by Jade Lee
"No doubt," she commented, her voice as dry as his. As she sanded the page, Stephen could not help but stare at her. This small woman climbed barefoot out of windows, punched villains twice her size, was nearly choked to death, and yet she acted as if it were all perfectly normal. Was she a lunatic or merely so lacking in sensibilities as to be a threat to herself and everyone around her?
Or both?
She finished sanding the page and sat back in her chair. "May I go to bed now?"
"Amanda, you were nearly killed tonight! Have you no sense of what could have happened to you?"
She lifted her chin, her eyes steady as they met his gaze. "I could not leave Tom to fend for himself against that man. Calling for help would only have alerted the brute and delayed me."
"So you climbed barefoot down a trellis—"
"Why do you keep harping about my feet?" She waved her hands in agitation. "It was the safest way to reach the ground. True, I should have brought something to hit the man with, but I had no idea he was so large."
"Amanda, you had no idea at all. You endangered yourself and Tom without the least chance of success. If I had not heard you climbing down the trellis, you would have been killed or worse." He reached for his brandy, not wanting to think about what would have been worse. Then he discovered his glass empty, and he set about refilling it. Only after he took another few gulps did he chance to look up and see Amanda staring at him with naked shock on her face.
"What?"
"You really are upset."
"Of course I am upset!" he bellowed.
"But why? Because I climbed down the trellis? Because I was barefoot? Or because I defended a street orphan from a bully?"
He set down his glass with a click and crossed to stand directly in front of her. "It is because you could have been killed. My God, woman, have you no fear of dying? Of being hurt or sold into slavery?"
She rose slowly from her seat, and he watched her every movement from the slight tilt of her head to the gentle press of her fingertips on his forearm. "My lord. Stephen. I have seen many people die in my life. They have died suddenly or slowly, some in accidents, others eaten up bit by bit from drink or disease or plain bitterness."
"What has that to do with—"
"I have told you before, I wished myself dead a thousand times. Death holds no terror for me. What terrifies me is living without meaning or purpose."
He stared at her, seeing the earnestness in her expression, the conviction in her voice, and could think of nothing to say. She seemed much too mature for a girl of twenty-one.
"I am tired, my lord." She sketched a brief curtsy. "Good night."
And with that, she slipped out of the room, abandoning her list of rules to him.
Chapter 5
Rule #6:
A lady does not pick locks.
Gillian peered around the hall door, then ducked back as she saw Greely, the earl's starched butler, standing guard by the front door. Oh, this is foolish beyond measure! She scolded herself. She had never in her life been willfully stupid, but here she was, lurking in a back parlor waiting to break into the earl's library.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And if she were caught, who knew how many more rules he would add to her list of ladylike behavior? He had added another four in the last week alone and continued to post the sheet beside her bed no matter how many times she ripped the silly thing down.
It had been horrible these last few days. Between interminable fittings, shopping for stiff undergarments, not to mention tea lessons, dancing lessons, and deportment lessons, she was hard put to catch her breath, much less disappear for some solitude. She'd never realized how much she enjoyed her dawn walks along the harsh Yorkshire moors until she came to London and such moments seemed an impossible dream.
So what did she do when she finally found a scant few minutes of peace? Was she upstairs, stretched upon her bed with her eyes closed as she imagined the scent of heather and sweet moss beneath her feet? Was she slipping out of her tight new undergarments or pretending to study her French verbs as the countess ordered? No. She lurked in a dark room, probably smearing dirt all over her hideously white new gown, while she waited for Greely to disappear so she could risk everything on a foolish errand for Mr. Oltheten.
Madness. Total madness.
Gillian sighed. What did she care about a sick old man who had once been nice to her? And he had not truly been kind, merely fair, treating her as a person rather than a bastard. He'd complimented her handling of Amanda's estate and was quite reasonable when she asked for funds to repair some of the crofters' huts.
But that did not demand this idiotic escapade on her part.
Gillian tensed as a footman entered the hallway. If he came to the parlor, he would find her. She hunched down, wondering what excuse she would give for hiding in this back parlor. Then to her surprise, the young servant stopped and spoke to Greely in low, urgent tones. From the expressions on their faces, it was probably another altercation with the temperamental cook. With a muffled curse, Greely waved the footman toward the back stairs, and they both disappeared toward the kitchen.
Now was her chance.
Gillian slid out of the back parlor and tiptoed around the corner. The library door whispered softly against the thick carpet, but then she slipped inside, pushing it shut while the frantic beat of her heart pounded in her ears.
She went straight to the earl's desk. A huge mahogany masterpiece, it was bliss to look at. Unable to resist, she traced the gleaming top, luxuriating in the slide of polished wood beneath her fingertips as she settled into his chair.
The red leather was molded to fit his larger, harder frame, making it feel slightly awkward as she sat, but then it gave beneath her, seeming to enfold her in a sensuous caress. She began to tingle as she felt his scent rise up to greet her, filling her mind with odd thoughts and images of him.
Disconcerted, she fumbled slightly as she drew out a thin wire and inserted it into the desk lock. It took her longer than usual. She was years out of practice, but eventually she heard the satisfying click as the lock released. Within seconds she opened the desk drawers and carefully scanned their contents.
The interior of a person's desk was a strangely intimate place. Whereas her papers at home were often strewn about on top or haphazardly tossed inside, the earl's were tidy, ordered, placed with military precision in neat stacks. She would have to be very careful to place everything back just where it belonged.
Gillian worked quickly, but she searched for something relatively obscure. She wanted the elder Mr. Oltheten's address so she could send on a recipe for a potion for his lungs. She had considered asking the earl, but then he would wish to know why, and that was dangerous ground. The real Amanda had cared nothing for herbs and plants. She'd wanted only laudanum to help her sleep.
Then, too, there was the added risk of seeing Mr. Oltheten. Of anyone in London, he was the only soul who knew her on sight. He would surely recognize her. Better to find the address, then send the recipe anonymously. She dared not risk more.
So she scanned the papers looking for Mr. Oltheten's address. He had been Stephen's father's solicitor. Surely Stephen had his direction somewhere.
Gillian worked at a feverish pace. She pulled out a stack of ledgers, thinking Stephen might have recorded the address in there. She scanned the neat columns, stunned at the numbers she saw. Why, the earl was in command of a vast fortune! No wonder Amanda's tiny Yorkshire estate was neglected. It was only one pitiful place among a richness of land and other ventures.
Gillian carefully replaced the books, then turned to the bottom left-hand drawer, her last hope. Quickly sliding it open, she was frankly surprised by what she saw. The pistol and money box were startling, but not really unusual. No doubt many gentlemen kept both in their desks. What drew her attention were four small, worn leather books. Picking one up, she knew it immediately as a journal.
The starched Earl of Mavenford kept a diary.
What a find!
Unable to resist learning anything about her forbidding guardian, Gillian opened it to the first page. There, in a childish scrawl, the young Stephen recorded receiving this journal for his eighth birthday.
Quickly turning the pages, she saw regular entries chronicling his young life. There were delightful essays on the nature of sour-faced tutors, a clearly much-belabored love poem to a woman named Betty, and the results of a scientific study into the perfect fishing techniques.
The next three books continued as the first, recording the days of his life. Her original goal forgotten, she quickly flipped through the pages, searching for the day she had first arrived. What could he have written about her?
"Find everything you wanted?"
The earl's low voice cut through her thoughts, and she nearly jumped out of her seat. One hasty glance over her shoulder revealed Stephen—it was impossible to think of him as an earl after reading his poetry—looking elegantly austere in black, his dark eyebrows a heavy slash of anger across his face.
"Uh, I beg your pardon?" she asked sweetly, knowing there was no way she could brazen her way through this, but nevertheless determined to try.
He stepped inside the room, his eyes reminding her of a winter storm at sea—cold, fierce, and deadly. Behind him, Greely shook his head in dismay, then discreetly pulled the library door shut.
"Why are you in my desk, Amanda?"
"I was looking for a direction, actually, but got quite distracted." Gillian looked down and began returning his journals to their place in his drawer. Then, giving in to a sudden impulse, she discreetly slipped the last book into her pocket, where it lay heavily against her thigh.
"Distracted?" Stephen repeated as he crossed to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy. "Is that what you call reading a man's private thoughts? I call it a violation of privacy, and a very, very serious crime."
Gillian carefully shut his desk drawer and stood, keeping her hands folded demurely in front of her. Then she spotted her lock pick wire on the desk and nearly panicked. He should not see it. He would think she made her living picking people's desks.
But it was too late. Even as she touched the wire, he was there, wrapping his large hand around hers, lifting it up so he could inspect the lock pick.
"My goodness, Amanda, it seems I underestimated you. You appear to be quite experienced at thievery."
"I was not thieving! I told you, I needed a direction." She tried to jerk her hand from his, but she might as well have tried to pull out a tree, roots and all. She was held fast and would remain so until he chose to release her.
"A direction, you say? Whose?"
Gillian hesitated. To tell him would be to expose herself to all kinds of problems. But what could she say that he would believe? Perhaps a distraction would work.
"Who is Betty?"
Stephen blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Betty. The woman you wrote that poem to." But as the words left her lips, she realized the depth of her mistake. No man wanted his youthful foibles exposed, and Stephen Conley was more private than most. His grip tightened painfully on her wrist, and she bit her lip to restrain a cry of alarm.
"How much did you read?"
"Uh—"
"How much did you read?"
"Only bits and pieces: Actually," she said on a tremulous laugh, "I had no idea you were such a scapegrace as a child. It quite gives me hope."
"That I will forgive your latest transgression? I fear you are sadly out on that thought, my dear."
Gillian lifted her chin, trying to smile brightly despite her fears. "Oh, no, my lord. I know you will punish me, but it still gives me hope that once you settle into your position as earl, you will relax your puffed-up attitude. Mind you, excessive dignity becomes you as well," she added hastily. "I simply meant we shall be much more comfortable together when you cease to demand such high standards of yourself and everyone else."
She smiled at him, pleased her explanation had achieved its desired goal. He blinked dazedly at her, as if amazed by her powers of thought. His next words confirmed her suspicions.
"Your mind quite astounds me, Amanda."
She smiled. "I am counted quite bright."
He glowered at her. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps an earl should retain an extra measure of dignity?"
"Of course not. If it did, no one would ever want a title."
She felt his grip loosen in shock, but when she tried to back away, she found him quite determined to keep her exactly where she was.
"Amazing powers of logic. Tell me, Amanda, how does a woman who is counted quite bright come to use a lock pick?"
She hesitated. "The nights in York are quite long, my lord."
"So you resort to thievery to amuse yourself?"
"Uh, no. To break into my father's library. He had quite a number of books he believed too, um, delicate for one of my tender years."
"I can well imagine," Stephen commented dryly as he carefully brought her around his desk to stand directly in front of him. "So mine is not the only library to be graced by your presence."
Gillian smiled, relaxing now that she had managed to distract him. "It was years before I received the keys, and by that time I was so proficient I never bothered with them."
"And he never took you across his knee to give you the beating you deserved?"
Gillian looked down, unwilling to relive the memories revived by his comments. "You need not worry on that point, my lord," she said softly. "Others took up what my father neglected." The real Amanda, in fact, had repeatedly ordered the butler to beat her. This he had done with almost clockwork regularity.
"And what about me, Amanda? Shall I beat you for your transgression?"
Gillian felt her heart do an erratic double thump at his comment. She stood so close to Stephen she could feel the power in his lean form, only partially hidden by his fashionable clothes. He could no doubt kill her with just his bare hands, but despite his words, she did not fear he would hurt her.
In fact, the thought of his hands on her body intrigued her as much as it frightened her.
She swallowed convulsively, and for the first time in her life had no comment. Her mind was consumed by the images conjured by his words.
Then she felt his hand on her chin, tilting her head until she looked directly into his eyes. This close to him, she could see the gold flecks that made them shimmer in candlelight, and as she watched, the dark pupils dilated, expanding into the blue depths until his gaze seemed wholly dark and devastatingly compelling.
"How shall I punish you, Amanda?" His voice was a hoarse whisper, and she felt her own breath catch on her dry lips. His hold on her face was hard, but not hurtful, and she could feel the leashed intensity in the press of his fingers. "When you pry into a man's secrets, there is no telling what darkness you might find."
Gillian felt her world spin out of control. She wanted desperately to break away from the frightening sensations coursing through her body. She felt hot and cold and trembly all over. All she need do was twist away and the world would right itself again. She would regain her strength and control. Yet she felt powerless to do so. Instead she lifted her chin and swayed forward, begging him with her body to explain the secrets she saw burning in his eyes.
"Why were you in my desk?"
"I was looking for Mr. Oltheten's direction." She could not stop the words if her life had depended on it. And perhaps, she thought with an odd sense of unreality, perhaps her life did hang in the balance. But it was too late.
"Mr. Oltheten? But you have—"
"The elder."
"Why?"
Gillian sighed, knowing now he would not kiss her. She jumped a bit, startled by her own thought. Was she waiting for a kiss? Not possible. Why would—
But her thoughts were interrupted by his growled demand. "Why do you want his direction, Amanda?"
She turned away, finally able to break his spell over her. "Because I wished to send him a recipe
for his lungs."
"Why not simply ask me for it?"
Gillian shrugged, her excuse sounding feeble to her own ears. "Because you would make me see him, and I... I have no desire to visit his sickroom."
He remained silent for a long moment. Her back was to him, her eyes on the smooth planes of his desk. Would his skin be as silken to the touch? Certainly not as cool, for she had felt his heat radiate through the many layers of their clothes.
"How did you learn this recipe?"
"G-Gillian needed it. I made it for her many times." It was hard to say her own name, to speak of her own death even knowing it was all pretend.
Then she felt him draw closer. She heard the rustle of his clothing and smelled the faint sandalwood of his cologne. When he spoke, his voice was low and his breath teased the hair along the back of her neck.
"It must have been hard to watch your sister die. Especially since she nursed you all those years."
"It is hard to watch anyone die. Gillian's death was no worse than another's." It surprised her how cold she sounded. So much like the real Amanda.
"Still," he pursued, "she was your sister—"
"Half-sister. And I never felt any kinship with her." That much at least was true, for both Gillian and the real Amanda.
Then suddenly it was too much for her. He was too much for her. So she crossed quickly to the earl's chair, using the movement to escape his disturbing presence. She remembered his desk in detail, so she knew just which drawer to pull open for a sheet of foolscap.
She quickly scribbled down the recipe without looking up. But though she never glanced at him, she was excruciatingly aware of the man who watched her with those hooded eyes.
"There." She pushed the paper toward him. "Please send it to Mr. Oltheten with my regards. Now if you will excuse me..." She meant to slip by him and straight out the door, but he stopped her. He grabbed her arm and drew her close until she pressed sideways against him—her shoulder tucked against his muscular chest, her hip flush against the narrow heat of him, and her thigh nestled between his legs.
"My lord?" She hated the breathless quality to her voice, but she could not stop the fluttering of sensation quivering in her belly.
