A Scoundrel by Moonlight (9 page)

He’d grab Miss Trim and kiss her into conceding. Then he’d make sure they both enjoyed a restless night. Twined together like ivy.

He’d expected her to rush away, but she left the bed slowly, almost reluctantly. Did she want to prolong his torment? If so, she succeeded mightily. He didn’t trust himself to look at her. If he did, she wouldn’t be going anywhere.

He heard her pad across to the door and he waited to hear the click as she left. When the silence extended, he braced himself to turn.

She stood across the room, rumpled, beautiful, alluring. Wide brown eyes studied him as if he presented an unanswerable question. He should find consolation in knowing that he wasn’t alone in his confusion.

“My lord…” She rested her hand on the doorknob as if preparing for a quick escape. He couldn’t blame her, given what had happened last time she’d tried to leave.

“My lord,” she repeated softly, “I didn’t kiss you because I work for you. I kissed you because… I’ve wondered, too.”

What the devil?

“Eleanor?” Before he’d decided to stand, he was on his feet. He surged forward, although even now, he recognized that he couldn’t tumble her and call himself a man of principle.

That miracle of a mouth, the mouth that tasted like heaven, curved into a wry smile. “Good night, sir.”

She bobbed a brief curtsy, then fled before he caught her.

L
eath’s eyes were the color of a stormy sky.

Such a trivial fact for Nell to dwell upon, but easier than recalling how she’d teetered on the brink of disaster. When he’d risen above her on the bed, eyes of astonishing beauty had transfixed her. Not brown as she’d expected, but steel gray with a charcoal line around the irises, shadowed to mystery by sooty eyelashes. She was surprised she’d noticed so much with him lying between her legs, lifting her skirts.

Now the morning after tasted bitter, and she cringed at her unbridled behavior. Shame churned in her stomach as she approached the marchioness’s rooms. Lord Leath had seduced Dorothy. How could Nell kiss the brute with such enthusiasm? How could she let him touch her in ways no man had touched her before?

Dorothy had entrusted her vengeance to an unworthy instrument.

But since fleeing Leath, doubts about his guilt had tortured Nell. He’d spoken of his principles before and she’d dismissed him as a hypocrite.

Then last night…

Leaning one hand against the wall, she gulped and faltered to a stop. She struggled to get her breath back against the dizzying recollection of those big strong arms wrapping around her.

Until that last squeak of self-preservation, when he’d been so appallingly close to taking her, she’d been mad for him. She’d loved everything he’d done. The kisses. The caresses. The murmured praise and encouragement. The heat. The intimacy.

What she knew about this man should disgust and terrify her. He’d bedded women all over England. He’d come close to bedding her. She shivered to remember that hard, insistent weight pressing between her thighs. Yet he’d stopped when she asked, and she couldn’t mistake how he’d repented his loss of control.

When a woman lay at his mercy, what sort of rake let her escape unscathed? Nothing from last night fitted what she knew, except perhaps how the marquess attracted her like a magnet drew iron.

Was Dorothy mistaken about her seducer’s identity? Why would she blame her fall on Lord Leath if he wasn’t responsible?

And there was the inarguable fact that someone had seduced Dorothy.

Now what became of Nell’s quest once the marquess proclaimed her a lightskirt? Could she convince the Duke of Sedgemoor of Leath’s misdeeds with only Dorothy’s last words as proof? Especially when Nell’s own belief in his crimes wavered with every new day. She had a horrible feeling that Sedgemoor would dismiss her accusations as mere fancy.

Fate must decide.

She raised her chin and marched toward her ladyship’s apartments, only to halt in the doorway on a betraying gasp when she saw Leath with his mother. For one searing moment, his gaze met hers. That sizzling contact transported her back to those torrid moments in his bed. Then he glanced away and continued discussing Lady Sophie’s latest letter.

“Nell, you’ll enjoy this. Sophie is redecorating the manor at Gadsden in the gothic style.” The marchioness waved Nell toward her usual chair near the chaise longue. A chair beside the marquess’s.

After last night, Nell couldn’t bear to be so close to him. She retreated to the window seat. “How lovely, your ladyship.”

The marchioness continued reading, but although Lady Sophie was an entertaining correspondent, Nell couldn’t concentrate. She stared out to the dismal day. Rain pounded on the glass and wind lashed the trees against skies as gray as Leath’s eyes. When his lordship terminated her employment, would she have to travel in this miserable weather? Would a carriage take her to the nearest coaching inn, or would he make her trudge through the storm?

“Nell?” the marchioness said.

“I’m sorry, your ladyship,” she said quickly.

She hadn’t heard a word of the letter, although she’d been aware of the marquess’s rumbling responses. It was impossible not to remember that voice softening to black velvet. She was damned. Because however she despised her weakness, she couldn’t bring herself to despise what he’d done to her. And deep, deep in her sinful soul, in a place that would never see the light of day, she regretted that he’d stopped.

More than confusion and self-hatred had kept her awake all night. There had been a humiliating dose of frustration too. Leath had readied her body for pleasure, then stopped
before all those wonderful, unprecedented, astonishing feelings reached their unknown culmination.

“No matter.” The marchioness smiled fondly. “I’ll write to Sophie and make some suggestions before she goes on her headstrong way.”

Guiltily Nell wondered if her ladyship would smile fondly after she knew about last night. Nell was amazed that Leath hadn’t denounced her the moment she arrived, but after that one breathtaking glance, he hadn’t paid her a scrap of notice.

“She’s certainly headstrong,” Leath said, and Nell noted the affection in his beautiful voice.

“Your sober ways clearly had little influence, James.”

Such remarks only added to Nell’s perplexity. The marchioness, who was no fool, seemed convinced that Leath was a pattern card of behavior. Nell was sick of struggling to fathom the man’s character. He was a complete enigma.

An enigma who kissed like an angel.

“Not for want of trying,” he said cheerfully.

“You must admit she’s settled down since marrying Harry.”

Leath’s laugh was wry. “To my surprise.”

“After a scandalous beginning, they’ve gone on very well.”

“I’m not arguing, Mamma.”

Nell stared at Leath. Could a man so attentive to his invalid mother treat his paramours with such indifference? Last night he could have thrown Nell down and taken her. Yet he’d been gentle, allowing for her fears. Was that just a rake’s stratagem to ensure a willing partner?

“Nor are you agreeing,” the marchioness said drily.

“I’ll agree that my sister’s rash marriage isn’t the disaster I predicted.”

“James, you’re a devil,” his mother said with a laugh. “Just admit that you were wrong.”

Had he forgotten Nell’s presence? She’d never heard him speak so frankly on family matters, although the dramatic events leading to his sister’s marriage were no secret. The newspapers had been full of the elopement of pretty, rich Sophie Fairbrother with impecunious younger son Harry Thorne, the Duchess of Sedgemoor’s dissolute brother.

Leath arched his marked black eyebrows, a smile hovering around his lips. Traitorous heat rippled through Nell. He looked dangerously attractive as he teased her ladyship. “My dear mother, I’m never wrong.”

His mother laughed again and caught his hand. “Of course not, darling.”

“I’ll come and have luncheon with you, shall I?”

He raised his mother’s hand to his lips and kissed it with a respect that set that forbidden corner of Nell’s soul aching with longing. And bafflement. What was true? Dorothy’s accusations? The man Nell came to know? The way she felt when she saw him?

She was only certain of one thing. Right now, the prospect of leaving the marchioness and, God forgive her, the marquess pummeled her heart with misery.

“That would be lovely.” Pleasure rang in Lady Leath’s voice.

He stood. “I’ll see you later.”

Nell braced for him to insist on dismissing the wanton Miss Trim. Surely he wouldn’t leave his mother in a Jezebel’s clutches. Her hands closed in her skirts and she stared at him so hard that he ought to burst into flame.

He nodded in her direction without looking at her. “Miss Trim.”

Then he was gone.

Nell felt as if he left her dangling from a wire high above an abyss. What cruel game was he playing?

After two days, Nell was in such a state that she jumped at every sound. This was like waiting for an ax to fall. Yet still Leath didn’t betray her to his mother.

This morning, she could bear it no longer. Once she’d settled the marchioness, Nell ventured downstairs. After his kisses, she’d lacked the nerve to seek him out. But if he meant to send her away, she had to know.

Her courage went for naught. His lordship had ridden to York with Mr. Crane and wouldn’t be back until nightfall. So she had another day’s respite, except that anticipating the blow was worse than facing her fate.

Once the household retired, apart from the footman assigned to let his lordship and the secretary in, Nell set up vigil at the top of the main staircase. She settled on a padded bench so old and dark with age that she imagined King Alfred must have sat on it.

It was still raining. October on the moors was bleak. Mearsall was only a few hundred miles south, but Kent seemed the work of a kinder, gentler Creator.

The hallway clock had struck eleven before Nell heard the great iron doorknocker. Curled up on the bench, she’d drifted into a doze. When she moved, she bit back a groan. She’d leaned against the wall at an awkward angle, and she was stiff from sitting still. And cold. She drew her cashmere shawl around her. It was finer than anything she’d ever owned, a gift from the marchioness. Yet again she muffled a pang of guilt at plotting trouble for the family. The marchioness was ridiculously generous. The difficulty was restraining the lady from showering her with luxuries.

The knocker sounded again before the footman pulled
back the bolts with a crash and grind of metal. Alloway Chase had been built to keep out medieval marauders.

“Good evening, my…” The footman’s voice faded to nothing.

Nell tottered forward. The wind was so strong it whistled through the great hall and up the stairs to press her heavy woolen skirts against her legs. Below, John the footman reeled back.

“Help me, man,” the marquess snapped, stumbling inside. “Don’t stand there like a dead fish.”

Her heart racing with fear, Nell descended a few steps before she realized that Leath wasn’t hurt. Over one shoulder, he carried Mr. Crane.

“Yes, sir,” John stammered, reaching forward. Mr. Crane’s groan bounced off the stone walls.

“Not like that, you fool. Take his legs.”

Nell rushed down. “My lord, what’s happened?”

At her question, he looked up and she caught relief in his face. He was pale and streaked with mud. Water dripped off his greatcoat and he’d lost his hat. “Eleanor, you’re here. Good. You can help. Crane’s horse took fright at a stray dog and bolted.”

Nell collected a lamp from a table and raised it high. “John, be careful. If he’s hurt his back, you’ll do more harm than good.”

She spoke clearly and slowly and the young man immediately settled. The marquess’s temper was understandable, but unlikely to get the best out of the nervous junior footman. Inevitably she was reminded of the night she’d met Leath. He’d been in a temper then too.

Thank goodness, the library wasn’t far away. She carried the lamp ahead as Leath and John juggled the injured secretary. Despite their care, Mr. Crane moaned. He did, however,
come back to himself enough to protest when they placed him on the sofa. “My lord, I’m not fit for indoors.”

“Damn it, Paul, as if I care.” Leath straightened the young man’s limbs with brisk, gentle efficiency.

John stood back and stared helplessly at the injured man. Nell sighed. “John, light the fire. It’s a cold night.”

“Yes, miss,” he said, although Nell had no real authority. Within moments, flames licked at the kindling.

“I’ll wake Mr. Wells and have him send for the doctor.” She took a spill and moved around the room lighting candles.

“No need. I sent a groom.” Leath set a cushion behind Mr. Crane’s head. “But it’s a devil of a night. I don’t envy him the ride there and back.”

“Did Mr. Crane hit his head?”

“Yes.” Leath brushed wet black hair back from his forehead.

“And lose consciousness?”

“Briefly.”

“It’s my arm,” Crane said unsteadily. His face was drawn with pain and he clutched his right arm across his chest. “I think I’ve broken it.”

“You took a hell of a tumble.” When Leath helped him to sit, Nell saw that movement was agonizing. She jammed more cushions behind Mr. Crane to support him.

“Get blankets and pillows. And towels,” she said to John, who still hovered. The young man snapped to attention and rushed out.

“I’d rather go to my room,” Mr. Crane said faintly.

“Better not to move, old fellow. Miss Trim is right. You may have spinal injuries. God knows what damage I’ve done hauling you across the moors.”

“It would have been easier to leave me there.”

“No, the cold would have got you.” Leath pressed a brandy glass to the secretary’s lips. After a couple of sips, Mr. Crane choked. “But I curse myself for making you ride through that gale. We could easily have stayed in York.”

Nell paused on her way to the kitchen and cast a searching glance at the marquess. His willingness to take the blame for this accident impressed her. Again, he defied her preconceptions. Could this be the man who had left Dorothy to bear his child in disgrace?

“You weren’t to know the damned—dashed—nag would bolt.” Mr. Crane cast Nell an apologetic look, polite even in his suffering. She liked Mr. Crane. When she’d imagined a husband, the man had been someone like the young secretary. Now, compared to the marquess, he seemed a nonentity.