“What? What is it?” she blurted.
“That nightgown is as hideous as the last. Wherever do you get these things? A monastery? I thought we got rid of those, thanks to Henry the Eighth and his lust for Anne Boleyn.” He fingered the collar of her gown.
She swatted his hand away and snatched her robe closed, belting it together with irate jerks. “Stop that.”
“Forgive me. I suppose lust is another one of those unmentionable words on your list. However, if used in a historical reference, doesn’t that render it harmless? A passive verb, rather than active.” He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest, his expression pensive. “Perhaps you should make a note by those words that can be rendered harmless when used in certain context. Like peaches and apples.” His eyes dropped to her breasts.
“Will you stop!” she hissed. “I knew it couldn’t last. I just knew it!”
“What couldn’t last?” he asked, laughing.
“Your behaving like a gentleman. It’s just an act for you, a role to be played for the benefit of Brandon and your sister. And thank you very much for making me look like a complete fool in letting me believe Kit was your mistress.”
“I did no such thing,” he protested. “You did that all on your own.”
“What?” she cried.
“It was you who assumed Kit’s nightgown was a castoff from one of my mistresses,” he pointed out. “And I did clarify by asking if you referred to the mistress of the house. I might have neglected to explain that Montclair wasn’t my home, but that of my sister, who does love me. You appeared to have already made up your mind about the matter. Far be it for me to correct your misinterpretation.” He shrugged. “I’ve learned women don’t like to be told they are in the wrong.” Amusement danced in his eyes.
“They don’t like to be humiliated, either. I looked like a fool in front of your sweet, docile, biddable sister.” She narrowed her eyes.
“I confess to that one.” He grinned. “Kit’s about as biddable as an ornery mule. But I was right. She does like you.” He beamed at her.
“With no help from you,” she retorted. She sounded like a petulant child. “Look, why are you here? I can’t believe it was to insult my nightgown or to remind me that I thought your sister was your mistress.”
“You’re right, we digress.” He leaned forward. “I came to kiss you good night.”
She blinked at him. The man was mad. When he moved toward her, she held her hands up. “No, you can’t!”
He paused and studied her for a moment. “Fine then,” he nodded. “Why don’t you kiss me good night.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head. “It would not be wise.”
“You’re right. One kiss usually leads to another. The next thing you know, we are naked on the ground with your hand on my—”
He got no further. Desperate to shut him up, she leapt up, her arms circling his neck, and planted her mouth firmly on his.
The touch of his lips on her was as explosive as ever, sending a blast of fiery heat through her body. When his arms curled around her waist and crushed her close, her mouth opened under his. He always tasted so good. Rich and masculine. She drank him in like a sweet sherry that whet her taste for more. Damn him for being right. One kiss was not enough. She arched her back, merging her body to his.
She wanted more. So much more.
When his hands slid low to cup her bottom, her senses returned. She pushed him away and stepped back. “Good night.” She couldn’t suppress her smug smile as a dazed-looking Garrett struggled to compose himself.
He had to clear his throat to respond. “Ah, good night, Alex.”
She turned to close the door.
“One last thing.”
She peered back at him and raised a brow.
He nodded toward her gown. “Next time, wear your other nightgown. The whisper-thin one with the plunging neckline.”
After a speechless moment, she slammed the door in his face.
“Sweet dreams,” he called through the door, his laughter following.
She wrenched off her robe and stomped over to the bed. Flinging the garment over the nearest chair, she climbed under the covers, yanking them up to her chin. Sweet dreams indeed. He knew damn well what she would be dreaming about, and the adjectives used to describe them would be far from sweet.
Her body quivering with her unfulfilled desire, she rolled on her side and sighed. It wasn’t the adjectives in her dreams she worried about, but rather the proper noun that served as the subject for them.
Garrett Sinclair.
She whispered his name, and it echoed in the silence of the room and filled the empty chambers of her heart.
THE NEXT MORNING Alex was given a reprieve from the unsettled feelings Garrett evoked. He had taken Brandon to view the hops fields, and under the watchful eyes of one of the maids, the boys had disappeared to visit the kittens in the stables.
Settled in the back gardens with Kit, she kept glancing toward the entrance of the garden. Every sound had her expecting to see Garrett’s handsome figure. Annoyed at her behavior, she vowed to forget the man for one damn minute. Difficult, but not impossible.
Kit, despite her bulging stomach, had lowered herself to a blanket on the ground. Wearing a pair of old garden gloves, she was busy rooting out weeds and debris from neglected flower beds. Spring wildflowers covered the grounds in a riotous jumble of colors. The look was chaotic and unkempt compared to most well-tended English gardens, but Alex thought it suited the rustic manor and its compelling owner.
She slipped on the extra pair of gloves Kit had brought for her and knelt. Her gardening skills were on par with her musical talents, but the task was mindless and comforting and the May day was bright and beautiful.
After a pleasant interlude of chatting and gardening, Alex realized that she did not know if Kit was Garrett’s step or half sister. She posed the question to Kit, who looked surprised.
“My father married our mother when Garrett was seven, and I arrived a year later. Garrett is my half brother, but he is eight years older than I am.”
“But you are very close.”
“Of course. When Garrett was home from school, I trailed him like his shadow.” Kit laughed ruefully.
“He didn’t mind?” Alex asked. “Don’t most older brothers find their little sister following them around to be annoying?”
A sheepish look crossed Kit’s features. “Truth be told, I was a bit of a wild thing when I was young. I suppose Garrett took me under his wing because no one else would. I went through nursemaids as quickly as Beau outgrows his trousers.”
“What about your parents? Where was your mother or father?” She and her mother were very different, but her mother had strived to teach her stronger-willed daughter to be a lady. And her father had glibly joked that she was the one asset he had refused to sell, making her priceless.
“My father wanted nothing to do with me. I was a constant reminder of his failure to sire a son.” Kit leaned forward to brush the weeds she had uprooted into a pile.
“No! But didn’t he already have a son in Garrett?”
“No, he never did. Garrett is the spitting image of his late father. In my father’s eyes that made Garrett like me, another symbol of his failures. You see, Garrett’s father had been the love of my mother’s life, so Garrett was a constant reminder to my father that he was second choice. Garrett and my father never got along.” She sighed. “Garrett tried for a while, but then he stopped. I think he realized that to my father, he would always be another man’s child.”
“That is sad,” Alex murmured.
“No, that’s my father, Arthur Brown.” Kit wrinkled her nose and yanked out a stubborn weed. “He is not an admirable man, nor a kind one. Once I asked him to open his shirt. Garrett had told me there was a black hole in the place where his heart should be, and I wanted to see it.” She gave a rueful smile.
A chill seized Alex at the heartl
ess description. Another thought struck her and she turned to Kit. “But what about your mother?”
“She tried, but the more attention she paid to Garrett, the more it disturbed my father. Forced to take sides, she chose the wrong one. Garrett deserved her; my father didn’t.”
“That’s sacrificing her child for her own happiness.” Alex blurted before she could restrain the comment.
“Or sacrificing her child for her marriage.” Kit’s smile was sad. “My mother needed to be taken care of, and Arthur lived on the neighboring estate. When Garrett’s father died, he swept in and took charge.” She shrugged. “Garrett was sent away to school, so he couldn’t be what my mother needed.”
“She couldn’t be what Garrett needed, and her failure is the greater one,” Alex said, her words heated. Aware of her outspoken condemnation of Kit’s mother, she turned to apologize, but found Kit smiling at her.
“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but being a mother myself, I agree. That is why my mother and I were not close. It’s difficult to admire someone you don’t respect.”
Unwittingly, Kit’s words mirrored Alex’s relationship with her own mother.
Her mother had served as the living embodiment to the adage love is blind. In her devotion to Alex’s father, she had overlooked his women, debts, and failed investment schemes. She had loved her father for better or worse. Not until death did they part.
Alex vowed to belong to no man but rather to make her own fortunes. Financially secure, she’d never have to marry so no man could cheat on her or gamble with her livelihood, counting on legendary luck to replenish their fortunes. No child of hers would be given a gift of a horse, only to go to ride him and find he had been sold to pay off a debt. Nor should they have to hide their jewelry, for fear of needing to pawn it later to pay the servant’s wages.
Alex studied Kit, who was clipping dead heads from a wild rosebush. Her eyes drifted to Kit’s stomach, and she frowned. There was one hitch in her plans.
Children.
Her heart twisted. Alone was alone. No kitten-smuggling Beaus or thumb-sucking Wills to brighten her day or her heart. It was a weak point in her plan, for she wanted children. Very much. There also would be no more hot, torrid kisses or tangling sheets with naked men, or one man in particular. She straightened abruptly. “Are you happily married?” Her question had escaped before she realized she had spoken aloud.
Surprised, Kit glanced at her stomach and back up, laughter dancing in her eyes. “I should hope so. No turning back now.” She laughed. “And what about you and my brother?”
Alex stiffened. “Nothing, there is nothing between us.”
“That kiss didn’t look like nothing to me.”
Alex’s face heated, and she glanced away from the teasing light in Kit’s eyes. She had forgotten about Kit seeing them. She jumped when she felt a hand on her arm.
Kit’s expression was apologetic. “I’m sorry. I’m too outspoken at times. Bran reminds me of it often enough. It is just that since Garrett’s return from the Crimea, he…Well, when he returned, he wasn’t the same. He—”
“I know.” Alex covered Kit’s hand with her own and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I understand.”
“Well, there haven’t been any women since his return. Not that I condoned his chasing every silly skirt that twitched, but I understood it was another one of his ploys to drive my father mad.” Her eyes lifted to Alex’s. “What I mean to say is, he looks the best I’ve seen since his return, and I don’t think the country air is responsible for his improvement.”
She smiled at Kit. How could she not? She had wanted to help Garrett and hearing she had warmed her heart. It was what she had hoped to do for him. All she could do for him.
She sat back on her heels and mulled over Kit’s words about Garrett’s women being mere pawns in his feud with his father. And Garrett had had no women since his return from the war. No women before her.
She pressed her hand to her heart, feeling it pound beneath her palm. There was an irony in this, and the bitterness of it sliced clear through her. She had fought her feelings for Garrett, thinking him not worthy of them and believing him not free to receive them. Now when she feared she was losing her battle, the point was irrelevant. Gus’s arrival reminded her of this, bringing her past back with him.
It had never mattered whether Garrett was free or not.
It had never mattered, because she wasn’t free.
While Alex Daniels might be able to follow the yearnings of her heart, Alexandra Langdon could not.
Thanks to her uncle, Alex Langdon could never be free.
Chapter Twenty-two
GARRETT tossed his quill pen down and leaned back in his chair. This was absurd. He should be courting Alexandra, not locked in his office staring at a list of over three hundred names. But Kit was right. While they were safe at Charlton Manor, they couldn’t hole up here forever.
And there could be no wedding bells if he was dead.
However, Brandon was wrong about one thing. He hadn’t been without recourses here. He had sent two of his own men into the city to see what they could ferret out about the attacks on his carriage. Since Peel’s policemen had discovered nothing, Garrett had decided it was time to employ a different caliber of investigator.
Alex had said the man who was disguised as one of Hammond’s footmen spoke with an East End dialect. Garrett needed someone who knew that area, one of their ilk to question their own. His men were former East Enders, grew up around the rookeries. They knew the back alleys and hidden haunts of pawnbrokers, thieves, and murderers. They spoke their language and would know whose palms to grease to extract information. They would track down this man and root him out like the rat he was.
They would also find out what the hell had been tossed for final payment at Hammond’s. Odds are it rested in some pawnbroker’s hands by now. Once located, it could be linked back to the assassin, and this payment rendered would provide further evidence to implicate the man.
They would catch the bastard. It was just a matter of time. By reviewing Hammond’s guest list, the list holding his killer’s name, Garrett hoped to cut this time short.
Newly resolved, he straightened, leaned forward, and returned to the task.
A while later, he paused on one of the names—Mr. Alex Daniels. He grinned, intrigued as to how Alex had finagled an invitation to one of the most exclusive balls of the Season for a man who didn’t exist. Another puzzle, but he was finding he enjoyed unraveling them more than he thought.
He gave his head a sharp shake. Focus.
Brandon had jotted down notes beside a few who might harbor motives for his murder. He reminded Garrett that he had mistaken Lady Weatherbee’s pint-size poodle for a hairy hand muff and sat on him. Garrett had asked Lord Ashton if he was playing Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Garrett snorted, for the man had looked like a bloody fairy in his puce-colored jacket and lime green shirt.
Brandon went on to recount Garrett’s planned tryst with Lady Brisbane in her gardens at midnight. Garrett had never appeared. The irate lady had blamed him for her having caught a chill waiting all night in the altogether.
Garrett blew out a breath and rubbed his face. Enough. He knew he had been an ass because it had amused him to be so, aware that stories of his behavior would be repeated to his stepfather. But that was before the war.
Before Alexandra.
While thoughts of Alex usually improved his mood, he found his disposition souring. And he knew why.
It was the damn courtship.
It was a failure.
Why? Three kisses. Three kisses in three days. It was a paltry showing for a man with his history. And the third one didn’t count, for he had held Will in his arms.
He felt like a powder keg ready to explode. If the assassin didn’t kill him, Alex would. He shoved his chair back, circled his desk, and stormed down the hall. He marched into the living room where Kit sat on the settee, knitting, and Brandon s
tood by the mantel, Garrett’s interruption cutting short their conversation.
“It’s not working. She’s more interested in the children than me unless I’m kissing her. How the hell can I kiss her with the boys always underfoot? I need to be alone with Alex and properly seduce her. Then I will kiss her senseless, ask her to marry me, and get all this dithering over with.”
“Dithering?” Brandon cocked a brow, amused.
“I believe he means indecision,” Kit said. “Garrett, my love, stop thinking about kisses and concentrate on enjoying Alex’s company.” She brandished her knitting needle. “Focus on courtship, not seduction.”
Garrett stared at her as if she were mad. His patience snapped. “What the hell do you think I’ve been doing for the past week?” He swiped his hands through his hair. “With most women, all it takes is a pretty bauble, some poetic dribble, and a bit of flirtation, right?
“Well, I—”
“Don’t stop him,” Brandon interceded. “This could be good.”
“You listen to them prattle on about their newest bonnet or Lady What’s-her-name’s garden party, and congratulate her friend on some forgettable piece she’s pounded out on the piano. But not with Alex.” Garrett sliced his hand through the air. “The woman is an anomaly. She’s a puzzle, and you know how I feel about puzzles.”
“I do,” Brandon said. “Bane of his existence.” He winked at Kit.
“You don’t understand,” Garrett said. “She collects biscuits, for God’s sake.”
“Biscuits?” Brandon looked confused.
“Biscuits,” Garrett repeated. “Hides them in her skirt pocket like a damn squirrel storing nuts for winter.” He paced the room. “Her father’s estate manager took her under his wing, explaining the running of the property, so she peppers me with questions about mine. And she can’t sing or play the piano. She is polite but keeps a safe distance from me while she jabbers on to Beau and Will.
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