfort—as if she’d misbehaved and had been found out.
“My beautiful, brazen Barbara,” he murmured, “what is it?”
He posed the question so kindly, and with such compassion, that she had to glance away. She stared at her lap.
“I hate to be alone,” she whispered as if h
e’d wrenched the confession from her.
“Everyone does.”
“And I’d like to pass the time with you.”
“With some dispassionate sex?”
“Well . . . yes, but I hope it’s at least a little passionate.”
“You only want me for my magnificent body,” he teased.
“I won’t deny it.”
“I feel so . . . used,” he sarcastically complained, and he put a finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him.
“Just . . . stay,” she begged. “Please?”
“I will on one condition.”
“What is that?”
“I want to know everything.”
“About what?”
“About what happened to you. I want to know how you got so lost that you can’t find your way back.”
“I’d have no idea where to begin.”
“How about with the day you were a young wife and decided to leave your husband? Tell me all that transpired between then and right now.” He leaned against the headboard, a pillow propped behind him, as if settling in for a long story. He watched her intently, daring her to confide in him, and the notion was tempting.
No one had ever sought to understand what occurred, why she’d left, or how awful it had been.
“You can trust me,” he urged, “and I’m a great listener.”
He held out his arms to her, and for a moment, she hesitated, then she fell into them. She snuggled herself to his chest, her ear over his heart so she could hear its steady beating.
“I was nineteen,” she said, “and I had already been married for four years. I was so miserably unhappy . . .”
“YOU have one chance to explain yourselves. Who would like to start?”
John glared at the twins, his cold, hard gaze slithering over them.
Their eyes were wide with an expression of innocence, as if they were perplexed over why they’d been summoned to his library.
Though they’d lived with him for close to eighteen months, he didn’t really know them. Their father had been a renowned ne’er-do-well with whom John had occasionally debauched.
Why the girls’ guardianship had been given to John was a mystery. Perhaps, in view of their father’s unsavory tendencies, he’d recognized that John would be a good influence on his daughters.
John had tried his best with them, had brought them into his home and kept them with him despite the troubles their presence caused. Yet this was how they repaid him? With treachery?
On his way to the library, he’d nearly gone to the woods and cut a switch in order to administer a sound thrashing to both. He was that enraged.
“What are you talking about, John?” Miranda inquired.
“You’re pretending ignorance?”
“We’re not pretending. We simply can’t fathom why you asked us here.”
“You seem angry,” Melanie added. “Is something wrong?”
Their pretty heads were cocked at the exact same angle. Identical frowns marred their brows.
“Tell me what you did to Miss Lambert.”
“Miss . . . Lambert?” Miranda said as if she wasn’t acquainted with Lily.
“Tell me about the hot springs!” he shouted, and they jumped.
“What . . . what do you wish to know?”
“I’m curious about your version of events. I want to hear how big of a lie you’ll have the gall to spew.”
They gaped at him; then, as if on cue, they burst into tears.
He stoically evaluated them, completely unmoved by their waterworks. He was positive the charade had been thoroughly rehearsed.
It was now clear that they’d maliciously tormented several very nice women whom he’d hired to serve as their companions. Every time calamity had struck, the poor victims had attempted to defend themselves, but he’d accepted the twins’ false tales over the true ones.
He’d fired people because of them, had tossed people out of the house with no notice or warning, had threatened arrest and refused to write letters of reference.
Seven women had had their careers destroyed. What had become of them? Had they found other employment? Or—more likely—were they scraping by on the streets, unable to support themselves because the exalted Earl of Penworth had branded them thieves or sluggards?
“Why are you crying?” he queried, merely to learn what they would say.
“We didn’t intend any harm,” Miranda declared.
“Didn’t you?”
“No. We were just playing a trick on her.”
“We weren’t aware that she’d fallen,” Melanie claimed, “or that she was left behind.”
“We thought she chased us up the stairs,” Miranda said. “We thought she could see the light from our lanterns.”
“We were trying to scare her,” Melanie asserted, “not hurt her.”
“As soon as we arrived in our bedchamber, we asked a maid about her, and—”
“Really?” John interrupted. “Which one?”
“Becky. She told us that Miss Lambert was in her room, too.”
There was no maid in the castle named Becky, but Miranda mentioned her with great certitude, giving not the slightest hint of deception. The girl had to be the most accomplished liar who’d ever lived.
“It never occurred to us,” Melanie contended, “that Becky was mistaken. We assumed Miss Lambert was fine.”
“If we’d had a clue,” Miranda continued, “as to her actual situation, we’d have gone down to help her.”
“But we didn’t know,” they wailed together. They slid matching kerchiefs from their sleeves and dabbed at their eyes. They gazed at him, looking candid and miserable. If Lily hadn’t lifted the veil that kept him blind to their shenanigans, he might have once again swallowed their nonsense.
A lengthy silence ensued, as he stared, and they stared back, not realizing that the rules of the game had changed. Even if their behavior had started as a prank—which he didn’t believe for a second—the results could have been catastrophic.
“Is that it?” he finally asked. “Is that all you have to say?”
“What else could there be?” Miranda replied.
“How about the fact that you pushed her down? That she hit her head?”
“We didn’t push her! She tripped.”
“Did she?”
“Yes!”
“And I suppose she simply rolled into the water all on her own.”
“My goodness!” Melanie gasped, appearing shocked. “Miss Lambert fell into the pool? She could have drowned!”
John scrutinized them, waiting for some sign of regret or shame, but other than a swatch of color on their cheeks, their expressions could only be described as serene.
“Here is what I’ve arranged for you,” he stated.
“What do you mean?” Miranda inquired.
“I’m sending you back to London. You’ll leave on Friday.”
It was almost a week away, but there was no suitable ship departing any earlier.
“We don’t want to go to London,” Miranda complained. “We’re enjoying ourselves too much in Scotland.”
John ignored her. “Once you debark, my clerk will meet you at the harbor, and you will be escorted to Penworth Hall. You will remain in the country—seeing no guests and engaging in no entertainment—until I return and decide what’s to be done with you.”
“But . . . but . . . that’s cruel,” Melanie whined.
“Not nearly as cruel as your assault on Miss Lambert.”
“Assault!” Miranda blustered. “What has she alleged? Whatever it is, bring her in here and I shall call her a liar to her face!”
“I wouldn’t force her to endure your company long enough to give you the chance.”
They simultaneously sucked in insulted breaths, their anger evident.
“How is it,” Miranda demanded, “that you would take a mere servant’s word over ours?”
“It was rather easy. I don’t like you, and I’m stru
ggling to remember why I’ve been considerate to either of you.”
“Well!” they huffed in unison.
“The next few days will be awkward,” he informed them, “but you are not to be in the same room with Miss Lambert. Should you bump into her on the stairs or in a hallway, you are not to speak to her. You are not to molest her in any fashion. Do I make myself clear?”
He stopped, watching them again, trying to guess what was going through their devious little minds.
When they didn’t respond to his question, he posed it more sharply.
“Do I make myself clear!”
“Yes, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear,” Melanie said, but Miranda had the gall to taunt, “What if we don’t obey you? What if we abuse her hideously?”
John leaned back in his chair, being a veritable master at exhibiting a cool, calm façade. If they presumed they could best him in attitude or manner, they were gravely mistaken.
“I am a major benefactor of a convent in Belgium,” he told them. “Many English girls—from good families—are housed there to conceal various scandals.”
“So?” Melanie snapped like a petulant toddler.
“I control your lives and money until you’re twentyfive—or until you wed. During the coming week, if you so much as peek at Miss Lambert, I shall have you bound and gagged and delivered to the nuns.” He raised a casual brow. “And there you shall stay for the next seven years.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Miranda seethed.
“Wouldn’t I? If that is what you stupidly imagine, then I suggest you tread very, very cautiously, because with the mood I’m in, nothing would give me greater pleasure.” He waved toward the door. “Now then, I’m sick of the sight of you. Be gone, and don’t compel me to ever again suffer your presence unless I specifically request it.”
Chapter 12
“HOW are you enjoying my castle?”
“It’s very . . . rural.”
“Yes, well, castles are like that.”
Violet smiled at John, wishing she had the temerity to say what she really thought.
The rooms were small and oddly shaped, the ceilings low, the chimneys poorly designed so smoke hung in the air. Being a medieval edifice at its core, the stairways wound in strange directions, and the layout of the various sections made no sense.
