Setting the tray down, she grabbed the comb again and attacked her hair with renewed vigor. She would conquer her tangles, finish her food, and climb into bed for some much-needed sleep. She would not think of the earl again.
He could pace his bedchamber until the New Year dawned for all she cared. Whatever bothered him had nothing to do with her. If he was haunted by images of Meghan’s broken body, there was nothing she could do to alleviate his burden.
She swallowed. Nothing.
A low knock reached her ears.
Her hand stilled, and she choked down her cheese. Or at least, she tried to. A bit of it stuck to the roof of her mouth, refusing to budge. “Yeth?” Her eyes widened, and she looked around for something to drink.
The connecting door cracked open. “May I come in?”
All she could do was nod, for her attempt to force the cheese down without the aid of a beverage only managed to lodge it deeper in the back of her throat.
A halo of light fanned across the floor, broken only by his large silhouette. Sapphire silk clung to his large frame, outlining every hill and dale of his torso with exotic splendor. His dark hair glistened in the candlelight, revealing his own attempt to be free of the day’s tragedy.
Cheese forgotten, she met his eyes. They glowed blue-silver. Even more so after they trailed over her thin chemise, made nearly transparent by her wet hair. Catherine fought the urge to cover herself, unused to such heated scrutiny.
Especially from a man like Lord Somerton, whose passion smoldered beneath the surface like a field of peat gone to flame. Aboveground, all looks normal but for the occasional plume of smoke. However, if one peered below the surface, one would spot the silent advancement of a devastating, all-consuming blaze.
Lifting his gaze from her chest, he held out a glass filled with red liquid. “Care to join me?”
“I would love to.”
Six long strides later, he knelt next to her and offered her refreshment. Fragrant, humid air trailed into the chamber after him. Catherine lifted her nose and inhaled.
“Musk,” he said. “A special blend.”
She hid her mortification behind the rim of her wine glass and was relieved when the bothersome piece of cheese washed away without further incident. “With violets, I believe.”
“You have a keen sense of smell, Mrs. Ashcroft.” His fingers brushed over an untamed portion of her hair. “Do you need help with the tangles?”
Embarrassed by her dishabille, she said, “Are you applying for the part of lady’s maid, my lord?”
“If you will allow it.”
Good Lord, he was serious. She stared at him dumbfounded, unsure what to say. Why, thank you, sir. Most kind. Or better yet, Splendid!
In the end, he took her silence for approval and plucked the comb from her hand. He set his drink on her tray and then moved out of sight, making himself comfortable behind her. A bit of rustling occurred before she felt the first tentative tug on her hair.
After a few experimental strokes, he asked, “Am I hurting you?”
Catherine closed her eyes in ecstasy. “Not in the least.”
He started at the bottom and worked his way up with a patience and dedication to the task that surprised her. When he finished one section, he would begin the process all over again. His big hands were so deliciously gentle, always soothing a hurt, rare though they were.
Once he had dispatched all the knots, he replaced the comb with a soft brush. Long, even strokes, followed by long, gentle caresses. The rhythmic action lulled her into a semiconscious state, easing away her tension. Soon, her body sagged into a more natural curve.
He draped her hair over one shoulder, leaving her other one exposed and vulnerable and aching for attention. “Better?” he whispered.
She nodded. “I’ve never enjoyed a hair brushing more. Thank you, my lord.”
He kissed the side of her head and then rested his cheek there while his arms snaked around her middle. The movement brought her back flush against his chest. Warmth, security, and a desire-filled serenity flooded her body. Today, she had walked in the footsteps of evil. Tonight, she sat in a halo of heaven. Heaven suited her so much better.
She rolled her head to one side, as if she could snuggle farther into the cocoon of his embrace. “I’ve never seen the sunken garden from this vantage point. It’s quite stunning.”
“Thank you,” he breathed against her temple. “Of all Bellamere’s gardens, the sunken is my favorite.”
“So I’ve heard,” she said.
He tipped his head to the side to see her face. “What exactly did Grayson tell you?”
“Who said I received my information from Grayson?”
His arms tautened.
“Someone might have mentioned you would hide in the garden to evade your father.”
“Someone should not be telling such tales.”
Catherine heard the steel underlying his words. “Please don’t be upset. It was an idle comment, nothing more.”
His hold loosened. “I’m not angry. Where my father is concerned, I have many conflicting feelings.”
“As do I,” she said. “Many times as a child, I wondered why my father bothered having a family at all. The Navy seemed to be all he ever needed. Or wanted.”
The rhythmic brush of his thumb against her bare arm helped smooth the jagged edges of her memories.
“Mine was bent on turning me into the perfect earl.”
“How old were you when your father died?”
“Twelve.”
“A child.”
“One who grew up rather fast.” He released a long breath. “My father knew he was dying and wanted to make sure I was ready to take over the earldom. Had he explained that in the beginning—no matter how difficult—I would have spent far less time in the garden and more time at my desk.”
She covered his hand. “He would be proud of the man you are today.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Disappointing my daughter is one of my greatest fears,” she whispered.
He tugged her face around to meet his. “You’re a good mother. No, a wonderful mother,” he said. “Yes, you might get it wrong a few times along the way, but Sophie will never doubt she is loved. That’s a mistake you will never make.”
She smiled, then leaned in to press her lips against his. He did not push for a more intimate kiss, but seemed to enjoy the slow exploration, the affirmation of their past hurts, as much as she.
Ending the kiss, she said, “Thank you.”
His eyes softened. “If that is how you express your gratitude, I will try to come up with nice things to say more often.”
Catherine wanted to curse when her cheeks heated. They lapsed into a companionable silence for several long minutes.
Then, he asked, “Are you thinking of Meghan?”
She shook her head. “Not at this precise moment, but she is not long from my thoughts.”
“I should have forbidden you to join us on the search. It was no place for a woman.”
“Nor a man,” she said. “Besides, I am not so easily commanded, my lord.”
In a slow, deliberate motion, he smoothed his hand up her stomach and between her breasts, his fingers skimming across her left nipple. Her back arched and she pressed her head against his shoulder. His hand continued its erotic journey, not stopping until his devilish fingers cradled the exposed side of her neck. “I am forewarned.”
As was she. His thumb urged her chin up, and Catherine came to the uncomfortable realization that this man could command her with little effort if he set his mind to it.
He took her lips in a full, melting kiss. For the next several minutes, time held no sway, discovery gave no pause. When he lifted his head, he asked, “Did I manage to take your mind off whatever is troubling you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “But not for long, I’m afraid.” She made to sit up, though her boneless body refused to cooperate.
Without a word, he supported her next effort. “I suppose you’ve recalled your earlier victory and wish to collect.”
“With some things, my lord, you will find I am not a patient woman.” She rolled to her feet and retrieved her rose-colored wrap from the foot of the bed.
He sighed, grabbing their wine glasses as he stood. “Let us move to my bedchamber, where there is a chair that won’t crumble beneath my weight.”
Catherine glanced at the feminine chairs dotting the room and smiled at the image of the earl perched on the edge of the dainty furniture. “By all means, my lord.”
He set their drinks on a small side table separating two large wingback chairs and then strode to the bell-pull, giving it two tugs. “Perhaps now would be a good time to start using my Christian name—Sebastian.”
Sebastian. A strong name, yet gentle around the edges. Much like its bearer.
“Thank you,” she said. “You may call me Catherine.”
He indicated one of the chairs. “Please sit.”
After taking the opposite chair, he said, “What I am about to tell you mustn’t leave this room.”
She clasped her hands together. “I understand.”
“Not good enough, Catherine,” he said. “I must ask for your word.”
Her jaw clenched. “You have it.”
“You were right to question the reasons behind your husband’s murder.”
“So he wasn’t killed by footpads?”
“No.”
“Who killed him?”
“We don’t know,” he said. “We’re hoping the correspondence he sent you will shed some light on the killer’s identity.”
Even though she expected foul play, she still had a hard time understanding. “Why would anyone want to harm Jeffrey?”
“Until we know for sure who killed him, I can’t answer that question.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
A muscle jumped in his right cheek. “The Foreign Office.”
“Foreign Office?” On some level, she had hoped Mr. Cochran was wrong about the earl’s connection to the government. “Doesn’t that branch of the government handle foreign affairs, rather than domestic?”
He began twirling his signet ring. “I believe we have veered off our original topic, madam.”
“Madam, is it?” Her spine straightened. “I disagree. Everything we’ve discussed is intricately woven together. Tell me, my lord,” she said, matching his formality. “Are the facts behind my husband’s death a recent revelation, or have you known it wasn’t footpads all along?” When he remained silent, she prodded harder. “Were you aware of this when I came to London? When I begged you to read his letters?”
The twirling stopped. “Catherine, it’s complicated—”
A knock echoed through the room, making Catherine jump. Although his expression did not change, Catherine sensed the earl’s relief at the interruption.
He strode to the door and accepted a covered tray from one of the maids. “After you turn back Mrs. Ashcroft’s bed, that will be all tonight.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Once the maid was gone, he slid the tray onto the table separating their chairs. “I asked Mrs. Fox to prepare something a little more substantial than fruit and cheese once we finished our baths.” He lifted the cover and inhaled. “Smoked salmon and steamed asparagus. I hope you don’t mind the casual setting.”
With the truth of his deception echoing in her ears, food was anathema. One bite of the delicious-smelling meal and she would spew all over his expensive carpet. “Not at all. But I am no longer desirous of eating.”
He re-covered Mrs. Fox’s hard work and stood staring at the silver dome, silent and contemplative. “Many times over the years, I have held back information that could bring comfort to the recipient.” He impaled her with his gaze. “None have preyed upon my conscience. Until now.”
Catherine’s heart constricted, for she understood the cost of such an admission. The knowledge did little to soothe the sting of her humiliation, but she was heartened to hear he took no pleasure in his deception.
“I don’t understand your silence,” she said. “Are you trying to protect Jeffrey in some way? Do you fear for my safety? Or is there some other reason?”
“Yes.”
She waited for him to expound, to deliver a more satisfying answer. He did not.
Frustrated and suddenly, overwhelmingly tired, Catherine rose. “Since our conversation has all but ground to a halt, I am for bed. I find I don’t have the stamina for this kind of verbal swordplay. It’s been a long day.”
When she made to walk around him, he blocked her path. “Please stay.”
“Will you answer my questions?”
“Is it not enough to know the true nature of Ashcroft’s death and that we’re doing everything we can to locate his killer?”
She rubbed her arms. “Believe me, Sebastian, I wish it was enough. I will be quite happy to have this business behind me.”
He laid his palm against her cheek and then kissed her with a sweet reverence that made her eyes prickle. “This won’t allay your current disappointment,” he whispered against her lips, “but I want you to know, all the same.”
During their kiss, she had placed her hand over his chest and could now feel its rhythmic beat against her palm. Too fast, much too fast. “I’m listening.”
“If I could tell you more, I would. I swear it.”
God help her, she believed him. Believed the struggle he couldn’t quite mask behind his carefully controlled appearance. She pressed her lips to his palm but said nothing. Something he said earlier simply didn’t make sense. “You work for the Foreign Office in some capacity?”
The muscles beneath both her hands flexed. “Yes.”
“Then you know whether my husband worked there?”
“I do.”
She arched a brow, waiting.
His chest expanded on a deep breath. “He did.”
Closing her eyes, she said, “How could I not know my husband was a spy?”
He grasped her upper arms and set her away. “Who said he was? John Chambers?”
She shrugged. “It seemed a logical occupation given all that’s happened.” Cochran’s name was on the tip of her tongue, but instinct cautioned her to keep his identity secret for a little while longer.
“Tell me, Sebastian,” she said. “Once you find Jeffrey’s killer, will you then share the full details?”
He stepped away and picked up his wine. “I cannot.”
Her heart plummeted, but she was unsurprised by his answer. She’d held on to the tiniest bit of hope that he would eventually provide her with a sense of resolution. Unfortunately, she was still no closer to understanding his involvement with Jeffrey and this Nexus. For all she knew, everything Cochran had told her was the truth. The earl might have developed an ephemeral tendre for her and might wish to convey the circumstances around her husband’s death, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t the one responsible. Hopefully, Cochran would come through for her in a way Lord Somerton was determined not to.
“I see.” Because of his bone-chilling honesty, she managed to send him a polite smile. “In that case, I guess there’s nothing left to say but good night.”
His lips thinned. “I will see you in the morning.”
She strode across the room and entered the connecting chamber, closing the door behind her. She leaned against the solid oak panel and tipped her head back, willing the war inside her body to abate.
Part of her wanted to ignore all the warning signs surrounding Sebastian—the danger, the prevarication, the single-mindedness. And another part of her wanted to pack Sophie up and head to the coast for a m
uch-needed holiday. His actions with her daughter, his tenants, and Meghan McCarthy all pointed to a caring and considerate man. Grayson admired him and Mrs. Fox adored him. Lord Danforth had an easy relationship with him, even if a respectful one.
All of this still couldn’t account for the secrets he’d kept or the isolation he’d lived under. He guarded his emotions with a small infantry. Any tiny chink to his defenses was swiftly replaced by another shield.
She pushed away from the door. A sudden sense of loss blackened her already somber mood. His reticence to confide in her had now forced her to act in a way not to her liking. She must now find her own answers. And in doing so, she must violate his trust and her moral principles.
Catherine lowered herself into one of the dainty chairs and waited.
Fourteen
With one hand anchored on his hip and the other clutched around a near-empty glass, Sebastian paused in the midst of the sunken garden. Where was that blasted bench?
He squinted into the darkness, twisting this way, then that way. No bench. He took another lurching step, his powerful frame listing decidedly to the left. If only this bloody garden would stop moving.
The widow was to blame for his current predicament. Had she not harangued him with question after question, he was certain they would be more agreeably engaged. In his bed. Naked and sweaty.
Not in a garden cracking his shins on every earthenware container he owned.
He tipped back the rest of his brandy, and this time the amber liquid slid down his throat like liquid silk. His gaze settled on the second floor, on the long balcony framing two sets of double doors. To the right, the countess’s bedchamber sat in forbidding darkness, its occupant fast asleep, making Sebastian’s situation all the more laughable.
For nearly two hours, he had tried to find surcease from the image of the McCarthy girl lying in a vat of mud, her mouth agape and her eyes deadened.
He had seen death many times and in various forms. Men, women, sick, poor, elderly, young—no one was immune, all could be sacrificed. Children were the worst. Their innocence made them easy targets, their defenses laughable to predators.
Checkmate, My Lord Page 17