A Scoundrel by Moonlight (14 page)

He went on more urgently. “I’ll find you a house in a place where nobody knows us. Somewhere like Scarborough or Beverley. Somewhere within a few hours’ ride so I can visit regularly.”

“I’d leave Alloway Chase?”

Strangely she wasn’t appalled at his offer, although she should be. After all, she’d been raised to keep herself chaste before marriage and she had Dorothy’s sad example to deter any wayward impulses.

“Yes.”

She turned. “I love it here.”

His expression softened, but he still looked like he faced a firing squad. “There really would be a scandal if the world learned that I debauched my mother’s companion in my mother’s home.”

“I… see,” she said slowly. And she did. “So I’m to become a dirty little secret?”

He winced. “I’ve offended you.”

Nervously she fiddled with a button. “Not as much as you should have,” she confessed. When he stepped forward, she
raised a hand to stop him. “You don’t seem overjoyed at the idea of my ruin.”

He looked troubled. “I’m not overjoyed.”

“Oh,” she said, stung.

He made an impatient sound deep in his throat and gestured with one large gloved hand. “I’m making a cursed muddle of this, aren’t I?”

She linked her hands together at her waist to stop them trembling. “You’re not… you’re not displaying your usual aplomb.”

He sighed and approached, this time ignoring her warning look. He untangled her right hand from her left and held it. “I’ve never asked a virtuous woman to sleep with me before.”

Astonishment held her motionless, even as warmth radiated up her arm then down to her heart. “Never?”

His eyes lit with the wry humor that she found so appealing. “I won’t lie and say I’ve never approached a woman, but they weren’t virtuous.”

“I’m sure.”

However dangerous, she left her hand in his. They both wore gloves. The touch shouldn’t be as powerful as it was, but her heart thudded like a drum. His clumsiness was endearing. So endearing that she couldn’t quite summon a refusal.

His grip tightened. “You must know how much I want you.”

She licked her lips and despite the dictates of common sense, couldn’t help relishing his groan. “No, I don’t think I do.” She paused. “You know, this offer might be better couched with a few kisses.”

His lips twisted with self-derision. “I don’t want you making rash decisions.”

“You think your kisses make me silly?”

His low laugh vibrated through her bones in a most disconcerting way. “Your kisses definitely make me silly.”

Startled, she stared at him. “Really?”

“Really.” He took her other hand. “You have no idea the trouble I’ve had concentrating on the irrelevancies from London. Who cares about the fate of the nation when I could be holding you in my arms?”

She’d had no idea. “My lord…”

“In the circumstances you should call me James.”

Absurdly that unsettled her more than the invitation to his bed. “I don’t think I could.”

“You’re a strange creature,” he said softly and at last did what she’d wanted him to do since she’d left his bedroom. His lips skimmed hers with a sweetness that drizzled through her like honey.

She blinked up at him, dazed. “If you keep kissing me, I won’t deny you.”

To her regret, he released her. “You need to think about consequences.”

She frowned. “If I think, I’ll say no.”

Desperation flashed in his silvery eyes. Wonder rushed through her. She’d never imagined that she could make the great marquess desperate. “You may never marry if you give yourself to me.”

“There’s nobody I want to marry.”

He shook his head at her quick reply. “That doesn’t mean that there won’t be. I don’t want you regretting your decision.”

Feeling a sudden chill, she folded her arms. “If you keep talking, you’ll convince me that this is the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

His lips quirked, although his amusement was sour. “It may well be.”

“Then why suggest it?” she asked tartly.

“Because the thought of you torments my every hour. Because I must have you or go mad.”

That was better. He spoke the words as prosaically as if he discussed a cattle sale, but his intense expression proved his sincerity. He gestured for her to return to her tree stump. “Sit down and hear me out. You need to know what you’re getting into.”

“Your bed, presumably,” she retorted, before reminding herself that it wasn’t wise to taunt him.

“I hope so,” he said fervently and she covered her hot cheeks with her hands. It gradually dawned on her that this man could be her lover. If she became his mistress, she’d embark upon a life radically different from anything she’d planned. She hardly knew how she felt. If she was truly virtuous, she’d be furious.

She wasn’t furious. She was… intrigued.

He stood a few feet away, watching her unwaveringly as she sat. “I’m a rich man and I’ll treat you well. You’ll want for nothing and any gifts are yours forever.”

What he bought her might be hers forever. He however wouldn’t be hers forever. He didn’t need to say it. Even in the backwaters of Kent, people knew how such arrangements worked. She and Leath would stay together until he lost interest, then they would part.

Nell’s rising bubble of excitement burst, leaving her flat and bitter. What was she doing, considering this? She was a girl from a respectable family, not a courtesan. Could she bear to give herself to a man, knowing that he’d cast her aside the moment he tired of her? A nobleman of Leath’s standing might offer a woman of her humble background carte blanche. He’d never offer her marriage.

The question boiled down to whether she wanted the
marquess enough to abandon all hope of a conventional future. Because there was no chance on God’s earth for a conventional future with Leath.

She was much like any woman. She might have waited to marry while Dorothy grew up, but she wanted a husband and children and a home of her own. Security.
Love…

For reasons that she refused to examine, the admission that she wanted love jammed a lump the size of Canterbury Cathedral in her throat. She’d been blessed with love. Her father, her mother, her stepfather, her half-sister. Although only her stepfather remained this side of heaven.

If she became Leath’s mistress, she’d have to cut herself off from William Simpson. He’d never forgive her fall. It had been bad enough witnessing his grief and humiliation over Dorothy.

She couldn’t do this. No matter how she yearned.

Still Leath explained the business of being a mistress. Would her choice be different if he’d been unprincipled enough to kiss her into a melting puddle of surrender?

“I’ll put the house in your name. And buy you a carriage and horses. You’ll have a fashionable wardrobe.” He paused. “I forbid any gray.”

Nell was too troubled to respond to his teasing. Who knew it was so hard to turn away from the primrose path? But of course, standing squarely on this particular primrose path was a handsome man who made her blood sing.

When she didn’t speak, he went on. “And an extravagant allowance.”

She needed to say something. The longer he spoke, the more he’d think that she favored his proposition. Strangely, the possibility of facing Dorothy’s fate hadn’t entered into her thinking. Now it did. “What about children?”

His gray eyes were shadowed and he began to snap the
crop against his thigh again. “I’ll make generous provision for offspring, but don’t mistake me, life is tough for bastards. Even someone as highly placed as the Duke of Sedgemoor suffers because of questions about his legitimacy.”

Her eyes sharpened. “Do you have any offspring?”

“No.” His smile was rueful. “I’ve always been chary of scandal. The irony is that having worked so hard to keep my good reputation, my uncle and sister went ahead and tainted the family name. I may as well have played the libertine.”

Once she’d have thought that he lied. Once she’d believed him a debaucher of the vilest sort. No longer. Still she was astonished to hear herself speak the truth. “My half-sister Dorothy died in childbirth after her seducer deserted her.”

She’d reached a point where she knew he wouldn’t recognize Dorothy’s name or fate. Instead his gaze darkened with compassion. Her heart, which insisted she ignore her head’s dictates, squashed into a messy little lump of goo. He dropped his whip and kneeled beside her, wrapping her in his arms. “Eleanor, I’m so sorry.”

He’d touched her more often than he should. He’d held her in desire. But this felt different, as though he cocooned her in a blanket to keep her safe. Since her mother’s death, nobody had held her purely for comfort. In her family, she was the strong one.

For one forbidden moment, she leaned into Leath. He was warm and smelled like heaven. If heaven smelled like horses and sandalwood. Only as she relinquished the burdens of duty and vengeance and virtue did she realize how tired she was.

Right now if Leath offered to keep her in his arms forever, she’d say yes. Just for the privilege of nestling her head in this wonderful hollow between his neck and his shoulder that seemed created for her.

She allowed herself a few seconds of blessed ease before straightening. The temptation to stay was too overwhelming.

He withdrew and leveled a searching gaze upon her. “You haven’t answered me.” His voice lowered to the deep velvety tones that lured her even when she wasn’t in his arms. “My lovely Eleanor, will you share my bed? I promise you pleasure and respect and comfort.” He paused. “And joy and friendship.”

She gave a choked laugh and realized that her eyes were wet. She was such a mess, she hadn’t realized that she was crying. “I’m not sure whether I should be honored or whether I should slap your face.”

“You can slap me all you want if you say yes.”

She needed to escape his drugging nearness. She shifted and he, perceptive as always, let her go.

“That’s a powerful incentive to consent.”

He stood and stepped away. The hunger in his eyes made her wish that she could give another answer. Or that she wasn’t used to thinking ahead and making plans and counting consequences.

“You’re not going to agree, are you?” He bent to retrieve his crop.

For one blazing minute, she wondered whether she could throw her bonnet over a windmill. The marquess didn’t offer everything, but he offered a lot. She didn’t care about the worldly rewards, although she appreciated that he wanted to look after her. She did care about the friendship and the joy. And the pleasure. Even in her inexperience, her body heated at the idea of lying beneath him.

She scooped up her hat and stood. This riding habit was the most beautiful dress she’d ever worn, but it was borrowed. It was made for a lady, and she was a pretender.

She needed to remember that she was a temporary
visitor to this world. All this fraternizing with the aristocracy turned her a little insane. Nell Trim belonged at the shabby schoolhouse in Mearsall.

The dose of reality should bolster her will. But these days, her will was sadly weak. Perhaps she’d feel stronger once she no longer looked at this magnificent man and imagined him her lover.

She raised her chin. “Thank you for asking. Thank you for being so frank.” She saw that he already knew what she’d say. “Despite the appeal—and the offer is appealing—I can’t accept.”

She waited for him to argue. Or worse, because she knew she couldn’t resist, convince her through kisses. He might claim that he spent his time buried in political work, but when he touched her, she recognized a man who knew what he was doing. He must guess how powerfully he drew her and what little he needed to do to persuade her into his bed.

“Very well.” He turned and caught the horses. “We should return to the house. I want to check the geologist’s report for the Derbyshire property.”

Amazed, Nell waited as he led her horse across. “That’s all?”

His smile was bleak. “I offered. You declined. We’ll say no more.”

Hardly believing that he’d taken his rejection so calmly, she let him toss her up into the saddle. No lingering at her waist now. He was all business.

When she sat on Adela, his smile became more natural. He gathered her reins and curled her fingers around them. “I won’t make life difficult because you refused, Miss Trim.”

Miss Trim, she noticed, not Eleanor. Her heart ached at the change, although Miss Trim was much more likely to hold out against his attractions.

“That’s very… forbearing,” she said unsteadily.

He mounted his black stallion and turned back the way they’d come. The chestnut followed purely through her own devices. Nell wasn’t capable of putting two thoughts together.

“I’ll survive my disappointment.”

Nell wasn’t sure she could. Wicked, wicked girl she was. But as she trailed behind the handsome lord on his devil horse, she couldn’t help wondering if perhaps, despite every prudent reason for denying him, she’d made a terrible mistake.

I
t turned out that Leath was a man of his word—of course he was; Nell already knew that. He became all business and made no further reference to houses in Scarborough or banishing her gray dresses. The only change in her routine was an end to their morning rides.

Nell told herself that only a wanton creature would mind that he so coolly accepted her refusal.

Clearly she was a wanton creature.

While her denial left Leath unaffected, she couldn’t stop thinking about becoming his mistress. She had a hundred good reasons for saying no. Good reasons wilted to nothing compared to her attraction to the marquess.

She’d relinquished her suspicions about Leath and he’d stopped watching her as if expecting her to steal the silver. Thank goodness he never mentioned her supposed infatuation. Although with every day, that desperate confession shifted from self-serving lie to discomfiting reality.

Never before had she been obsessed with a man. Nell had always been too busy mothering Dorothy and caring for her
stepfather to indulge in romantic nonsense. Now romantic nonsense gained an unbreakable hold. Leath’s company produced a queasy mixture of exhilaration and embarrassment. Instead of a responsible woman of twenty-five, Nell felt like a silly, overemotional adolescent.

She should be grateful that Leath didn’t sulk, but the giddy girl inside her resented his distance. Distance that made her cry into her pillow each night and struggle against the urge to rail at him each day. And every hour brought Mr. Crane’s return closer. Soon Nell would only see the marquess when he visited his mother.

Far safer for her wayward heart if she returned to Kent. She hadn’t come to Yorkshire to pursue a lifelong career as a domestic servant. She’d arrived on a quest that had taken so many turns since that she hardly remembered where she’d started.

She stayed.

Because she couldn’t bear to leave.

Nell was adding some figures three weeks after Leath’s curiously prosaic invitation to ruin when he strode in from his morning gallop. Despite a return to inhospitable weather, he’d taken to long rides each dawn on the devil horse. Today the wind howled against the windows, and the fire blazing in the hearth did little to dispel the chill.

Or perhaps Nell’s coldness came from within.

She supposed for a punishing rider like his lordship, dawdling along with a beginner must count as the height of boredom. It said much for his good manners that she’d never felt his impatience.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said dutifully, rising and curtsying.

“Good morning, Miss Trim,” he said as if he’d never
touched her and kissed her and asked her to become his lover. Without facing her directly, he glanced across the papers and packets littering his desk. “Ah, the mail is in. Capital.”

She was foolish to mourn his lack of attention, but still regret stabbed her. As he lifted a large package, she glumly returned to work. He never let her touch his correspondence until he’d sorted it. “One for me, I think.”

It was all for him, she wanted to point out. Sexual frustration and lack of sleep turned her mood acidic, not that he deigned to notice. Last night, she’d lain awake into the small hours, wondering whether to leave. Or sneak out of her room and run down the miles of corridor to Leath’s apartments.

Only his scant recent interest in her had kept her chastely tucked up in her lonely bed. Wretched. Longing. Confused.

She bent her head, trying to ignore the marquess as he settled behind his large desk. Eventually, she stopped fighting and glanced up.

The cold gray light shone starkly on him, highlighting his thick black hair, damp from his rainy ride, and the aristocratic, commanding features. If only James Fairbrother wasn’t so handsome. But she’d long ago realized that more than his looks attracted her. She admired his intellect and humor, and the deep streak of kindness beneath his occasionally forbidding exterior. Working with Leath had taught her more about the world than she’d ever imagined in quiet little Mearsall, despite her stepfather’s scholarly interests. Until she’d met the marquess, she’d had no idea of the complexities of the nation or the personalities behind the power.

She frowned at his lordship’s air of suppressed excitement. “Good news, sir?” she asked, before remembering that she’d do better to keep her mouth shut.

“Yes.” He gave her his first proper smile since their conversation in the clearing. “Come here, Miss Trim.”

He never called her Eleanor now. Nor had he renewed his invitation to call him James. Of course not. They were back to master and servant.

Obediently she rose and stepped in front of his desk. “Yes, my lord?”

“Please sit down.”

Worried, she drew a chair forward and sat. Had she done something wrong?

“This is for you,” he said with the secret smile that always heated her blood.

She needed to catch her breath before she took the packet contained inside the first one. She frowned. “What is it?”

“See.” His lordship leaned back in his chair. The smile now flirted with his eyes. Whatever this was, it gave him pleasure.

Puzzled, disturbed—the marquess in a fine mood was perilously appealing—she inspected the packet. It was heavy and marked with official seals. The wrapping was ragged and stained and looked like it had been through a war.

She squinted to decipher the faded writing. Astonishment flooded her. She raised her eyes to find Leath observing her with a tenderness that sliced through her heart. When he was distant, she could barely resist him. When he treated her as though he cared for her happiness, she was sunk.

Except that he didn’t have to tell her that he’d gone to considerable trouble to place this particular object in her hands. And he’d done it because he cared.

“It’s my father’s war record,” she forced out in a choked voice.

“It is.”

“You found it. After all this time.” She gulped to dislodge the emotion damming her throat. Her hands crushed the brown paper. “How?”

He shrugged. “I pulled a few strings, asked the right questions, spoke sternly to a few dullards who were unacceptably slow to respond.”

She knew enough about the War Office’s labyrinthine processes to recognize his modesty. He must have pursued this issue to the ends of the earth. “Where… where did they find everything?”

“In some dusty corner of Whitehall, misfiled with old military ordinances.”

She blinked, telling herself she wouldn’t cry. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“I can guess.” Regret clouded his steel-gray eyes. “I’m sorry that it arrives too late to be any use to your mother.”

“Perhaps she should have enlisted the help of the marvelous Marquess of Leath,” Nell said, attempting lightness, but sincerity thickened her voice. Because what he’d done
was
marvelous. The most marvelous thing that anyone had ever done for her. Probably the most marvelous thing that anyone would ever do for her.

Her praise made him uncomfortable. “It was nothing, Miss Trim.”

It was everything. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “Won’t you open it? I gather from my contacts that your father has a proud record.”

“Yes.” She placed the packet on her lap, smoothing where she’d crinkled it in her excess of gratitude.

He stood and moved around the desk. “Ah. You’d like a moment’s privacy.”

She did. She had an awful feeling that if the marquess stayed, she’d fling herself into his arms. “I’ll go to my room.”

“No need.” He bowed as though she was his equal and left.

Clumsily Nell opened the package and spilled the contents onto the desk. Official-looking documents listing her
father’s deployments. A tangle of glinting medals, proving her mother’s stories of Robert Trim’s heroism. And, most precious of all, a bundle of her mother’s letters. The sight of that elegant, slanting writing made her heart clench with love and grief.

She should wait to read them. She was supposed to be working, and the marquess had been considerate enough to grant her this time alone. But she couldn’t resist opening the top letter. She’d look at one, then pack everything away to examine at leisure.

“Miss Trim!”

Blearily she looked up from the last letter, written after her father’s death but before her mother learned of his fate. Nell had been the first to break the seal. The love and trust in her mother’s words had split her heart. Like the other letters that her father had clearly read and re-read, it was full of daily details of Mearsall life, including fond descriptions of young Nell. It was like having her mother whispering in her ear.

“My lord…” She struggled to rise, clutching the poignant letter. “I’m sorry I’ve taken so long.”

“For God’s sake, there’s no need to apologize,” he said gruffly.

“I should have waited.” She set the letter on the desk with the others, and wiped her eyes. She’d told herself not to cry, and she’d been crying like a drain for the last hour.

“No,” he said.

“I’m ready to work now,” she said faintly, fumbling in her pocket for a handkerchief. “After you did this wonderful thing, I mustn’t inconvenience you.”

“Damn it—” He bit off whatever he’d meant to say and seized her in his arms. “I hate to see you cry.”

“I’ll stop,” she said, eyes overflowing.

“Miss Trim…” His grip tightened and he drew her against his chest. Immediate warmth and security surrounded her.

“I shouldn’t give in to my feelings,” she mumbled into the white front of his shirt.

He settled her more firmly. “Don’t be a goose.”

His rough affection was her undoing and she started to sob in earnest. She’d always recognized the tragedy that her parents had loved each other so deeply and had lost each other too soon. But those brave letters revived her sorrow with the added sharpness that now, as a woman, she knew the pain of loss in a way that her childhood self hadn’t.

She had no idea how long she cried, but eventually the edge of her reaction blunted. She realized that she rested against Leath on the couch near the fire. She sucked in a shuddering breath and sat up, or at least tried to.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, too embarrassed to look at him.

“Dear Lord, Eleanor, you break my heart,” he growled and drew her close once more.

Hearing him call her Eleanor devastated what little composure she’d gathered. But this time as she wept, he was more than a purely comforting presence. This time, she was aware of his clean masculine smell, the broad, powerful chest beneath her cheek, and the strong arms holding her.

When she realized that her hands ran up and down his back in a way that had little to do with solace, she stiffened and drew away. This time he released her. She slid back to establish some space between them.

He watched her with an unreadable expression before his mouth quirked with characteristic humor. “Should I risk telling you that the War Office is sending his belongings? They should be here within the week.”

Nell wiped her eyes again and gave a choked laugh. “You’d be a brave man to chance that, my lord.” And caught a flash of disappointment at her use of the formal address.

Shock shuddered through her. She’d been so wrong. So very, very wrong. Leath’s desire hadn’t died. He hadn’t forgotten kissing her or asking her to be his mistress.

Thrilled, uncertain, she met the hunger blazing in his eyes.

“Don’t think it,” he said flatly.

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do.” His expression hardened. “You owe me nothing. I started the process of finding your father’s medals long before I asked you to become my lover.”

Before she could remind herself that touching him was dangerous, she took his hand. “I’m sorry. And so grateful.”

He frowned and she waited for him to retreat, but he turned his hand over and laced their fingers together. This contact of skin on skin grounded her in a way that nothing else had in these last weeks. “I don’t want your gratitude.”

She bit her lip, wanting to tell him that she’d be his mistress, seeing only ruin and heartbreak ahead if she did.

With a muttered expletive, he released her. “Don’t look at me like that, my girl, as if you’ve no idea what I’m talking about.” He stood and stalked toward the window, keeping his back to her. “You know exactly what I want from you, and bloody gratitude has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

Tonbridge, Kent, November

Greengrass slammed into his room at the King’s Head and in disgust flung the day’s pitiful pickings onto the deal table beneath the window. The coins’ clatter was nowhere near as satisfying as it had been in Taunton.

He was running out of fresh territories. No matter how desperate they were, the women he’d threatened six months ago lacked ready money for a second round of blackmail. The buzz of recent sexual satisfaction warmed his blood—they still had something to offer—but cash proved harder to get.

He tugged the diary from his coat—he wasn’t fool enough to leave it lying around—and tossed it on top of his takings. Perhaps the time had come to catch the fat pigeon he’d been holding in store. The proud and noble Marquess of Leath would surely pay good brass to keep this family scandal under wraps.