Sleepless at Midnight (6 page)

A huff of laughter passed her lips and she smiled. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

His gaze dropped to her smile, to those intriguing deep dimples which he now noticed flanked a very lush set of lips. “You’ve captured Flora’s expression perfectly,” he said. “Her air of happiness and serenity.”

“Her mien is one of deep contentment and love,” she said softly. “Quite understandable, as she is in her favorite place the garden, surrounded by what she loves most.” She looked down at her sketch and her voice took on a wistful note. “To spend one’s existence in a beloved location, with all the things you love most, that is…”

“An enviable place to be?” he suggested, watching her profile.

She turned back toward him and studied him for several seconds, a favor he returned. Although she was Lady Wingate’s sister, he could detect no resemblance between this woman and the stunning viscountess. No one would ever call Miss Moorehouse a beauty. Her features were too…mismatched. Her eyes, magnified even more by her spectacles, were too large, her nose too small. Her chin too stubborn, her lips too plump, her height completely unfashionable. Her mousycolored hair, based on its current untidy condition, appeared to be the unmanageable sort that refused to be tamed into submission. He tried to recall something, anything he might have heard about her, but could think of nothing other than the fact that she was apparently Lady Wingate’s traveling companion and a spinster. Based on that, he’d envisioned an older, dour, pinch-faced matron.

Yet while she wasn’t beautiful, she was hardly old, dour, or pinch-faced. No, this woman was young. And robust. And clearly intelligent. And possessed an entrancing, dimpling smile that lit up her unusual face as if she’d swallowed a candle. A smile that offered an intriguing contrast to the wistfulness he’d detected in her voice. And large, doe-shaped eyes so devoid of guile that he found it difficult to look away from her.

Yes, but she’s also nosy, and was doing something last night she doesn’t wish to confess.

“An enviable place to be,” she repeated softly. “Yes, that describes it perfectly. Who could ask for anything more than that?”

Me. He wanted something more than that. Something that had frustratingly remained out of his reach for almost a year. He yearned for it, yet despaired of ever finding it. Peace.

Such a simple word.

So bloody difficult to achieve.

He realized he was staring and cleared his throat. “Are there any other sketches in your tablet?”

“Yes, but ”

Her words cut off as he opened to a random page and looked at a beautifully detailed sketch of a flower, delicately tinted with watercolors. Beneath the sketch, printed in small, precise lettering, were the words narcissus sylvestris which, since he recognized the bloom, clearly was Latin for…

“Daffodil,” he murmured. “Very nice. You’re as talented with watercolors as you are at drawing.”

“Thank you.” Again she seemed surprised by his compliment, and he wondered why. Surely anyone who looked at these pictures could see they were excellent. “I’ve painted sketches of several hundred different species.”

“Another passion of yours?”

She smiled. “I’m afraid so.”

“And what do you do with your sketches? Frame them for display in your home?”

“Oh, no. I keep them in their sketch pads while I add to my collection. Someday I intend to organize the group and see them published into a book on horticulture.”

“Indeed? A lofty goal.”

“I see no point in aspiring to any other sort.”

He shifted his gaze from the sketch and their eyes met. The sky had lightened enough that he could now discern that her eyes weren’t blue at all, but rather a warm, golden brown. Along with intelligence, he detected a bit of a challenge in her direct gaze, as if she were daring him to dispute her ability to see her goal to fruition. He certainly had no intention of arguing the point with her. It was apparent that in addition to being nosy, Miss Moorehouse was one of those frighteningly efficient spinster types who marched on ahead, heedless of any hindrances to their progress.

“Why aim for the ground when you can shoot for the stars?” he murmured. She blinked, then her smile bloomed again. “Exactly,” she agreed. Aware that he was once again staring, he forced his attention back to the sketch pad. He flipped through more pages, studying sketches of unfamiliar plants with unpronounceable Latin titles, along with several flowers he didn’t recall the names of but that he recognized thanks to his hours spent digging holes all around the grounds. One bloom he did recognize was the rose, and he forced himself not to shudder. For some reason the damn things made him sneeze. He avoided them whenever possible.

He flipped another page. And stared. At the detailed sketch of a man. A very naked man. A man who was…not ungenerously formed. A man who, based on the letters printed along the bottom of the page, was named Franklin N. St

She gasped and snatched the sketch pad from his hands and closed it. The sound of the pages snapping together seemed to echo in the air between them.

Matthew couldn’t decide if he were more amused, surprised, or intrigued. Certainly he wouldn’t have suspected such a drawing from this mousy woman. Clearly there was more to her than met the eye. Could this have been what she’d been up to last evening drawing erotic sketches? Bloody hell, could this Franklin person who’d modeled for her sketch be someone from his own household?

There was a young man named Frank on the groundskeeping staff…

Yet surely not. She’d only just arrived! He tried to recall the man’s features, but as best he could remember from his brief look, his face was shadowed and indistinct the only part of him which was.

“Friend of yours?” he drawled.

She hoisted up her chin. “And if he is?”

Well, he had to give her points for standing her ground. “I’d say you’d captured him quite well. Although I’m certain your mama would be shocked.”

“On the contrary, I’m certain she’d take no notice at all.” She stepped away from him then glanced in a pointed fashion at the opening in the hedges. “It was lovely chatting with you, my lord, but please don’t let me keep you any longer from your morning walk.”

“My walk, yes,” he murmured, feeling an inexplicable urge to delay his departure. To look at more of her sketches to see if he could discover but yet another layer of this woman whose personality, in such a short period of time, had presented such contrasts.

Ridiculous. It was time to leave. “Enjoy your morning, Miss Moorehouse,” he said. “I shall see you at dinner this evening.” He made her a formal bow, a gesture she responded to with a brief curtsy. Then, with a soft whistle to Danforth, he departed the small clearing with the dog at his heels and headed down the path leading toward the stables. Perhaps a ride would help clear his head. Walking at a brisk pace, he reflected on his meeting with Miss Moorehouse, and two things occurred to him: first, the woman’s in depth knowledge of horticulture might be of use to him, provided he could glean the information he wanted from her without her realizing his reasons for wanting it a challenge, given her nosy nature. He’d attempted to get such information from Paul, but while his head gardener knew a great deal about plants, he did not possess a formal education such as Miss Moorehouse clearly did. In having her as a guest, he might have stumbled upon the key to finding the missing piece to his quest.

And second, the woman had very effectively, albeit very politely, dismissed him from his own bloody garden! As if she was a princess and he a lowly footman. He’d not made an issue of it, as departing was precisely what he’d wanted to do. Bloody hell. He couldn’t decide if he was more annoyed or fascinated.

Both, he decided. Miss Sarah Moorehouse was one of those annoying spinster women who peered out windows when they should be sleeping, always turned up in spots where you didn’t wish them to be, and tended to see and hear things they shouldn’t. Yet the dichotomy of her bookish, plain appearance and her erotic nude sketch intrigued him. As did her knowledge of plants. If she could prove to be of some use to him in his quest, well, he’d simply find a way to suffer her company. For he’d do anything to end his quest and get his life back.

And if, by some chance, she’d followed him into the garden last night, he intended to see to it that she did not do so again.

Sarah clutched her sketch pad to her chest and stared at the opening in the hedges through which Lord Langston had just disappeared. After several long seconds, she released a lengthy breath, one she hadn’t even realized she’d held.

Heavens, there was no denying his lordship was an exceedingly fine-looking specimen. Indeed, as far as appearances were concerned, he could easily qualify for the title of Perfect Man. When he’d stood next to her, her pulse had misbehaved in the most unsettling, confusing, and unprecedented way, a way she hadn’t liked one bit.

Had she?

She pushed up her glasses with an impatient gesture. No, she hadn’t liked it. Because as outwardly attractive as he might be, appearances in this case were deceiving, and his handsome features clearly masked the soul of a scoundrel. The man purported to be an expert on plants and flowers?

Ha! Based on their conversation and the comments he’d made while looking at her sketches, she was convinced he didn’t know a compost heap from a carnation. If he’d been returning from tending to night bloomers when she saw him from her window last night, why, she’d eat her bonnet. Not that she was wearing a bonnet, but by God, she’d retrieve one from her collection so she could eat it. Which once again begged the question: What had Lord Langston been doing with that shovel late last night?

Her imagination immediately conjured lurid images of Dr. Frankenstein, and her lips compressed. Whether or not her host’s actions were sinister, they were suspicious at best, and she intended to discover what he was up to especially as he might well be intending to court one of her friends. If he was up to no good, Julianne and Emily needed to be warned.

And Lord Langston needed to be stopped.

Chapter 4

After a vigorous ride that indeed helped clear his head, and a change of clothes, Matthew made his way to the dining room. He found himself wondering if he’d find Miss Moorehouse seated at the polished mahogany table. And then further wondering why the thought inexplicably quickened his steps. When he arrived, however, he found the dining room empty.

“Has anyone been down to breakfast?” he asked Walters, as the footman poured him a fragrant, steaming cup of coffee.

“Just one of the ladies, my lord. Can’t recall her name. Thick spectacles, she has. And a hearty appetite. Was particularly fond of Cook’s scones and raspberry jam.”

“Ah. Clearly a woman of excellent taste,” Matthew murmured, reaching for his china cup. An image rose in his mind, of Miss Moorehouse biting into a jelly-laden scone, her dimples winking as she chewed, a dab of raspberry clinging to her plump bottom lip. Of him, leaning slowly toward her, her doe eyes widening as he flicked away the bit of jelly with a leisurely swipe of his tongue. His cup halted halfway to his lips and he blinked to dispel the unsettling and utterly ridiculous image. Good God, perhaps getting caught in the rain last night had adversely affected his brain. Infected him with some manner of fever. Either that or he’d simply been without a woman for far too long. Yes, that explained it. For there could be no other explanation as to why he’d harbor the least sensual thought about a woman who was not in the least bit sensual. And certainly not at all the sort of female to inspire such thoughts. A nosy, bluestocking spinster just the sort of female he normally avoided as he would a bad rash.

Still, something about Miss Moorehouse had captured his interest. Something besides her knowledge of plants and penchant for staring out windows…

Again her image materialized in his mind’s eye. It was those damn dimples, he decided. And those huge, golden brown eyes, magnified by her spectacles. Behind their intelligence they’d looked…vulnerable. In a way that had grabbed him by the throat. In a way he neither understood nor particularly liked.

With an effort, he shoved the woman from his thoughts, and after his solitary breakfast he entered his private study. Refusing to dwell on his impatience for Daniel’s return from the village, he spent several hours going over the estate’s accounts. When he finished, he set down his pen and rubbed his tired eyes. In spite of his best efforts to economize, over the course of the last few months his financial situation had deteriorated to a dangerous level. His path was clear. And inevitable.

A knock sounded at the door, and with a sense of relief at being interrupted from looking at the depressing accounts, he called, “Come in.”

The door opened and an immaculately attired Tildon appeared. “Lord Surbrooke requests to see you, my lord,” the butler intoned.

Finally. “Thank you, Tildon. Send him in.”

Matthew closed the account books, slipped them back into the desk drawer, then locked the drawer. He’d just pocketed the key in his waistcoat when Daniel Sutton breezed through the doorway.

“So this is where you’ve hidden yourself,” Daniel said, crossing directly to the decanters. “You’ve missed all the fun.”

“Fun?”

His best friend nodded. “Whist and backgammon in the drawing room.”

“What the devil were you doing in the drawing room? I’ve been awaiting your report from the village.”