“It could be nothing,” Gray told him, then a shot rang out again. “Or maybe something,” he added, grabbing a cloak from the front hall cupboard. He tossed one to Philip, as Mr. Stanley reappeared.
“We’ll check this out. Maybe those in the drawing room need more brandy.”
“Yes, sir.”
With the captain by his side, Gray dashed out into the night, his second encounter with a nasty thunderstorm in two days. He didn’t need to worry about catching Maggie’s fever. He would probably get chilblains or be struck by lightning first.
Philip paused beside him on the gravel at the front of the house. “I hate to say this, but unless there are more shots, we can’t possibly determine where the first ones came from.”
In answer, there was a third shot, clearly ringing out from behind the house.
“That’s fortunate, then, isn’t it?” Gray quipped, and they took off at a run into the darkness around the side of the house.
With heavy rain pelting him, stinging his face, he circled one side of the manor while the captain went around the other way. The lightning, which had been blocked by the heavy curtains in the drawing room, flashed stark and white across the sky every few moments, and the thunderclouds boomed close by.
They reached the terrace simultaneously, then headed into the gardens, and finally onto the back lawn. All was quiet.
Suddenly, he heard barking, recalling the spaniels who’d dashed off toward the trees that morning.
In the brilliant, blinding flash of the next lightning bolt, he spied one of them running hell bent toward him, something in its mouth.
As it approached, Gray could see the dog had a chicken. A moment or two later, the other one appeared, and for a moment, he thought it had been shot because of something sticky plastering its soft fur, but it was running too well.
“Drop it,” he ordered the dog, and to his surprise, the dog released the dead bird. Obviously, it was well-trained for hunting. The other dog, however, scooped it up and took off toward the house with its littermate in pursuit. Gray couldn’t tell if it was covered in mud or blood.
“I’ll get ye,” came a voice out of the darkness, along with the familiar sound of a shotgun barrel being snapped back into place after reloading.
“Sir,” Philip called out, “you are on Angsley land. Lower your weapon.”
“What?” came the man’s voice. And another flash of lightning showed he’d turned toward them, gun haphazardly pointed in their direction.
“Lower your gun,” Gray repeated the captain’s command.
“Or I’ll shoot you where you stand,” Philip added, sounding as piratical as Beryl said he was.
“Oy, some foxes have been at me chickens,” the man said, but he did as told and lowered his shotgun.
“Not foxes, sir,” Gray explained. “His lordship’s hunting spaniels.”
“What ye say?”
“It’s true,” Gray added. “We just saw them with one of your chickens. Your name, sir?”
“McNeil. My place is just past the grove, about two furlongs to the west. Spaniels, you say?”
“Yes. Come back tomorrow,” Gray instructed him, “and you’ll be compensated for your chicken.”
“More than one,” he said. “They dropped the other one. That’s two chickens.” He held up his hand, two fingers pointed to the sky.
Philip muttered something under his breath about counting chickens.
“Tomorrow, then,” Gray reminded the man. “And don’t fire your weapon on Angsley land again. You could have hurt someone.”
“Bah!” grunted the man whose name Gray recognized as a local farmer. “Blasted dogs.” And he wandered off.
They watched him take a few steps, and then they turned and started back to the house.
“Stuff like that doesn’t happen on board ship,” Philip pointed out. “Far more peaceful on the high seas.”
Gray laughed. They went inside through the servant’s door, finding the dogs had got there ahead of them. The spaniels, filthy and still fighting over the poor cockerel, were contained in the mudroom. When informed a stable hand had been called to take the dogs away and clean them, Gray and Philip removed their muddy shoes and damp cloaks and headed in their stockinged feet for the parlor.
“Just an angry farmer,” Gray explained to the waiting group, though he couldn’t seem to look away from Eleanor’s big, brown eyes.
“I bid you all goodnight again,” the captain said, saluting with his pistol before disappearing upstairs once more.
“A good man to have at one’s side,” Gray said, taking a seat next to Eleanor. “Did I miss anything exciting in here?”
“We were discussing literature,” Eleanor said, and he realized he was relieved he’d been outside in the pouring rain. The deluge was preferable to the silly romantic serials in the paper that women usually discussed, none of which he’d read or had an interest in reading.
On the other hand, Beryl liked a wide variety of texts. Maybe Eleanor was the same.
“What do you like to read, Miss Eleanor?” he asked.
“Gothic literature,” she declared, surprising him. “Anything dark and exciting. Rather the way it has been around here since I arrived.”
“What?” his lordship exclaimed. “Angsley Hall, dark and exciting?”
Eleanor laughed, a sound Gray had enjoyed many times over the years.
“Truly, my lord. Ever since I arrived, there have been heavy clouds, thunder, rain, and lightning.”
“Like every other part of Britain, most of the time,” Lord Angsley said. “I don’t think there’s anything particularly Gothic about it. But for better weather, you must come with me some time to Spain. When I have my next commission, perhaps. If Beryl is going, you can provide company.”
“I don’t believe she’ll be going until after she has been delivered of her little one,” her ladyship informed her husband.
“In any case, it’s not merely the weather,” Eleanor said. “It’s the clever way the writer includes terrifying nature in the story.”
“Terrifying nature,” Gray repeated, watching her pretty lips with their hint of pink, along with her healthy cheeks. Or was she wearing artful cosmetics?
“Yes, as if it were a character, like the storm in Mary Shelley’s masterful book. And sometimes the writer assigns human intelligence to things in the natural world.”
“Such as?” he prompted.
“The whale in Moby Dick,” she offered.
“Or Mr. Poe’s Raven,” he added, thoroughly enjoying their conversation.
“The American writer,” she said. “I’ve never read him. I hear he’s excellent. In any case, when you combine all that with mysterious circumstances, it transforms the ordinary into the Gothic. It’s really all in how one perceives the situation, sometimes not knowing the reality. Do you see what I mean?”
His lordship frowned, and her ladyship yawned. Gray felt badly for Eleanor, who was trying so hard to explain.
“You mean like the gunfire,” he suggested, “that turned out to be only a farmer but could have been a madman coming to do us all in?”
The Angsleys both exclaimed aloud, but Eleanor grinned.
“Precisely,” she said, turning back to Lord Angsley. “And then there was the mysterious night rider, which turned out to be Mr. O’Connor arriving last night—”
“Please, feel free to call me Grayson.”
“Very well.”
They locked gazes for an instant too long. A man could get lost in those gorgeous eyes. If that man didn’t think of her as a little cousin!
“As I was saying, when Grayson arrived so late, like a knight charging across the field to his castle, it was straight out of a Gothic tale.”
“Absurd,” Lord Angsley said.
“Or even the butler bursting in with a missive,” Eleanor pointed out.
“Mr. Stanley doesn’t burst,” Lady Angsley protested.
“Still,” Eleanor continued, “do y
ou see how those few easily explained circumstances, when combined with a dark night and a storm, can set a certain tone? That’s Gothic literature. Most thrilling! Especially when one is safely tucked in bed or in a cozy chair by the fire, and the damsel on the damp moors or the man kept in chains in his castle is only on the pages.”
“I see what you mean, dear,” Lady Angsley said as she stood, causing both men to rise with her. “I prefer a plain novel of manners, with no hint of nerve-wracking elements. Simply men and women going about their lives, like one of Jane Austen’s works, God rest her soul. Such a talent!”
Gray and Eleanor bid the lord and lady goodnight, and then they sat back down. He was immediately aware they were unusually and rather unacceptably alone.
“Are you thinking what I am?” he asked.
“That one of us is supposed to tell the other he or she is retiring, whether we want to or not, simply because if a member of polite society—”
“Or even impolite society, like the ton,” he pointed out.
“Yes, or even impolite society wandered in, then we should be considered scandalous. You might even be forced to marry me.”
“Egad! Forced to marry a lovely lass? What a horror!” He leaned back on the sofa, letting his head drop back slightly and stretching out his legs. “I missed out on the second glass of brandy, and I intend yet to enjoy it. I would be pleased if you would keep me company, and I will grab farmer McNeil’s shotgun and let loose upon the first member of the ton I see peering through the window.”
He was rewarded with her heartfelt laugh. She didn’t cover her mouth. She simply chuckled freely, and her entire body moved with mirth.
“Well,” he said.
She paused, regarding him. “Well, what?”
“My brandy, woman. Where is it?”
Playing along, she went to the sideboard and poured them each another fingerful into glasses she chose from the tray.
“That might not have been your original glass,” she confessed, handing it to him and letting her fingers graze his.
He could grab her hand and pull her onto his lap and kiss her.
Christ, man! Get a grip! She was Maggie’s younger sister, after all. And he was thinking like a besotted twit. This was the same girl he’d taken fishing, surprised when she could bait a hook without help, even more surprised when she could haul in a fish with dexterity. He’d hunted with her though she declined to shoot anything live and only did target practice with his hunting rifle. They’d ridden together on more than one occasion, and she’d helped him teach the younger Angsley children to sit upon a saddle some mornings when they were all staying at Turvey, while Beryl was still in bed.
“You are quiet, Grayson,” she murmured.
He realized he’d been staring at her, swirling the brandy in his glass. To her credit, she hadn’t asked him what was on his mind or started up an inane conversation. She had simply let him be. He liked that tremendously about her.
But then, what about her didn’t he like?
“I was only thinking….”
“Yes?” she prompted after a long moment’s silence.
“How wonderful you are.” He couldn’t help smiling after he’d said what was in his heart. At last!
Her eyes grew so wide, he thought he’d shocked her. Until she blinked.
Then she returned his smile. He saw her draw a deep breath, knew it by how the curves of her breasts rose and fell. Then with a tilt of her lovely head, she charmed him.
“That is very strange,” she began, “because I was thinking the same thing about you.
Chapter Five
Eleanor decided she might as well be honest. However, as soon as she said the words, Grayson frowned. Then he downed the last of his drink and stood.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said. I definitely shouldn’t have been so forward,” he added, “especially not when we are alone.”
“We could hardly speak that way if we weren’t alone,” she pointed out.
“True, which is why we shouldn’t have been alone in the first place. You’re Maggie’s little sister.”
“And what of it?” she asked, gulping back the last of her brandy, letting it create a warm trail down the back of her throat before coming to her feet.
Immediately, Eleanor realized she was standing a little too close to him, but if she stepped back now, it would seem as if she weren’t at ease. And downing her brandy so quickly had made her decidedly care-free.
It seemed being in the country allowed for different rules. She’d discussed this very fact with Beryl in the past but never put the notion into practice. Until now.
Eleanor stepped even closer, and Grayson had nowhere to go, as his shapely calves were pressed against the sofa. He seemed to be under the mistaken belief she was too young for him. A ridiculous thought! He didn’t have a single wrinkle or gray hair.
What’s more, he was the most virile, attractive man she knew.
“Eleanor,” he warned. “What are you doing?”
What was she doing?
“I’m leaning in so you can kiss me. Only if you wish, of course,” she added, not wanting to be deemed pushy.
He said nothing, looking into her eyes, then his gaze dropped to her lips, and a thrill of excitement sizzled through her. He was considering it, she could tell.
After a pause, during which she wondered if she looked ridiculous waiting for him, her lips slightly parted, she began to feel anxious.
Should she grab hold of him or wrap her arms around his neck?
Before she could fathom what to do next, he asked, “Have you been kissed before?”
Thank goodness she could answer truthfully. If she’d had to say no, she would have sounded like the greenest ninny who ever reached the age of nineteen.
“Yes, naturally. After all, I’ve had a couple Seasons in London.” Eleanor tossed her head, making her curls flow over her shoulder as she’d seen Maggie do.
Grayson fell silent again, still considering.
“And did you find a young spark who caught your fancy this Season?”
They were all boys compared to the man who stood before her.
“No,” she admitted.
He smiled and shook his head. “You were supposed to say yes and try to make me jealous. That’s how the game is played.”
“Is it? How silly of me not to know that.” She was the one staring at his lips now, knowing if he kissed her, it would be very good. However, apparently, she wasn’t playing the game of flirtation correctly.
Eleanor sighed, wishing he would simply—
His large hands suddenly clasped her shoulders and held her still. She gasped softly, looking up at him again, just as he lowered his head, and placed his mouth upon hers.
Her first thought was brandy, followed quickly by a far more impossibly wonderful one: Grayson O’Connor was kissing her!
Then, she couldn’t think at all, as he tilted his head and seemed to fit his mouth to hers even more tightly. She felt hot all over and even a little lightheaded. Maybe Maggie wasn’t sick. Maybe she’d simply been kissing John too much.
When she heard—and felt—him groan against her lips, it caused her heartbeat to speed up even more. Eleanor realized she’d taken hold of his lightweight jacket and was scrunching his lapels with her fingers.
Then he opened his mouth against hers and, as the intensity of their kiss deepened, the sizzling sensations of desire trickled through her body like heated brandy. Mimicking him, she parted her lips beneath his.
His hands slipped from her shoulders to stroke down her back and rest just above the swell of her moderate bustle. To her amazement, he drew her in tightly against his body, and she could feel the strength of him from chest to hips and down his long muscular thighs.
Deep inside her own body, she tingled, and without meaning to, without thinking about it, she tilted her hips against him.
And then it was over. Grayson released her suddenly, letting her go so quickly, she had t
o keep her grasp on his coat or risk falling over. But in a moment, he had hold of her hands and was prying them loose and pushing her away.
“I’m sorry,” were his first words.
Not lover’s words, not anything she wanted to hear.
“Why ever for?”
He ran a hand distractedly through his coal-black hair. “I was wrong to kiss you.”
Again, she asked, “Why? I didn’t protest, and I liked it.”
“You’re young. A debutante.”
She laughed. “I’m not a debutante, and I haven’t been since last year. Besides, that signifies nothing. I could have come out a year earlier and have had my third London Season, or I could have had an overly protective mother and been kept at home entirely.”
Grayson stared at her, then seemed to realize, despite the distance between them, he was still holding her hands.
“You’re Maggie’s little sister,” he muttered and dropped his hold.
Eleanor rolled her eyes, suddenly tired from the many ups and downs of the day, particularly this last emotional seesaw. She wanted to lie quietly in the big, soft bed Lady Angsley had given her and recall every scrumptious moment of the kiss.
Rot it all! She’d meant to touch his hair, so soft looking. If he decided never to kiss her again, she would have lost her chance.
Slowly, she reached her fingers toward his hair.
He froze, his eyes swiveling to watch her movements, until her hand disappeared behind his head, and then his gaze locked on hers.
“What are you doing?” his voice was a shocked whisper.
“I’ve wanted to touch your hair for a long time,” she confessed. “So pretty, like a raven’s wing.” And then she sunk her fingertips into the hair at the nape of his neck. She watched him close his eyes, looking almost pained.
“I suppose you’ll tell me I shouldn’t,” she said, stroking her fingers through its soft thickness. “After all, you’re old enough to be my father.”
His eyes popped open. “Hardly that. Not even possible.”
She started to laugh, and he stopped talking, knowing he’d been baited.
Drawing back, Eleanor walked deliberately and casually to the drawing room door before giving him a last glance. She might not know much about flirtation, but she did know it was better to leave while she was ahead and not to overstay her welcome.
The Midnight Hour: All-Hallows’ Brides Page 57
