At Last the Rogue Returns

by Adele Clee

  “Greystone,” she panted as he moved to rain kisses down the column of her throat. The touch of his lips scorched her skin. One hand slid up under her cloak, moving higher in a soothing caress.

  “You have bewitched me, Miss Lovell.” His large palm covered her breast. Her nipple peaked, pushed defiantly against the restrictions of the fabric, ached for freedom. “Bewitched me to the point that I can’t stop touching you, can’t stop wanting you.”

  “Don’t stop.” The whispered words seemed to come from a place abandoned by sense and logic. She loved it there—in this idyllic haven away from the harsh realities of life.

  The devil growled.

  Greystone gripped her waist and lifted her to sit on the sacrificial stone. How apt, for she was about to offer herself to him mind and body.

  The thought was sobering, until his hands edged under her dress, skimmed her thighs and moved up past the tops of her stockings. And then she wanted to feel him in her intimate place, needed him to bring an end to the inner torment.

  He edged higher … so close.

  Their ragged breathing filled the air.

  Touch me. Do it. Do it now.

  She could think of nothing but him—of his teasing touch and captivating kisses.

  “Lord Greystone?”

  The words echoed in the hazy recesses of her mind as his fingers slipped through the dark curls between her thighs.

  “Lord Greystone.”

  The voice was clearer this time—French in origin. Indeed, Greystone heard it, too, for he muttered a curse, whipped his hand from under her skirts and straightened her dress. Lydia wanted to cry out at the loss. Her body ached with disappointment, with unsatisfied need.

  Greystone adjusted the fall of his breeches and swung around. “Dariell” was all he said as he offered Lydia his hand and assisted her to her feet. “I hope it is important.”

  A figure came into view—a man, short and slender. He wore loose-fitting trousers and a tunic top in midnight blue. His hair was long, dark and tied back in a queue, and his whole countenance conveyed an air of mystery.

  “Forgive me, monseigneur.” He bowed. “The rest of the men, they have been disposed of. I came to find you, to be certain no more were lingering here in the woods.”

  “Thank you, Dariell.” Greystone’s tone conveyed a hint of annoyance. “All is well. I shall return to the manor presently.”

  “Of course.” Dariell bowed again, backed out of the circle and disappeared into the night.

  A brief silence ensued.

  Lord Greystone stared out into the gloom, brushed his hands through his mop of brown hair and exhaled.

  “Dariell is your valet?” Lydia asked, merely to ease the tension in the air. From his accent and odd dress, it was the most logical assumption.

  “He is my friend foremost but insists on acting as my manservant.” Lord Greystone turned to face her. “About what happened a moment ago.”

  “Pay it no mind,” she said, confusion clouding her thoughts. Dariell had saved them both from making a dreadful mistake. But oh, how she’d wanted him. Lydia’s cheeks grew hot when she thought of how close she’d come to ruination. “Your friend’s timely intervention proved fortuitous.”

  “I didn’t mean for it— It would have gone no further than—”

  “An extremely wild and passionate kiss,” she finished brazenly.

  “Indeed.” A faint smile replaced the marks of guilt etched into his features. “Forgive me. I can assure you it will not happen again.”

  Oh, why did he not say he couldn’t help himself? Why did he not say she captivated him and that he didn’t regret a moment of it?

  “Of course.” A brief silence ensued. What must he think of her? She had fallen for his charms so easily. Indeed, it was difficult to resist him. “Well, I should return home before I’m missed.”

  “Then I shall escort you through the woods. Heaven knows who’s hiding out there.” In his eagerness to be rid of her, Greystone clasped her elbow and practically propelled her away from the ancient stones.

  They trudged through the woods in silence. A clawing mist swirled about them making it difficult to see in the dark—she’d forgotten all about her lantern. Lydia tripped, almost fell, but the firm hand at her elbow kept her upright.

  She could still taste him on her bruised lips, could still smell his exotic essence on her skin—so potent, so intoxicating it made her head spin.

  As soon as they reached the gardens of Dunnam Park, he gave another mumbled apology, bid her good night and, before she could say a word, disappeared into the woods.

  “Good night,” Lydia whispered as she stared into the mist and conjured the erotic memory of his muscular thighs pressed against her. Of his hot hands searing her skin. She touched her fingers to her lips. Despite the abrupt manner in which he’d departed she couldn’t help but smile.

  Shaking her herself mentally back to the present, she hurried to the door leading to the servants’ quarters. A sudden movement to her left caught her attention.

  Someone was in the garden.

  Lydia crept behind a cone-shaped conifer and watched with interest.

  Lord Randall, dressed in his silk smoking jacket, stood near the topiary hedge, muttering to himself. His angry hand gestures led her to conclude he was either sleepwalking or talking to someone lingering in the darkness. Perhaps the man was conducting a liaison with one of the staff. Perhaps he was alone, keen to practise his pompous drivel without anyone answering back.

  Then, throwing his hands in the air in resignation, Randall turned on his heels and began his march towards the house.

  Lydia shrank into the shadows, plastered her back to the wall and shuffled along until safely through the servants’ door.

  While she found Lord Randall’s behaviour odd, that was not what occupied her thoughts as she climbed the stairs to the attic room that was now her bedchamber. Lord Greystone had come to her rescue, made her feel like an irresistible woman, not a foolish girl. Her attraction to him had developed into an intense infatuation that grew stronger by the minute.

  Lord Greystone was most definitely not a devil.

  No. He was far more dangerous than that.

  Chapter Ten

  Miles marched back through the woods. His laboured breathing had nothing to do with navigating dead branches and fox dens in the mist. A catalogue of conflicting emotions held him in a vice-like grip as each one fought for supremacy. Anger and lust proved equally matched. So much for maintaining his calm composure. Dariell’s student hadn’t just slipped from the path. He’d tumbled down a bloody ravine.

  Damn Edwin.

  A string of vitriolic curses burst forth as various images flashed through his mind—the bastard’s arrogant grin, Miss Lovell’s terrified expression. Hell, the sight of Edwin smothering Miss Lovell’s helpless body had unleashed his inner beast. A violent rage consumed him. One eased by smashing his fist in Edwin’s face and the passionate, highly erotic encounter that followed.

  While Miles found Miss Lovell’s mind arousing, her mouth sparked an intense lust that surged through his body like a tidal wave. Had Dariell not arrived in time, heaven knows where they’d be.

  The lascivious image that entered his head this time sent the blood pooling low and heavy in his loins. Never had he been so frustrated. Oh, he wanted to bed Lydia Lovell as much as he wanted to ruin Edwin Harridan-Jones. Both would bring him immense satisfaction.

  As Miles exited the woods and the hazy black outline of the manor loomed into view, the real reason for his return pushed to the fore.

  For years, his mother suffered in silence, her midnight cries the only evidence of her pain. But she had borne her undeserved shame with dignity. Had risen above his father’s petty tantrums. She had survived the years of torment—the direct cuts and malicious snipes—with a strength he admired.

  But then his father died, and the depth of the scoundrel’s hatred became apparent to all. Knowing Miles would eventually tak
e his rightful place as the Greystone heir had given his mother a reason to battle on. Knowing her son inherited nothing but the gloomy house and a modest income sent her into a downward spiral of melancholy and ill health.

  On her deathbed, Miles had promised to be a Greystone to rival his honourable ancestors. And by God, he’d do everything in his power to ensure it happened.

  Even if he died trying.

  Miles found Dariell standing guard on the manor’s front steps. His friend remained still and serene as his vigilant gaze scanned the shrubbery around the gravel drive and the cluster of trees hidden behind the misty veil.

  “Two more men came,” Dariell said calmly. “Drake, he dealt with them both swiftly.”

  “That makes eight in total.”

  “A reasonable number for a night of gaming.” Dariell’s dark eyes settled on Miles. He knew better than to mention the incident at the stones. “Your brothers, they seemed shocked by your return.”

  Stephen and Edwin had sauntered into the drawing room as if they owned the damn manor. They’d expected to find the front door open, expected to find Gilligan sipping brandy in his master’s chair. They had not expected to find Miles waiting, fists clenched and ready to fight.

  “No doubt my father’s sons prayed I’d drowned in a shipwreck or died of a tropical disease.”

  “Agreed.” Dariell nodded. “They despise you almost as much as you despise them.”

  Despise was too tame a word.

  Miles shifted his awareness to the ugly bitterness filling his chest. His need for revenge was like an open wound in his heart, oozing and festering. There was only one course of treatment—one cure. It was the only thing he and Dariell disagreed on. His friend believed bad feelings only served to corrupt the soul.

  “Their mother conditioned them to hate me,” Miles said, but their hatred had made him stronger. “Imelda’s spiteful comments were like a sharp blade to my mother’s heart.”

  “Ah, too often people believe what they are told. But you know my sentiments on the power of thoughts being—how you say—of detriment to the mind.”

  “Indeed.” Miles knew he could whip himself up into a frenzy if he focused on the years of pain. He could rouse an intense passion that could make his cock swell if he thought about the kiss he’d shared with Miss Lovell.

  My God, the lady possessed a magical ability to make him forget the rest of the world existed. Her sweet smiles seduced him. Her kind words and caring heart teased him like an expert hand pumping his shaft.

  “I’ve decided to go to London tomorrow,” Miles suddenly said. The next time he saw Miss Lovell, he hoped to have a grip on his rampant emotions.

  Dariell raised a brow. “Then you are confident your brothers will return to London tonight?”

  “A man cannot predict the actions of fools.” Miles resisted the urge to correct Dariell on the familial connection. “Did you not say that once?”

  “I did, and it is true.”

  And yet it was not a coincidence that Stephen and Edwin were amongst those attending the card game at Greystone Manor. “My father’s sons are fools, but I have an idea why they came here tonight.”

  Dariell shook his head. “You still cannot say the word,” he replied cryptically. “To you, the word brother is bound with love and affection. That is what society has taught you to believe, no? To say the word would mean betraying your mother’s memory. And yet, my friend, you betray yourself every time you show it bothers you.”

  Miles’ head hurt too much to attempt to unravel the message woven within the statement. Dariell’s words of wisdom were meant to guide one to the path of enlightenment.

  “In refusing to call them my brothers I am conveying my disrespect,” Miles countered.

  “To whom? To whom are you showing this disrespect?” Dariell shrugged. “Your brothers are not here. Strive for strength of heart not weakness of the mind.” He threw his hands in the air and said, “A finger is a finger.”

  Miles couldn’t prevent a grin forming. “What else would it be?”

  “When you say finger, you feel nothing. When you say brother, guilt crawls through your body like a poisonous vine. What is the difference? They are both just words, labels given to aid in conversation.”

  “I see your point.” And Miles did see. But to master one’s emotions took time and great patience.

  “But in answer to your question,” Dariell said to indicate the lesson was over, “your brothers, they are not fools. A man does not travel—how many miles is it?”

  “To London? Almost forty.”

  “A man, he does not travel forty miles to play cards when there are clubs aplenty at home. Find your steward, and you may find your answer.”

  “Drake spent the day looking for Gilligan. Unless someone in Cuckfield has given him lodgings, I imagine he’s far from here by now.”

  Drake appeared at the front door and strolled down the steps. “Well, is that all of them?”

  “Oui.”

  Disappointment passed over Drake’s face. “Damn, and I was having so much fun.”

  Dariell turned his attention to Miles. “May I make a suggestion, monseigneur?”

  “Certainly.”

  “While you are away in London, someone should remain here. Something is wrong. I can feel it in the air.” Dariell closed his eyes. For a long moment he did not speak or move. “Your focus cannot be in two places,” he eventually said, his eyes glazed and dreamy as if he’d had another one of his premonitions.

  “Are you advising I remain at the manor?” As the majority shareholder in Greystone Shipping, Miles had business in London. There were papers to sign, projects to oversee. And his brothers still had no idea he was the one who had bought their vowels and called them in, forcing them to sell more of their shares.

  “No. But I shall stay. The house, it needs … work. The energy here is tainted.”

  “Well, as much as I would like to be of assistance,” Drake said, “I have my own reason for wanting to return to town.”

  Devlin Drake had a vendetta against Baron Bromfield and planned to ruin the entire family, starting with the man’s vain daughter.

  “I swear that evil witch will pay for what she did to Ambrose,” Drake added.

  Dariell arched a brow. “What about the theory that living a good life is the sweetest revenge?”

  “Oh, I’ll live a good life,” Drake said, his mouth curling into a wicked grin. “When I force that harlot to marry me I shall take great pleasure looking at her miserable face each morning.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “I only hope my estate is in better condition than this one.”

  Miles sighed. “Can it be any worse?”

  The forty-mile journey to London passed by in a blur. When Miles wasn’t focused on keeping pace with Drake—who rode like Lucifer snapped at his heels—he was lost in thoughts of kissing Miss Lovell or strangling Edwin Harridan-Jones. Miles scanned the tap room and yard of every coaching inn they visited, hoping to catch sight of his brothers or that conniving bastard Gilligan.

  The London streets were just as Miles remembered: loud and cramped and dirty. Feral dogs charged about scavenging for scraps. Boys in rags hung about on street corners, brushes in hand, waiting to clear a path for anyone willing to throw them a coin.

  Life was like a stint at the gaming tables. One’s cards were dealt, and each man made the best hand possible. Some gambled and won—the majority lost. Indeed, Miles found the signs of poverty distressing. He made a mental note to hire servants whilst in town, to ask his man of business, Mr Cardon, to find two orphan boys to train as grooms.

  Drake owned an elegant townhouse in Wimpole Street. After his staff recovered from the initial shock of receiving their master after five long years, they busied about catering to his every whim and desire. A meal of eight courses—for Drake was a man with a voracious appetite for all things—was followed by an evening spent emptying the port decanter.

  Drinking to excess failed to banish al
l thoughts of Miss Lovell. Instead, Miles took to spouting lovesick nonsense about her beguiling smile and warm heart. Tired of listening to his inane mutterings, Drake went to bed.

  The next day, Mr Cardon attended Miles in Wimpole Street.

  “You’re certain neither Edwin nor Stephen know I am the one who holds the majority share?” Miles should have insisted Mr Cardon keep a watchful eye on Mr Gilligan. But he’d appointed Cardon secretly and only a month before leaving for India.

  “I can assure you, my lord,” Mr Cardon began nervously, “no one is party to that information. I chose the solicitor wisely, based on his reputation for discretion.”

  “And you attended the last shareholders’ meeting?”

  “Indeed, my lord, though your brothers failed to attend.” Mr Cardon retrieved the paperwork from his leather folder and placed it on Drake’s mahogany desk. “As it stands, Drummond’s Bank owns a fifteen per cent share of Greystone Shipping. Combined, the Harridan-Jones brothers have thirty-five, and you hold fifty.”

  A warm glow of satisfaction filled Miles’ chest. He hoped his mother was looking down on him, sporting a huge grin, too. “And the bank is still disinclined to sell?”

  “I’m afraid so, my lord. It seems your reputation for business precedes you. Having already sold you thirty per cent they would prefer to keep their fingers in the pie, so it were. I have it on good authority that your brothers are trying to raise funds to purchase the shares they sold to Mr Camberwell.”

  “And Camberwell has kept his end of the bargain?” Miles would be fully appraised before confronting his brothers.

  Mr Cardon inclined his head. “His undying loyalty to your mother runs like blood through his veins.”

  As the youngest son of a viscount, Mr Camberwell had loved Miles’ mother since they were children. Her parents refused to accept his suit, insisting their daughter marry a lord and not a mister. Throughout her miserable marriage, his mother had honoured her vows, though Miles recalled the gentleman visiting the manor on numerous occasions.