A Measured Risk

by Natasha Blackthorne

“And wouldn’t that just please your vanity?” She resumed rapid fanning. “Well, one thing is certain—she’s soft on you. She’s nearly made a spectacle of herself over it.”

  “At least she’s showing some emotion,” Francesca said. “She’s so quiet, like a cat. I never know what she’s thinking.”

  “You know, William and I were friendly once,” Cherry said, dropping her voice.

  “Dear, you’ve been friendly once or twice with so many gentlemen, I lose track.”

  The two women laughed for a moment, then Francesca said, “Is it true what they say about red-haired men?”

  Cherry tittered. “What do they say?”

  “That they are fiery, absolutely insatiable lovers.”

  “Will was never lacking in imagination and he had limitless enthusiasm and stamina. But he was never happy with her.” Cherry dropped her voice. “Not in the bedchamber. He said she was so cold she could freeze a man’s prick. Why he ever wed such a crow I never understood.”

  Francesca patted Cherry’s hand. “Darling, he married her for her fortune. Everyone knew. After her two abysmal seasons, Saxby was grateful to get her off his hands. Everyone was happy. Even William, believe me.”

  Jon let his lips lift in a slight, cruel smile. “Well, well—I never realised what a pair of hissing, snarling cats you two are. Have you even tried to become friendly with her?”

  Francesca blinked at him. “To what purpose?”

  “She’s the dowager countess of Cranfield, for one thing.”

  Cherry grinned and leaned close to Francesca. “Oh, he is smitten,” she pretended to whisper. “What a pair they will make—Hades and his ice queen.”

  Cherry was trying to provoke him. In the past, he’d have taken her up on that and given her some delightful punishment for her insolence. But now he hadn’t the taste for her. He turned and gave the current Countess of Cranfield a severe stare.

  “Francesca, where is your charity?” He stroked a finger over the brocaded velvet piano seat cover. “She is a widow, childless. Her ducal father is deceased and you told me yourself that she isn’t on friendly terms with the current duke. She could use some familial support.”

  “You are saying I need to take her under my wing, like some stray nestling?” She grimaced and affected a small shudder.

  His voice hardened. “I am saying you should bestow on her the respect due to the dowager countess of Cranfield.”

  “She’s no pathetic kitten. Her jointure could buy and sell Richard and myself thrice over,” Francesca said. “Saxby was very wily about that.”

  “So that’s what this is really about? Envy.”

  “I simply do not like these merchant class women, having their papas buy their way into our families. Then they act so high and mighty, looking down their noses at us.”

  Anne’s laugh echoed melodiously through the chamber. Obliquely, he glanced at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes too bright.

  “She’s making a spectacle of herself Franny—you should do something,” Cherry said.

  “I’ve already warned her she should go to bed and she just stared at me with that superior, frosty stare. Should I create an even larger scene and have her carried off by a footman? I have tried to do my best with that girl but common blood will out.” Francesca sighed. “But, as I say, at least she’s showing some emotion. She may catch some gentleman’s eye.”

  Jon’s neck prickled as if he could feel Cherry’s gaze cut to him.

  “Perhaps she’s not over Cranfield’s death,” he said coolly, returning his gaze to the two women.

  Francesca snorted. “It has been almost a year.”

  “His death was horrific and she witnessed it.”

  “Told you she was there, did she?” Francesca’s brow wrinkled as if she were in pain. “I have warned her repeatedly not to tell anyone.”

  “Isn’t it her choice to tell or not tell?” Jon asked.

  “As William’s closest kin, it falls to Richard and myself to try to protect his widow’s reputation. Too many men won’t fancy having a wife who has seen something like that. They’ll think she’s been touched in the head.”

  Maybe, in a way, she had. Maybe Anne needed more understanding and sympathy than most widows. She certainly got none from her relations. Aggravation tightened his jaw. “For God’s sake, she’s been living here alone but for the servants since Cranfield died. Didn’t that seem an unnatural choice for such a young lady?”

  Francesca rolled her shoulders. “She’s always been such a little country mouse.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Highsmith rise and offer Anne his hand. She cast her gaze to her lap, a small smile curving her sensual mouth. Jon’s hand contracted on his brandy glass. He forced it to relax, then he turned the glass slowly in his fingers, pretending to watch the amber fluid slosh about. Anne was on her feet now, smiling up into Highsmith’s handsome, patrician face.

  “She’s too haughty and cold to still be affected,” Francesca said.

  He looked up from the glass and fixed her with a penetrating stare. “Didn’t her isolation even once provoke your concern?”

  “She’s over-proud. You shall find out, too, should you decide to pursue her.” Cunning crept into Francesca’s eyes. “However, if you are of a mind to marry her for her money, you’d better hurry. There have been many enquiries. My cousin would like to match her son with Anne. No matter what, she won’t remain unwed for long—her wealth is just too juicy a plum.”

  “You’d throw her to a viper?” he asked curtly, tapping his glass, once again watching covertly as Anne allowed Highsmith to escort her from the chamber. He levelled his stare back on Francesca. “And what does your husband say about that?”

  “You know how Richard is—it’s all up to me. It always is.” Francesca’s shifted her gaze away from his. “You can’t know how I look forward to having her off my hands.”

  He stood. “I’ve heard enough.”

  She slammed the cover down over the piano keys. “How dare you judge me, Ruel? A man who defied and then turned his back on his own grandfather.”

  Disgusted, he left his glass on the piano and walked away, as if to Richard’s study, then he turned and took the long way out to the gardens.

  Anne was sitting on a stone bench, laughing in the moonlight. Highsmith was standing looking down at her, his stare riveted on her neckline. No doubt he was vastly enjoying his vantage point. At his boots crunching on the gravel path, they looked up.

  “Ruel!” Highsmith called, his voice slurring slightly. “I am glad you came along because I have been wanting to thank you for making me three hundred pounds richer today. That was some smart fencing with Parwick.”

  Jon fixed him with an unwavering look. “I think it is time Lady Cranfield went inside.”

  Highsmith laughed. “Are you her guardian now?” He grinned and glanced back at Anne. “Love, you didn’t tell me you weren’t of age.”

  Jon offered his hand to Anne. “Come, now, Lady Cranford—I shall escort you inside.”

  She stared at his hand and compressed her lips, the skin pinching around her nostrils. Then she crossed her arms over her chest.

  Highsmith inserted himself between them. “Now, wait a minute. I don’t think you have any call to dictate here.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Anne looked directly at Jon and her eyes flashed defiance.

  Oh he’d take of that. With pleasure. His blood heated.

  But first he needed to dispatch Highsmith. He turned to the younger man. “She’s not your concern, James.”

  Highsmith puffed out his chest. “See here, the lady clearly has a preference for me.”

  Annoyed, as if by a gnat, Jon grasped him by the lapels and shoved him back. “You should think carefully about how far you’d like to press your imagined advantage.”

  Highsmith paled several shades, then he flicked his hazel eyes to Anne, as if seeking reassurance. Still directing her glare at Jon, she didn’t even notice. Highsmith’
s expression fell. Then he readjusted his jacket and straightened his shoulders. “Well, Ruel, I shall press it as far as you choose—y-you are not the only gentleman so handy with a rapier.”

  The humour of the situation gripped Jon and he chuckled coldly. “James, you’re drunk and in no shape to contest the matter. I think you should go back inside.”

  “You go back inside.” Highsmith pushed at his chest with both hands.

  “Hear me, James—if you don’t make yourself scarce, I am going to knock you on your bony arse, hard enough to break it,” Jon said, before giving the puppy a shove, pushing him several feet back. Then he turned to give Anne a steady stare. “Well, my lady?”

  “I don’t have a preference for either of you. I was merely overheated and I wanted some air.” She jumped to her feet and attempted to flounce past.

  He took her arm. She turned reckless, rebellious eyes up to his. God, she was gorgeous. She pulled against his grasp. He took her by both arms and held her firm. “You’re tired and you’ve had too much to drink, Lady Cranfield. You should go to bed.”

  “You. Have. No. Say. In anything I do.” Her claret-tinged breath teased him. She renewed her struggles, thrashing wildly in his arms. Her struggles grew weaker and, almost of their own accord, his hands caressed her arms, just beneath her puffed sleeves. She panted furiously, her face flushed and glowing with a fine sheen of sweat. Sweat that he could smell—a spicy, feminine scent mixed with her rose-lavender perfume. Her eyes looked almost black, mirroring every bit of the hunger pounding through his veins.

  Chapter Five

  Jon bent down, put his mouth on Anne’s, cupped her cheek with his hand and forced her mouth open to accept his tongue’s hungry thrusts. God, she tasted sweet. All claret and sexual fire.

  He’d never met a woman who was so badly in need of a good, hard fucking. A very hard fucking. It showed in every move, every sideways glance. Why was she making things so difficult? He dropped his other hand to her arse and pressed her ruthlessly to his loins, so she could not mistake his own feelings.

  “I don’t believe this.” Highsmith’s voice broke the moment.

  Jon lifted his head and laughed, low and ominous. “James, why don’t you go frig yourself or something?”

  “L-lady Cranfield, you actually mean to let him order you about and put his hands all over you?” Highsmith said, his voice resonating with stunned outrage. As if it had never occurred to the senseless puppy that the lovely lady might be using him for ulterior purposes.

  “Answer him, Lady Cranfield—tell him to go back inside.”

  She buried her face in his jacket. God, he was fed up with female theatrics. He wouldn’t allow it this time. He threaded his hand into her carefully arranged spill of curls and pulled her face back.

  He looked into those heavily lashed, large, lapis eyes. Eyes a man could lose himself in. Then he saw it—the fear that flickered there. The desperate, silent plea for escape.

  Instantly, he understood. She wasn’t Cherry or any of the other spoilt society ladies he’d taken to his bed. She protected herself with that layer of pride and superiority—protected herself so well that she had no one to confide in or lean on—but underneath, she was too soft, too vulnerable. She seemed to trust no one, least of all herself. She wasn’t creating a scene to please her own vanity or taste for drama. She wasn’t acting this way because she wanted to manipulate. She reacted because her own feelings were too frightening and powerful for her.

  He let her go.

  She fled in a rustling of skirts and soft shoes pattering on the garden stones.

  On his feet now, Highsmith made to follow her. With exasperated resignation, Jon caught up with him and grabbed the younger man roughly by the back of his collar. “Don’t even think about following her.”

  * * * *

  Jon raised his glass to his lips. Even the burn of fine brandy couldn’t warm him. Hours had passed, yet Francesca’s last words still chilled his blood. He stared into the fire. His mind wouldn’t stop spinning possibilities. Francesca’s cousin’s son for one. A young, handsome man with avaricious, dark eyes and a twist of cruelty to his overripe mouth that any inexperienced young woman might mistake for strength.

  He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to think about her any longer. He just wanted to pack his things and return to London and lose himself in the pursuits of the city. He wished he’d never met her. Never set eyes on her. Because he didn’t want to feel the protective tugging in the centre of his chest every time he saw her. Every time he thought of her.

  He took another drink, deep and long. Damn it all. He didn’t want to be needed—by anyone. He just wanted to be left alone. However, even if she was not aware of it, he had recognised the light in her eyes. The idealism of a naïve girl who sees what she wishes to see in a man, trying to justify her desires. Trying to turn mere lust into something loftier.

  He was no one’s hero.

  There were no heroes in this world.

  But someone had to help her. Someone also had to show Anne her true nature before her instincts worked to lead her into the hands of a bully.

  And he’d seen enough apathy and turning away from responsibility during his time in the dragoons. Wait… Who said he was responsible for Lady Cranfield? She was no one to him.

  Yet she was radically different from the other women of her class whom he had known. He wanted to experience her difference.

  He had despised William Bourchier—a feckless, brainless puppy, just like Highsmith and any number of Mayfair gentlemen. Soft, spoilt creatures who had never been tried by life. Jon stared down at his glass of brandy; his half smoked cigar. What had he become? Was he all that different than any other Mayfair gentleman? He was living without purpose or any real plan.

  He’d entered the dragoons full of idealism and the desire to be of service, as most untried young men would be. Yet what good did it do to try to make a difference in this miserable world? New Orleans had been the most shattering disillusionment—a needless loss.

  The commanding officers above him had chosen not to attack the vulnerable city but had chosen instead to camp at Lacoste’s Plantation. The Americans had attacked while they rested and it had set in motion a chain of events—a hesitation to take action—that had led to their eventual harsh defeat in January.

  As for Jon’s battalion, they had been made part of the reserves, and that had been the hardest thing of all to accept. The British had suffered devastating losses while Jon, who had expected to be killed in battle, had been relatively safe and sound with his men as they’d guarded the hospital.

  Obviously he’d been mistaken. He hadn’t been meant to die in battle. Then, with the war over, he’d been given the news that his cousin, the heir, had died. His grandfather had demanded that he return home at once. But Grandfather hadn’t lived to greet him.

  Ruel was suddenly the earl.

  His grandfather’s image intruded on the moment, curdling in his guts. The stern, frowning face; the cold eyes and deep, autocratic voice. When Jon had been a child, Grandfather had always seemed ten feet tall. Jon laughed at the memory. The almighty earl. The old bastard had crossed him at every turn but he couldn’t keep him from inheriting. Jon had never wanted the title—never even expected it. Now Jon was the almighty earl. God’s final, ironic jest.

  Captain Jonathon Lloyd was the identity he’d fought and sweated blood to create, a man who had full possession and power over his destiny. All that had changed. The Seventh Earl of Ruel was a nobleman who owed a duty to the people of his estate.

  Yes, he was angry about it. Even after all this time.

  Yet there was nothing he could do. He had to marry. He had to create heirs. There was no one else to do it now.

  He’d never shirk his duty.

  So here he was, biding his time until he would marry. A sensible, practical, legal arrangement with a reasonable woman. Her mourning period was finally up. They would marry. He would settle down and what? Spend his
days hunting and drinking and eating large suppers in the country? Spend his winter seasons in town, drinking, gambling and chasing opera dancers? What else was there? The great wars had all been fought and won—won by other men. He curled his lip and laughed softly to himself. He’d become exactly what he despised most—a useless Mayfair gentleman.

  But before he gave himself over to the estate, he could take this opportunity to experience something rare and different. The attraction between them demanded it. If he didn’t take what was being offered to him, he would wonder his whole life what it would have been like. He knew it would eat him up inside.

  “You’re soft on her…”

  Cherry’s words echoed in his mind. Yes, he was unexpectedly—and unequivocally soft on the lovely Lady Cranfield. Her pleas for help called to something in him that had been dead—or maybe just sleeping—since Badajoz, since New Orleans. That idealism which had made him believe he was a leader, the advocate and caretaker of the men under his command. Some of those men had been mere boys when they first came under his wing. Frightened, lost little pups. Knowing what it was like to feel alone and lost in the world, he’d tried to make a difference in their lives.

  Now he might also be able to make a difference for Anne. She was so afraid of life. She’d been beaten down by what had happened with Cranfield.

  Obviously, she had failed to please Cranfield in bed. Failed also to give the earldom an heir. Failed, at least in her own mind, perhaps, to save him in the accident.

  Maybe she had withdrawn because she was afraid of failing again.

  The thought settled into him uneasily and it could lead to only one conclusion; a conclusion he’d run from all this time. Maybe he wasn’t trying to do anything now because he, too, didn’t want to deal with the risk.

  Fear of risk was the worst of all—the most inexcusable sort of cowardice.

  Someone had to help her.

  No one else appeared to care except for him.

  It wasn’t as if there wouldn’t be rewards for him.

  She just might prove to be the most sweetly submissive experience of his lifetime. He wanted to experience her. He wanted to get to know that sensual creature who peeked at him sideways through her lashes. Not to mention how much he wanted to possess her broad, round arse.