The Highwayman's Lady (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Karen Lingefelt

  “I did. That is, I did kiss her. But that was after she was no longer betrothed. The on-dit is that she ended it. But I think he did, and she’s the one taking the blame.”

  Samantha didn’t look so amused or mischievous now as she daubed her frowning lips with a napkin. “Isn’t that usually the case for women?”

  “Regardless of who ended it, ’twas because she supposedly allowed the highwayman to take liberties.”

  “You didn’t force yourself?”

  “Of course I didn’t!” he said fiercely. “What do you take me for?”

  “I didn’t mean that, Jack, forgive me,” Samantha said quickly. “What I mean is, no one at the house party believes the highwayman forced himself on her. They believe only that she allowed him to do whatever they think he did. Do you see the difference?”

  “I do,” he conceded. “And you’re correct. But they seem to have made that assumption based on the undeniable fact that after I walked away from her carriage, she left it and came after me. Why would she do such a foolish thing? Granted, I would never have done anything to hurt her. However, she risked her reputation by that one simple act.”

  “I daresay she did more than risk it,” said Samantha. “She ruined it.”

  “So now it’s up to me to make things right, and that’s why I’m here. Well, and to see my dear sister after so many years.”

  “So she’s the cousin of a duke,” Samantha remarked.

  “Two dukes, Halstead and Ainsley. And she’s the niece of an earl. Or maybe I should say cousin, since that uncle is also deceased. The Earl of Tyndall. They’re still waiting for the distant cousin who inherited to return from abroad.”

  “Nonetheless, she’s well connected. Uncle Crispin might fancy that, unless he finds out she’s been courting scandal with a highwayman. Never mind you’re the brigand in question. What’s her name?”

  “Felicity Griffin. And I’m not entirely certain our uncle will approve of her, even if there’d never been a highwayman. She has neither a title nor a dowry.”

  “I didn’t have a title or dowry,” Samantha reminded him. “And yet I managed to marry an earl. Of course, it was only then that Uncle Crispin deigned to acknowledge my existence. But I never had a Season, either. Did she?”

  “As far as I know, she didn’t. She was engaged to her fiancé since childhood, and he had no prospects himself until recently. He was something like the third son of a fourth son of a fifth son of the Earl of Renton, and now he’s the earl himself by dint of some epidemic.”

  “Isn’t that how Uncle Crispin came to be Viscount Lockwood? If Miss Griffin’s former fiancé is anything like him, then I wouldn’t be surprised if he used her encounter with the highwayman as an excuse to end their arrangement so he could find a bride more worthy of his newly elevated status.”

  And that, Jack realized, only bolstered the notion that Renton may have known about the prank and even suggested it to Howland and Rollo.

  But why leave Jack out of the loop?

  He glanced at his brother-in-law. “Do you perchance have any old wigs and masks in your attic that you can spare?”

  “We can look,” Gabriel replied. “Did you want to join us for Lady Whitbourne’s masquerade? I’m certain she won’t mind an extra guest, especially if he’s a bachelor of your age. She wants to find a husband for her granddaughter Georgiana, but I should warn you, the girl is quite the hoyden.”

  “Thank you, but I daresay I’ve already found the hoyden of my dreams,” Jack replied. “And I’ll need to play the highwayman again for my next encounter with her.”

  Chapter Eleven

  By the time Felicity arrived at Halstead House in Mayfair that evening, the duke and his mother had already left for the evening.

  “They went to Lady Whitbourne’s masquerade,” said Mrs. Turner, the housekeeper. “Lawks, Miss Griffin, but you must be tired and famished. Let me show you to a bedchamber and we’ll send up a tray. This is quite a surprise, if I may say so.”

  Then Felicity was not expected—which meant the duke had yet to read Cordelia’s express. She might still have time to find it before Cousin Blake and Aunt Dolly learned why she was here and duly turned her out, but not before branding her with a scarlet R for “Ruined.”

  She followed Mrs. Turner up the staircase. “Then you don’t know if His Grace received an express earlier this evening, or even late this afternoon, or—”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. An express from Lady Tyndall who’s visiting Howland Hall.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “On his desk, I should think. I’m not certain he even bothered to open it.”

  Felicity clutched a hand to her heart and nearly collapsed into a kneeling position on the steps as she glanced up at the front hall’s domed ceiling painted with an array of clouds and cherubs, and muttered a thank you to the Almighty.

  Mrs. Turner went on, “His Grace was in the front hall, just coming out of his book room to go upstairs and dress for this evening when the express arrived. Being from Lady Tyndall, he didn’t think ’twas of any great import, so I do believe he left it for later. Mayhap you know she’s always sending him expresses that aren’t at all of an urgent nature. Heaven knows how many horses she’s wearied on the road between here and wherever she happens to be. I reckon if His Grace had read this particular express before going out this evening, then we would’ve been warned you were coming?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Well, then for once she sent an express of genuine urgency!” Mrs. Turner sounded as indignant as any housekeeper dared toward the aunt of her master, and in front of her master’s cousin. “No matter. We shall tell His Grace of your arrival as soon as he—”

  “Oh, no, there’s no need for that,” Felicity said hastily, as they reached the top of the stairs. “I’m sure it will be quite late—or quite early, if one prefers—before he comes home, and I wouldn’t dream of you or any other member of the household waiting up for him simply to let him know I’m here. I’m sure he’ll want to go straight upstairs to bed.”

  Once she was settled in her appointed bedchamber, Felicity had only to wait until Mrs. Turner and the rest of the household retired so she could search Blake’s book room for the deadly express. If she only knew exactly what Cordelia had written to him, she would have a better idea of how to explain matters to him, because she certainly didn’t have the slightest clue at this moment.

  After a long, exhausting day, she had to struggle to stay awake until she was quite certain she could prowl about the house without incident. She passed the time in much the same way she had the uncomfortable journey on the coach—by thinking of Captain Jordan’s kiss this morning. Of how his hard, muscular body had felt pressed against hers. The constant rocking of the coach had caused an unusually pleasant friction in her seat that seemed especially noticeable when she thought of him. That friction had left her with a strange longing for more of his kisses, and more of his touch, in places other than her mouth.

  Places like—well, the place where she’d felt the pleasant friction.

  She closed her eyes as she thought of him touching her there, all over, and next thing she knew, it was the highwayman who held her in his embrace, kissing her all over despite the mask that covered his entire face. She tried to reach for it and pull it off so she could see who he really was, but every time she grabbed hold of it, the kisses and caresses stopped.

  Only she didn’t want him to stop. So she let go of the mask and he continued doing things to her that she couldn’t see because of the mask—but how could that be when he was the one wearing it? Perhaps it didn’t matter as long as she could at least feel what he was doing.

  And what he was doing felt like liquid fire trickling all through her, from her lips to the very tips of her breasts, and from there to the hidden flesh that quivered and pulsed between her thighs. A delicious heat built up inside of her, and just when she thought she might burst she had to do something very foolish, as f
oolish as quitting the carriage to go after him in the first place—she tried again to remove the mask.

  This time, the wonderful sensations not only came to an abrupt halt, but she snapped wide awake. It took a moment for her to recall where she was. There was no highwayman, yet she continued to throb between her thighs as if he’d just been here. The candle she’d left burning at her bedside was starting to gutter. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the unfamiliar chiming of a clock. She didn’t know how many times it chimed, except it chimed a great many times, meaning it was either eleven o’clock or midnight.

  Candle in hand, she crept downstairs, where all was dark and deserted, and headed straight for the duke’s book room just off the front hall. To her chagrin, his desk was a blizzard of papers. She searched frantically for something, anything from—ah, right here! The return address, written in Cordelia’s spidery penmanship, clearly indicated she was the author and that she was writing from Howland Hall in Sussex.

  Felicity gasped in delighted relief. She could scarcely believe she’d found the incriminating express so easily, considering the chaotic state of her cousin’s desk. And what luck! It was still sealed. Dear Mrs. Turner was right.

  Felicity broke the seal and unfolded the letter. Dear Blake, I shall need more money to buy another gown for Lydia. Drat! She should have known. Mrs. Turner did, and Felicity had even explained as much to Captain Jordan earlier today.

  She scanned the desk, lifting papers, leafing through—ah, here was another one, also from Cordelia at Howland Hall. Considering it had been buried under other papers, it likely wasn’t the express Felicity sought, but she couldn’t take any chances. Dear Blake, Lydia needs a new pair of dancing slippers.

  Felicity wasn’t especially surprised by all the requests for ducal largesse. Blake’s grandfather had been Cordelia’s father, and she still claimed all the privileges of being first the daughter, and then the sister and finally the aunt of a duke, especially since her husband’s death. Lord Tyndall’s estate, almost all of which was entailed, was tied up tight until his successor returned from abroad.

  Still, where did Cordelia find the time to write all of these supposedly urgent messages from Howland Hall, and regale anyone thought to be in earshot with the scandalous tale of her niece’s ravishment at the hands of four and twenty highwaymen?

  By now the candle was almost a stub. Time was running out. What had Mrs. Turner said? He was in the front hall, just coming out of his book room to go upstairs and dress for this evening when the express arrived.

  Which meant he might well have slipped it into his coat pocket and gone upstairs with it.

  Which, in turn, meant the coat would be in his bedchamber—unless the valet had already—Felicity snatched up the candle and fled the book room, rushing upstairs as—her heart leaped as she heard a loud click from below, and she froze on the staircase.

  They were back.

  Felicity’s first instinct was to blow out the candle, except that would have left her in total darkness until such time as Blake lit a candle of his own or rang for a servant to come and do the honors. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice the feeble light from where she stood. Or maybe he’d assume her pitiful little flame had been left burning for him by one of his servants.

  Or maybe neither, since that didn’t look like Blake entering the house, unless he hadn’t bothered to remove his mask after leaving Lady Whitbourne’s party.

  A mask that bore quite a strong resemblance to the one her—no, the highwayman had worn that fateful night. Her pulse quickened and her insides quivered with a mysterious, heated thrill.

  This couldn’t possibly be one of those amazing coincidences she’d often read about in the same novels that portrayed highwaymen accosting women not for their jewels but to kiss them.

  But it was the sort of mask she knew people wore in Venice during the Carnival. It flared out at the bottom, just like the highwayman’s had. And like his, it was a dingy white and slightly battered from frequent use. This time, however, he wasn’t wearing a hat, and the wig, instead of resembling a dead hedgehog, looked as if he’d pinched it off the head of some unsuspecting footman dozing on a chair in the hallway.

  He crept across the front hall and disappeared into the inky shadows. A moment later she glimpsed the faintest light seeping from the same room where she’d just been searching.

  She blew out what remained of her own candle. She knew she shouldn’t, just as she knew she should never have left the carriage to confront this rogue the other night. But the same invisible force that had dragged her from that carriage now pulled her down the stairs, as if he’d tied a rope around her and was tugging at the other end.

  She reached the doorway and stopped short with a gasp. He was directly in front of her, standing behind the desk, staring straight back at her. She didn’t recall her—no, the highwayman being so short.

  Yet at the sound of her gasp, he yanked on the bottom edge of the mask and stood up straight. Then she realized he’d been bending over the desk with the mask raised in such a way that he’d have an unimpeded view of the desk clutter while the mask itself continued staring forward with empty eyeholes.

  Blast it again! If only she hadn’t gasped, she might have made it to the desk without his knowledge and caught a glimpse of his face, thus confirming her suspicions about his identity.

  But the mask was back in place, and now he was gazing at her.

  Felicity gaped back.

  He didn’t say a word but stood very still, as if she were a wild animal who might just sniff and nuzzle at him before slinking away, provided he could play dead and be very convincing about it even while in an upright position.

  Never had she been more convinced that he was really Captain Jordan. She’d told him about the express and the possibility that her cousin wouldn’t have opened it right away. Obviously he’d come to assist in intercepting her aunt’s message—only why the disguise?

  Did he honestly think he was fooling her? Or did he not want to risk being recognized by anyone else—only who else?

  She fought to keep her voice to just above a whisper, so as not to alert any servants. “You! It’s really you!”

  He muttered something she could barely hear. She lunged forward until her night rail brushed against the front edge of the desk—at which point she remembered that not only was she wearing her night rail, but she wasn’t wearing anything else. “What did you say?”

  He backed away from the desk and the circle of light cast by the candle he’d lit, taking refuge in the shadows of the furthermost corner before saying in a hoarse whisper, “I said, I was wondering if you’d recognize me.”

  “Well, of course I recognize you! That is, I recognize your mask.” She started edging around the desk, and he swiftly held up a black-gloved hand.

  “Don’t come any closer.” His voice remained just above a whisper, but so raspy it was almost a growl. “You shouldn’t be prowling around the house in your night rail.”

  “I beg your pardon?” It was all she could do not to burst into laughter. “Maybe you shouldn’t be prowling around dressed as a Venetian bandit. And just like you, I didn’t expect to meet anyone on my midnight wanderings. By the way, I like that wig much better than the one you wore the other night.”

  “And I like that night rail better than that dark cloak and bonnet you wore the other night.”

  She stepped back from the small circle of light cast by his candle, even as a wicked thrill skittered down her spine and set her heart dancing. “What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask the same of you,” he countered in a haughty whisper. “Don’t you know better after what happened the other night?”

  “Then you do know what happened!”

  “Of course I do. I was there, was I not?”

  “No, I mean afterward. You do know why I was sent here, don’t you?”

  “Because you’re pursuing me? Because you’re still trying to deduce what I left without the other night, and to
night you’re determined not to let me leave here without whatever it is?”

  “They sent me away from Howland Hall because they think you kissed me.” And probably more than that, but the mere possibility of a kiss was enough.

  “Is that what you think I left without?” The murmur of his voice was like a gentle caress. His gloved fingertips pinched the flame on the candle, plunging them both into darkness.

  Felicity gasped and then held her breath, her racing heart almost stumbling to a halt as she sensed him slowly stepping closer to her until she felt the heat of his body mere inches from hers. He didn’t smell like a highwayman, not that she knew what one was supposed to smell like. He smelled like soap, as if he’d bathed before breaking into—well, all right, entering her cousin’s townhouse without benefit of invitation.

  His hands ever so lightly brushed her shoulders and slid slowly down her arms, making her shiver with sinful delight. “Is this what you wanted me to do the other night? Hold you in my arms and steal a kiss, since you’ve never been kissed before?”

  Felicity lifted her hand to touch the bottom edge of his bauta mask, only to realize he’d removed it, or at least pushed it back out of the way. She felt a firm, stubbled chin as the tip of her finger slipped into a tiny depression, a cleft.

  She could have sworn Captain Jordan had a tiny cleft in his chin.

  She craned her neck to peer at him but saw nothing but darkness. The windows were shuttered against any possible light from outside.

  “I don’t know what I wanted you to do, except everyone seems to think you did it anyway and that’s why Lord Renton ended our betrothal.”

  “But you didn’t wish to marry him, did you?”

  “No, but—well, no. I suppose I owe you thanks.” She blew out a sigh. “Thank you.”

  “That’s no way to thank me. I do believe I’ve earned a kiss.”

  Two kisses from two men in one day? Oh, make that two days, since it was now past midnight. And make that one man. The evidence was piled too high for him to be anyone other than Captain Jordan. If only she could trick him into speaking in his normal tone of voice, she’d know for certain.