Like the devil himself, Lord Northridge emerged from the midnight blue lacquered coach without waiting for the footman and scowled at her, inducing her own frown to reappear. Her heart sank. Of all the people she might have encountered, it would have to be him. Lana quickly forced her expression into a mask of tranquility, refusing to let his foul mood affect her.
“What are you doing out here at this hour?” he asked.
“Walking, my lord.” Her subtle emphasis on the last two words was clearly not lost on him. His blue eyes narrowed at her overbright smile. “And you, Lord Northridge? Taking the air as well?”
Heavens, why on earth was she baiting him?
Lana didn’t know the answer, only that it gave her great satisfaction to see the quick snap of his reaction. It was obvious from his formal evening clothing that he was returning from a late night out. His cravat was loosened and his hair rumpled, making her think his night had been one of sleepless scandal. She blinked at the thought and looked away.
“No,” he grit out, subjecting her to a baleful stare. “Why aren’t you tending to Lady Briannon?”
Lana considered her words with care. She did not want to give her mistress away, but she assumed Lord Northridge already suspected his sister’s whereabouts. “It is rather early. She does not require my assistance at the moment, my lord.”
He folded his arms across his broad chest, propping his back against the side of the coach. Lana felt the heat of his stare and finally looked into his heavy-lidded eyes. His deliberate perusal of her person made her uncomfortable.
“Is there something you wish to tell me, Lord Northridge?”
“I find it interesting that you will scold me for fencing in the attic, and yet you let her ride at this hour of the morning.” He gestured to the brightening sky. “It is not yet light.”
“Let her?” Lana murmured. “You overestimate my sway. I am a servant, my lord, nothing more.”
“Why not bring it to Lady Dinsmore’s attention?”
She stared at him, realizing that he was now baiting her. She opted for honesty. “I will not betray Lady Briannon’s confidence.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, but then he shoved off the coach and closed the distance between them with two short strides. Lana fought the urge to take two matching steps back. She gripped the strap of her satchel and held her head high. “And where were you going at this hour, Miss Volchek?” he asked, eyeing her composed face with a narrowed gaze.
“To the road and back.”
“You do know that there was an attack on this very lane not a week ago by a masked highwayman?”
“Yes, of course I know,” Lana replied, although she hadn’t even stopped to consider the recent attack on Lord and Lady Dinsmore and Lady Briannon.
Lord Northridge’s frown deepened. “And yet you venture out here alone, with no thought for your own safety? What if the marauder had chanced upon you? An unaccompanied young woman such as yourself?”
“I am in no danger, my lord,” she tossed back, though a prickle of fear inched down her spine. Of their own volition, her eyes darted down the shadowy road, not yet lit by the burgeoning dawn. The shadows seemed much more menacing than they had earlier.
“I see you catch my meaning,” Lord Northridge said with a smug note of triumph. “And unless you are carrying a pistol in that sack at your hips, you should not be out here alone.” He jerked his head at the waiting carriage. “Get in. I will see you back to the manor.”
Lana bristled at the brusque command. “I am fine to walk back.”
“I insist.”
“And I insist on walking,” she countered and then added, “my lord.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you defying me?”
Lana ignored the thunderstorms brewing in those darkening blue eyes. There was that famous temper again, though she remained at a complete loss as to why he only seemed to lose hold of it with her. She was more than capable of sound judgment. She might be a servant in his mother’s household, but it wasn’t Lord Northridge’s business what she did on her own time or whether she chose to put herself in the way of a marauding madman. In truth, she resented the intrusion. Even a lowly maid should be allowed some modicum of privacy.
Her chin tilted slightly as she swept past him. “Of course not, Lord Northridge, I simply prefer to walk.”
Lana did not expect the swift, steel grip above her elbow as he steered her firmly toward the coach. Even through her cloak, his fingers burned a brand into the skin at the back of her arm. “Unhand me at once!” she whispered, though it didn’t stop the coachman from turning in his seat to ogle them.
“Not until you get in.” Lord Northridge’s voice brooked no argument, and Lana, mortified by his arrogant high-handedness, relented. She knew Colton—the family’s primary coachman—was discreet, but she was not familiar with Lord Northridge’s London driver. Humiliated, she climbed into the coach and sat mutinously on one side, her hands clasped in her lap, as Lord Northridge followed.
“Are you quite satisfied, my lord?” she hissed. “Now that you’ve thrown your masterly weight about?”
Unfathomable blue eyes regarded her. “Yes.”
He signaled to the driver to proceed with a quick rap on the roof and then leaned back, one ankle thrown across the opposite knee in a deceptive, relaxed position. She waited for him to speak further, but he said nothing. Instead, he closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cushioned wall behind him, as though she weren’t even there.
Lana had been in his presence countless times, and yet something about him in rumpled evening wear with a loosened cravat and a hint of shadow on his cheeks struck her with a blunt force that made her inexplicably breathless. Lord Northridge was an incredibly virile man. Any normal blooded woman would be blind not to notice, and Lana was not exempt, though she knew infinitely better. If the rumors were to be believed, despite looking like a young Apollo and possessing a superbly fit physique, Lord Northridge was more trouble than he was worth.
She counted silently to ten in Russian, her own pulse thundering in her ears. Though the conveyance had more than adequate space, his presence made the interior of the coach seem suddenly half its size. Her breath stuck in her throat at the sight of his long outstretched leg resting inches from hers. One unexpected jolt of the carriage and their knees would surely touch.
Half on edge at the prospect of any part of her body touching his, yet half relieved at his supposed slumber, Lana took the opportunity to study him, watching the way his burnished gold hair curled into his forehead. He had thick, long eyelashes that feathered onto the sharp rise of his cheekbones, a straight nose, and finely shaped lips. Lord Northridge was handsome, she decided, even though his inner beauty was sorely lacking. He had graceful hands, she noted, with slender, strong fingers. They rested upon the black superfine pulled taut against remarkably muscular thighs. Lana’s pulse quickened. Once more, his commanding frame seemed to dwarf the shrinking space.
“Like what you see?”
He had opened his eyes to slits.
A violent flush wicked through her at being caught staring. “I beg your pardon?” she replied in a haughty tone, directing her eyes anywhere but him. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“Don’t you?” His eyes remained on her, roving over her face just as she had done with him, but while her perusal had been surreptitious, his was boldly appraising. A wicked smile played along his lips. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he wanted her to know it, too.
Lana’s blush intensified. Ignoring him, she bit her lip and forced her attention to the small pane of glass on the coach door. Surely, they had to be getting close to the main house. The drive seemed interminable. Or perhaps time seemed to slow when dominated by the devil. Lana almost laughed at the apt comparison. Her companion could be Lucifer personified—the epitome of a fallen angel with his golden hair, blue eyes, and depraved disposition. She shifted, stifling the sudden urge to leap from the carr
iage.
The interior of the coach felt hot, and she could swear that Lord Northridge’s body was closer than it had been moments before. Lana’s pulse spiked, every inch of her skin prickling with bright awareness. She had been courted by suitors before and had been the recipient of hastily stolen embraces in the arbor at Volkonsky Palace. But no man had ever made her feel the way she did now—like a fox in a hunt with nowhere to run. Her short nails dug into her palms even as she feigned continued indifference. It was a talent she’d inherited from her mother: the ability to remain tranquil and unruffled in any situation.
But, lord, the man pushed her to the limits of her skill.
Despite her composed exterior, Lana was acutely conscious of him. With each inhale and exhale, she could scent the spice of his cologne and the bite of whiskey and cigar smoke, see the rise and fall of the pulse in his neck, hear the rustle of his clothing against the plush velvet seat. She could feel his hooded eyes settling upon her as if they were hands pressing against her flesh, boldly pushing past the confines of her cloak.
Undressing her.
Refusing to succumb to his debauchery, she met his eyes with cool hauteur, and they dropped provokingly to her lips. He was trying to shock her, she knew. But Lana held his stare, refusing to be cowed by whatever new perverse game he was playing. She swallowed a biting response that would remind him of his place, and hers—Lord Northridge at the best of times was unpredictable, and after a night on the town with liquor in his blood, she would do well to curb her tongue. Lest he force himself upon her like some lovelorn swain.
No, not lovelorn. Lord Northridge would not allow such a common emotion as love to rule him. The art of his seduction, if at all, would be calculated and ruthless…meant only to serve him and no other. Lovesick females fell at his feet, not the reverse. Lord Northridge’s eyes met hers as if her thoughts had grown transparent, and she flushed when another knowing smirk appeared.
Lord have mercy, he made her want to kick him. Hard.
Flustered, Lana couldn’t quite help herself as the coach finally rolled to a sharp stop in front of the manor. “Like what you see?” she asked in succinct tones.
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his lips at her veiled mockery. “Very much.”
Lana went still at the candid admission. He looked as surprised as she did. An arctic flush suffused her chest and climbed her neck as James opened the coach door. She slid forward, taking the footman’s hand and making her escape with every ounce of grace she could manage. “Perhaps you should endeavor to foist your attentions where they will be better welcomed. Good day, Lord Northridge.”
His husky chuckle at what would have been a crushing setdown in any other circumstance followed her all the way to the front door.
Blast the arrogant clodpole to Hades.
Chapter Three
“You are frowning again,” Brynn said, inspecting Gray from where she sat on the bench opposite his. The carriage rattled over the country lane, Gainsbridge Manor and the ongoing revelry of the ball well behind them. The hour was late, and Gray longed for quiet.
Though he’d dressed for the masquerade earlier that evening, he’d purposefully tarried, and Lord and Lady Dinsmore had set out for the affair ahead of him. For the next quarter hour, he’d struggled to decide whether to attend as he promised he would, or stay at Ferndale with Brynn, who had been abed all day, resting after a breathing attack that morning.
Damn Archer Croft, the bloody Marquess of Hawksfield. Their scoundrel of a neighbor had chanced upon Brynn during her early-morning ride, and when she’d returned, her cheeks had been flushed and her hair in a wild state of disarray. Brynn had been quick to assure him that the marquess had not been untoward.
But Hawksfield had not caused the breathing attack. No. That had been due to Gray himself, racing his sister to the manor house like a goddamned fool. It didn’t matter that she had suggested the foot race—he had accepted it. Pushed her too far.
Just as Lana had accused him of doing before.
He’d shoved away the thought and sat back against the carriage cushions. He hadn’t been in the mood for a masquerade, but Brynn had changed her mind, claiming she felt well enough, and so they’d gone. At least the affair had taken his mind off his disappointing ride to the Coopers the afternoon before. They had not been home, though their butler had said they were expected the following day. Gray had left his card and turned away, crestfallen. It had been a month since his last visit. A month that had stretched on like a decade.
He’d planned to return to Breckenham in two days and had then made the awful decision to pay his old friend Lord Bartley a visit. He’d arrived at Bartley’s home in Wharton, an hour north of Ferndale, and found his Oxford mate with a number of other young men. They’d convinced Gray to stay the evening. The carousing had gone on into the early-morning hours with cards and billiards, whiskey, and, quite unfortunately, a pair of buxom young ladies from London.
Their status as ladies was, admittedly, questionable.
Deflecting and resisting their attentions had exhausted every last ounce of Gray’s willpower, and by the time he’d called for his carriage and set out for home, he had been in a decidedly uncomfortable state of arousal.
And then he’d seen her at the entrance to Ferndale’s drive.
His sister’s secretive maid had been hovering near the line of oaks that trimmed the long lane, her rich, dark chocolate hair free of the little white cap she pinned into place when going about her duties. She’d appeared nearly ghostlike in the early-morning fog, and Gray had called to Rogers to stop the horses.
“Gray? Are you going to answer or continue to glower at me like I am some repellent creature?” He met Brynn’s inquisitive stare as the carriage took them toward Ferndale, and struggled not to remember how Lana had been seated upon that same cushion earlier. Or that he had flirted dangerously with her. The whiskey he’d indulged in all night long had made his tongue loose, and the need to slake the lust stirring in his groin had made him bold.
“Am I frowning?” he replied to Brynn’s question. “I blame your dress and those rubies.”
Brynn had hidden her revealing gown and the string of rubies, sent to her two days prior by an unknown admirer, with a mink stole until their late arrival at the masquerade. When she’d removed the stole, Gray had nearly suffered an apoplectic fit. If the man who’d sent the damned rubies was in attendance, he’d take the sight of them as encouragement. And what kind of gentleman sent such a ludicrous gift anonymously?
“You are right,” she sighed now, glancing out the window, her brow furrowed. “It was foolish of me.” She drew the mink stole closer around her neck as if trying to cover herself better. Or perhaps she was only chilled.
Gray started to remove his own coat. “Don’t think me too harsh. You look beautiful, Brynn, but after what happened this morning with Hawksfield encountering you unchaperoned, and just now with the Duke of Bradburne, who has all but announced his intentions to court you, I can’t help but worry. And unfortunately my worry comes across as ill temper.”
His sister had swooned and fainted in the middle of the Gainsbridge ballroom when Lord Bradburne, Hawksfield’s old rakehell of a father, approached her for a dance. It had given he and Brynn a solid reason to depart for home, but that made two fainting episodes in one day.
“So I’ve noticed,” she remarked with a tired grin.
Gray didn’t know why his temper flared every time worry struck—perhaps it was because he knew there were some things he would never be able to control. That no matter what he did or said or planned, there were some things he could never change. Either society wouldn’t allow it, or nature would deny it.
For a moment his mind settled upon the Coopers’ modest sandstone home in Breckenham. Tomorrow. He’d pay his visit tomorrow.
Rogers let out a shout, and the carriage slowed before coming to a halt. Gray tore himself from his thoughts and slid forward to open the door.
�
��What is it?” he called.
“Up ahead. A carriage in the lane, my lord,” came the driver’s reply.
Gray glanced at his sister. “Stay here,” he said, and then jumped out, landing deftly on the packed dirt of the lane.
There was indeed a carriage sitting still before them, and as Gray approached, he saw why. The horse that had been drawing the conveyance was on its side in the lane. It wasn’t moving.
“Bloody hell,” he shouted, rushing forward.
“Northridge?” a tremulous voice said from near the carriage. Gray glanced away from the dead horse and saw a man leaning against the carriage for support. Another sat at the edge of the path, his head clasped between his hands.
“Good God,” Gray said, recognizing one of his father’s oldest friends. “Lord Maynard, is that you?”
He started for the earl’s side at once but stopped when he heard the sound of feet behind him. He turned and saw his sister had not heeded his command. He grit his teeth. Lord save him from stubborn women.
“Lord Maynard, what happened here?” Brynn asked as she approached, followed closely by one of their footmen. He’d thought to bring with him a torch from the side of the carriage. The approaching light began to touch on the earl, and Gray swore under his breath.
“It was the Masked Marauder. He beat Berthold unconscious. Shot my horse! Nearly shot me, too,” the earl replied, pressing a handkerchief to his bloodied head. His lip had been split, welts and bruises covered his cheeks, and blood seeped from his nose.
Brynn covered her mouth and started to slump as she took a second glance at the lifeless horse. Gray took her shoulders and led her away, back toward the carriage. His temper flared as he swept the road for any sign of the escaping Masked Marauder, but the bandit was long gone. What kind of ingrate attacked an old man and shot a horse? Gray hungered to chase the bastard down and beat him to a fine pulp.
My Darling, My Disaster (Lords of Essex) Page 3
