Kitabı oku: «The Earl's Irresistible Challenge», sayfa 4

‘Never mind.’

She moved towards him.

‘No. Tell me what it is!’

The command should have served further to convince him he should leave this room, this house, this peculiar woman’s fantasy. Instead it prodded further at his own fantasy.

‘You tell me. What would that information be worth?’

‘Do you mean in monetary terms?’

‘No. I have no need for your money. This is pointless. Goodbye, Miss Silverdale.’

She caught his arm.

‘Oh, please just tell me. I need your help, but I have nothing else to offer but my money. Nothing someone like you might value, at least.’

‘Someone like me?’

Her beseeching eyes fell from his.

‘Someone with...experience. I can hardly imagine you would wish for anything along such lines from someone like me.’

‘Someone like you?’

‘Unremarkable.’ The word burst from her as if it had been lodged in her throat. It was not her word, and that was surprising in itself. Who in their right mind would call this woman unremarkable?

‘That is one epithet I would never associate with you. Believe me, Miss Silverdale, you are one of the most remarkable women of my acquaintance.’

Her cheeks, already pink, heated and so did every cell in his body. He touched his fingers lightly to the hand clutching his arm so desperately.

‘I will pledge to find this Mr Eldritch for you if I can.’

Her hand did not relax.

‘You will? Just like that? Without recompense?’

‘Without. But then you are on your own.’

She let go and as her tension seeped away he saw the return of her curiosity.

‘What were you about to ask for, Lord Sinclair?’

‘You have what you wanted. What difference does it make?’

‘I dare say it doesn’t, but I am curious.’

He sighed. ‘Of course you are. You will be pleased to find you were spared the noxious experience of being asked for a kiss.’

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

‘A kiss?’

‘You needn’t sound so shocked.’

‘You cannot be serious,’ she said, her voice scolding.

‘Rarely, but in this instance I am. It was merely a kiss, I was not about to ask for your first-born child.’

‘But why?’

‘Now that is a question worthy of being ignored. You have what you want. Now I had best leave before you further crush my vanity underfoot.’

‘I am not... It is merely that it seems a little silly. I mean, the gossip columnists hint you have dozens of mistresses, why would you wish for a kiss from me?’

‘I’m beginning to wonder that myself. Do you know you are the most aggravating woman...girl...whatever... I have ever met? Goodbye, Miss Silverdale.’

‘Wait.’

Despite his better judgement he paused at the door. ‘What now, Miss Silverdale?’

‘Did you really wish to kiss me?’ She looked so confused his impatience waned. His frustration on the other hand...

‘I do, but it was extremely foolish of me to make that suggestion. I am well aware that despite your Spinner Street fantasies you are a respectable young woman and one with a dislike of being...approached. That much was evident by your martyr’s stance when Payton’s son did no more than tickle your cheek.’

She pressed her hands to her cheeks.

‘It isn’t that I... I never did until...’

Anger bubbled up in him at this confirmation of his suspicion. He wondered what clumsy fool had left his mark on her. It probably wasn’t the boring Payton boy, she seemed quite fond of him and the kiss they exchanged had been as unthreatening as being accosted with a daisy. Still, it was all the more reason to leave now. She wasn’t his responsibility.

‘Someone hurt you.’

Her mouth thinned.

‘Someone lied to me and used me and that hurt most of all, but he never... It hardly matters, it is in the past. But you are wrong about Colin. I didn’t wish for him to kiss me because he would then read into that single kiss a hundred things I am not ready for and I would once again find myself in a corner, with no choices that reflect my own wishes. This is different; you don’t want anything from me but a kiss and I am still not quite certain why you want even that. Do you understand?’

He refrained from correcting her that what he wanted went quite a bit beyond a mere kiss.

‘I think I do.’

She smiled, her eyes narrowing, more honey than green. They were speculative now and he remembered how she inspected him that first day in the church—even though she had been tense and afraid, there was that same assessing gaze, measuring his worth.

‘May we try, then?’

‘Try what?’ He was rapidly losing control of the situation. She could not possibly mean...

‘Kissing. I cannot bear the thought that every time I think of it I must think of...him. When Henry died I decided that perfidious wretch had affected my life far too much. So perhaps this is a good idea. I wish to take his power away and I may not have such an opportunity again. After all, I know I can trust you not to tattle. I’m a little worried, though. What if I do hate it? Do you think you could contrive to be convincing?’

Only a madman would pick up that hand with the cards so absolutely stacked against him. He might on occasion be a little reckless, though certainly less than society imagined, but he never...

‘I could try.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

She straightened resolutely, shoulders back. Her cheeks were still flushed, but the animation was fading from her features and she looked as she had in the church waiting for that young man to kiss her.

Contrarily it was the anxiety behind the determination that held him there. It made no sense for someone as intensely passionate as she to react with such a mixture of resolution and fear to a mere kiss. He wasn’t certain if he agreed with her experimentation analogy, but it struck him that, his own undeniable interest aside, to spurn her request now would be to add insult to injury. He would just have to be very, very careful. He was well served that his foolish impulse to satisfy his curiosity by bartering for a quick kiss had landed him in such hot water. That would teach his impulses not to escape their fetters again in future.

He raised her chin gently and her lips tensed, pressing together hard.

‘Relax, I will not kiss you yet.’

Her eyes flickered up to his.

‘You won’t?’

‘I will tell you before I do and, if you wish me not to, you have only to say so. Now close your eyes.’

‘Why?’

He sighed. ‘Just trust me. I promise I will not kiss you without asking first. Now close your eyes.’

She obeyed, frowning, and he touched her cheek, moving his fingers lightly over her cheekbone to where a downy wave of brown hair curled over the tip of her ear. He brushed his thumb over its warmth, easing it back from her temple with soft stroking motions, his hand moulding to the curve of her jaw as he tucked it behind her ear. Her shoulder rose a fraction and he watched the flickering of her lashes, surprisingly dark and long, the shifting of her brows as they moved in and out of a frown as if trying to hear something far away.

He kept his touch light and soothing as his fingers explored the contours of her face, wondered what she was thinking. Whether despite her determination to master her thoughts and reactions she was cringing inside, linking his touch with memories of pain and humiliation.

‘Is it terrible?’ he whispered. ‘Shall I stop?’

Her brows twitched again, but she didn’t open her eyes or speak, just shook her head. It was hardly an accolade to his appeal, but it did quite a bit of damage, relief flowing through him more potently than her brandy, and he couldn’t stop his gaze from settling on her mouth or his head sinking towards hers. So he closed his own eyes and concentrated on touch. On the slide of his fingers over the curve of her ear, her neck, on to the hard ridge of her collarbone and the sweep of her shoulder, then back up again.

Without seeing them there were revelations on the journey. The lobe of her ear was softer than any he had ever felt, so much so he had to feel it again, brushing his palm against it and barely controlling the shudder that rushed up his arms to join the building agony in the rest of his body. Then there was her collarbone. He had noticed it before with the eye of a connoisseur who could appreciate architectural highlights, but under his fingers it was combination of hard lines and velvety skin; it drew his fingers along its definite sweep and made his body imagine her hands touching him in a mirror image of his caresses, sending tingling sensations over his chest to join the rising heat below.

His hands itched to go lower so he made them rise again, rewarding them by touching that impossibly soft skin beneath her ear where her pulse was fluttering as swiftly as his, then moving gently along her jaw and cheeks, resisting the urge to touch her mouth with every ounce of his control. He couldn’t remember the last time he had either touched a woman so innocently or been swamped by such mind-numbing need. He gathered his disintegrating control. It was time to either go forward or retreat.

‘May I kiss you now? I will stop the moment you ask.’

Her lips parted and she nodded slightly, the words sliding out, hardly audible, but they seemed to enter directly into this chest, two spears dipped in molten lead.

‘Yes, please...’

He had never felt such tension at the thought of just kissing a woman. The need to be gentle was in absolute opposition to his desire. But it was imperative that he not scare her, and allowing her to feel one iota of the heat tormenting him would probably send her running.

He touched his mouth to hers. The burn was immediate, like making contact with a live flame under a veil of silk. Her body jerked, her breath hitching, and he fought his own instinctive recoil at the contact. He held himself still, just absorbing the feel of her lips, as her breath, short and shallow, feathered over his lips. It was both torture and exquisite—nothing was happening, but every passing second the sensations shifted, sparking little shivers of pleasure along his lips that danced out through his body like ecstatic messengers preparing the ground for a feast. Her heartbeat thundered where his palms were pressed against her neck and cheek.

Finally, he felt something in the balance of her body shift; a slight quiver ran through her and her lips parted just a little, her lower lip sliding between his, until he felt the perfect point where the pillowy softness was damp, warmer. He concentrated on keeping his movements slight, gentle, sliding one hand into her hair, his thumb brushing over her ear as he pulled her lip slowly between his, tasting it.

His other hand moved over her shoulder, to her waist, holding her as he moved in, trying not to drag her against him as he wanted to, just bringing his body to touch hers. Her own hands, which had hung by her sides, rose languidly, resting for a moment on the lapels of his coat, then with another devastating shiver they slid up and around his nape, her fingers skimming into his hair, moving gently against his scalp. He wanted to arch his head back, force her to go further, to sink her hands into his hair, press her body the length of his, he wanted her to sink her teeth into the stinging need spreading in the wake of the sweep of her lips against his. The disconnect between her languid movements and the raging fire they were feeding finally dragged him to a halt.

He drew back, but he didn’t let her go or do more than manage even an inch of distance between their mouths.

‘That was nice.’ Her breath brushed against his lips, soft and warm as a Mediterranean breeze. But her words were as lacklustre as ditch water and dragged him categorically back to reality.

Nice.

‘For someone who was not certain she would like kissing, you did very well,’ he managed to say.

She moved back, but his hands remained on the soft curve of her waist. She didn’t appear to notice and he wasn’t going to call her attention to it because he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. Her eyes were half-closed and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth. It slid out, moist and full, and the tense knot of heat and desire tightened like a ship’s rigging in full gale winds and then her eyes softened in a smile that hit him like a fist to the gut. If he didn’t know better, he could well believe she had conceived of the perfect seduction. It was certainly far too effective.

‘I am glad I tried. This was quite...different,’ she replied.

Different. Almost worse than ‘Nice.’ Before he could respond she stepped back.

‘Do you really believe there is a chance you will find this Mr Eldritch?’

He let her go and moved towards the door.

‘I will do my best. Such a sacrifice on your part shouldn’t go unrewarded.’

He didn’t wait to hear her response. He was damned if he gave her any more opportunities to make a fool out of him.

Olivia went to sit at her desk, staring at the still-open door of the study until the thud of the area door closing brought her a little closer to the surface.

She touched her lower lip. It felt strange, puffy and sensitive like the time Jack accidently bumped his head against hers while struggling for ownership of a croquet mallet, except that it didn’t hurt. Everywhere Lord Sinclair had touched and a few places he hadn’t felt strange—tingly and restless and pulsing, as if he had scoured away layers of sheltering skin. She felt strange.

To think she had worried it would give even more power to those images and memories of Bertram. The moment his fingertips brushed her mouth her mind latched on to the sensation like Twitch on to a stick. By the time he asked if he could kiss her it would have taken a great deal more strength than she possessed to say no.

Now that he was gone she wondered where she had found the temerity to ask him to kiss her. She had told him far too much, revealed much more than she ever revealed to anyone. She had trusted him. She must be quite mad. He certainly must have thought her mad. She winced at the memory of her comments about experimentation. What had she been thinking to prattle on so? It seemed so natural, so right to share with him that fear, that need, her curiosity...

At least if she had utterly humiliated herself, again, there was some comfort in knowing she was not fated to think of Bertram the moment a man approached her. As much as she enjoyed Bertram’s embraces before his betrayal, she could not remember ever feeling them so potently. She remembered Bertram’s own excitement, his endearments, and especially the feeling of power over him. And all of those had been lies. This was different. She was not even certain the earl enjoyed the kiss or whether for him it was merely curiosity and dominance.

All she knew was that she remembered every second of it, every element of it. The sensation of his hair sliding between her fingers, silkier and warmer than those scarves, the scent of musk and soap and something far away but so familiar. Even with her eyes closed images filled her mind—the way his eyes narrowed and darkened as he bent over her, the strength of the long fingers bringing her skin to life, his mouth a breath away from hers... And then the scalding moment of contact and the kiss...

She had been utterly present and utterly lost in the moment.

Even now that he was gone she still felt...strong. Alive.

Confused.

She shivered and picked up his glass of brandy, watching the amber liquid pitch and sway. The packet of his father’s letters was right there, the handwriting on them still clear despite two decades having passed. He had looked right at them without a sign of recognition. Surely anyone...anyone normal would show some curiosity about letters from their deceased parent, no matter how much they disliked that parent? She wasn’t very fond of hers but she would definitely be curious if someone presented her with a packet of their lost letters, even if they were most likely about orchids and other rare flora.

Too much about this man didn’t make sense.

She sighed and sipped the brandy and stared at her wall. Then she pulled a sheet of paper towards her and dipped her quill into the inkpot. In her scrawled writing she wrote and underlined the title:

Lord Sinclair. Characteristics...

Chapter Six

Lucas paid the hackney driver and continued on foot. He was a half-mile from Spinner Street, but he would do well to expend some of his excess energy along the way. He wasn’t accustomed to rebellions either from his libido or his conscience and to have both of them heading in the wrong direction was surely a good indication to retreat.

And yet here he was. He couldn’t even completely blame it on his rebellious body. It had never ruled him in the past, whatever society chose to think, and he had no intention of allowing it to do so at his age. But he couldn’t shake the conflicting images of Olivia Silverdale that dogged his steps as he went about unearthing the identity of her mysterious Eldritch—the garish Madame Bulgari in her satins and silks, the coolly veiled woman issuing her demands, and especially the girl waiting to experiment with kissing, managing to look both lost and fiercely determined all at once.

Despite appearances she was no helpless waif—very few women...very few people he knew would have embarked on her course of action and most would recognize an unscaleable wall when they crashed into it. Clearly when Miss Silverdale met a wall she manoeuvred some fool to climb over it for her—in this case himself. He remembered a few generals with similar characteristics from the war, not all of them fondly.

He had to keep in mind she was not his responsibility—that sphere was occupied only by a very few. But he couldn’t deny she reminded him of Sam. Sam would also have walked across the desert barefoot if that was what she felt was necessary to help her brothers and friends. And he and Chase would do anything for her, which made Sam’s present apathy about life all the harder to stomach.

He stopped before the unassuming door of Number Fifteen. Perhaps that was why he was here, tilting at this young woman’s windmills. Because he couldn’t help Sam. It was a poor reason to be tangling with a delusional little field marshal. She was not his sister and his instincts were screaming at him she was pure, unadulterated trouble. He should make good on his promise and then decamp.

He knocked and after a long moment the door swung open and a grey-haired female version of Napoleon Bonaparte stood glaring at him, a flour-covered rolling pin grasped in her hand.

‘What will you be wanting?’

He eyed the rolling pin warily. ‘Is Miss Silverdale in?’

The grey brows sank lower. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Who is it, Nora?’

Nora looked over her shoulder. ‘You know this varlet, miss?’

‘Varlet?’ Miss Silverdale entered the hallway from the study. ‘Oh, yes, Nora. I forgot to tell you we might have a guest. Though to be fair I expected he would send word before appearing on our doorstep. Do come in, Lord Sinclair.’

Nora snorted. ‘I don’t like this, not one bit, Miss Olivia.’

‘I know, Nora. I am a sore trial to you. Shall I brew my own tea as penance?’

‘Not while I’m in the house!’

The servants’ door snapped shut behind the woman and Lucas followed Olivia into the study and inspected her, rather sorry that she wasn’t arrayed in another Madame Bulgari costume. It was hard to reconcile the young woman in her proper gown of pale-yellow sprigged muslin with the intrepid occultist of yesterday. Or with the young woman who reacted so sensually to his kiss.

Again he experienced the tug between conscience and lust. Had he really asked to kiss her? Besides being wrong it was stupid. For all he knew she might have misconstrued his interest in her and meanwhile concocted some foolishly romantic fantasy on the back of that ill-judged kiss. If he had an ounce of sense he should indeed have sent her a note with what he had learned because no good could come out of spending more time with her.

He watched her warily as she went to stand by the desk, but the image of the proper young woman hovering on the brink of infatuation caved as she turned and grinned at him.

‘You should have seen your face. She is terrifying, isn’t she?’

He smiled before he could think better of it.

‘I dare say you wouldn’t have objected if she cracked my skull with that rolling pin.’

‘Oh, no, it would have been very inconvenient. Well, have you found anything? I didn’t expect you back so soon. Nora will bring tea, but would you prefer brandy? I should ask Nora to procure some more, but I dare say you won’t be coming often enough to merit replenishing my stock of spirits.’

‘You won’t be staying here long enough to merit replenishing them,’ he corrected, touched despite himself by her obvious nervousness. She shrugged, her chin rising fractionally.

‘Well? Have you found Eldritch?’ she demanded.

‘It is, for better or worse, a very rare name in London. I found three of them and none are particularly likely as the villain in your drama. One is an octogenarian who has been bedridden for several years. He lives with his unwed son who is the vicar at St Stephen’s in...’

‘In?’ she prompted when he trailed off but he didn’t answer. After a moment he picked up the top letter from the pile at the corner of the desk. The paper was soft, the edges frayed and a little stained. Strange how one remembered handwriting, even stranger how similar it was to his own.

There was always a spike of excitement when he saw that handwriting on a letter from Boston. His father’s gift for description brought that world to life. Lucas used to believe he could smell the sea and spices on the paper. Those letters were more precious than any of the wonders they described; until they’d stopped.

Now would be a good time to leave. He had fulfilled his part of the bargain. It was time to send Miss Silverdale back where she belonged. He forced himself to continue.

‘In Bloomsbury. The third, his elder brother, resides, permanently, in the burial ground of that same parish and has done so for the past few years. There are no other known Mr Eldritches in London, and especially none known in or around the brothels or molly houses near Catte Street. That does not mean it is impossible there are others, but it is unlikely. My sources tend to be reliable.’

‘What is a molly house? Is it also a brothel?’

‘This is hardly a proper topic for discussion, Miss Silverdale.’

‘This whole situation is improper, isn’t it? Besides, you were the one to mention brothels and... Molly houses? Is that where they call all the courtesans Molly?’

Good lord, how had he dug himself into this pit?

‘No. Molly houses are places for men to associate with each other.’

‘Oh, like a men’s club?’

‘I...yes, like a club. But that is hardly the point, the point is that I have fulfilled my obligation to you and there is clearly nothing more for you to do in London. I suggest you unravel your spider’s web and return to Yorkshire before your little ruse is uncovered and you are thoroughly compromised.’

‘I have not resided in Yorkshire for the past two years and I have no intention of returning any time soon. Besides, why would I be compromised? Surely there is nothing wrong with a young woman living with her perfectly respectable chaperon in Brook Street?’

‘I would hesitate to impugn any woman who wields a rolling pin so skilfully, but your Nora could not pass muster as a socially acceptable chaperon and this is quite a way from Brook Street.’

‘No, not Nora. She was my wet nurse as a child and came with me when I left Yorkshire. I was referring to Lady Phelps. We have leased a house on Brook Street for the Season.’

He rubbed his forehead.

‘Is this another fanciful manifestation of Madame Bulgari’s or is this one a real person?’

‘Oh, she is very real. She is my mother’s cousin and once led a very fashionable life in London when she was married to Lord Phelps. Unfortunately, when he died five years ago he left her without a penny, but unlike Byron she merely left London for Guilford. Still, she is eminently respectable and very fashionable.’

‘She might be all that, but she is clearly remiss in her duties. My experience of chaperons would lead me to expect she would have interceded at least a dozen times since I met you.’

‘Well, she and I have an understanding. She knows I am safe with Nora while I am here in Spinner Street and while I am in Brook Street I am the model of propriety, so much so as to be practically invisible. Even before we came to London I sometimes travelled with Mr Mercer and as she becomes queasy in carriages she was happy to allow Nora to assume her role when circumstances require it.’

‘Who is this Mercer? You have mentioned him before.’

‘My man of business. The point is...’

‘Your man of business?’

‘I was always good with figures and oversaw all the household accounts and my brothers’ business affairs, you see. So when I turned eighteen and took possession of my own inheritance I decided to administer it myself and Henry helped me find Mercer. He is very reliable.’

‘I see.’

‘You disapprove.’

‘Not of your financial aspirations. I disapprove of your fantastical theories regarding my father and I take strong issue with your assumption that you are invisible. If you encounter acquaintances while staying here, you will discover that to your detriment.’

‘I told you, I rarely leave Brook Street and then only to come here and I do so fully veiled. When I complete my business in London we will likely join the Paytons in Harrogate. There is no reason anyone will ever discover I was here at all.’

‘I cannot believe you are quite that naïve, Miss Silverdale. If one was a stickler for accuracy I would point out you were compromised the moment you met with me at St Margaret’s. Every moment spent alone in my company is compounding that transgression.’

Her mouth quirked up at the corners. ‘You don’t look overly alarmed by the prospect, Lord Sinclair.’

‘I am not the one who should be alarmed by it, Miss Silverdale.’

‘Well, rightly or not, I am not. I admit when we met in the church you looked rather forbidding, but you are far less intimidating than your reputation indicates. And, since it is clear you no more wish to be leg-shackled than I, I am not worried you will use this situation to your advantage.’

‘How the devil would I use this situation to my advantage?’

‘Well, I am very wealthy and it is said you are very expensive.’

‘Given my reputation I might be interested in something other than marriage.’

‘Are you?’

He gritted his teeth and fell back on evasion. ‘I am trying, unsuccessfully, to make you aware of the pitfalls of your situation. Or is it commonplace for you to spend time alone with men of dubious reputation?’

He could almost see the moment the thought of that man who had betrayed her rose to her mind; her face hardened, but her voice was very calm.

‘Hardly. I lived a very retired life in Guilford these past couple years and I see no reason for anyone to suspect me of doing anything other than visiting London with my widowed cousin. Colin certainly believed me the other day outside the church.’

‘That baby-faced sapling would probably believe you if you told him you were an agent of the Crown on a mission to prevent Napoleon’s supporters from smuggling his body off St Helena.’

‘That is hardly fair. I have known Colin all my life, of course he trusts me. Is there a plot to steal Napoleon’s body? How macabre. What do they plan to do with it?’

‘I was talking hypotheticals. The point is neither you nor I, though for very different reasons, want society to get wind of your current endeavours.’

‘All I am asking is that you consider the possibility there is more to this than meets the eye. Won’t you at least take a look at his note?’

He dragged his hand through his hair. The woman was relentless. ‘Show me the blasted note.’

‘Here.’ She opened the top drawer so swiftly it almost flew out. She held it out and he read it without taking it.

If this is true Howard Sinclair has been terribly wronged and something must be done.

Underneath, in larger, bolder print and underlined several times was the name she had mentioned in the carriage—Jasper Septimus.

‘Is this it?’

‘Isn’t it enough? Mercer did try to discover if there is someone at Buxted Mallory Shipping by that name, but had no luck. He also tells me the company is managed by trustees for the current Lord Buxted, who is only sixteen, and I admit I’m not quite comfortable making enquiries there about people who are now deceased.’

‘I am glad to hear you have even that much compunction. I think you are reading far too much into far too little.’

‘I might have agreed with you if it were not for Marcia Pendle.’

‘This is merely an unfortunate coincidence. If you search the shadows for shapes, I can promise you you will find them, but they rarely amount to more than figments of one’s imagination, and yours, Miss Silverdale, is all too fertile. You are likely to do more harm than good by pursuing this.’

‘How?’

‘People who turn over stones tend to uncover snakes and other unpleasant creatures.’

‘Are you worried I might uncover something even worse about your father?’

‘Until the news of my father’s death reached us my family and I were convinced that my father was no more a typical Sinclair than I am a Quaker. Since the day I learned of the litany of the sins he committed in Boston and succeeded in hiding from us, I know one can always discover something worse. My own reputation may not be of primary interest to me, but I won’t have my siblings dragged through the mire again if I can prevent it.’