A flicker of regret stung at Sebastian’s conscience. He had treated her abominably since her arrival at Pershing. It was no wonder that she doubted him now. “I mean it.” He caught her hand and pressed it against his lips. “I am going to take care of you,” he vowed.
And he would, by God. He was going to make it his life’s work to take care of Sylvia Stafford. She would never want for anything again for as long as she lived.
“Take care of me,” she repeated.
“I am going to give you everything. Gowns. Jewels. A carriage and four. Whatever your heart desires.”
She stared up at him, her brows drawn in confusion. “I don’t understand,” she said. “You must know I could never accept such things from you.”
“You can,” he assured her. “And much more besides. I intend to spoil you shamelessly.”
She shook her head. “Sebastian…”
His gaze fell to her half-parted lips. She looked as if she were about to say something more. To give voice to another objection, no doubt. He captured her mouth before she could speak, kissing her deeply, almost savagely.
For one endless moment, she yielded herself to the tender onslaught. Her lips softened beneath his, welcoming and sweet. And then she turned her face away from him, her bosom heaving against the hard wall of his chest. “It was not like this before.”
He pressed a kiss to the side of her mouth. “No” he said, nuzzling her. There was faint amusement in his voice. “Three years ago I would not have dared be so bold.”
“Because I was a gently bred young lady.”
His mouth stilled on her cheek.
“But now I am only a governess. A manner of superior servant, as you said.”
Sebastian raised his head to look at her. Good God, could she really believe that? Could she really think, even for an instant, that he had kissed her so passionately merely because she was some sort of inferior person? “Sylvia…” He moved to reassure her.
She drew back from him, setting both of her hands on his chest to hold him at a distance. “You did not call me Sylvia then.”
He had a sinking feeling that something had changed. A subtle shift between them that he could not quite identify. “Nor did you call me Sebastian,” he pointed out.
“But I did,” she said. “In all of my letters.”
Devil take it! Those infernal letters again. With a muttered oath, he released her from his embrace. She immediately withdrew to the opposite end of the settee. Her dressing gown was rumpled and her hair spilled all about her in a glorious chestnut tangle. She looked thoroughly tumbled. “I’ve already told you that I did not receive any of your letters.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that I wrote them.”
“Whether you wrote them or not—”
“You don’t believe me?” She was aghast.
“Sylvia, listen to me—”
“Why on earth would I lie about something so mortifying?” Her blue eyes blazed with hurt that was—he realized to his chagrin—swiftly turning to anger.
He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. The conversation was rapidly getting away from him. “I don’t know,” he blurted out. “Because I am the earl now. Because I have inherited my father’s fortune.”
Her lips parted on a wordless exclamation. “Is that what you think?”
“No,” he said at once. “I mean to say…It was what I thought when you first arrived here, but I—” He broke off with a curse. “Bloody hell, Sylvia. A man cannot think straight in these circumstances. If you will but give me five seconds to—”
“Miss Stafford, if you please.”
“What?”
“I would prefer if you ceased calling me by my given name. I’d rather not be familiar with a man who thinks I’m a liar.”
Sebastian scowled. “It’s a little late to worry about overfamiliarity.”
She looked away from him, her cheeks flooding with color.
“And I never said you were a liar.”
She drew her dressing gown more firmly about her. “It’s all right,” she said. “I am glad, really. Indeed, it is somewhat of a relief to know what you really think of me. I only wish I had known before I left London.”
He stared at her. “You make it sound as if you regret ever having come here.”
“Of course I do,” she said. “I should never have accepted your sister’s invitation. One cannot revisit the past.”
He felt the truth of her statement like a blow to the stomach. “And tonight? What happened between us just now?”
“Why should I regret that?”
“Forgive me,” he said stiffly, “did you not just intimate that I was the sort of gentleman who debauches his servants?”
“Debauches? No. But you must admit there is a vast difference between the kisses we shared when I was Miss Stafford of Newell Park and the kisses we shared now I am a governess in Cheapside.”
“Three years have passed. We are both older. And we are not in a garden during a crowded London ball. Naturally the intensity of our embrace—” He broke off with a grimace, embarrassed by the turn the conversation had taken. “It has nothing to do with your being a governess.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No, damn it all!”
“You needn’t lose your temper.”
“I am not losing my temper. I am trying to tell you that I meant no disrespect to you. If you regret what has happened between us—”
“I do not regret it. I kissed you, if you will recall. I did not plan to, but now I think on it…It provides a certain symmetry to our acquaintance. A suitable ending, I feel.”
A dash of ice water could not have been more effective. “An ending,” he repeated. “After what we have just shared? I think not, Miss Stafford.”
She fixed him with a level stare. “It is not up to you, is it, sir?”
“The hell it isn’t,” he growled. “If you think I am letting you go after this—”
Sylvia was on her feet in an instant. “It is my decision and mine alone,” she shot back. “I am a woman of five and twenty now. An independent woman. I do exactly as I please.”
He stood, looming over her. “Do you, by God? And I suppose it pleases you to kiss gentlemen who are not your husband? Who are not even your betrothed?”
A fiery blush stole into her face. “If it does, it is no concern of yours!”
Sebastian’s expression was thunderous. Had there been others? How could there not have been? She had always had admirers. And he had been gone from her life for three long years. It would be foolish to assume that there had been no one else. “You have made it my concern by your actions this evening,” he said coldly. “My honor as a gentleman—”
“What of my honor?”
His jaw hardened. He had no idea why he was losing his temper. Jealousy? Frustration? From the moment of Sylvia Stafford’s arrival his mind had been in turmoil. Her presence alone was overwhelming, but touching her and kissing her had devastated his senses. Muddled his brain. Damn it all to hell! Had there been other men? He could not get the thought out of his head.
“But I suppose,” she said, “you believe a governess has no need of honor or…or dignity…or to be treated with r-respect—” She broke off abruptly, turning away from him. When she spoke again, there were tears in her voice. “How can you think I would kiss just anyone? Simply because I kissed you that night in the garden? And again tonight? I suppose you believe me to be some sort of conscienceless flirt.”
Sebastian muttered a low curse. In one stride, he was behind her. He closed his hand around her upper arm. “You begin to be as infuriating as my sister,” he growled. His harsh tone was tempered by the gentle, reassuring squeeze of his fingers. “Of course I do not believe that. What do you take me for?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know an
ymore. I cannot think.”
“You’re tired, that is all. We both are.” He turned her to face him. The sight of her tear-filled eyes tore at his heart. He moved his hand up and down her arm, attempting to soothe her disordered nerves. “We needn’t discuss anything more this evening,” he said. “But in the morning, you and I are going to talk about a great many things. We are going to come to an arrangement.”
She looked away from him. Her small, slender body was stiff and unyielding.
“For now, I recommend bed. And perhaps a glass of sherry, if you will take one.”
She shot him a fleeting glance. “Why must you be so dreadfully reasonable? Your sister said you were a brute and bully. Pray bully me, my lord. Threaten me. Throw a porcelain vase at my head. Anything so that I might hate you.”
“You would prefer to hate me?” He was incredulous.
“Yes. It would be easier. Less confusing than” —she made a vague gesture with her hand that seemed to encompass the whole of Pershing Hall— “this.”
“You are talking nonsense.” He squeezed her arm again. “Come. I shall light a fresh candle for you and then you may go back upstairs to your room. You will feel better in the morning.”
She gave a small, reluctant nod. “Very well.”
He dropped his hand from her arm and went to find a box of friction matches. The branch of candles he had brought in with him was still flickering valiantly, despite having guttered. It cast a dim glow around it, leaving the rest of the library sunk into darkness. Sylvia’s own candle had long since gone out. He replaced it with a fresh one, lit the wick, and turned to give it to her.
“The servants should all be in bed,” he said as she took it from his hand. “Even so, it would be better if we left separately.”
“Yes.”
“You go first. I will remain here awhile.”
She inclined her head to him. “Goodnight, my lord.”
My lord. So they were back to that, were they? He sighed. “Sleep well, Miss Stafford. I look forward to resuming this conversation at a more reasonable hour.”
When Sebastian returned to his bedchamber, he found Milsom waiting up for him. During their years in India, the loyal batman had perfected the art of sleeping for short intervals, always managing to rouse himself at the slightest noise or sign of movement. He did so now, emerging from the dressing room with upraised eyebrows and a rather impertinent expression on his face.
Sebastian pulled his shirt off over his head, exposing a bare back and chest that were riddled with scars. He tossed the garment carelessly onto the end of his bed. “Well?”
Milsom picked up the discarded shirt. “My lord?”
“You look damnably smug, Milsom.”
“Do I, sir?”
“If you have something to say, say it.” He paused. “Unless it regards Miss Stafford and myself. In which case, I’ll thank you to keep your mouth shut.”
Milsom’s eyes danced. “I’ll not say a word about Miss Stafford, my lord.”
“A wise decision.” Sebastian sat down to remove his boots.
“Except to mention that I took the liberty of enquiring after those letters of hers earlier this evening.”
“What?” Sebastian glanced up. “Enquired of whom?”
“Miss Craddock.”
“My sister’s maid? What the devil would she know about anything?”
“It is only a trifle, my lord. And no secret at all. Hardly worth the effort of discovering it.”
“Go on.”
Milsom bent to retrieve Sebastian boots. “According to Miss Craddock, Lady Harker learned Miss Stafford’s whereabouts from a Miss Cavendish who, in turn, learned them from a Lady Ponsonby. Lady Ponsonby employs Miss Stafford’s former lady’s maid. A woman by the name of Harriet Button.”
Sebastian was instantly alert.
“I understand,” Milsom continued, “that Miss Button was employed by Miss Stafford for many years and was very much in her confidence. She was also highly esteemed by Sir Roderick Stafford.”
“And how did Craddock come by this fascinating information?”
“It seems that Lady Harker requires Miss Craddock to read the post to her each morning whilst she is…” Milsom cleared his throat discreetly. “…in her bath.”
Sebastian grimaced. It sounded like Julia. She had never been a great reader. And she delighted in being coddled by anyone willing to do it. “Am I to infer that Craddock read this letter from Miss Cavendish?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Sebastian rose and began to work on the buttons of his trousers. “You’re right, Milsom. A useless trifle.”
“As I said, my lord.”
“Nevertheless…” He stripped off his trousers. “I require you to catch the train into London first thing in the morning.”
“To speak with Miss Button?”
“Precisely.”
“I thought she might be of use, my lord.”
“You thought right,” Sebastian said. Clad only in his drawers, he went to the washstand in his dressing room. “It was Miss Button who was tasked with posting Miss Stafford’s letters to me.”
Milsom paused in the act of draping his master’s trousers and shirt over his arm. “You believe that she meddled with them?”
“It would seem so.” Sebastian poured a ewer of cold water into the washbasin. He plunged his head into it, holding it for a moment, before raising it again to find Milsom at his side, proffering a towel. He took it and proceeded to dry his face and his hair. “I suspect the letters were never sent. I would like to know why.”
“The reason seems plain to me, sir.”
“And to me,” Sebastian said. “But Miss Stafford won’t believe her father had a hand in all of this without proof. She is loyal—even to those who don’t deserve it.”
“You want me to find proof that Sir Roderick was to blame?”
“I want you to discover the truth if you can. Whatever it is.”
“I shall do my best to find out, my lord.”
“You may as well take a small purse,” Sebastian said. “Any former servant of Sir Roderick Stafford will not be averse to taking a bribe. I daresay they might expect one. And Milsom?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want to know everything, no matter the cost.”
Approximately six hours later, Sylvia stood on the empty train platform in Apsley Heath, her carpetbag clutched tight in her gloved hands. She was wearing the same dark gown she had worn on the journey down from London, the same mantle buttoned at her neck, and the same silk bonnet on her head, its ribbons tied snug beneath her chin in a plain, uncompromising bow.
It had been surprisingly easy to find someone willing to bring her to the station. She had simply gone down to the kitchens at dawn and enquired of the cook. Mrs. Croft was a motherly woman. A kind woman. One look at Sylvia’s swollen eyes and tearstained face and she had promptly summoned an old manservant from the stable yard.
“John,” she had said. “Best hitch up the dog-cart. Young miss here must catch the next train down at Apsley Heath.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he had replied.
The next thing Sylvia knew, she was seated behind the old manservant in a rickety little one-horse carriage hurtling toward the neighboring market town. He had asked her no questions, thank goodness, only speaking to her once to bid her safe journey at the train station. And then, with a tip of his cap, he had gone.
She was alone again.
Alone and bitterly disappointed with herself.
Last night, she had come within a hair’s breadth of falling into the same trap that countless women had fallen into before her. She had nearly allowed herself to be ruined. And not by some random rake or rogue preying on innocent governesses—though that would have been terrible enough—but by Sebastian Conrad. The very gentleman w
ho had broken her heart three years before.
The worst part was, she could not even blame him for it. The whole encounter, from its very start, had been entirely her own fault.
What in the world had she thought would happen when she caressed his face and pressed kisses to his scars? She had practically thrown herself at him! Naturally he would react. She would wager that any woman—whether duchess or scullery maid—who had treated him thus would receive the same passionate response. Sebastian was merely a man, after all. And she had been a ready and willing woman. A woman in her nightgown! She could die of embarrassment.
She walked the length of the train platform and then back again, her fingers clenched so tightly on the handle of her carpetbag that her knuckles cramped beneath her gloves. The wind was high and chill gusts stirred the dirt and soot from the platform around the hem of her sensible skirts. But she hardly noticed the grime or the weather. Nor did she notice the smattering of people beginning to mill about—ticketholders, like herself, waiting to catch the early train to London. She was far too restless and overwrought.
“In the morning you and I are going to talk about a great many things,” Sebastian had said. “We are going to come to an arrangement.”
How confident he had been that she would become his mistress! As if she were so madly in love with him that she would be content to have him in any way she could get him. As if she would tolerate being exposed to scandal and degradation and all for…what? The dubious distinction of being the kept woman of an earl?
Come to an arrangement, indeed!
As it was, no one would ever know that she had been compromised during her ill-fated trip to Hertfordshire. But if she consented to an affair with Sebastian, she would risk not only her reputation, but her livelihood. The Dinwiddy’s would never permit a ruined woman to teach their young daughters. They would cast her out without a reference.
And what if she should fall pregnant?
Sylvia’s stomach roiled at the thought.
It would be shameful. She would be shunned by everyone she met. No decent person would have anything to do with her. Worst of all, she would be entirely dependent on Sebastian’s good will. He could cast her off whenever he chose. And with his volatile temper, who knew when that would be?
The Lost Letter Page 11