The Disgraceful Lord Gray

by Virginia Heath

  To see his superior in the field was also interesting. He must have been a canny spy in his day, for already he and the cheating Viscount were as thick as thieves, backslapping and laughing like old friends. While Lord Fennimore was keeping him occupied, Gray decided it was probably a good time to visit the retiring room via a meandering poke around the ground floor.

  Fortunately, this late, much of the house was quiet and dark. One lone footman sat snoozing near the front door and somebody was in the kitchen in case they were summoned to feed or water the guests. Everyone else appeared to have turned in for the night aside from Gislingham’s quiet manservant, who had been downstairs several times to check on his master and encourage him, unsuccessfully, to get some sleep before reluctantly leaving with a reminder that he would be back soon. That made venturing up to their host’s private apartments nigh on impossible.

  Instead, he methodically worked his way around the downstairs rooms, consigning their position and layout to memory as he went. Like the dining room, each room he entered was formal and dressed to impress. Persian rugs, ormolu clocks, bold damask sofas which looked pretty but were not really made for men to sit on, huge urns stuffed full of silk flowers and peacock feathers. This was very much the public face of country aristocracy who were conscious of their place in the social pecking order and keen to make the right sort of impression. Form and fashion over function, like his father’s house in Wales. Nothing at all like the informality of the Viscount’s private sitting room. Another contradiction.

  There was a neat, feminine study with a dainty mahogany escritoire near the window. It was unlocked so, like a good spy, he carefully rifled through it, but found nothing but notepaper, quills and inks. On the opposite wall, illuminated by the moonlight, was a flattering portrait of the Viscountess from her youth, hair down and smiling winsomely in a garden. As there were no other family pictures anywhere to be seen, he came to the conclusion this room was hers, although it had the air of a space rarely used.

  The next room seemed to have no purpose other than to be a place to house a harp. By the looks of it, it had never been played. Another small parlour looked to be a receiving room of some sort. A third room served as a second library, although why they needed another when the one down the hall was twice the size he had no idea. Perhaps they were big on reading here at Gislingham House? As Miss Cranford had said, there were plenty of places downstairs to accommodate the Viscount’s lack of mobility, all more convenient than the rooms he favoured out of the way.

  Curious. Although significantly less private.

  Across from the dining room was the drawing room they had gathered in before dinner. He already knew that room well. The door was ajar and one lamp glowed softly on the mantel. He would have walked straight past it had the lace at the French windows not been billowing slightly. Either a servant had forgotten to lock them, or someone was in the garden. He had a very clear idea of which someone he hoped it would be. Like a man lured to the rocks by the sirens, he soon found himself peeking out of the French doors and he wasn’t disappointed.

  Miss Cranford was stood at the stone balustrade on the terrace, staring out at the stars, the moon casting her in an ethereal silhouette. A few tendrils of her heavy hair had, typically, broken free and caught on the breeze. The same breeze moulded the fabric of her gown to one side of her body. The exact same gown which had haunted his thoughts since he had first seen her in it earlier and which had fair taken his breath away for most of the evening. More than once he had allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to peel her slowly out of it. Unpin her heavy hair and let it fall over the pert breasts that had taunted him as he had tried to be a good guest and failed to be a better spy.

  In no hurry to stop staring, he lounged against the frame and looked his fill. She sensed him. Her head whipped around, her lush mouth momentarily slack. ‘Lord Gray!’

  ‘We’ve been over this. It’s just Gray... Thea.’

  ‘It is Miss Cranford, my lord, as well you know. And I shall remain Miss Cranford to you till the end of time.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Although he fully intended to always call her Thea from this moment on. It felt right on his tongue. ‘I thought you had long gone to bed.’

  ‘I wasn’t tired.’ Without thinking, Thea put her hands to her hair and began to tuck the errant strands back in their proper place. She did that a lot, he realised, as if she was embarrassed by her hair. Although why a woman with such exquisite tresses would be embarrassed by them was a mystery to him. ‘After the stuffiness of the drawing room and the big meal, I needed some fresh air.’

  ‘Too much trifle does that to a person. How many bowls did you have? Three?’

  ‘Two. And a gentleman wouldn’t mention such a thing.’

  ‘I suppose a gentleman wouldn’t mention all the wine you drank either, so I won’t. But we both know you drank far more than you usually do because my presence opposite rattled you and now you cannot sleep for exactly that same reason.’

  Her lovely eyes widened and blinked twice. ‘I was not the least bit rattled.’

  ‘Liar. Of course you were. You scarcely said boo to a goose all evening. It was most unlike you. You are still rattled. Admit it.’

  Stop flirting with her, you fool. Think of the mission. Your promotion. Lord Fennimore’s specific instruction! Your heart...

  ‘I believe I would know if I was rattled or not, my lord, and can assure you I wasn’t then nor am I now. Let me say it plainly, seeing as you seem to be having some trouble understanding—disgraceful scoundrels are not my cup of tea.’

  ‘That’s a shame. Because tart and fiery redheads are exactly mine—and, for the record, I was rattled. Every time I see you I’m rattled. I’m rattled now. Can’t you tell?’

  This was madness.

  He was going out of his way to seduce her—willingly and for his own selfish reasons rather than all the lofty, patriotic reasons he was supposed to be upholding. This was not the time to live wholly in the moment! What the blazes was wrong with him? What was it about this woman that drew him? Lust, yes, but he desired more than a single night of passion. He wanted to know her. Talk to her. Understand her. Knowing full well she was the sort of woman it would take more than one night of passion to tire of.

  ‘Are you a chancer, Lord Gray?’

  ‘I suppose that depends on your definition. Do I take chances—yes. If opportunity knocks, who am I to turn it away?’

  ‘But what if the opportunity presented encouraged dishonesty?’

  Her suddenly fierce expression bothered him. ‘I am not a criminal, Thea, if that is what you are suggesting.’

  ‘But would you take advantage, sir?’

  ‘I would hope not...’

  ‘Hardly a reassuring answer when I know about your dubious past.’ Oh, dear. Bad news certainly did travel fast. In this case, in less than twenty-four hours. Which meant the family had been digging. That was good for the mission, even if it felt depressingly bad right now. ‘I know you squandered an entire fortune at the gaming tables and ran up huge debts all over London!’

  He folded his arms, instantly defensive, but didn’t deny it. There was no point denying the sorry truth. ‘My dubious past is exactly that. The past. It has no bearing on who I am now. People can change.’ And in the main he had, and for some peculiar reason he wanted her to know it. With age had come some wisdom to see his desperate, immature quest for more riches all those years ago would not have made a single jot of difference even if he had miraculously won more than he had ultimately lost. Cecily hadn’t only wanted his brother’s larger fortune—she had wanted his title as well. Now she was a viscountess and the mother of Gray’s two nephews and niece. Children he had never seen, that were never meant to be his, borne of a woman who had loved his brother’s superior prospects far more than she had ever claimed to have loved Gray. It had taken losing everything—his heart, his for
tune and all his self-esteem—to finally grow up and see life through a crystal-clear lens.

  Now, he had the ability to err on the side of caution if he felt the situation warranted it. Granted, he still had some of the same tendencies of the young man he had been. The love of spontaneity. Adventure. The zestful, joyful, reckless lure of the dream. The heady, reckless heat of the moment.

  ‘A leopard doesn’t change its spots.’

  ‘Well, actually, having had the good fortune to witness some leopards in India first hand, I can tell you categorically that they can. New-born leopards have big black patches that slowly develop into smaller spots.’

  ‘You are being pedantic.’

  ‘Hardly, I’m merely...’

  ‘Are you still in debt?’

  ‘No.’ More truth, but money meant nothing to him any longer. It had been the root of his downfall and his heartbreak. Money turned goodness into bad. Twisted, manipulated and destroyed things. He had enough to get by, but was considerably richer in other ways. Ways an uppity young lady who had grown up in cossetted luxury in this quiet corner of England couldn’t possibly understand.

  ‘Not even to your cousin Lord Fennimore?’

  ‘I owe him a debt of gratitude for seeing past the reckless youth I was and giving me a second chance.’ Another completely honest answer. Despite everything, his superior had believed him capable of more else he never would have enlisted Gray into the King’s Elite. Lord Fennimore hand-picked every agent and hadn’t picked a duff one yet in all his twenty years in charge.

  ‘And you owe him nothing else? The clothes on your back, perchance? That expensive ruby sat in your cravat.’ Her finger flicked it and he caught her hand, annoyed that she thought so little of him despite knowing her opinion was probably justified based on what he allowed the world to know.

  ‘This ruby is all I have left of my mother. Left to me in her will, if you must know, and more precious to me than anything else I own. She wore it as a pendant. Never took it off. It is the one thing I never gambled away. Even when those creditors were banging on my door, baying for my blood, I refused to part with it—knowing it would likely clear a huge chunk of my debt if I did. And as for the clothes on my back, I earned them in the same way I earned everything since that reckless summer when I lost it all. Through hard work.’

  ‘Do you consider thrashing my sick uncle at the gaming tables hard work?’

  Gray felt instantly queasy at the accusation. As low as he had fallen all those years ago, he had never stooped that low. Ever. He had trod a solitary path of destruction till the bitter end. ‘I am insulted that you would think I would take advantage of your uncle—especially as he just relieved me of ten pounds and did so through flagrant cheating. What made you think such a thing?’

  She tugged her hand away and folded her arms. ‘Because it’s all a little too convenient, don’t you think? Your supposed interest in me—an unmarried heiress—combined with your sudden desire to socialise with my wealthy invalid uncle.’

  It was a little too convenient, that was the problem, and while he knew he had to brazen it out, lying to her didn’t sit right. Under different circumstances, with a different sort of man from him, her suspicions would be wholly justified. ‘Until this moment I didn’t know you were an heiress.’ The honest truth. ‘And frankly, neither do I care. We met by chance. I was in the brook. Throwing a stick at my dog, if you recall, and while I will admit to intentionally furthering our acquaintance since, I did not do so because of your dowry and nor did I do it to ingratiate myself with your invalid uncle.’ King and country aside, this persistent need to seek her out and flirt with her was not something a good spy would do. He was selfishly jeopardising everything because he couldn’t seem to control himself around her. A very worrying prospect indeed when he had promised himself he would never be that drawn to a woman again.

  Say goodnight and go back inside! Thea is off limits.

  ‘Then why did you do it?’

  He raked a hand through his hair and, in the absence of the desire to do his job properly and leave her well alone, decided to continue to stick to as much of the truth as he dare. ‘Because we are neighbours. Because I felt awful that you stumbled across me naked in the brook and wished to make amends.’ Stop there! ‘Because I am irresistibly drawn to you and, despite your obviously poor opinion of me, I would like to get to know you better. I have no expectations beyond that Thea. None.’ Good grief, what was he doing? Why was he actively pursuing her, almost courting her, when that wasn’t who he was at all?

  ‘I certainly have no interest in your uncle’s money, your money or—Heaven forbid—marrying for money. I am quite content being a solitary scoundrel and make no apology for that. Nor have I attempted to cover that up. A true chancer would have covered his tracks well, not displayed all his shortcomings to the world. I haven’t lied, Thea. I took the twenty thousand pounds, left to me in good faith by my grandfather, the day I turned twenty-one and lost the lot in the hells in a matter of months. Then I went to sea and travelled the world, during which time I like to think I grew up a great deal. Being the worst gambler ever born doesn’t make me a confidence trickster, nor the sort of scum who preys on the vulnerable. Although your uncle is hardly vulnerable. He has a mind as sharp as a tack and you insult us both by insinuating otherwise.’

  She stared deeply into his eyes, searching for the truth, then dipped her head, her hands disappearing behind her back. ‘Uncle Edward is nobody’s fool... I jump to conclusions. I apologise for suggesting you might take advantage.’ Her eyes flicked to his again defiantly. ‘Although you might have just said that when I asked directly.’

  ‘You didn’t ask me that directly. As I recall, you asked me if I was the sort of fellow who would take advantage and I said that depends...’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On the situation.’ He wanted to kiss her. Badly. Kiss away all her nagging doubts about him and make them both feel better.

  Don’t do it!

  He couldn’t kiss her. Wouldn’t kiss her. She already had her suspicions and he was under strict instructions to befriend her.

  Avoid any and all flirting!

  And deep down he knew that kissing her would be dangerous to him personally. Something about Thea tempted his dormant, embittered heart to stir. He had to protect it at all costs. ‘Some situations demand I take advantage...’ Some devil inside of him had apparently taken control of his body, his voice and his mind. He had lost the ability to think straight, simply because she was there.

  Against his woefully absent better judgement, he reached behind her and took her hand. She stared at her palm wrapped in his larger one, a little bemused—but didn’t pull it away. ‘Would I take advantage of an invalid—even one who just crowed like a cockerel for relieving me of my money after he shamelessly cheated at billiards? No. Of course I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Uncle Edward is a shameless cheat.’ Her voice wavered slightly as she blinked at where they were joined. ‘I hope you called him on it. Nobody ever does because he can be so charming...’ He was still holding her hand, his thumb moving in lazy circles over the sensitive centre of her palm. As she tried to change the subject, she also tried to gently disentangle it. He wasn’t going to let her get away with that again either. Not when this foolhardy discussion was nowhere near done and he felt as if invisible cords were wrapping themselves around them, pulling them closer together. From nowhere, the self-destructive, needy part of his soul that had led him headlong into heartbreak with Cecily had apparently fully possessed him.

  ‘Would I take advantage of the darkness and the pale moonlight? This empty, quiet garden? The close proximity of a beautiful woman who likes me far more than she wants to, who is as rattled as I am and is desperately fighting the attraction?’ He could feel his jaded, stitched-together heart beating faster in his chest, urging him on, controlling him in the heat of this all-consumi
ng moment against all his head’s sensible objections. ‘Absolutely.’ Gray leaned closer, the air crackling expectantly between them, his fingers finally giving in to the temptation to touch one of the loose tendrils framing her lovely face as he slowly inhaled her intoxicating perfume. ‘I would be a fool not to.’

  ‘I don’t like you.’ But her voice was breathy and she made no attempt to step away, her eyes dropping to his mouth before attempting to fix indifferently on his face—but failing. She was being lured into the fire, too, attempting resistance as he was, but failing. Whatever strange, magnetic force existed between them, it was too strong to fight. Worse, he didn’t want to.

  ‘Liar.’ It came out as a whisper a second before his lips touched hers and she proved his point by sighing against them and kissing him back.

  What should have been a simple kiss wasn’t. He’d kissed many women since Cecily, yet none, including the woman who had so mercilessly bludgeoned his young heart to a pulp, had ever felt like this one.

  All the usual sensations were there—the quickening pulse, the building lust and need, the delicious sensation of skin touching skin, the understandable and natural urge to deepen the kiss and taste the woman beneath—yet woven among those familiar sensations were new ones. A sense of rightness and belonging. The strange feeling in his chest, dangerously in the exact vicinity of his hardened heart, which should have terrified him but didn’t. The peculiar sense of relief that he had found her and she had found him. Because out of nowhere, this unplanned and unexpected kiss was significant. Monumental. Meant to be.

  Meant to be!

  Not again...

  Never again!

  Shaken, it was Gray who pulled away first and removed his hand from where it had embedded itself in her curls. Most of the pins were now gone—he must have removed them, but had no memory of it—and all that molten copper shot with silver in the moonlight hung to her waist, where his other hand had made itself at home in the perfect curve at the base of her spine above her hip. Her arms had snaked beneath his coat and looped around his back. He could feel the heat of her palms on his shoulder blades and the soft press of her breasts flattened against his chest.