His lordship did seem particularly taken with his soup, which he ladled up without noticing if the spoon was full or not. Ninian watched as he finally discovered the bowl was empty, looked surprised, and blinked back to his surroundings.
The look in his eyes was irresistible. He had such warm, dark, vulnerable eyes, eyes that could stir—an imp of mischief.
“That was a delightful chowder, my lord,” she said demurely.
“Yes, yes, it was.” He looked a bit perplexed, then signaled for the next remove and lost himself in the fish as it appeared.
Oh dear. A flawless, powerful earl might leave her cold, but this one… This one was lost somehow inside his head. The soup had been a broth, not a chowder. Ninian raised a questioning eyebrow to Sarah.
“It is quite deliberate, I’m convinced,” she replied with a shrug. “He shuts us all out by counting stars or whatever on earth it is he does in his head while we chatter on. He has not even noticed that Lydie is not here.”
Ninian didn’t think the earl was quite as oblivious as the ladies liked to think, but she didn’t express her opinion aloud. A lifetime of keeping her thoughts to herself served her well now. She didn’t think she had imagined his reaction to her. The earl wasn’t just shutting out chatter. For whatever reason, he was denying the existence of feminine company. She didn’t like being denied the masculine attention she had craved for so long. Experimentally, she brushed her hand over the sleeve of his coat.
The earl jerked to instant awareness, his eyes blazing with something dark and powerful as he turned to her. She felt the heat of that look deep within her, in a place never stirred before.
A shriek pierced the air, echoing off the towering stone walls.
Into the silence that followed, Lydie could be heard shouting, “That wasn’t me! It must be the ghost!”
Six
Drogo leaped to his feet. “Stay here!” he ordered, stalking toward the staircase. He’d had quite enough of these practical jokes, and he would end them now. Sarah’s latest preoccupation with astrology and witches and the supernatural had gone beyond the realm of scientific inquiry into the ridiculous. She’d practically poisoned her last suitor with some concoction she’d claimed would make him more amorous. It was evident that she had made up the ghost nonsense just to lure the pretty herbalist into the castle for amusement. Well, he was not amused.
To his annoyance but not to his surprise, Miss Siddons ignored his command and ran after him. Knowing the wicked humor of Sarah and her friends, he assumed she was as much a butt of this joke as he was, and not one of its perpetrators. That didn’t relieve his irritation. He preferred people to obey his commands.
“You’ll tumble down the stairs and break your silly neck in that gown,” he said harshly as she caught up with him.
“No thanks to your ladies.” Showing no umbrage at his insult, she lifted the skirt until he could see her stockinged ankles and ran lightly ahead of him.
She’d probably wrapped those ankles around half the sheepherders in the village, he grumbled to himself as he increased his pace to catch up with her. He hadn’t missed the grunts and groans in the shrubbery during the bonfire the other night. Pagan rituals celebrating the earth’s fertility inevitably resulted in a crop of wailing infants in nine months’ time. Maybe he should have indulged that night. Even if the fertility gods didn’t oblige, he wouldn’t be looking lasciviously at the heels of the local witch now.
The eerie screams had halted the minute they’d leapt from the table, but his guest aimed unerringly for the room from which earlier disruptions had emanated. Maybe she was part of Sarah’s plot, after all.
The door she halted at led into the sitting chamber of a suite of rooms. From the size and location, Drogo figured it had once been the master suite, but he preferred the privacy of his tower to this central location. No one currently occupied the suite, but the women had rooms nearby.
“Stay here,” the little witch ordered, twisting the latch and peering into the darkness beyond.
Seriously annoyed at being the recipient of his own command, Drogo produced a candle and flint from the niche beside the door and lit the wick. Once he had a flame, he shoved against the solid panel, ignoring the female slipping in beside him.
The room was icy as hell and filled with shadows from the flickering candle, but nothing leapt out and screamed at them.
“I can’t sense anything with you in here,” his buxom companion complained. “Stand outside and let me listen.”
Ignoring that foolishness, Drogo lifted the candle and began a careful search of the cobwebbed draperies and ancient furniture. Lydie had probably produced the inhuman screech. She would do anything Sarah told her.
Miss Siddons stood in the center of the carpet, apparently communing with the spirits. Remembering the massive bed through the next door, Drogo wondered if she might be seduced into staying the night, waiting for another emanation. All that soft blonde voluptuousness could easily entice him to spare a few hours from his watch of the stars.
He tested the latch to the bedroom. Locked. He’d have to do something about that.
Without his realizing it, Miss Siddons had abandoned her listening post. Her small hand took the latch he’d just released and—opened it.
Raising his eyebrows, Drogo followed her into the bedchamber. She didn’t seem at all aware of his presence or the proximity of the enormous bed. The females he knew would be giggling self-consciously at being caught alone in a bedroom with him. Or, more likely, they would be throwing themselves into his arms in mock fright or open seduction. He’d swear the little witch knew he was here and just didn’t think him worth noticing.
He’d used his Northumberland mining venture as an escape from a barrage of family demands as well as the ploys of marriage-minded females. He had no reason to be irritated because this female didn’t require his attention like everyone else, but he was.
Annoyed that he was annoyed, Drogo continued his search while the lovely lackwit drifted to the fireplace and listened to the wind in the chimney. In his opinion, the wind occasionally caught some loose stone or tree branch to produce the earsplitting shrieks. He’d hire a chimney cleaner and a tree pruner in the morning.
“There’s no one here but us,” she informed him, dropping her long skirt and sweeping toward the exit. “I’ll come back sometime when you haven’t disturbed the spirits. Is this the only room where they dwell?”
“There’s nothing here but moldering furniture, rats, and drafts cold enough to freeze our ars… toes,” he amended. Despite appearances to the contrary, he’d assume she was a lady and protect her ears accordingly.
“And your cat.” She bent to lift a bundle of fur into her arms.
In the flickering light, the gray cat seemed to shoot him a malevolent look from the haven of the lady’s bosom. “I don’t have a cat,” he said coldly.
In response, her dimples appeared in a bewilderingly unreadable smile as she stroked the cat until it purred. “If you say so, my lord. This must be a ghost cat.”
Flummoxed by the enchanting smile and irritated by the illogic of her answer, Drogo struggled for a rational reply. Resorting to the superiority of his position, he nodded condescendingly and steered her from the suite into the hall. “A stray accidentally locked in here while chasing mice. It must have been his yowls we heard.”
“Of course, my lord,” she answered meekly, but there was nothing meek about her dancing dimples.
He’d liked to kiss the mischief off her rosy lips. He shouldn’t be looking at her lips. Stiffly, Drogo slammed the door.
Let the ladies have their fun. He had better things to do. From experience, he knew she’d end up in his bed sooner or later. They always did. He didn’t believe it was because women found him so overwhelmingly attractive, but his wealth and title overcame any objection to his character or looks. And since Sarah ha
d started that rumor about his wanting a child… He should have wrung her neck long ago.
Nodding curtly, Drogo released her elbow. “Give my excuses, but I’ve work to do. I’ll see you later.”
He strode off to the isolated recesses of his tower.
Ninian shook her head as she watched him go. The room they’d just left reeked of anguish and anger, but she didn’t expect a believer in naturalism to notice.
Wondering what Lord Ives did in his lonely tower, Ninian descended the stairs patting the lovely cat. Her grandmother had never allowed her to have pets—no sense in arousing the village’s superstitions more than necessary—but she loved animals.
The cat’s rumbling purr almost made up for his lordship’s rudeness.
***
With bold ink strokes, Drogo completed his calculation, jotted down his observations, and reached for his smaller telescope.
Before he could lift the sight to his eye, he heard the unmistakable patter of feminine footsteps. At last, the little witch had decided to explore his chambers. That one certainly didn’t possess a shy bone in her body. Intrigued despite himself, he actually laid down his telescope in anticipation. Would she have some sorry story of a dying relative or a long-lost love? Or would she just boldly present herself for his approval? By now, Sarah had probably told half the British Empire of his admission that he would marry any woman who carried his child. He should have thrown Sarah from the parapets long ago. The possibility of bedding and wedding an earl had provided irresistible temptation for every unattached female in the damned kingdom, when all he’d meant was that he refused to support a herd of bastards as his family traditionally did.
It was a good thing he didn’t mind occasionally trading feminine machinations for the erotic delights of seductive smiles and satin skin. His normally all masculine household was sorely deprived of feminine delights, but he saw no need to suffer permanent leg shackles when women came to him readily, without his having to lift a finger. And he could be rid of them as easily.
He hid his disappointment as Sarah peered around the corner of his door. “Are the demons haunting your sleep already this evening?” he taunted, turning back to his telescope and lifting it to the north-facing window.
“I’m lonely.” She pouted.
“I warned you,” he replied without compunction.
“I had no choice. Mother threatened to disown me. Besides, Lydie needed a hideaway.”
Flouncing her skirts, she arranged herself in the window seat below his telescope. She leaned forward to expose the tempting mounds of her breasts. “We’re not blood kin, Drogo,” she whispered. “I could be the wife you need.”
Drogo closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. Sarah had done her best to be circumspect since her arrival. It looked as if the act had finally fallen flat.
“I’m perfectly aware of our relationship,” he said without rancor. He’d been down this path too many times to take anything personally. “You were born well before my father brought your mother into his household. But you still grew up as my younger sister. I can remember pulling your hair and calling you names when you kicked me. Don’t make me regret offering you shelter.”
She leaned back against the pillows with a frown, once more the busybody sister and not the temptress. “It might work, Drogo. Why not try? It’s better than both of us living out our lives in loneliness.”
“I’m not lonely and you shouldn’t be. You can have any man of your choosing.”
“I don’t want another man who holds the purse strings.” Resting her head against the wall, she stared at the night sky beyond the window. “But I want children. They wouldn’t be a nuisance, Drogo. You could…”
“No,” he said firmly. “I don’t need children when I have the lot of you to contend with. Haven’t you learned anything from our parents’ marriages?”
She shrugged her nearly bare shoulders. “What choices have we? We lead expensive lives and cannot support ourselves without land or money. Your mother is fortunate that the courts forced your father to pay for her house and expenses. And you are fortunate that he dropped dead and left you his wealth before you came of age. Life is a gamble. We can only choose which game of chance to place our money on.”
“Very philosophical, my dear, but this game of chance is closed. Find another.”
He assumed grimacing would have creased her powder, so she settled for a reflective gesture of finger to lips. Drogo appreciated the performance, but his patience was wearing thin. He had hoped for a more natural bundle of blonde curls and pink lips tonight.
Drogo hoped the little witch wasn’t quite as mercenary as Sarah. Miss Siddons seemed as if she might have a trainable mind. That could prove just as interesting as her abundant charms.
“The family won’t leave you alone,” Sarah warned, rising from her seat with a rustle of petticoats. “You can hide out here as much as you like, but like it or not, you are the official head.”
“And arms and hands,” Drogo muttered, returning to his telescope.
“Beastly man.” She kissed his cheek and floated from the room.
Her scent filled the tower long after her departure. Cursing at the distraction, Drogo stared at the night sky, wondering for the millionth time if he’d made the right decision when he’d decided not to marry.
It seemed the only rational decision he could make. He remembered only too well the shock and anguish of the day his father had thrown his weeping, hysterical mother from their home. His younger brothers had screamed day and night after her departure. His father had drunk himself into a stupor. He wouldn’t wish that emotional devastation on his worst enemy.
In the years since then, observing other people, other marriages, he’d reached the conclusion that the only way a man and a woman could live together in any kind of harmony was if they shared common interests and intellect, avoided emotional scenes, and abided by clearly defined rules. In the world he inhabited, that was nigh on impossible.
For the sake of an heir, he’d been inclined to attempt the impossible, until two things had gradually dawned on him. As his brothers grew older and more mature, he realized they could accept their share of responsibility, and he’d begun to understand that he really didn’t need a child for an heir. His brothers would suit that purpose nicely.
And since he had yet to produce any of the bastards for which his family was famous, it had become apparent he could never sire a child. The only good reason for marriage was to produce a legitimate heir.
Ergo, he didn’t need to marry.
He couldn’t help it if logic didn’t erase a yearning for the child he could not have, the child he’d never been, the child he would never hold.
In all the years of providing for his siblings, he could not remember ever once holding one in his arms.
***
“What are you doing?” Drogo demanded as he entered his tower chamber and daylight revealed an easily identifiable feminine silhouette near his windows. He’d wanted her last night, not today.
The little witch spun around. Back in her customary drab homespun and apron this morning, she appeared to be stroking a kitten. A kitten. A second glance located last night’s gray cat perched on his chair, watching him with a calculating gaze.
“Your nonexistent cat has apparently had nonexistent kittens. I’m petting one,” she explained this with kind sincerity, as if he were an idiot who couldn’t see what was right beneath his prominent nose.
He didn’t know whether he was more annoyed at her for treating him like an idiot instead of an earl, or with himself for being disappointed that she hadn’t sought him out last night. “Did you have some purpose here?” Briskly, he strode to his desk to fetch the papers for his steward.
“Sarah sent me to look for a wrap she said she’d left here last night.” Ninian thought she kept the accusation out of her voice quite ni
cely, but the earl’s knowing look discounted that theory. She turned her back on him and examined the plants in the window. They definitely didn’t look healthy. “What are these?”
“Grass.” His curt answer came from just behind her shoulder.
She tried not to jump at his proximity, but she grimaced at his typical response. “Were you experimenting in drowning it?”
“No.”
She thought he would end it there, but to her surprise, he lifted a watering pot. “I took this water from the burn, and I’m using it on these pots here.” He pointed out the dying grass on one side of the window. “The other pots I’m watering from the well.”
Excitement lit little fires along Ninian’s skin as she recognized the import of his experiment. “So you can see if it’s actually the burn water causing the blight?” She had only her grandmother’s teachings to guide her, but this man had learning and knowledge well beyond hers, and she thirsted to acquire it.
“Yes, but they seem equally blighted.” Indifference returned to his voice.
“No, just overwatered. They have no air or sun here, so cannot absorb much liquid. They would fare better in a conservatory, with more sunshine and windows that open.” She poked at the grass with the blighted water. “The soil in these pots is smellier.”
“Perhaps I should carry the pots outside.”
She thought she heard awakening interest in his voice this time. It was difficult interpreting the signs people gave off in word and gesture when she was accustomed to just feeling what they felt, but she was learning with this man.
“That, or water them less,” she agreed.
“Would you like to see what I’ve done with your brook?” he asked abruptly, holding out his hand to her.
She looked at his hand as if it were the devil’s cloven hoof, but gingerly accepted it.
“You have found the source of the problem?”
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