“Now that we have made complete spectacles of ourselves, I think we best depart.” Gavin turned to Dillian’s chaperon. “Lady Darley, if you wish to enjoy the remainder of the evening, I will gladly escort Miss Reynolds home. I have no desire to linger any longer.”
Too shrewd to miss the looks the young couple gave each other, knowing the entire meeting had been set up deliberately for some reason beyond her knowledge, Lady Darley shook her head disapprovingly. “There is sufficient talk as it is. I think the evening shall be most boring after this. I’m ready to retire if Miss Reynolds is. We thank you very much for your concern, my lord.”
Gavin bowed before the knowledge in her eyes. “We are most grateful for your help, my lady. If you are certain you wish to depart, I will find my own way home.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll explain any of this?” she asked with interest.
“Someday, perhaps, my lady, although you must ask Miss Reynolds for answers. I give you good day, then.” He bowed and walked out of the room, counting it one of the harder chores in his life. Dillian lounging defenselessly on a sofa made Gavin’s blood run cold and hot at the same time. He had no intention whatsoever of letting her leave this house without his protection. Neville had looked fit to kill, and he still didn’t know how this Reardon person fell into the scheme of things.
Miss Dillian Reynolds Whitnell had a lot to explain. He had every intention of sticking close to her side until she explained it to his satisfaction.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Did she deny it?” the Earl of Dismouth asked, sipping his brandy in the study of Anglesey’s town house.
“I didn’t ask. All the evidence is clear.” The Duke of Anglesey looked disgusted as he crossed the study and helped himself to another glass of brandy. “I can’t believe I was so blind. The daughter of a traitor living in my own household! My word, she had enormous nerve living so boldly under my nose. What in the name of heaven could she possibly hope to gain?”
Dismouth snorted. “Anything and everything. She has a comfortable position and access to an extremely wealthy heiress. You said yourself that she has alienated your cousin’s affections and kept the two of you apart. There’s no telling what other mischief she is about. Whitnell was a notorious troublemaker. There’s no doubt the daughter is the same. Has your operative sent word as to your cousin’s whereabouts?”
The duke shook his head and took a healthy sip of the liquor before speaking. “They’ve traced her to the south of France, according to the reports I’ve received. That’s the same as Miss Rey... Whitnell said this evening. I can’t imagine who Blanche travels with, other than her maid. I have someone else working on that angle.”
“For all you know, your men are off after a red herring. Miss Whitnell could very well have your cousin under lock and key somewhere. She may have set the fire deliberately for her own purposes. This works out very well for her. If she can keep Lady Blanche hidden until she turns twenty-one and continues her influence...”
Neville set the glass down hard and paced the carpet. “I can’t believe Blanche so weak-minded. She is young, yes, but she is not stupid. She must know what is happening. Unless she’s painfully hurt...” He gritted his teeth and swung around to face his older companion. “What in hell can I do?”
The earl stared thoughtfully into his own glass. “Well, there are those papers you removed from the vault. Your Miss Whitnell seems most eager to lay her hands on them of a sudden.” He looked up to watch the young duke’s expression. “If they’re Whitnell’s, they may contain information valuable to the government. For your cousin and for the security of the country, we should possibly take a look at them.”
Neville set his jaw and glared out at the night sky through the study window. “They are not mine to dispose of as I wish. I handed the ones I found over to my solicitor for safekeeping, thinking they belonged to Blanche. He is not likely to give them over without Blanche’s permission. Winfrey has the stubbornness of a mule when it comes to moral authority.”
Dismouth tapped his fingers together. “Then, Miss Whitnell should suffer equal difficulty in obtaining them?”
For the first time that evening, the duke managed a half smile. “She would need two dragons and a platoon of knights to pry that old bastard out of his position.”
* * * *
Gavin already knew the sword he would use on his own personal dragon, although slaying her wasn’t precisely his intention. He might occasionally contemplate cutting off her tongue, but he had no desire of otherwise ending a relationship that afforded him such pleasure.
He could think of no other good reason why he should lurk in the dark London garden of her cousin’s townhouse on a windy spring night. He’d already scouted the front and decided he couldn’t gain access from there except through one of the two doors: the belowstairs servants’ entrance or the main entrance. The likelihood of one of the servants letting him in was small, and he had no intention of giving Michael more ammunition for his quick tongue if he should answer the main door.
The house shared inside walls with two other townhouses, leaving any access impossible from the sides. So now he stood in the garden behind the mews, contemplating the lighted windows above. He must be mad.
A silhouette crossed the lighted path of a second-story window. Since their charade required that he have no apparent knowledge of Lady Blanche and her companion, he’d not seen the inside of this protective prison where the women hid. Gavin didn’t think much of Michael’s precautions. He’d seen only one old man checking the downstairs locks. No one guarded the outside. With a good ladder, he could climb inside in a flash.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have a ladder. And he could tell from the shape of the silhouette that it was Dillian standing near the window.
Damn, but he hadn’t performed such contortions to get to a woman since he was a schoolboy. Anyone in their right mind would simply give up and go home. He knew how to live without a woman. He’d had lots of practice lately.
He just kept remembering how she looked lying there on that divan, the frail folds of her fancy gown falling to the floor, her face flushed and anxious as she watched the door for the appearance of her own personal demon. Dillian Whitnell might have the courage of a lion, but she had the physical vulnerability of any other woman. Since at the moment, Gavin considered her his woman, he meant to protect her.
He also meant to climb into her bed, but that was another matter entirely.
He would accomplish nothing by hiding in the shrubbery. Just as he’d decided to fling pebbles at the lighted window, the figure pulled the draperies across and disappeared into the interior.
Cursing, Gavin sought some means of gaining entry to that floor. No vines conveniently lined the solid, vertical walls. He could possibly look for some access from the roof of the neighbor’s house, but he had no means of lowering himself two floors to the window he wanted.
Just as he concluded he would have to search the mews for a ladder, he noticed a shadow furtively flitting from an ornamental boxwood to a hideous stone urn. Setting his jaw, Gavin pulled his black cloak around him for concealment and slipped behind a rose-covered arch.
The shadow skirted the house foundation much as he had done earlier in search of some means of entrance. Unlike himself, this person showed no evidence of avoiding doors. The shadow halted near the rear exit.
Gavin crept closer. He couldn’t stop the intruder from entering the interior without following. He didn’t possess Michael’s ability of walking noiselessly, but the spring grass concealed his footsteps well enough, as long as he avoided the graveled walkway.
Skirting around an overly tall hedge, he briefly lost sight of the rear door. When he reached the other side, the furtive figure had disappeared. Cursing, not knowing if the intruder had somehow entered the locked door, Gavin slid behind the stone urn— and nearly knocked down the intruder.
Finding his arms suddenly filled with squirming round curves, Gavin grinned
and leaned against the urn for support while wrapping his captive more firmly against him. He couldn’t have mistaken the identity of his captive were he blind, deaf, and senseless. Her curves fit most fortuitously into all the right places. “Had I thought you so eager for my company, my lady,” he murmured into her ear, “I would have notified you of my arrival much sooner.”
Dillian followed her outraged gasp with a thump of her small fist against his chest. Gavin squeezed her against him, trapping her dangerous arms. That maneuver denied him full access to her lovely breasts. He made up for that lack by lifting her so the hollow between her thighs fit neatly against that part of him which welcomed her most.
She stiffened at the intimacy, but then nature had its way, and she relaxed, molding herself more securely into his embrace. Just that little surrender sent all his senses blazing, and he had to restrain himself from finding the nearest level surface to take her on.
He had treated her crudely in the past. He would maintain some measure of gentility for now. Besides, he enjoyed the sensual pleasures of touch and smell and anticipation almost as much as the actual act. He breathed deeply of Dillian’s lavender scent.
“Are you still wearing that gown you had on this evening?” he asked hoarsely, seeing the daring neckline in his mind’s eye as clearly as if she stood before him in lamplight.
“No,” she whispered. “I took it off before I realized someone lurked in the bushes.”
Gavin released her sufficiently to glance down at her shadowy figure. He could see something loose and flowing about her ankles. He threw his cloak over his shoulder, freeing his hand to run over the silken material covering her breast. “You’re out here in your nightrail?” he asked in astonishment mixed with a surge of lust.
She hid her head against his chest and nodded.
Gavin played that notion through his head and chuckled. She could have called Michael and told him an intruder lurked in the yard. Instead, she had dashed outside wearing only her nightrail. He gathered her a little closer and wrapped them both in his cloak to keep her warm. “You knew it was me,” he said with certainty.
“You don’t have to be so blamed arrogant about it,” she answered huffily. “Who else would be foolish enough to attempt scaling bare walls?”
Relaxing his shoulders against the monstrous urn and holding her close, Gavin shook his head, still chuckling. The little termagant had begun to grow on him. He rather liked her prickly defenses. He preferred her mischievous laughter when they were in accord, but that didn’t happen often enough to suit him. He’d settle for the heat generating between them as they stood together like this. He knew if he touched her breasts, she would be as aroused as he was.
“Consider it a compliment that I so desire your lovely self, I’m prepared to scale walls for you,” he murmured against her hair, enjoying the pleasure of running his hand up and down her ample curves beneath the soft material of the gown.
She pulled her head back and glared up at him. “You didn’t mean to...”
He heard the shocked tone of her voice but ignored it. “Of course I meant to. Shall we go in now or do you wish to explore the possibilities of this garden?”
Her small fist beat a tattoo against his chest again. “You wretched pig! In Blanche’s home! Have you no decency? Would you shame me before all the world? Why do you just not claim me your mistress before all the ton and make it easier for yourself?”
Gavin sighed and settled her tirade by closing his mouth across hers. She didn’t struggle long, he noted. Dillian had an unpredictable temper, but her physical desire blazed as hotly as his own. He took a seat on the stone bench surrounding the urn and eased her nightrail up so she straddled his lap. He’d prefer a warm bed to cold stone, but he would take what he could. She tasted of strawberries, he decided as he dipped deeply into the sweetness of her kiss.
“Gavin, don’t,” she whispered when he gave her a chance to catch her breath. “We can’t...”
For answer, he suckled her breast through the thin wisp of her nightrail.
She melted, almost literally melted, sliding into his lap and nearly falling from his knees before he caught her. He didn’t think he’d ever felt such intoxicating pleasure with a woman in his life. Her responses not only made him ache with desire, they restored something missing inside him, gave him back some shred of the confidence he’d lost. Not all, perhaps. He might never return to the arrogant, cocksure bastard he’d once been, but he had no wish to return to his previous life in any form.
“Gavin, you can’t possibly...”
He drank in her sigh of pleasure as he pulled her skirt up and caressed her lightly, luxuriating in the simple pleasures of heated skin, crisp curls, and welcoming moisture. Instead of beating him with fists, her hands now slid beneath the shirt she’d unfastened. When her fingers sought and played his nipples, Gavin nearly took her then and there. She learned exceedingly well and much too quickly. That knowledge delighted him even more.
As he reached for the buttons of his trousers, she stiffened. He’d thought her beyond the protesting stage, and he threw her an anxious glance. She wasn’t looking at him but at something over his shoulder.
“There’s someone there, in the shrubbery!” she whispered, leaning to speak against his ear.
The little wretch was perfectly capable of saying the like to distract him from his purpose. His fingers caressed her intimately, reminding her of his ownership of this particular part of her. She shivered and moved against him, but her gaze remained fixed on something over his shoulder.
Hell and tarnation, he swore silently, turning to look where she pointed. She hadn’t lied. A man slid from the rose-covered arch, creeping toward the rear door.
“I didn’t fasten it behind me!” Dillian whispered.
Gavin muttered a filthy imprecation and set Dillian aside on the bench. The cold stone should cool her off. He rather thought his own loins might petrify into permanent stiffness. Still, he eased around the urn and prepared to fling himself upon the intruder when a second-floor window flew open and a veiled head leaned out.
“Dillian! Are you out there? Come back inside at once!”
The intruder shot through the shrubbery, scaled the ornamental boxwood, leapt from a wrought-iron table to the top of the brick wall, and disappeared on the other side.
“Get back inside the house!” Gavin shouted, not following the thief’s path but heading for the gate to the mews.
“No, don’t!” Dillian threw herself at him, clinging so he could scarcely move. “He might have a weapon. He’s too far ahead of you. Let him go.”
He had no experience with clinging women, nor any patience with them. Shaking her off, Gavin ran to the gate and out into the mews. Looking both ways, he could discern no running figure. Stables and discarded trash littered the dark alleyway. The man could hide anywhere. Without knowing in which direction he went, he had little or no chance of finding him without a small army. She’d safely distracted him until the culprit got away.
Cursing with angry frustration, Gavin slammed back through the gate and grabbed Dillian’s arm. “Why in hell did you stop me?” he demanded. “I could have nabbed the varmint, and we might have had a few answers around here. I sometimes wonder which side you’re working for, Miss Whitnell.” He dragged her toward the house.
“Nabbed the varmint?” she repeated with distaste, hauling on his arm rather than running to keep up with him. “How very expressive. Let me go, my lord. I’m not one of your minions to be thrown about as you will.”
He flung open the door and jerked her inside. “Do you prefer it to think I am one of your minions?” he asked furiously. “Am I only to do as you bid? Just precisely what game are you playing here. Miss Reynolds Whitnell?”
Blanche was running down the stairs, her eyes wide with terror. Michael already stood in the front hallway, arms crossed over his chest as he observed Gavin tugging Dillian in her nightrail down the corridor.
Oblivious to their a
udience, Gavin continued shaking his captive. “It’s about time I had some honesty from you. I want the whole story, or I’m washing my hands of this whole damned deal.”
To the astonishment of all, Dillian jerked herself out of Gavin’s grasp, picked up the skirts of her nightrail, and started up the steps. “Then, go, my lord. I have no further use for you at all.”
She left everyone standing in the hallway, gaping, as she departed with the injured dignity of a royal princess.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Dillian held her head high and her shoulders back just as her military companions had taught her those many long years ago when she had childishly wanted to run and hide and weep until her heart broke.
She wouldn’t let hasty words wound her. She would hold herself above insults. And if physically challenged, she would fight with every ounce of her strength. Effingham should rejoice that he hadn’t actually lifted a hand to her, or she would have bitten it off.
She even resisted slamming the door behind her as she retreated to her room. She clenched her fists and fought against the tears swimming in her eyes. She wouldn’t think of the things the blamed marquess had done to her, of the intimacies she had allowed, of the way he made her feel special each time he looked at her with desire.
Shame swept through her as she remembered what they had almost done in the garden. She had pretended all along that she had done those things for Blanche, but she’d lied to herself. She had done them because she wanted Gavin’s arms around her, wanted his kisses, wanted him in her bed.
She was indeed her father’s daughter.
Flinging herself across the covers, Dillian buried her head under the pillow. Her father had taught her to turn her back on the past and always look forward. She tried doing that now, but only a bleak emptiness marked the path ahead. She ought to pack her bags and walk out, leave everything behind and start over. That was the simplest course.
The Marquess Page 27
