by Elisa Braden
“That is because you are a man, my darling,” replied a wry female.
“What has sex to do with it?”
“Lord Muggeridge could still father children, should he find a blind woman desperate enough to accommodate him. And he is older than Lady Wallingham. A woman’s time is more limited.”
“My sister is hardly in her dotage. A year or two will make scant difference—”
“Think of it in plant terms. Perhaps that will make more sense to you.”
“How so?”
A feminine sigh of exasperation. “Some plants need no more than sunlight and rain to bloom the entire summer through, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Others are more delicate. Orchids, for example. They bloom only when a very particular set of conditions are met. Miss your chance, and you may not get another.”
“Briar, have you been reading my horticulture texts again?”
“Only browsing the pictures. Lovely sketches, you know. More than one bonnet has been designed with your little plants in mind. Additionally, I have listened to you droning on about plant reproduction whilst we romp about the gardens—”
The flinty, masculine voice deepened. “Perhaps you are feeling drowsy, love. We should retire to our chamber.”
“What are you on about? I feel fine.” A pause. “Oh! Yes, well.” A chuckle. “I suppose one does feel a bit winded after a ride.”
Nash reached the center arch ahead of Jonas. The butler stopped and bowed to the guests. Light brightened then faded as a door opened and closed.
That was when he heard it. A voice as cool and soft as snowfall.
“I should like to ride along the beach tomorrow, Eugenia.”
Jonas slowed. Drifted toward the sound.
“Of course, dearest,” the first woman said, a smile in her voice. “But I must insist you wear your red habit. A gown is not truly yours if you refuse to put it on.”
He waited for her reply. Braced a hand against the gallery wall and clenched his teeth tight.
What in bloody hell was she doing here?
God, he needed to hear her. One more time. A tiny taste of snowfall to see him through.
What a fool he was. After everything that had happened. A damned fool.
His hand fisted. His head fell forward as he waited. Wanted.
“You don’t think the red too bold?”
“Don’t be silly. Every male within ten miles will suddenly declare it his favorite color. Mark my words.”
The tall, pale-eyed Earl of Holstoke and his petite, plainspoken countess strolled past Nash, turning toward the grand staircase without looking in Jonas’s direction.
A woman followed.
The woman.
Midnight hair and moonlight eyes.
Snowfall voice and fresh-cream skin.
She wore blue velvet. She wore the bearing of a queen.
Untouchable. Haughty. Serene.
He thought she’d pass without seeing him. Better that way, he supposed. Snow Queens shouldn’t have to acknowledge the low, wild creatures below their station.
But while her brother and his wife continued toward the staircase, something slowed the Snow Queen’s steps.
She halted at the edge of the third arch. Her shoulders stiffened and shivered as though she’d caught a draft.
Then, she turned, her slender neck tight, her delicate chin lifting.
Stunning, ice-green eyes landed upon him. Flared in recognition. Alarm.
Creamy cheeks bloomed rosy pink.
He’d seen the reaction before. A year ago, the first time they’d met, she’d stood in her brother’s London drawing room defying Jonas with a Snow Queen’s hauteur—and turned the very same color. She’d looked at him the very same way, as though he were a wolf and she his supper.
The assessment wasn’t far off.
He stared at her now, moonlight and midnight. Small waist, delicate jaw. Dainty nose, rosebud lips. He looked his fill. For, that was all this would ever be—looking and wanting.
She was an earl’s sister. A by-blow, but still miles above his reach.
No, he would never have her. But he could have this. A moment. A slow grin that he knew would make her cheeks flare brighter, her breath come faster.
Ah, yes. There it was.
Just like the first time.
Just as he’d dreamed every night since he’d first set eyes upon the exquisite, elusive Miss Hannah Gray.
*~*~*
CHAPTER THREE
“A handsome man expects ease when luring an ordinary woman into forgetting herself. But I have never been ordinary. And I never forget.”
—Lady Dorothea Penworth to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, Earl Bainbridge, in a letter explaining why some expectations are destined to be thwarted.
The first time Hannah ever set eyes upon Jonas Hawthorn, her skin had fairly lifted from her body. Glowed. Tickled with the sensation of lightning charging the air—part fear, part awareness, part pleasure.
Their acquaintance had begun the previous year when she and Phineas had traveled to London for the season so that he might find a wife. Since Phineas’s mother had been a notorious murderess, and he had a rather “peculiar nature,” as Eugenia put it, his search had been a trying one. Respectable young ladies feared him, though their avoidance had been hysterical nonsense. Phineas was the best sort of man she could imagine, kind and honorable.
Still, Lydia Brand, the late Countess of Holstoke, tended to ruin every life she touched, even in death. Phineas’s reputation had suffered for being her son.
Matters had worsened considerably when two women who’d rejected Phineas’s suit were poisoned. Phineas had become a suspect in the murders, and the ladies’ families had hired a Bow Street runner to investigate.
He’d called at Holstoke House on Park Lane shortly after five. She remembered because she often practiced her music at five, and she’d been at the pianoforte when their butler, Sackford, had asked if she would receive a visitor.
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Jonas Hawthorn, miss. An officer with the Bow Street police office. He is here making inquiries regarding dreadful attacks upon two young ladies.”
She considered turning him away. Inquiries from Bow Street men were better left to Phineas. But the incident involved young women.
Hannah had been a victim once. She’d had no one to defend her, no one to help. If answering a few questions prevented other girls from suffering similar horrors, then she would do it gladly.
So she squelched her usual response to unusual circumstances—a fizzing belly, a tightened chest—and nodded her assent. “Send him up. Thank you, Sackford.”
Rising from the pianoforte, she smoothed her skirts and her hair, glancing at her reflection in the large mirror above the fireplace. She wandered to the chair at the center of the room. Her hands drifted nervously to the curved wooden frame before she forced them to still. Then, she folded them at her waist and waited.
She’d thought herself prepared. She wasn’t.
Her first glimpse of Jonas Hawthorn stunned her speechless. She held very still while the dark-haired, gray-eyed, square-jawed wolf prowled into her brother’s drawing room, scanning the entire space in a single glance. Then, like the hunter he was, he fixed upon her.
He moved like he wanted to be missed—fast pretending to be slow.
He dressed like he wanted to be mistaken for a vagabond—clever pretending to be feckless.
He grinned like he wanted to be welcomed—dangerous pretending to be charming.
His eyes sharpened upon her. Brightened with a silvery gleam.
She scarcely breathed while he crossed the room. Long strides were deceptively lazy as they carried him closer. Too close. She didn’t like men to come near her, particularly men like him. Tall. Strong. Capable.
He tilted his head down and to the side, giving her a crooked grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. An incisor faintly overlapped a neighboring tooth, she not
ed. The rakish imperfection drew her to his mouth.
“Miss Gray, I presume.”
Swallowing the bewildering urge to smile in return, she greeted him as steadily as she could manage. “Mr. Hawthorn.” Blast, she sounded like a breathless ninny. But her heart was pounding—flutter and pound, flutter and pound. “I understand you’re here regarding an incident.”
“Aye.” She liked his voice—a bit graveled, a bit rough. His accent was difficult to place, mainly London with a patchwork of inflections from Norwich to Devonshire. “Two young ladies appear to have been poisoned.” He shifted his weight so that one shoulder was higher than the other. It put him very close to her. “I’d hoped to speak to Lord Holstoke.”
“As Mr. Sackford informed you, my brother is not at home.”
“No, indeed.” The weight of his gaze wandering over her face made her retreat a step. His grin reappeared, wider this time. “Perhaps you can help me.”
She held that silvery gaze as long as she could bear before turning away and gesturing to a settee six feet away from her chair, separated by a low table. Then, she took her seat.
But he did not. Instead, he stood in place, smiling down at her, a wolf intrigued by a misbehaving meal. He withdrew a small notebook and a pencil from inside his black wool coat. “Where is Holstoke now?”
Blinking, she answered truthfully, “Attending a dinner.”
“With whom?”
“The Huxley family.”
“The Earl of Berne’s residence, then. Grosvenor Street, if I recall.”
“That’s right.”
He nodded as though this confirmed something. Tapping his pencil against the cover of his notebook, he gave her a mischievous boy’s endearing grin. “Why did you not accompany him?”
“How is that relevant to your inquiry?”
“Indulge me.” The way he spoke those two words sent her heart spinning. They were a playful tease. A secret caress.
Tingling like bubbles in a glass, her reaction froze her in place. She needed him to move away. She needed him to stop looking at her. “It occurs to me I’ve indulged you quite enough by granting a man of your sort an audience in the first place, Mr. Hawthorn.”
His playful gleam turned sharp. She’d intended him to take umbrage. To back away. He did neither. Instead, he moved directly in front of her and lowered into a crouch, his eyes now level with hers. “Two women have been murdered, Miss Gray,” he said softly. “When such evils occur, men of your brother’s sort hire men of my sort to hunt down answers. Even when men of my sort must sully the fine air of a lady such as yourself.”
She swallowed, her heart thundering a protest: Too close. Too close. Too close. “I will thank you to take your seat,” she murmured.
“I will thank you to answer my question.”
“I was feeling unwell. I elected to remain here for the evening.”
“Unwell?” For the first time, his infernal smile disappeared entirely. “You are ill?”
“That is none of your concern.” In fact, she was suffering, but she would never tell him why. Her courses came with harsh pain and deep fatigue every month. Phineas usually prepared her one of his medicinal teas to ease her symptoms. They helped a little, but she’d not felt well enough to enjoy an evening with the boisterous Huxley family.
“Hmm.” His gaze caught on her hands. “Where was he this morning?”
“I did not ask.”
“What time did he leave Holstoke House?”
“After breakfast. Nine or so.”
Silvery eyes came back up to meet hers. “Are you acquainted with Lord Glencombe’s daughter Lady Theodosia?”
“Lady Dunston has mentioned her.”
“Lady Dunston. One of the Huxley daughters, yes?”
She inclined her head. “Lady Maureen Huxley, before her marriage.”
“You are friends?”
“Yes.”
“Then, I am flummoxed.”
His refusal to move away from her, as well as his barrage of questions, chafed her already shortened temper. “Little wonder,” she snapped. “Perhaps you would find greater clarity if you focused upon your task rather than bothering those courteous enough to tolerate your impertinences.”
He chuckled as though she were an amusingly disgruntled kitten. “Am I bothering you, Miss Gray?”
Yes. Profoundly. More than any man in recent memory. “Ask your questions, Mr. Hawthorn. Then leave.”
“Why are you not with your brother at Berne House?”
“Because I don’t wish to be.”
“Why not?”
Her temper ignited. “We’ve discussed this already.”
“Are you ill?”
“I wished to stay here. That is all you need know.”
“Have you been at home all day?”
“Yes.”
“Because you are feeling poorly.”
“Because I feel positively wretched, Mr. Hawthorn. And you are not improving matters.”
His eyes fell to her hands once again. This time, he caught her clutching her lower belly. His brow—which she hadn’t realized held tension—relaxed. He nodded. “Indeed.” His grin returned, revealing the perfect imperfection of his overlapping tooth. “So, you’ve no idea where your brother has been, either this morning or, with certainty, right now.”
“I told you—”
“You told me what he told you. But, you’ve been here, not with him. For all you know, he might have been visiting his mistress.”
Her skin went hot. She wanted to stand and force him from the room. She wanted to slap the smile from his face. She wanted to scream that the next words he spoke had best be an apology for his rudeness.
But she did nothing of the sort. Instead, she sat very still and held that gray gaze for long seconds, gathering calm around her in a seamless shell. “My brother has no mistress. He is in town seeking a wife. Now, if you are quite finished insulting me—”
“Oh, no insult intended, I assure you. Merely trying to ascertain whether Holstoke murdered Lady Theodosia.” He smiled. “That’s all.”
“Murdered?” All the heat in her body dissipated beneath a flood of weakness and ice. “Sh-she was murdered?”
“Poisoned.” He tilted his head in that wolfish way. “How old are you, Miss Gray?”
Still reeling from the news of a second poisoning death—the first had happened days before, another young lady Phineas had briefly attempted to court—she answered without thinking. “Two-and-twenty.”
His eyes touched on her hair, her throat, her hands. “You seem both younger and … older. Interesting.”
“Wh-when was she—”
“Today around noon. She was discovered an hour or so later.”
Her mind reeled. “Phineas—my brother would not kill anyone. He is a good man.”
“You are his half-sister, isn’t that right? Your mother was the previous Lord Holstoke’s mistress?”
She nodded.
“Your loyalty to your brother is heartening, Miss Gray. But then, his lordship has been rather generous,” he murmured, his eyes drifting over the drawing room. “It’s not every earl who keeps his father’s by-blows in decadent luxury, be they male or … the loveliest of females.”
She stiffened. “My brother cares for me. And he is not a murderer.” Despite her acute discomfort at his nearness, she shoved to her feet, which put his face inches from her skirts. “If you truly wish to find the man responsible for poisoning Lady Theodosia, I suggest you leave Holstoke House at once, for you shan’t find him here.”
“But I’ve found you.” Silvery eyes lifted to hers. Teasing. Challenging. “Time well spent, I daresay.”
She moved away several steps, unable to bear this any longer. He was too handsome. Too forward. Too close.
He unfolded from his crouch and stood. Then, his smile faded, leaving only a subtle hunger. His posture emphasized his height. His size. His strength.
Her head started lifting and spinning. She
swallowed her alarm. Retreated behind the settee.
He followed, frowning. “Miss Gray. You’ve gone white as sails. Are you all right?” He reached for her elbow.
She jerked back, her head floating away, now. “I should like you to leave.” Someone else spoke with her voice, remote and colorless.
The wolf in the room with her dropped his hand. Tucked his notebook and pencil inside his pocket. Gave her a hard stare. “Assure me you’re all right.”
For a moment, she couldn’t speak. God, how he frightened her. More so when he wasn’t smiling, when she glimpsed the real man. Her head wanted to fly away and hide. She forced herself to stay. “I predict I shall improve immensely upon your departure, sir.”
He winced and rubbed his jaw as though she’d struck him. Then, his grin returned. “Begging your pardon, miss. Men of my sort aren’t often permitted to tarry in the presence of such splendid beauty.” He bowed in exaggerated fashion, his oversized black greatcoat tightening across wide shoulders. “Forgive a lowly hound for begging scraps, hmm?”
Hound. Preposterous. No, hounds were tame. He was a wolf through and through.
She crossed the room to pull the bell cord. “Mr. Sackford will show you out. If you have further questions, you may address them to Lord Holstoke.”
“What if my questions are for you, Miss Gray?” His tone was teasing. Light. She assumed a man as handsome as Jonas Hawthorn used flirtation as a method of ferreting information from unwary females.
But Hannah was warier than most.
“I suggest you curb your curiosity, Mr. Hawthorn. My brother will not be pleased by your presumptuous behavior where I am concerned.”
“Two women are dead. Holstoke has bigger concerns.”
Her temper surged again, pressing her to defend Phineas again, to attack the wolf before he attacked her brother. But before she could do either, Sackford arrived to escort him from the house.
She’d watched through the drawing room window as his long strides had carried him out onto Park Lane. Tracing the glass with trembling fingers, she’d strained to control wild surges of panic interlaced with unfamiliar yearnings.
