by Adele Clee
He wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted from her. Well, he was, but it went far beyond the physical. “We share an undeniable attraction that cannot be ignored.” The only way to know whether such an obsession promised longevity was to spend more time in her company.
“We do?”
“We do.”
She nodded. “Then I will meet you at the stones tonight.”
“I shall bring supper, and you can tell me why you prefer rusticating in Cuckfield to gracing the London ballrooms.” Not that he had any complaint. Miles had no patience for simpering misses out to snare a husband. “You can tell me about your work with my tenants and why you would refuse the suit of such an influential gentleman as Lord Randall.”
A smile touched her lips. “Is my disdain for the superficial not obvious? Can you see me as the wife of a dandy?”
“I see you as the wife of a man who is true to his convictions.”
Curiosity flashed in her eyes. “And you will tell me why you stayed away so long, why you break with convention at every turn. Oh, and I should like to know how you came by such interesting friends.”
For the first time in his life, the thought of conversing with a woman had infinite appeal. Yes, he wanted to bed Miss Lovell—desperately so—but he could not take her innocence without promising something more.
“I will answer any questions you may have. Indeed, it seems we shall have an enlightening evening all round.”
“Shall we meet at seven?” she said with evident enthusiasm.
“Seven is perfect.” It would give him time to move Mr Roberts and his family into the gatehouse, time to go into Cuckfield to probe the villagers, to let them see that no one taunted the devil and lived to tell the tale. “And you’re sure you can escape the house without rousing attention?”
“Certainly.” Amusement brightened in her eyes. “Though my family find displeasure in everything I do, they rarely bar the door and chain me to the balusters.”
Thankfully, she spoke in jest. The urge to throttle anyone who dared lay a hand on her crushed his chest in a vice-like grip. “Then I bid you farewell and look forward to tonight.”
Miss Lovell stood there for a moment and waited. “My glove,” she said with a chuckle. “You still have my glove.”
Miles brought it to his nose and inhaled the sweet aroma of roses and a potent scent unique only to her. He clutched it tightly. “I lay claim to it for now. That way you’ll have no choice but to come tonight and retrieve it.”
Her excited gaze searched his face. “You are a most intriguing gentleman, Lord Greystone.”
Miles smiled. “And to think you once thought me a murderous devil.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lydia returned to Dunnam Park to find her brother’s carriage parked on the drive and Cecil and Arabella berating the coachman. Well, her sister-in-law poked and prodded the poor servant while Cecil hovered behind like an obedient pet.
Choked by guilt, Lydia resigned herself to take a tankard of ale and a meat pie to the coach house once she’d made it past the militia. It was the least she could do for the trouble she’d caused. For now, she would ease the man’s anxiety by bearing the brunt of Arabella’s wrath.
The crunch of Lydia’s footsteps on the gravel drew attention. Arabella’s evil eyes blazed hot and unforgiving. The gorgon’s glare made most people quake in their boots—but not Lydia. Perhaps she was touched by the gods and held the power of invincibility. Whatever it was, she saw Arabella as weak, a woman desperate for approval from people who didn’t matter.
With her hands clenched at her sides, Arabella dismissed the coachman. “I hope you realise the trouble you’ve caused,” the crow said, staring down her long beak. “Barrow spent the best part of two hours looking for you. Had the Pardues not left the cottage and informed him of your hasty departure he’d still be sitting atop his box.”
Cecil stepped forward and stood beside his wife. “It really was mighty inconsiderate of you, gal. What with this dreadful gossip about you and Lord Greystone, and the fire last—” He stopped abruptly when Arabella nudged him in the ribs.
“Never mind about that,” Arabella snapped.
“You knew about the fire in Mr Roberts’ barn?” Lydia suspected as much. Presumably, they’d kept it from her fearing she’d race over to the manor to offer assistance. “You knew of Mr Roberts’ misfortune, and you said nothing?”
“Mrs Sanders mentioned something about it this morning,” Arabella said dismissively. “But what happens on Greystone’s land is none of our affair. If the devil started the blaze, what’s stopping him coming here and causing mayhem?”
“Lord Greystone did not burn down his own barn.” Lydia stamped her foot in frustration.
“How do you know? The man has a vile temper. You saw how he treated Mr Gilligan.”
“Mr Gilligan stole money from Greystone and his tenants to fund his gambling habit. I imagine I would beat him, too, under the circumstances.”
Arabella raised her chin. “Cecil said Mr Gilligan may have been coerced into making a half-hearted confession. One cannot blame a man for spouting poppycock when he feels his life is threatened. And Rudolph agrees.”
All hail Rudolph Randall.
Lydia stared incredulously. They were so convinced of Greystone’s duplicity that nothing would change their biased opinion. Guilt surfaced. She was the reason everyone thought so little of the viscount. She had branded him a devil, cursed him back to the fiery pits of hell more times than she could count.
“Lord Greystone is not the rogue I believed him to be. I made a mistake. Indeed, he is every bit the gentleman.” And a sinfully handsome one to boot.
“I knew it.” Arabella narrowed her gaze until her eyes were small and beady. “So you have seen him again.”
“Him?”
“You know damn well who I mean. Greystone.” Arabella snorted with contempt. “He’s unbalanced, you know. He takes after his mother. I’m told that’s why his father left. Why else would a man abandon his ancestral home if not to be free of her?”
“Every man has his torments.” And Lydia would be damned before she’d listen to any more tales. She knew little of Greystone’s background and yet it didn’t seem to matter. When in his company nothing else mattered. “Now, I see no point continuing this conversation on the doorstep. Unless I’ve been evicted from the attic and must take shelter in the stables.”
Arabella was about to spit poison when Lord Randall appeared at the open front door. He leant languidly against the jamb and offered a wry grin. “Ah, I see the wanderer returns. Where on earth have you been, Miss Lovell? Refilling the tenants’ troughs? Mucking out the cottages?” A weary sigh left his lips. “It’s a sad day indeed when a lady of your standing would rather parle with the peasants. What does it say about your character, I wonder?”
Cecil muttered and said, “I think that’s a low blow, Rudolph. The chit has a large heart that’s all.”
“That’s all? That’s all!” Arabella complained. “The girl will be the downfall of this family.” The witch stepped forward and wagged her bony finger. “Now, you will promise your brother you’ll stay away from Lord Greystone.”
Lydia inhaled deeply. “I cannot do that.” Her stomach grew warm and fuzzy at the prospect of seeing Greystone again. This obsession she had for him, this compelling need to be close to him, overshadowed every thought and feeling. “And you have no authority over me. Cast me out if you will, but I shall be friends with whomever I choose.”
Lord Randall clapped as if witnessing the end of a dramatic play, the mocking sound accompanied by a derisive chuckle. “I imagine there are gentlemen in town prepared to duel for your hand, Miss Lovell. Of course, their efforts would be in vain as no doubt you’d prefer to keep company with their footmen.”
Lydia pasted a smile. She’d listened to enough nonsense for one day. “You seem to think you have the measure of me, my lord. Therefore, you must know we are not at all suited. Although one must question who
is at fault here. The one who’d rather mingle with the lower classes than suffer the hypocrisy of her own kind? Or the one whose sole purpose in life is to berate his valet when he discovers a crease in his cravat?”
And without another word, Lydia stormed past Arabella, sank into a mocking curtsy when she came before Lord Randall and then retired to the peace of her attic room.
For hours, Lydia remained in her room. She did not go in search of Ada, and the maid never came to offer tea or to bring clean water.
Her stomach rumbled. The last thing she’d eaten was a finger sandwich and a piece of seedcake at the Pardues’. With no concept of the time, Lydia watched the setting sun and decided to leave the house and make her way to the sacred stones. Knowing of Greystone’s fondness for timekeeping, she did not want to be late. And nothing or no one would prevent her from meeting him tonight.
With the stairs located near to the door leading down to the servants’ quarters, Lydia was rather glad she’d been relegated to the attic. Arabella was baying for blood and grew more irrational by the day.
After washing her face with cold water and tidying her hair, Lydia wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and tiptoed to the door. She turned the knob quietly, but the damn thing wouldn’t budge. She firmed her grip and tried again to no avail. Two hands grappling with the darn thing failed to gain a result. Dropping to her knees, she peered through the keyhole and found her view hindered by the end of a black iron key.
Good God. The spiteful witch had locked the door. Lydia was surprised she’d not heard the gloating cackles of satisfaction from the hallway. Feeling the urge to do something useful, Lydia flung her cape onto the chair and set about trying to push the key out of the lock with her hairpins. That proved hopeless.
Time ticked on.
She rapped loudly on the door—rattled the iron knob again hoping to shake it loose—but no one came.
Three hard kicks with her boot only eased her anxiety and did nothing to separate the door from the jamb.
“That’s it,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “I’m moving to London.” A hotel would suffice for the time being. “And I’m taking Ada with me.”
Instantly, all thoughts turned to Lord Greystone. The craving to see him intensified with the knowledge she must leave. Why could she not stop thinking about him? Why did she feel as though he was her destiny? Oh, he would take her failure to attend tonight as a sign of disinterest.
Anxiety grew as darkness descended.
After an hour spent sitting on her bed, trying to put a name to these blissful sensations that erupted whenever she pictured the enigmatic figure of Lord Greystone, Lydia gave up hope of someone unlocking the door and decided to light a candle.
She scoured the room.
No tinderbox. No candles.
So, Arabella had planned to keep her a prisoner all along. Cursing herself for her naivety, Lydia changed into her nightdress, climbed into bed and drew the coverlet up to her chin. The small room grew cold at night, and she’d given up hope of anyone coming to her rescue.
Wild and erratic thoughts kept her awake until she could no longer fight exhaustion. She woke numerous times. Her feet grew numb with cold. Her stomach rumbled and growled.
Later, the click of the key in the lock dragged her out of a light sleep. Perhaps Ada had waited until everyone adjourned to their beds and had come with supper. But then she noticed the large shadow near the door, heard the click of the key again, this time from inside the room.
“Well, I hope you’ve learnt something since your little escapade.” A husky, masculine voice penetrated the darkness. “You really are a naughty minx, you know.”
Lord Randall?
What business had he sneaking into her room?
Fear gripped Lydia’s heart and squeezed until painful, but she sat up and gathered her courage. “I must assume you’ve made a mistake, my lord, and entered the wrong room.”
There was no mistake. This was the attic. Still, it gave him an opportunity to come to his senses.
“You do so enjoy playing the coy little miss.” Lord Randall prowled towards her. “But rest assured, your ploy to gain my attention worked for I find I am in the grip of a mild obsession.”
As he drew closer she noticed he wore a mustard silk dressing gown, the black velvet belt tied loosely around his waist. Lydia’s gaze journeyed to his bare legs and feet and knew he wore little else besides.
“Then I must inform you that you are inept when it comes to reading signs.” How had the pompous lord misinterpreted disdain for desire? “My affections are held elsewhere.”
With a teasing sway, Lord Randall untied the belt on the garment that shielded his modesty. It fell open to reveal a pair of white silk drawers, the lord’s initials embroidered in gold on the waistband.
“Oh, you don’t really care for that heathen.” He slipped the garment off his shoulders, and it pooled to the floor. “Arabella assured me you’re just using Greystone to make me jealous. My dear, when you’ve seen what I have to offer, you’ll not want for another lover.”
Another lover?
Surely the lord did not mean to ravish her in her own home?
Damn Arabella.
Did she know of Randall’s despicable schemes?
Was this all part of her plan to force Lydia to wed?
She tried not to look at his bare chest, at the mass of golden hair, at the growing bulge in his drawers. After her experience with Greystone’s brother at the stone circle, she knew that if Randall lay on top of her, she’d have no hope of fighting him off. She needed to stand. She needed access to her hairbrush, to anything that would serve as a weapon.
“You think you have what it takes to impress me?” she said and forced a soft, breathless sigh. “Then let me look at you. Let me look at you in all your glory.”
For a man as vain as Rudolph Randall the comment tickled all notions of self-importance. “You’ll find no complaint.” He stepped back and held out his arms so she might survey him further.
Lydia slipped out of bed. Ignoring the dandy’s heated gaze practically searing holes in her nightgown, she circled him, stopping near the door.
“Do you train at Jackson’s saloon?” Lydia studied the less than well-defined muscles in his chest. The lord was a keen over-indulger. Signs of his love of port and gluttonous helpings of rich sweets and pastries were evident in his slight paunch.
“Doesn’t every gentleman when in town?” Sliding his thumbs into the waistband of his drawers the lord moved to push them lower. “But I’ve muscle where it matters, my dear, have no fear about that.”
“No! Wait. May I see your back?” She had already circled him once, but the faint flash of suspicion in his eyes forced her to say, “I’m rather partial to broad shoulders, fascinated by how they taper gradually to a trim waist.” Only his was less than trim.
Randall raised a mischievous brow. “There will be time for that once we’re wed.” He held out his hand to her though it hung limply as if he expected her to drop to her knees and kiss the garish rings gracing his knuckles.
Lydia cast her gaze to the old oak chest serving as a dressing table, to the silver brush far from arm’s reach. She would have to distract him if she had any hope of escaping. And escape she must. As long as Lord Randall remained at Dunnam Park, this house was no longer a safe haven.
“Then if you won’t show me your back again, at least let me feast upon your naked body.” Had she eaten dinner, her stomach might have sent a morsel back up to her throat with that comment.
Lord Randall offered a confident smile. “My dear, you don’t know how it pleases me to hear you say that. Though I hate to boast, prepare to be impressed.”
The silk drawers slipped past his hips, and his manhood sprang free from a … from a … Good Lord. The man was bald below the waist. Lydia wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and erase the image from her mind, but there was no time for modesty.
“I knew that a lady of your modern thinking wou
ld approve.” Hands on hips, Randall stood proudly despite the fact his drawers were gathered like silk shackles around his ankles. “It’s all the rage in France you know.”
Lydia shuffled back towards the door as her mind conjured an image of his valet on bended knee, wielding a blade with an unsteady hand. “Again you seem to have mistaken my shocked expression for one of approval. In truth, I find your toilet habits rather … rather repulsive. What I desire is a strong, virile man”—namely Lord Greystone—“not one brimming with effeminacy.”
Rudolph Randall’s chin dropped.
With no time to linger, Lydia swung around, unlocked the door and charged down the narrow stairs. Randall’s curses reached her ears, along with odd shuffles and then the thud of a heavy weight hitting the floorboards.
“Come back here,” Randall shouted. “These blasted drawers.”
But Lydia was at the servants’ door. She dashed down the cold stone steps, down and down until at ground level. Once outside, she took a second to catch her breath. She didn’t know whether to punch the air with relief or frustration, for it was then she realised her feet were bare. Running through the woods proved difficult by day when wearing boots, only a fool would attempt it barefoot at night.
“Miss Lovell?” Randall’s angry voice echoed in the distance. “Wait. Come back.”
With no choice but to run, Lydia gathered up the hem of her nightdress and hurried along the flagstone path. Once at the gravel drive, she had no choice but to wince and grit her teeth as the tiny stones dug into her soles. Sharp pains shot up her legs, but still, she pressed on. Relief came when she reached the grass verge, and the coolness of the dew-soaked grass soothed her sore feet.
And then the rain came.
The first few droplets landed on her cheeks. Before long she was blinking away the water from her lashes, and then the heavens opened, the torrential downpour pelting her skin.
Drenched and tired, she breathed a sigh when she arrived at Greystone’s gate. She opened it with ease, noted that someone had cleared the weeds and debris. The glow of candlelight flickered in the window of the gatehouse. She recalled Greystone made mention of moving Mr Roberts and his family. But it was not that man’s help she needed. Mr Roberts’ embrace would not ease her fears and banish her nightmares.
