The Lady Flees Her Lord

by Ann Lethbridge

  Impatient strides carried him to the chessboard, and he stared down at it blindly. Perhaps he already regretted his frankness.

  She packed the receipts neatly in their metal box, closed the ledger, and rose. “When would you like me to continue with this?”

  As if he had not heard, he stood in the middle of the room, alone like some castaway on a storm-swept island, staring down at the chessboard.

  The black pieces shone like ebony, while the white were ivory. “A magnificent set,” she said, joining him.

  “It was my grandfather’s. I have another in the study that I brought back from Spain.”

  Unthinking, she moved the black rook three squares, cutting off his queen.

  “Nice move,” he murmured. He moved a pawn, forcing a retreat or the loss of her queen. She tapped her chin with her forefinger. “Now you do have me in a pickle. Unless . . .” She moved her king, dropping into the chair to study her next move.

  He moved his knight and sat down, leaning back and regarding her from beneath slightly lowered lids. She suddenly felt like a rabbit being eyed by a keen-eyed wolf who couldn’t make up his mind if he was hungry or just wanted to play. “Your move.” His deep voice caressed skin suddenly sensitive. A shiver rippled across her shoulders. Her limbs softened. She could hardly breathe in a room that seemed strangely airless. A pulse beat hard and raw in her feminine core.

  This had to stop. She had no right to be attracted to this man. And marriage had proved she was as much a woman as the chair on which she sat. She should never have touched the chess piece, but having done so, she needed to finish the game quickly. Trying to ignore the intensity of the gaze directed at her face, she tracked the consequences of each possible move. Only one held the slightest chance of winning. Or she could concede, let him think her a fool. Even as it occurred to her, she knew she would not give up. She’d win or lose fair and square.

  She played her usual cautious game, Lord Wanstead countering her moves aggressively but with none of Geoffrey’s recklessness to give her an advantage. While they played, they chatted. She learned about his taste in books and discovered him to be as familiar with Shakespeare as she. He quizzed her about the plays she’d seen. Careful to give the impression of a small northern playhouse, she waxed enthusiastic about Mr. Kean at his best as Richard III and Mrs. Weston in her famous role of Portia.

  Each time he reached forward to move a piece, the sharp scent of his cologne deepened by undertones of virile man filled her nostrils. Each time she caught his glance, she fought to ignore her stomach’s betraying flutter of female appreciation. With each passing moment, the chord of awareness between them stretched tighter.

  “What really made you settle in this part of the country?” he asked.

  Taken aback by the turn in the conversation, she hesitated. To hide her confusion, she moved her bishop a little too recklessly. “I saw the house advertised in The Times. It sounded perfect.”

  “You are a brave woman, Mrs. Graham.” The hint of a smile transformed his stern face into something far too sensual.

  She quelled the urge to sigh. “Brave?”

  “Yes.” He tilted his head on one side. “Managing alone with never a complaint.”

  She could not prevent the wry twist to her lips. “I have little choice in the matter.”

  A green gaze speared her like a well-honed blade. “You did not think about going north, to your brother?”

  He didn’t forget one thing she said. “No. We do not get along.” He shot a quick glance at the table across the room. “Fortunately for me, I think.”

  Again the hint of a heart-stopping smile and a flicker of warmth in his gaze.

  Heat rushed through her veins. Her pulse jumped and then pattered wildly. She clasped her hands in her lap to hide their tremble. “I believe it is your move, my lord.”

  Unbelievably, he grinned, open, playful, and a menace to her heart. “Chess, you mean.”

  “What else would I mean?” she shot back, shoring up her defenses against this show of charm, knowing full well he referred to his rapier questions and her swift parries.

  He moved his bishop to block her king. “Check.”

  The sheer daring stole her breath. She hadn’t seen it coming. She had let him distract her concentration. Trapped. There were a few moves left, but all led to one place. His victory.

  She tipped her king, conceding the game.

  “Very gracious of you, Mrs. Graham,” he murmured.

  “Clearly I am playing a master.”

  He grimaced. “Played a lot of chess in the Peninsular. There wasn’t much else to do in the winter besides hunt or gamble.”

  “You don’t hunt or gamble?”

  “Oh, I hunted.” He gave a short laugh. “With meat in short supply, the odd hare turned a meal into a banquet.”

  “It’s a hard life,” she said, at once thinking of her brother and his brief letters home.

  “Not so bad in winter quarters,” he said. “Apart from the boredom.” He gestured to the board. “Hence the skill at chess.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, irresistible laughing eyes, a rare sight. A desire to touch those creases left her dizzy. “But you can’t tell me you are a novice, Mrs. Graham. Good strategy that, with your queen. You gave me some anxious moments.”

  His generosity cracked another chink in the impenetrable wall around her heart. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Perhaps I should give you a chance at revenge?”

  The teasing light in his eyes served only to increase the tumult in her mind. Unsure how to answer, she offered a smile. His eyes widened and flared with heat, all traces of bleakness fleeing like fog on a hot day. She wanted to lean across the game, place her palm to the hard plane of his jaw, feel the warmth of his skin against hers, slide her fingers into the dark curls of his hair at his collar, and press her mouth to his. Inner muscles contracted at the thought of his firm full lips melding with hers.

  His hot glance excited her in ways she’d never experienced, sparked violent fires in her blood and turned her insides to mush. Her husband’s courtship had been a mere ripple on her youthful pond compared to this surging tide of sensation.

  In an effort to avoid his challenge, she dropped her gaze to his beautiful mouth. The sensual lips curved in wicked temptation as if he knew exactly what she experienced deep inside.

  He leaned forward a fraction, reached out, and touched her jaw with a soldier’s calloused fingertips, his thumb grazing her cheek. A brief yet searing touch.

  Her heart thundered. The blood seemed to ebb from her mind and flow to some place deep in her center. The desire to meet him halfway, to offer her lips to him, dragged at her spine. The slightest move in his direction would be all the permission he required.

  Why? Why was he doing this? Did he think her a lonely, unattractive widow grateful for any signs of affection? This new game reeked of excitement and danger. She had the premonition that to lose might wound something far more important that her pride.

  She drew back, out of reach and out of range of his hypnotic draw on her body. “I really must go.” The words left her feeling drained.

  He tilted his head, clearly puzzled by her withdrawal. “Routed, Mrs. Graham?”

  A gentler jibe than perhaps she deserved. “Simply regrouping, my lord.” She rose to her feet.

  He stood up. “Come again tomorrow.”

  She shook her head. “The vicar has organized a meeting to discuss the fête.”

  “Friday then?”

  This was her moment to refuse point-blank. Wildness thrummed a beat in her veins hard to ignore. In this short hour or two, she’d forgotten her fears of Denbigh and her anxieties about the future. He acted like a drug on her system, addictive.

  “I really cannot leave Sophia.”

  Pinpoints of emerald danced in his eyes. “Bring her with you.”

  She rallied weakly. “It really is not my place to be poking around in your private matters like this. It is different with
the church accounts. The vicar is accountable to the parish officers. But this? It is much too personal. What you really need, my lord, is a wife.”

  He stiffened and went utterly still. Long moments passed. “I had a wife, Mrs. Graham.”

  Had? That meant . . . Her heartbeat slowed. “I’m sorry, my lord,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”

  His eyes shuttered, leaving her on the outside and chilled. “Your sympathy is misplaced, Mrs. Graham, believe me. My wife was the one who deserved pity.” His forbidding expression precluded the asking of questions, almost as if he wanted her to believe the worst—that he had somehow harmed his wife. A dire warning.

  Even as she stared, nonplussed, he rose. Lurching off balance, he grabbed at the bell pull. The unsteady motions of a man deeply foxed.

  She eyed the dregs in the brandy decanter beside his chair. He must have emptied it while she was engrossed with Mrs. Hobb. Was that the reason he found her of interest? Blurred of vision and mind, he didn’t notice her faults? And yet he’d seemed perfectly lucid during their game. A sour taste filled her mouth. A lonely man in his cups seeking solace. No doubt he’d see her in a different light when the fog of brandy cleared. She should be grateful for that.

  A chill enveloped her, as if the spark of life he’d fired had been snuffed out with a single puff. She headed for the door. “Please do not trouble your butler, my lord. I know my way.” Aware of his furious frown, she scuttled from the room.

  Mr. Jevens met her in the hall, her pelisse in his hand. Before he could speak, the library door swung wide.

  With the light behind him, Lord Wanstead’s features remained cast in shadow. He leaned against the doorjamb. “Jevens, require Albert to drive Mrs. Graham home and then bring brandy.” His deep tones rang off the medieval rafters like a knight of old roaring at his minions.

  Well, knights of old were long gone, and she’d fought for and won her independence. “It is not necessary, my lord,” she said. “I can walk.”

  “I know you can walk, but you will go with Albert.” He retreated into his lair and banged the door shut.

  “Better if we do as he says, Mrs. Graham,” Jevens said, shuffling down the side passage.

  Oh, heavens, she had not said no to his request that she return on Friday.

  Chapter Seven

  He needed a wife. Hah. Hugo stared at the pieces won and lost in their close-run game. Was she putting herself forward to fill the position? Somehow he didn’t think so. Was that why he’d reacted so badly? Goddamn it. He didn’t want a wife.

  But he did want Mrs. Graham.

  He wanted her on a most carnal level. Nay. While her voluptuous body called to him, the intelligence lurking deep in those mysterious dark blue eyes had him fascinated. Intelligence mixed with wariness. A strange and heady combination.

  He didn’t fault Mrs. Graham for her need for privacy, but her caution ran deeper than mere discretion. The hunted quality to her gaze when he questioned her too closely gave her away. It was as if she expected a cage door to slam shut with her on the wrong side of the bars.

  Everything in him wanted to drive out the fear and leave the sparkle only hinted at when one of those rare smiles curved her lips. Fool. Making more of what ailed him than simple physical attraction. He hadn’t been with a woman of Mrs. Graham’s caliber in a very long time, and beneath her cool demeanor he sensed a smoldering heat. Like a charcoal burner’s kiln, no matter how cool she seemed on the outside, fires hotter than Hades burned within.

  Jevens entered with the brandy and a disapproving expression. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  “No, thank you.” Aware of the tremble in his hand, he waited for the butler to withdraw before pouring a glass of steadying heat. He took a long slow pull and rubbed absently at his thigh. He flexed his knee a couple of times, seeking ease from the nagging pain. It felt worse than ever—hell, it looked worse. He’d probably have to see the bloody surgeon in London after all.

  At the sound of wheels on gravel, he stared at the window as if he could see beyond his reflection to her upright figure in the gig and her calm expression beneath the brim of her plain bonnet.

  It wasn’t appropriate, but damn he adored her smile, the way her cheeks grew rounder, like succulent peaches. His own lips curved in response to the image. He would like to hear her really laugh. Not that he gave anyone much cause for laughter. Nor should he, if he remained true to his vow. Beyond anything, he must respect her loyalty to a husband who had given his life for his country. A pang of envy twisted in his chest. Envy for a dead man?

  Possibly. He just wished he knew what put the fear in her eyes. Something from her past? This brother perhaps? Whatever or whoever it was, it had driven the life he occasionally saw in her eyes into hiding.

  He shook his head. She clearly did not need his help. He had gone against his better judgment in allowing her to remain at the Dower House, and it should be enough.

  It wasn’t, dammit. He would get to the bottom of what troubled her, even if it meant hosting the damned village fête.

  As for him, a simple case of lust for a bosom fulsome enough to fill his hands to overflowing and the thought of a pair of soft creamy thighs wrapped around his waist must be ignored. He shifted in his chair and forced his mind in other directions. Breaking through her barriers of reserve would require as much planning as a military strategy. It would take time.

  His thigh throbbed and burned. The doctor said the leg needed time to heal. He needed time to discover what had Mrs. Graham looking over her shoulder. He poured a snifter of brandy and sank deeper into the cushions.

  He didn’t have much money, but he certainly had plenty of time.

  • • •

  “Good morning, Mrs. Graham.”

  Startled, Lucinda straightened from her task of cutting roses to take indoors.

  Booted and carrying a whip, Lord Wanstead stood the other side of her hedge. Her pulse faltered and skipped in the stupidest way. She frowned. “I did not hear you ride up.” Not a warm greeting by any means. But then she didn’t feel particularly friendly. She felt skittish, nervous, out of breath.

  He grimaced. “I drove my carriage.” He slapped his whip against his thigh.

  “Was there something I can do for you, my lord?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It is a fine morning, and I have something to show you.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You do?”

  He grinned like a boy caught with his hand in the biscuit barrel. “I want to show you the field. For the fête.”

  The glimmer in his eyes started a hum along her veins and flooded her skin with very pleasant warmth. The very real effort she made to quell the sensation did not prevail.

  She shook her head. “Far better you take Reverend Postlethwaite, my lord.”

  The pleased expression faded. “My hosting the fête was your suggestion.”

  “The vicar is in charge of the committee.”

  “I would appreciate your endorsement for my idea,” he said with a gravity she did not quite trust. “You see, I remembered that my grandfather always used the bottom field near the stream when he hosted the fête.”

  So this was how he had contrived to avoid opening his home to his neighbors. “I see.”

  He looked rather deflated at her grudging tone. “It’s a good spot. Not so far for the villagers to walk, you see. Take a look before turning up your nose.”

  But if she started gallivanting around the countryside with his lordship, people were sure to talk. She had already risked far too much by offering to help his housekeeper. “I have many matters requiring my attention today.”

  “I know. You have your committee meeting this afternoon. You will want to discuss my suggestion with them.”

  Dash it. Did he have an answer for everything? “But Sophia . . .”

  Annie stuck her head out of the back door, caught sight of his lordship, and turned as red as a beetroot. “My lord,” she gasped and ducked an awkward curtsey,
her rounded belly making it impossible to do much more than bend her neck. “I heard talking and wondered who was out here. I’m sorry if I interrupted.”

  “Mrs. Dunning, is it not?” Lord Wanstead asked.

  Annie beamed. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Are you able to care for Miss Sophia for an hour or two? Mrs. Graham and I have some business to conduct.”

  Lucinda stared at him. The arrogant rogue. She was supposed to be a respectable widow, not some flighty debutante out driving in Hyde Park. She opened her mouth to refuse.

  “Yes, my lord,” Annie said. “You go, Mrs. Graham. I’ll take Sophia to the village; she can play with the twins.”

  Dash it all, would no one stand up to him? “I have to attend the meeting this afternoon.”

  “Well, there you are then,” Annie said. “I will take care of the little one, as we arranged, and his lordship can drop you off at the vicarage.”

  Sophia squeezed past Annie. “Twins?” she said with a brilliant smile.

  Lucinda gave a sigh of exasperation. They were all against her. How could she deny a look like that on a child’s face? “Very well. I will get my shawl.” She hurried inside, giving Annie instructions as she went.

  Back outside on the front doorstep, she halted at the sight of a matched pair of ebony horses and a high-perch phaeton in the lane.

  “Oh, my,” she breathed.

  Lord Wanstead chivied her forward. “They arrived last night.” He patted one of the shining flanks.

  They were magnificent specimens with glossy coats and deep chests. “They are beautiful. I had no idea you owned such fine animals. You are a good judge of horseflesh, my lord.”

  He gave her a sharp stare. “Apparently so are you, Mrs. Graham. Since I knew Albert couldn’t care for them at his time of life, I sent them to my hunting box during my absence.”

  This bear seemed to lack teeth, or claws, or whatever they used to rip things apart. At least when it came to those he cared about. “How thoughtful of you, my lord.”