by Jenna Kernan
A strong mind was a match for a strong arm any day of the week.
She held out her hand for the book.
He was staring at the words on the cover. ‘This is what you wanted? A history book?’
‘I like history. I thought I might find out a little more about the house.’
He raised his gaze and his rare smile made an appearance. ‘I am glad you are starting to feel at home, Miss Wilding.’
The warmth of that smile sent butterflies dancing in her stomach. She repressed them with a frown. ‘There is no sense in going somewhere and leaving again without finding out something about it.’ She sighed. ‘And besides, it caught my eye because it was out of place, pushed in there with the novels.’
His smile broadened. His grey eyes danced with amusement. ‘Did you ever hear the saying, curiosity killed the cat?’
Now he was teasing her. ‘Without curiosity we would be no better than the beasts of the field, my lord.’
He laughed out loud. ‘Then I hope you find this worth another fall.’
‘The first fall was hardly my fault.’ Perhaps he was thinking that if she hadn’t fallen and been whisked out of the way by Mr Trelawny she might already be out of his way. The lightness she’d been feeling dissipated in a rush.
Sensing the change of mood, he huffed out a sigh. ‘The rest of them went to play billiards. Even Mrs Hampton. I came to see if you wanted to join them. To be truthful, I had thought they would come here after dinner.’ He sounded disgruntled, as if they had spoiled his plan. What, had he expected them all to gather in the library, like some sort of close-knit family? The kind of family she had always dreamed of having. Or had dreamed of once, a long time ago. Now, she only wanted her job back. Her classes to teach. Her girls.
He handed her the book and wandered around the room, looking at titles, poking around in cupboards. He looked large and restless, as if he couldn’t breathe in the confines of the room. How could she possibly read with him pacing around like a caged lion? To be truthful, with his dark looks, he reminded her more of a panther than a lion. But just as dangerous.
Perhaps he was eager to play billiards and felt obligated to see to her welfare. In which case, it would be easy to set him free. A little stab of disappointment caught her by surprise. What, did she want him to stay? Surely not?
‘I am quite happy to sit here and read,’ she said, tacitly giving him permission to depart. She glanced down at the little book and flipped through the pages. It was not a printed book. It was handwritten and there were sketches of the abbey looking very different to how it looked today. The paper was old and yellowed. Parchment? At the back of it were what looked like maps. She quickly turned to the middle of the book. She wanted to look at those maps, but not in the presence of the earl.
‘Do you consider yourself a blue-stocking, Miss Wilding?’ he asked idly, riffling through the pages of a volume he had pulled from the shelves. He held it up. ‘A Mary Wollstonecraft acolyte? You have read her work, I am sure.’
‘A Vindication Of The Rights Of Woman? I think it astonishingly far-sighted.’
He looked at her for a long moment and she had the feeling he was considering his options. ‘You agree with her, then?’
‘On many counts.’ She swung her legs to the floor to face him. Her hands clasped tightly in her lap. ‘Why should girls not receive the same education as their brothers? Not everyone is destined to be a wife or a mother. And even in those roles, surely an educated woman is a valuable addition to any family.’
‘You are passionate in your beliefs, I see.’
And she had exposed herself to his mockery by the intensity of her response. She stiffened against her desire to back down, to please him. ‘Why should I not be, since it is of importance to me as a person?’
‘And it is your opinion that a woman need not, by definition of her sex, suffer from an excess of sensibility. You would not consider romantic love as a requirement for a contented marriage?’
Was this a proposal? Her heart gave a painful lurch. ‘It is a sound principal from which to begin.’ A painful flush rushed to her cheeks, because it was only partly the truth. Whatever she believed in her rationale mind, her heart wanted more than mere friendship or affection.
In her youth, it had yearned for love.
Yet she was not the sort of woman men fell in love with. She had accepted that. And now he was stirring up all those old emotions, those longings. Resentment rose against his probing into old wounds.
‘And what of yourself, my lord?’ she countered. ‘What are your thoughts? You must marry, produce an heir.’
An emotion she could not read flickered across his face. Not a happy one though, of that she was certain. ‘My business affairs leave little time for wooing. Besides, I have an heir.’
‘Jeffrey.’
He nodded.
She remembered his vow that the Beresford line would end with him. ‘So he is, after all, to provide the next generation of Beresfords? Your grandfather would be pleased.’ It was an unfair jab, but she could not help but defend herself.
‘It won’t happen.’
He spoke with such surety, she stared at him in surprise. ‘You cannot be sure he will not marry and have children. He is a young man.’ Unless he planned to do away with him, too? The idea filled her with sick horror. First that she had even thought of the idea and second that she even thought it plausible. ‘It is a rare man who does not marry,’ she finished weakly.
He gave her a sharp look. ‘You do not then eschew marriage?’
‘I do not seek it for myself. But I do not eschew it for others.’
‘You believe in choice, then.’ A heaviness weighted his words. As if they held an underlying significance.
‘Yes. I do.’
‘Did you know your father was a vicar?’
She gasped.
Chapter Eight
After a moment of shock, Mary took a deep steadying breath. ‘May I know what else you have learned, sir?’ How she spoke with such calm, she couldn’t be sure, for her pulse was racing so fast that she could feel the thunder of her heart against the press of her stays.
He gave a slight shrug. ‘It is of very little help in this bind in which we find ourselves.’
The will was his only concern. Hers ran much deeper. ‘My lord, this is my family we are discussing.’ How rarely had she used those words, my family. It always seemed false to talk about family when one had none. ‘I deserve to know all you have learned.’
‘As you wish. Lord Templeton has established to his satisfaction that there is little or no chance that you and I are related. On either side of the blanket.’
She stiffened. ‘You make it sound as if that is not a good thing.’
‘It would have ended this farce immediately.’
She stared at him.
‘The laws of consanguinity, Miss Wilding.’ He drew up a chair and sat on the opposite side of the hearth. His expression was pensive, but the contrast of flame and shadows on his skin were unnervingly menacing. ‘You must be aware of the required degrees of separation for a couple to be permitted to marry.’
Marry. There was that word again. Her face flamed, but he was looking into the fire and fortunately did not see her reaction.
‘I—yes, of course I am aware.’ She was proud of the way she sounded as if this was purely an academic discussion, even if inside she was as taut as a bowstring. ‘Are you thinking you will submit to the terms of your grandfather’s will?’ Was that the point of his questions? Was he deciding what sort of wife she would make? She held her breath.
He turned away from the fire to look at her, his eyes wide with surprise and silver with intensity. Expressions flickered across his normally impassive face—longing, she thought, and perhaps loneliness. Things that pulled at h
er too-soft heart. Finally he settled on mockery, which seemed primarily directed at himself. ‘Submission. Is that how you see it, Miss Wilding? Without knowing what is behind it all, I’d consider myself a fool to submit.’ His voice was a low velvet murmur. A seduction of the senses, when the words, the unspoken criticism, flayed her heart.
She straightened her spine. ‘As would I.’
Again something like regret reflected in his eyes as he acknowledged her answer with a sharp nod. ‘So you would,’ he agreed without inflection.
He rose to his feet. ‘May I return you to your chamber? I find I am not inclined for sociability any more this evening.’
Bored with her company, he meant. ‘I can ring for a footman.’
‘Oh, no, Miss Wilding. Why would I deny myself the pleasure of holding you in my arms?’
Heat bathed her skin. ‘Sir, you are impertinent.’
‘Yes. I am, am I not?’ And without another word he lifted her from the sofa and carried her to her room.
Pleasure. The word rippled through her, leaving her breathless. It was an admission that he, too, felt the attraction between them. And now he was carrying her to her bedroom. Little shivers chased across her skin.
Pleasure indeed. The feel of strong arms cradling her body, the beat of a heart against her chest, for without thinking she had curled her arm over his shoulder. To support herself, naturally. Her fingers itched to test the silkiness of the hair at his nape. Her head longed to lean against that powerful shoulder. Her body yearned to curl into him. All in the name of pleasure.
Little though she knew of it.
Too soon they arrived at her door and he set her down on her feet. Without a word, he reached around her and opened the door to her chamber. She fought the strange sense of disappointment as she turned to enter her room. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
He caught her arm, holding her back, and she looked up at him. There was a strange expression on his face. A sort of wry twist to his mouth as he trapped her against the doorframe with one hand above her head and the other resting on the wall beside her cheek.
‘My lord,’ she gasped.
In the light from the sconce, his face was all hard angles and smooth planes. There was a loneliness about him, she was sure of it this time. An impossible bleakness as he stared into her eyes. His lids lowered a fraction, his mouth softened and curved in a most decadent smile when she nervously licked her lips.
She intended to speak, to warn him off, to push him away, but her fingers curled around his lapel as her knees felt suddenly weak and the tightness in her throat made it impossible to do more than breathe shallow sips of air.
A flash of hunger flared in those storm-grey eyes.
An answering desire roared through her veins. Shocked, heart pounding, she stared into his lovely face, waiting, wondering.
Slowly he bent his head, as if daring her to meet him halfway. Unable to resist the challenge, she closed the distance and brushed her mouth against his. His hand came behind her nape and expertly steadied her as he angled his head and took her lips in a ravenous kiss.
Large warm hands held her steady, one at her waist, the other cradling her head. A storm of sensation swept through her: tingles in her breasts, flutters in her core and the silken slide of his tongue tangling with hers. Delicious. Decadent. Bone melting. Heart stopping.
Thrills chased along her veins, making her tremble and long for more.
A sort of wonder filled her as her fingers finally explored the hair at his nape and wandered the impossible width of those muscled shoulders. Conscious mind disappeared into the hot darkness of desire.
A heavy thigh pressed between her legs, a steady pressure that offered ease to a growing ache. She shifted, parting her thighs to that insistent pressure, only to feel the torture, the aching need for something more. She tilted her hips into him.
On a soft groan, he broke the kiss. His chest was rising and falling as rapidly as her own, his gaze molten. ‘Would it really be so bad to be married to me, Miss Wilding?’ he asked in a low seductive growl.
Blankly she stared at him, her mind dizzy from his sensual assault.
His short laugh was low and slightly incredulous as he swept her up and set her on the bed. He stood over her like some pillaging Viking.
Finally, some sense of preservation took control of her mind. ‘You must not do this.’
His silver eyes were cold. ‘Think about it, Miss Wilding. The alternative is not all that attractive.’
He turned on his heel and the door closed quietly behind him.
She swallowed. The alternative was death.
Shivering, she struggled to sit up, then pressed her fingers to her mouth, where just a few moments ago his kisses had wooed her to the point of insensibility. Had the unthinkable just happened? Had she practically given her virtue to this man? This stranger who to all intents and purposes, would be better off if she died? She gave a small moan as the delight of that moment echoed through her body and her feminine flesh gave a little pulse of pleasure.
Wanton female. Fool, more like.
Was he actually proposing marriage, or had he simply been carried away by the moment, by lust?
According to Sally, men promised many things in the throes of desire, only to go back on their word when they achieved their aim.
And he hadn’t asked her to marry him. He’d asked her if marriage to him would be all that bad. She couldn’t imagine anything worse, because clearly she could not keep her wits about him when he kissed her. And their marriage wouldn’t be about kisses. It was about him getting his hands on his money.
He didn’t even want children.
The lawyers in London must have told him there was no other way.
She went hot, then cold. Embarrassment. At him being forced to marry her. At his pretence of desire. Although it had not felt like pretence. Not at all. It had felt deliciously wicked and enticing.
Which was his whole purpose. To entice her into a marriage neither of them wanted.
If only she could get to the bottom of why the old earl had placed them in this ridiculous predicament, perhaps it would help them find a way out of it. Sally Ladbrook was the key. She was sure of it. Should she tell the earl where his friend might look for her, since it seemed unlikely she could go looking for herself any time soon? It was a question she would have to ponder carefully.
It would mean trusting him.
* * *
She did not see the earl at all the next day. Likely he was plotting his next move, after her refusal to succumb to seduction. After a night of restlessly tossing and turning, she’d spent most of the day wondering why she had.
He did not join the family for dinner, either. He was closeted with the lawyer, Mr Savary, and his steward, Manners said. He had requested a tray in his study for all three gentlemen. Not something an earl would normally do, Mrs Hampton announced in arctic tones.
Perhaps he was avoiding her. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as in control as he made out. Perhaps he regretted last evening’s encounter as much as she did.
So much for getting all dressed up for him. Mentally she gave herself a reproving shake. She was glad he had not come for dinner. Imagine the embarrassment of having to converse with a man whose body her hands had roamed the day before. She should be grateful for his consideration. Not that she thought he cared about her feelings.
He was no doubt busy trying to find a way to break the will.
Conversation throughout the meal was desultory, hinging around the visit the two young men had paid to a neighbour that afternoon and catching Mrs Hampton up on local gossip. Since none of it meant anything to Mary, she listened with only half an ear.
The meal was just about done and she was beginning to think she could retire to her chamber unscathed when Gerald turned his angelic-blue
eyes in her direction. While he looked utterly angelic, she often had the feeling that the glimmer in his eyes was vaguely malicious. She braced herself for what might come out of his mouth.
‘Did you find out anything about our ghost in that history, Miss Wilding?’
She frowned.
‘The history of the house. I saw it on your bedside table when I brought you more books.’
She hadn’t looked at the book, preferring the novels instead. She had set it aside and forgotten all about it. ‘I did not.’
‘I can’t believe there isn’t something in there about her,’ he said, sounding disappointed.
‘Let me give you the book, so you can look for yourself,’ she said calmly.
The sly look was back. ‘I would far rather you tell me what it says.’
‘I say, old chap,’ Jeffrey drawled. ‘If Miss Wilding ain’t interested in reading about ghosts, then she ain’t. It is all speculation and gossip. I’ve never once seen hide nor hair of a ghost and I’ve explored every inch of the place.’
Including the tunnels behind the walls? He’d pooh-poohed the idea earlier, but he could have been trying to mislead her. And where had the heir to the title been when the barrel tumbled down that hill?
Could he be the one who wanted her dead? And not the earl?
Or was that her body’s wishful thinking, a hope she could absolve the earl, so she could what? Encourage his seduction? Let it sway her common sense? Did she have no shame any more? No intelligence when it came to her thoughts about this man just because he had set fire to longings she had no business thinking about, let alone having?
‘Would you care to take tea in the drawing room with me, Miss Wilding?’ Mrs Hampton asked.
The woman sounded almost friendly, not the least bit condescending.
‘I could fetch your book,’ Gerald offered. ‘And you could read aloud from it.’
Puzzled at his determination, Mary frowned at him.
His mother gave a little shudder. ‘I am not sure it is quite an appropriate topic for the drawing room.’
‘Do you believe in this ghost story, Mrs Hampton?’ Mary couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.
