‘Then it’ll be just us, then, Cedric,’ said Harriet coquettishly. ‘How exciting.’ The older man simply blinked and offered a peculiar cross between a grimace and a smile before he was practically dragged onwards.
They reached the door to the inn and the blessed escape from the awkward cloud that hung between Thea and Gray. The package exchanged hands again and while Lord Fennimore bowed politely, his cousin simply inclined his head and refused to meet her eye. If she had to use an adjective to describe his behaviour, then only one sprung to mind: shifty. Thea had caught him up to no good and he knew it. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’
‘Good day, ladies. Enjoy your luncheon.’
Harriet couldn’t resist one last attempt. ‘Cedric—can I trouble you to assist me in getting these packages to the carriage?’ They all knew full well that the servants would do that, but Lord Fennimore smiled, then hesitated, then to Thea’s utter horror, and his disgraceful cousin’s if the sudden hard set of his jaw was any indication, he grabbed every package. ‘It would be my pleasure. Gray and Miss Cranford can wait here and mind the horses.’
Before Harriet disappeared, she looked back, her traitorous lips silently mouthing one word. Leap.
* * *
Gray found himself reluctantly stood all alone opposite the siren who had haunted his thoughts and his dreams for the past week. The very woman who tempted him heart and soul as no woman had since Cecily and whose magnetic draw frankly terrified him. He could feel the pull of it now despite vehemently trying to suppress it. After the ill-advised, earth-shattering kiss that had apparently confused the hell out of him, he had promised himself he’d keep a safe distance from the vixen. Something he had managed with a great deal of difficulty when her uncle was his mission. But thanks to his now encyclopaedic knowledge of her schedule, manage it he had.
Thus far. Although he knew such avoidance was unsustainable. He needed a better line of defence long term. Women who tugged at his heartstrings were strictly off limits.
For ever.
That was the mantra he silently repeated in his head over and over as he tried and failed not to be sucked in by her toxic allure, with her dangerously less than a foot away, blatantly staring, those dark eyes slightly narrowed with either hostility or suspicion. Or outright indignation after he had passionately kissed her, stalwartly avoided her and was now doing his damnedest to forget about it. Like a coward, he stared at the ground, hoping she was in no mood to converse with him either, only to watch her foot tapping impatiently.
‘Horses, you say?’ So much for that ploy. What had possessed him to resurrect his old dream as an excuse? Granted, he had more than enough knowledge to be able to blag his way around the lie, but that dream churned up the past again and reminded him of the blindly hopeful young man he was. The foolish one who had paid an awful price for daring to dream.
‘Yes. We want to purchase one stud and at least four mares.’ The blasted sultry jasmine scent was like opium. He wanted to lose himself in the smell. Bury his nose in the perfect alabaster spot just behind her ear that he had tasted all too briefly and now desperately wished that he hadn’t. ‘Cedric hopes that breeding horses will keep me out of mischief.’ Now he was grateful for his scandalous past and would ruthlessly use it to hammer a huge wedge between them—for his own safety. ‘It might work.’
‘Might?’
‘A leopard doesn’t change its spots.’
‘Yet only last week you said a leopard could.’ Damn her excellent recall.
‘Technically it does, yes. But it is still a wild animal and, as such, must be approached with caution.’ Or not at all. Preferably not at all. Inexplicably, he could feel the heat of her body this close to his, the gentle tug of the invisible cords which pulled them together, and immediately took a step backwards in the hope it would make his own body less aware of her. It didn’t work. Already his heart was pumping, his cravat too tight and his eyes kept drifting to her lips. The vixen had bewitched him and whatever spell she had cast was too strong to completely ignore.
‘I thought you didn’t know a single soul in Suffolk?’ One of her hands found its way to her hip and forced him to recall in exact detail how perfectly his own hands had fitted in the cradle of that curve. Fortunately, her hostile glare went some way to taking his thoughts away from the carnal. ‘In which case, who were your companions?’
‘Staff. Grooms. His stable master. Cedric brought them from his house in Mayfair.’ Gray was thinking on his feet and hoping he would have the opportunity to brief his superior on his mounting tower of lies before it all came tumbling around his ears. ‘We need people we trust to see to the horses once we purchase them.’
‘Interesting.’
‘How so?’ It was apparent she was studying his reactions carefully, something as disconcerting as it was worrying. It was obvious she was suddenly suspicious, more so than when she had accused him of being a chancer, which meant something had caused her hackles to rise. Had she heard him talking to his men? Because he had learned from one of his Invisibles that she had no fixed plans for the day, it hadn’t occurred to him they would collide with her an hour’s ride away in Ipswich. A foolish assumption when this was the largest town anywhere near in the vast ocean of unspoiled countryside and probably the only place ladies like her could shop. He and Lord Fennimore needed to be more careful because Gislingham’s sceptical niece was nobody’s fool.
Damn and blast, she was as sharp as a tack, which was part of the problem. Since Cecily, he had avoided dalliances with exceedingly clever women despite having a penchant for them. Clever women fired his blood as well as his loins. Clever women were dangerous. Losing them hurt. He would never risk that pain again.
‘It doesn’t suit you—the horse-breeding. It seems too sedate a pastime to hold your interest. A man who once blithely took root at the gaming tables and then sailed the seven seas strikes me as one who would seek something more adventurous to occupy his time. Something more thrilling and dangerous?’
‘Is that how you see me? Thrilling and dangerous? I like that.’ The flirting had leaked out of its own accord before good sense could stop it. Worryingly, she kept having that effect on him. The timely arrival of the afternoon post gave him a moment to steel himself, but as the noise created an excellent diversion she took the opportunity to lean close and hiss in hushed tones, her warm breath torturing his ear and giving his primed body all manner of wholly inappropriate ideas he really could not afford to indulge.
‘I have found no reason to reappraise my initial assessment of you, my lord. You are a chancer and a ne’er-do-well. A man with scant regard for the proper rules of society. I suspect you are a scoundrel to boot. A deceitful, lying, self-serving scoundrel of the first order! Am I correct?’
He found himself leaning closer, too, so that his mouth was scant inches from her crackling hair. Those invisible strings pulling again and he was apparently powerless to fight them.
‘Are you still miffed about that kiss? I knew it rattled you.’ Hell—it had rattled him. Petrified him, truth be told. Because it had meant something. Something he had never expected to be seduced by again. Her lush mouth opened to speak, then promptly closed. The delicate, outraged blush which stained her cheeks made him smile as his eyes shamelessly feasted on her lips. ‘I knew it.’ And against his better judgement he needed to touch her again. One last time. To test the waters and see if what he suspected was true. His hand had made its way to her arm, the backs of his fingers grazing the filmy fabric of her sleeve. He couldn’t seem to stop himself, any more than he could stop wanting to kiss her again or revel in the heady feelings of excitement and rightness welling in his chest.
He needed to, though.
Ruthlessly crush this moment in his fist because she was dangerous. Both to his mission and his heart.
Yet his index finger had finally found her wrist and softly traced along the outer edge of her hand,
down her little finger. Her own hand tangled and closed around his.
Did she feel it, too? That inexplicable connection, that need to be close.
She ruthlessly snatched it away, stared at her palm before her fingers closed tightly around it in front of her heart. ‘Why, you insufferable—’
‘What are you two whispering about?’ Lady Crudgington appeared from nowhere, arm cosily wrapped in his scowling superior’s, her expression intrigued. ‘Are you two flirting?’
‘We most certainly are not!’ Thea gripped her reticule tightly with both hands and poked her pretty nose in the air. ‘Well—I am categorically not! Lord Gray is a law unto himself. Normal rules of decorum do not appear to apply to him.’ A comment which earned him a blood-curdling glare from Fennimore, but also saved him from himself and those lethal, invisible cords. For the first time in his tenure in the King’s Elite, Gray was supremely grateful for the comforting, familiar protection of the old man’s hearty disapproval. It made secret, whispered, unsanctioned, highly dangerous conversation impossible henceforth. Or at least he hoped it would—seeing as he apparently couldn’t control it all himself.
Chapter Eleven
There was something not quite right about Lord Gray. Thea felt it in her bones. Granted, she always felt her ludicrous suspicions in her bones, but this time it was different. She had decided that after hours of tossing and turning as sleep eluded her and her mind circled around the words she had heard.
Shipments.
Excise Men.
Turning blind eyes.
It all pointed to something illegal—like smuggling. A topic which was particularly pertinent at the moment. The London papers were rife with terrifying stories of bloodthirsty cut-throats and traitors, all lured by the easy riches of free trading, and had been for months. Even in this quiet corner of rural Suffolk, the news had caused a stir. It was all anyone could talk about yesterday at the inn as Thea had choked down her luncheon, and it was a little too coincidental that she had overheard Gray talking about shipments on exactly the same day as a veritable battalion of Excise Men were crawling over the port of Ipswich, searching every boat with a fine-toothed comb.
His behaviour had been decidedly odd, too. He had looked uncomfortable. Guarded. The charming flirt had been missing for nearly all of their brief interaction, until he used it ruthlessly to prevent her from asking questions. It galled that, like a dolt, she had fallen for it. His touch had made her momentarily forget about his shady-looking companions and his unbelievable assertions that he was going to breed horses. That gentle, possessive brush of his fingers down her arm and bare hand had made her silly body want and her lips hungry for his kiss again. She had felt that touch everywhere, in places that shocked her, and the illicit memory could still conjure those same feelings of desire instantaneously even now.
Why was that, when she knew in her bones he was not at all who he pretended to be and not at all trustworthy? He was a gambler. A fortune hunter. Very probably a smuggler if his reference to the Excise Men was anything to go on and he had the charming, practised air of a skilled philanderer, too. She didn’t want to be drawn to him or feel how he made her body hum with excitement. And she certainly didn’t want to like him, spar or spend time with him. Or pathetically hope that all her suspicions about him were wrong so that they could continue from precisely where they had left off on the terrace after he had kissed her—and she had wantonly and greedily kissed him right back. Clearly Impetuous Thea was predisposed to be hopelessly attracted to scoundrels no matter how hard she tried not to be.
Horses!
There had been no sign of such an endeavour at Kirton House thus far. Of that she was in no doubt. She might well have been avoiding the scoundrel for the last week—but she had found her feet taking her within viewing distance of the house on more than one occasion and had, to her great shame, watched it quite intently for several minutes as she slowly strolled or rode past on the off-chance she might catch a glimpse of him.
At least today she was watching the house for quite different reasons. Today, Thea was on a mission. A dawn mission to ascertain exactly what was what and decide if her suspicions about the man were well founded. Thea knew horses. One couldn’t grow up in the countryside without a rudimentary knowledge of what such an endeavour would entail and she had significantly more than a rudimentary knowledge. Uncle Edward’s stable was the envy of the county. If her new neighbour was intent on breeding them, there would be signs. An exercise area. The stables would need to be readied for the stud and the brood mares. There would be hay. Lots and lots of hay. And those grooms would be busy. Although perhaps not this early in the morning. After a night of never-ending insomnia, she had flung herself out of bed as the sun had begun to rise and left the house as the clock struck five. By her calculations, she had a good half an hour to spy before the servants rose at six.
After checking the coast was clear, she risked leaving the dense bank of trees that shrouded the brook from the house and attempted to look nonchalant as she walked, clutching the basket she had brought by way of a disguise for all she was worth. If spotted, she reasoned she needed a good excuse to be out and as one of the local farmer’s wives was on the cusp of giving birth, the hastily wrapped bread, cheese and fruit cake she had grabbed from the pantry would look like the perfect, helpful gift from a thoughtful neighbour. All perfectly plausible.
She heard a bark and froze. Then in a panic dropped to the floor, hoping the patchy carpet of wild flowers would be enough to hide her. The dog barked again and didn’t stop, causing Thea to scramble on her hands and knees back to the cover of the trees, her eyes never leaving the house.
Thea had barely made it when to her horror the front door opened and the man himself, complete with bouncing hound, emerged into daylight. Dressed in just his shirt and breeches, he didn’t appear ready to be seen outside, but her eyes drank in the sight regardless as he stretched and flexed his arms. Magnificent arms aside, he wore those breeches well, too. Even from this distance, how well couldn’t be denied. Drat him.
He grinned down at his dog and ruffled Trefor’s black ears, then he appeared to prise something out of his mouth. She watched, fascinated, as he threw it, marvelling at how far those strong, muscled arms beneath that gloriously flimsy white linen could send it. The dog bounded after it, tail wagging, picked it up and began to run back to his master. But then he stopped, sat and pointed his nose skywards, sniffing the air.
What had possessed her to throw herself guiltily on the ground rather than shoot him a withering glare as she marched past? When she had every right to be striding across her uncle’s land no matter what time of day it happened to be! Now there was every chance he would find her if his dog was this curious.
Suddenly feeling very exposed and stupid crouched among the leaves, she held her breath for a full ten seconds, but it was too late. As if he sensed her, Trefor’s eyes locked with hers and he began to race towards the trees at speed. He barrelled through the undergrowth with what appeared to be a leather cricket ball in his mouth. He took one look at Thea and then deliriously nuzzled his head against her shoulder while his tail whizzed from side to side.
‘Trefor!’ At Gray’s shout from behind the screen of trees, the animal froze momentarily before continuing his worship of Thea. ‘Come on, boy! How can we play catch if you’ve run off with the ball?’ There was a pause, as if he had stopped walking and was listening, then he spoke again. ‘Fetch the ball, Trefor! Fetch the ball!’
Realising he had no idea she was here and was probably content to walk on by, she felt no compunction to apprise him of her presence—or allow his dog to. With minimal movement, she prised the soggy ball out of Trefor’s jaws and tossed it in the direction of both the trees and his master. Immediately, the animal bounded after it, rummaged and then proudly held it aloft in his mouth as Gray called him again.
‘Come on, Trefor! Do you want me to throw
it again or not? Fetch the damn ball!’
Bizarrely, Thea got the distinct impression the dog knew exactly what his master was saying, because he dithered for a moment as if torn. Then he decided to bring the dratted thing back to her, dropping it in her lap and then eyeing it expectantly as if it was the only thing in the world that truly mattered. She tossed the surprisingly heavy ball again as if it were something offensive and whispered to the dog, ‘Go! Shoo!’ Her arms gesticulated wildly, but silently, in the direction of the man she very definitely did not want to see while she mimicked his instructions in a whisper. ‘Fetch the ball, Trefor. Fetch it for Gray!’
Fetch was clearly the magic word because the dog was off like a shot, another thing Thea was determined to mimic. She scrabbled to stand, simultaneously snatching up her basket, before darting to the bank of trees in the opposite direction and escape. She hadn’t moved two yards before the dog followed. He did a quick circle of her legs before dropping the dreaded ball at her feet again. It clipped her toe and made her wince, but self-preservation made her bite back the instinctual cry of pain.
Fearing imminent discovery, she grabbed it and threw it again, though this time she put all her weight behind it. The ball flew beyond the canopy to the meadow beyond. There was a dull thud, then a yelp, and Thea realised she had managed to hit him in her panic.
Good heavens, what disaster!
To compound her misery and despite her spirited throw, the dog had stubbornly chosen to stay put at her feet and helpfully decided to bark in case his master was left in any doubt of her location. ‘Shh!’ A command which apparently made him bark louder as he proceeded to follow, then hamper her hasty dash for freedom. Inevitably, and to her complete mortification, the shambles continued.
The Disgraceful Lord Gray Page 13