A Scoundrel by Moonlight (6 page)

“How can I thank you?” His mother’s eyes sparkled as she looked at him.

He often sent her gewgaws, jewelry or scarves or trinkets for her rooms. But he couldn’t remember her getting such pleasure from a gift. And it had been so simple to arrange. He felt like a fool that he hadn’t thought of it earlier, and unreasonably nettled that he’d needed Miss Trim to point out how a good book or two might brighten his mother’s restricted existence.

“What fun we shall have, Nell.”

“Indeed, my lady,” the girl said neutrally. Leath cast her another glance and was surprised to see that she studied him without her usual reserve. Instead, she regarded him as if he was a puzzle she couldn’t put together. He wondered why. The mystery here was Nell Trim, not the Marquess of Leath.

“Can you stay, James?”

“Of course,” he said, although now he paid closer attention to his estates, he was surprised how much work it took to run them. Even more surprising was how he enjoyed meeting the challenge of his vast inheritance.

“Lovely. Perhaps Nell will read on. She’s most entertaining.”

He stifled a groan. The last thing he needed was that low, husky, damnably suggestive voice describing seduction.

“I’m sure his lordship doesn’t want to listen to me,” Miss Trim said.

She’d avoided him recently. Was she still smarting after their talk in the library? Or had his mother told her that he’d tried to send her away?

“You should read James some of those agricultural reports that arrived yesterday,” his mother said drily.

“How did you know about those?” he asked, although he shouldn’t be surprised. His mother remained mistress of the house, despite rarely leaving her rooms.

“I have my spies,” she said. “They tell me that the ghosts are back.”

“What nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense. As a new bride, I saw Lady Mary on the battlements.”

“On a foggy night, Mamma.”

“I’m not the only one.”

“At least you were sober.”

His mother’s jaw firmed. They’d had this argument before. She fancied that the castle, parts of which dated to the fourteenth century, was haunted. “Lady Mary’s visiting us again.”

“On the battlements?”

“No, in the library. For the last three nights, lights have been seen after midnight.”

He thought he heard a strangled gasp from Miss Trim,
but when he glanced at her, she’d lowered her eyes in her perfect servant pose.

“Who the devil’s skulking in the gardens at that hour?” he asked.

“Garson was watching for poachers.”

“And drinking to pass the time,” Leath said with grim amusement. “I’ll have a word with him. If my gamekeeper has taken to the bottle, he’s not safe wandering the property with a gun.”

“You mock, James, but you know it’s true that Lady Mary’s husband strangled her.”

“I know that’s true. I don’t know it’s true that she lingers to keep an eye on her descendants. And if she does, I doubt that she’s developed a taste for literature. Especially as I have it on good authority that my library is full of boring books.”

He didn’t look at Miss Trim. But his brain worked, even as he argued with his mother’s conclusions. Despite his joke, Garson wasn’t a drunkard. If he said he saw lights in the library, odds were that he had.

A determination to catch Miss Trim in the act gripped him. If he could prove to his mother that the girl meant no good, he could send her away.

And conquer this inconvenient itch to bed her.

N
ell had read every thought that crossed the marquess’s mind when his mother told him about Lady Mary’s ghost. He’d known immediately who was flitting around his library. Fear had twisted her stomach into knots as she waited for him to denounce her. Then she’d realized that he’d take this as a golden opportunity to catch her prowling about.

Her suspicions were confirmed that evening when she saw Mr. Wells, the daunting butler, delivering a tray to the library. Obviously refreshments for his lordship’s watch.

For once, she was a step ahead of Lord Leath.

The diary wasn’t in the library. The next likely place—in fact always the most likely place—was his lordship’s bedroom. After all, the scandalous document would hardly be shelved alongside
Fordyce’s Sermons
where anyone could lay their hand upon it. The problem was entering the marquess’s rooms unobserved. His vigil in the library provided the ideal chance.

Now as she crept along darkened hallways, only a candle to light her way, the house seemed twice the size it did by
day. And by day, the sprawling pile stretched for miles. Thick carpeting under her feet muffled her passing, but she remained preternaturally alert.

His lordship’s valet lived above his rooms, but last week Selsby had been called away to his sick mother. Everything conspired to allow her to search Leath’s apartments.

She prayed that she’d find the diary quickly. She desperately needed to escape Alloway Chase. The longer she stayed, the flimsier became her resolution. Every moment she spent with the marquess left her more befuddled. Witness today when he’d surprised his mother with those books. Hardly the act of a thoughtless cad. And was he hypocrite enough to denounce Lord Byron for sins he himself had committed? She wouldn’t have thought so.

If she’d been ignorant of the marquess’s offenses, she’d like him. Oh, who was she fooling? She’d more than like him. Even knowing his wickedness, she found him breathtakingly attractive.

However dirty that made her feel.

How could she yearn after the man who had destroyed Dorothy? Was she victim to the same fatal weakness as her half-sister?

Carefully she inched open the door to the marquess’s apartments. Although he was safely ensconced in his library, her heart skittered with fear that somehow he was in two places at once.

She stepped into dark, cavernous space. She closed the door and raised her candle to reveal a sitting room, as masculine in décor as the marchioness’s was feminine. Flickering light glanced across a leather couch and two armchairs beside a cold hearth. Piles of books teetered on heavy mahogany tables. She’d lay money there wasn’t a novel among them. Light glinted off decanters on the sideboard.

James Fairbrother’s presence was palpable, as though he stood right behind her. The muscles across her neck and shoulders knotted until she told herself to settle down. He was downstairs. She was safe, at least for now.

She pushed open the door from the sitting room and entered a short corridor. Shelves lined the first room off the hallway. She inhaled to calm leapfrogging nerves, then wished she hadn’t. When had the marquess’s scent become so familiar? Her senses expanded with pleasure as she recognized sandalwood soap and clean, healthy male. Riffling through the clothes he wore on that strong, hard body seemed unforgivably intimate, and she fumbled the door shut with a loud click that made her heart jolt with alarm.

Desperately listening in case someone came to check on the noise, she stood motionless.

Nothing.

She sucked air into starved lungs. Nell didn’t take easily to deceit. Sneaking around and eavesdropping and telling lies went against her character. Another reason to leave Alloway Chase sooner rather than later. Much more chicanery and she’d be a wreck.

The next door revealed a bathing room of a luxury beyond anything she’d imagined when her world was confined to Mearsall. At last she found proof of sensual self-indulgence. The marquess presented a restrained façade to the world. Something at Nell’s deepest level insisted that beneath that proper exterior lurked a man who appreciated pleasure.

The thought of James Fairbrother standing naked in this blue-tiled magnificence heated her blood. She couldn’t help seeing him as he doused himself with water, stroked soap along his wet skin, lounged in the huge bath.

This time, although she closed the door carefully, panic
nipped more sharply. Her invasion of the marquess’s rooms inflamed her senses in a way that appalled her.

One door remained.

Only her piercing need to run away made her proceed. If she failed at this hurdle, she was likely to fail altogether.

As she opened this last door, her hands shook so violently that her candle cast wild shadows over the walls. She felt like Bluebeard’s bride breaking into the locked room. A discomfiting thought, as the nosy girl came to a nasty end in that tale. At least she did in the pragmatic version told around Mearsall’s firesides.

The bedroom was so enormous that the candle’s light didn’t penetrate its far reaches. A fire burned in the grate, but the flames left most of the room in shadow. The room was circular with tall windows facing three directions. She must be in the castle’s west tower. Quietly she closed the door behind her.

The huge four-poster bed sat on a dais, curtained in gold brocade. The ceiling was so high it dwarfed even this lofty structure. The covers were turned down, ready for the marquess’s powerful body. Nell shivered with a dread that, she was ashamed to admit, included a dollop of forbidden excitement.

If she’d felt like she infringed the marquess’s privacy elsewhere in these apartments, here where he slept, he could be standing at her elbow. A book lay open on the nightstand as if he’d just laid it down. A shirt draped across a chair. A black velvet dressing gown as soft as panther fur spread across the base of the bed, waiting for its owner to shrug it over his long body. She could picture him wearing it as he enjoyed a last brandy before sleep.

The image of Leath as his real, animal self, not the civilized man he presented to the world, was painfully vivid.
Here it was easy to envision him with a lover. Not a girl he tumbled to scratch an itch, but someone he wanted. Perhaps even… loved. Nell released a soft gasp of distress when she realized that the fantasy woman in Leath’s arms bore her face.

Enough. She swallowed to control her queasiness. She didn’t have long. And she couldn’t waste it on nonsense.

Recalling Lady Mary’s “ghost,” she crossed to the windows to check that the curtains were closed. Then she set her candle on a small table and surveyed the room.

This vast, idiosyncratic chamber was full of interesting nooks and coffers. Fertile ground for her search. She leveled her shoulders and stepped toward a large studded chest near the hearth with the year 1676 picked out in heavy iron nails.

Then the unthinkable happened.

The door opened and his lordship strode in.

Nell caught her breath and held it as if somehow that made her invisible. Her queasiness changed to cramping horror.

Shock flared in his face then his gaze narrowed on her. He couldn’t be nearly as appalled to see her as she was to see him.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Thick black brows lowered over deep-set eyes. He was dressed informally. A loose white shirt and breeches with boots. He looked utterly terrifying.

Nell held her breath so long that it hurt when she exhaled. She felt dizzy with lack of air, stabbing dread, self-disgust.

Curse him, what could she say? What could she do? She faltered back, although there was no escape. Leath’s formidable form blocked the only door. She should have thought of some excuse for being in his room. But what excuse could there be?

She dipped into a wobbly curtsy. “My lord.”

His furious gaze didn’t waver. “Just what are you up to, Miss Trim?”

“N-nothing, sir,” she stammered. “I’m sorry for intruding. I’ll leave you alone.”

He didn’t budge as she scuttled toward the door. Her knees trembled so badly that she feared she might collapse in a heap before she reached it. She darted past him, and for a brief, mad moment thought that she might make it.

Until he turned and slammed the heavy door in her face. “Not so fast, my inquisitive chit.”

The impulse to haul at the handle died as it arose. She’d never win a physical battle against Leath. She panted, more with fright than exertion, and twisted to press her back against the door. “Let me out.”

“Not yet,” he said mildly, placing his palms flat on either side of her head. His calmness was more frightening than shouting. It hinted at the tight rein he held over his temper. He was so huge, this was like facing down a planet. An angry planet. Dear heaven, she was in such trouble.

“You’re scaring me,” she said, hoping to appeal to his softer side. He had one; he showed it to his mother. The problem was that if Dorothy’s story was true—and surely it was—his benevolence didn’t extend to women outside his class.

“You deserve to be scared,” he said grimly.

Without touching her, his body hemmed her against the door. The evocative scent of his skin was rich in her nostrils. Something other than fear started to beat in her blood.

Hating herself, she met his uncompromising expression. “That’s… that’s not kind.”

His eyes glittered. She knew he was no respecter of innocence. Even if he was, what was he to make of her invading
his bedroom? Panic tasted rusty on her tongue and she licked dry lips.

His gaze dropped to the betraying movement. The same awareness that had extended between them their first night sizzled through the pause. “I’m not feeling kind.”

She shivered. “Please…” she whispered. “Step back.”

He loomed above her, impervious and unforgiving. “Not until you tell me what you’re doing here.”

“I…” Desperately she sought for some way to explain her presence. Nothing came to mind.

Black brows arched in cynical enquiry. “I what?”

“I can’t think when you stand so close,” she muttered crossly.

Despite the nasty edge to his soft laugh, the sound stroked along her skin. Every hair on her body stood to attention. This heady mixture of desire and alarm sent her into a complete spin.

“I don’t want you to think. I want you to tell me the truth.” He frowned. “Have you come to steal?”

She should be grateful for the accusation. It jolted her out of cowering like a mouse. She straightened and glared at him. “Of course not.”

“Then what are you doing?”

She avoided his eyes. “I thought you were in the library.”

“Catching Lady Mary.” His acerbic response made her wince. His concentration on her burned like flame.

“I saw Wells bring you supper.”

“What a busy little miss you are.” It wasn’t a compliment. “I already know you’re the ghost.”

Her eyes flashed up. “I wanted a book,” she said desperately.

“One you can’t find during the day?” His voice bit as he continued. “With dear Mr. Crane’s advice on your choice.”

If he was another man, she’d think he was jealous. But the great Marquess of Leath wouldn’t care about a maidservant’s flirtations.

He went on before she could protest. “Surely you won’t say that you’re here for something to read.”

She raised her chin. Knowing that she risked disaster, she said the only thing that came to mind. “I wanted to see where you sleep.”

Surprise had him lurching back. “What the devil?”

She took advantage of the few extra inches of space to draw a breath, tangy with sandalwood. Turning red as a tomato would lend credence to her explanation. “Please don’t make me admit this.”

He watched her like a snake watched a rat. “Admit what?”

“Must I say? You put me to the blush.” That at least was true.

“Yes, you must.”

She pressed her damp palms to her skirts. How she’d love to punch him, but she had a horrible inkling that his jaw would be much harder than her fist. Dear heaven, help her to sound convincing. But not too convincing.

“Hasn’t a servant ever been besotted with you, my lord?” To her surprise, her question emerged steadily.

“Not to my…” He spoke very deliberately. “Are you saying you have a penchant for me, Miss Trim?”

He didn’t sound pleased. She should be relieved that he wasn’t ripping her clothes off. After all, her confession could be taken as an invitation. Yet again it struck her that he was a remarkably restrained libertine.

She struggled to appear bashful instead of scared out of her wits. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I’m sure.” He sounded skeptical, as well he might. “You’ve never seemed dazzled.”

She turned her face away, staring at his hand spread against the door’s rich mahogany. Like the rest of him, his hand was big and powerful and beautifully formed. Despite everything, she couldn’t resist imagining that hand on her skin. His gold signet ring, visible symbol of his rank, gleamed evilly from his little finger. “I have my pride.”

“Of course,” he said drily.

She struggled to look humble and shy and innocent. All were true. Well, apart from the humble part. Her stepfather had frequently warned her that a mere sergeant major’s daughter had no right to be so stiff-necked. “I’m aware of the gulf between us.”