The Earl's Irresistible Challenge

by Lara Temple

  Olivia unfurled her fan and toyed with it as she half-listened to Elspeth—Almack’s, Mr Bolton, Lord this and Mr that—while her other half closed the door of her study and stared again at her Wall of Conjecture. But it wasn’t Elspeth’s chatter or the first bars of the waltz that brought her to the surface, but the sudden awareness of being watched. She glanced up and again met Lucas Sinclair’s gaze. This time he did not look away—he clearly was aware of the quandary facing her suitors and probably enjoying her discomfiture.

  She resisted the urge to make one of her brother Ralph’s favourite gestures of disdain, but some of her intent must have been evident because a glimmer of amusement lightened his gaze. She raised her chin with a slight shrug and resumed her contemplation of her fan, but the heaviness on her shoulders lifted a little.

  ‘Oh, no!’

  Elspeth’s exclamation gave her a moment’s warning and she glanced up to see Lord Sinclair standing before her.

  ‘I feel I should assume responsibility for your predicament, Miss Silverdale.’

  ‘By compounding it, Lord Sinclair?’

  ‘It is my gambling nature, I am afraid. I tend to double down on a losing streak.’

  ‘If that means what I think, it is very poor financial thinking.’

  ‘Strange, you don’t strike me as the kind of woman to cut her losses.’

  ‘I am not. In the event of a loss I would reassess my initial considerations and try to make a decision based on a firm foundation, not a vain whim.’

  ‘Olivia...’ Elspeth pleaded and Lord Sinclair laughed, his gaze skimming over the silent matrons who were watching their every move.

  ‘You are in danger of not only compounding your predicament, Miss Silverdale, but embellishing on it. Come, you will do less damage dancing.’

  He held out his hand as the music swelled into the silence that settled around them and she stood.

  ‘Good,’ he murmured as he led her among the dancing couples. ‘I should not have been so petty as to snub you earlier, but returning the snub would have served no purpose.’

  ‘I was not tempted to, Lord Sinclair. You have every right to be angry—’

  ‘One stipulation,’ he interrupted. ‘We will not discuss your machinations in these settings. I make the rules, remember? A key rule is that as of this moment we draw a firm line between those two worlds. In this world we are precisely and only what the world sees. Is that clear?’

  She nodded and his hand shifted again, pulling her closer as they turned. It hardly made sense that this was only the second time they had danced. Dancing with him was like the kiss—fiercely exciting and yet familiar. Her body moved with his without thought, adjusted, turned and adapted in a manner wholly unlike the other dances that evening. Perhaps it was because it was the waltz, or the way his hands moved on the fabric of her glove and gown. Probably this was evidence of precisely what made this man so dangerous.

  ‘I shall have to enjoy this unaccustomed obedience to the full, Miss Silverdale. Like that foolish fairy tale, it clearly doesn’t survive into the light of day. So will none of your hopeful suitors dare waltz with you?’

  ‘They certainly won’t now that I am waltzing a second time with you. Elspeth is likely succumbing to despair, poor thing.’

  ‘You will come about. Lord Barnstable has very expensive habits, you know. And Bolton is hanging out for a country wife to take back to his mother in Sussex. He has already mentioned his mother, hasn’t he?’

  She frowned. She hadn’t paid very close attention to all of Mr Bolton’s comments, but now that Lucas mentioned it...

  ‘I think he did. Is that bad?’

  ‘I return the question to you. Is it bad that a man contemplating marriage makes it a point to tell a prospect how perfect his mother is?’

  ‘It could be a sign that he is a caring, considerate man.’

  ‘It could.’

  ‘And I don’t care to be labelled a prospect.’

  ‘Well, that is unavoidable. You have firmly entered the marketplace, Miss Silverdale, so caveat emptor—beware what you are purchasing.’

  ‘I am surprised you are willing to dance with me, then, Lord Sinclair. A second waltz will mark you as much as it will me.’

  ‘It is always amusing to rattle the London cage a little by acting out of character. Besides, I enjoy waltzing with you, Miss Silverdale, though I am surprised you have not yet been ripped from my rapacious arms. Your chaperon looks likely to cut out my heart and kick it to the gutter for the dogs to fight over. Dancing with rakes does not suit her plans for you.’

  She wrinkled her nose.

  ‘That is a revolting image. Besides, Elspeth would never do anything so crass. She knows I am in no danger of being swayed by a rake’s empty charm.’

  ‘Then she is a fool. Don’t overestimate yourself, Miss Silverdale.’ He was smiling, but the amusement was gone from his eyes and she flushed.

  She flushed ‘You misunderstood... I was not referring to you. I know you aren’t in the least interested in me, not like that.’

  ‘Not like what?’

  ‘You know. In any serious manner. I meant that I am in no danger of being caught by a rake because I am not in the least interested in matrimony.’

  ‘At all?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You know why I am in London. This...all this is to make Elspeth happy while I go about my business. And she is.’

  ‘So all this finery and flirting is to buy domestic peace? You do not enjoy it in the least?’

  She shook her head, but the lie stuck. This she did enjoy—only too well.

  That thought brought a bite of heat to her cheeks and it sharpened as she realised she was watching his mouth. She forced her eyes up and met the taunting heat in his.

  ‘It is good you have no taste for gambling, Miss Silverdale, because you are a poor liar. Those honey-and-moss eyes hide a great deal, but they fail you when you need them most. Right now they reveal you have no clear idea what you are doing here or why.’

  ‘Must I?’

  His thumb skated over her gloved palm and she couldn’t prevent her hand from curling, almost closing over his finger in a manner wholly prohibited in the dance. She was breathless suddenly, but not from dancing. She heard the music enter its final flourish and wanted to protest. She did not want it to be over. Ever.

  He did not immediately lead her back to Elspeth, but drew her to the wall where the windows were covered with deep-claret curtains. Against their lush background he looked the image of what he was—dark and dangerous and out of her league.

  ‘If you plan to continue on this wilful path, then, yes, you must. I know this world, unfortunately, so let me explain something to you. Right now everyone is wondering what I said to make you blush so charmingly. They will presume I have been my sinful self and absolve you of anything but youthful vanity in accepting my second invitation. But next time they will begin to stack the deck against you. They will peel back the layer provided by your golden dowry and begin to find your flaws. And then, if there is even a hint that you are merely toying with them and their ambitions, they will be merciless...’

  The words struck her like hailstones, the skin at her nape turning cold and clammy. She touched her fingers to her cheek, but it felt numb, distant. Even his voice was muffled, like the boom of thunder while hiding under a blanket. She stared at the snowbound landscape of his cravat, like the rise and fall of the winter ground in the moors just off Silverdale land, a cold crust over unforgiving, infertile ground.

  ‘Olivia?’

  She shook her head, but his hand closed on her arm, both drawing her to his side and propelling her forward. Within a moment the noise and music was back. The colours and the press of people, and the clamminess faded. She put some distance between them, firming her step.

  ‘I am all right.’ H
er voice still sounded shaky and she cleared her throat.

  ‘What the devil happened?’ His voice was pitched low and it rumbled through her like a storm moving away. She shook her head and laughed.

  ‘I had forgotten how much I hate these fashionable corsets.’

  His fingers tightened again and just as they approached Elspeth he bent and whispered in her ear.

  ‘A very poor liar, Olivia. And never mention corsets in public unless hinting you would like them removed.’

  With a slight bow he left and she sank into the chair beside Elspeth. Her cousin did not speak and Olivia was too tired to placate her. But she ensured she was a model of maidenly virtue for the rest of the evening, dancing and smiling with whomever Elspeth approved of, though when the second waltz began still no man approached her and Elspeth sighed in relief as Lord Sinclair led a lovely brunette in a gossamer-thin jonquil-yellow gown on to the floor. He left soon after with a group of men and Elspeth heaved another sigh of relief. Olivia did as well. She needed the quiet.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lucas hesitated before approaching the door of her study.

  Six hours. Jem and Davie had delivered the trunk to Spinner Street that morning and while Jem stayed to settle in at Spinner Street, Davie returned with the information that Miss Silverdale was at the house. Jem knew to send word when they left for Brook Street, but as the hours ticked by no word had come.

  Which meant she was still there, in her study, and no doubt she had already festooned that wall of hers with whatever titbits she extracted from the remnants of his father’s pathetic life.

  What would she do if he walked in there and tore the whole thing down, packed her into a post chaise under armed guard and sent her back north where she belonged? Probably wait until he was out of view and talk her way out of the post chaise and start all over somewhere else. The girl was relentless. From the beginning she got her own way on every front. Every concession she appeared to make was just another net tugging him along in her wake.

  Relentless.

  He looked down at the faded and scuffed floorboards outside her study, remembering the strange interlude at the ball last night. For a moment he had been certain she would faint, but whatever she said it was not her corset that drained her face of blood and her eyes of expression, but shock. Something he said had pulled the world out from under her and that was eating away at him just as much as her violation of his boundaries.

  This was pointless, as useful as railing at the moon. Just go in there and see the damage, man.

  She was watching the door when he entered, like an animal alert to a predator’s presence. But she must have known it was him because there was no fear on her face and no sign of discomfort. Her mouth was just hovering on the edge of a smile, between welcome, embarrassment and, worst of all, compassion.

  Damn the girl. He was not an object of pity, no matter what she had found.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Have you unearthed some dastardly plot? Perhaps a secret billet from Napoleon himself?’

  ‘I haven’t looked,’ she replied.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  She indicated the closed trunk.

  ‘I haven’t looked.’

  ‘Why the devil not? It isn’t locked.’

  ‘I presumed it wasn’t, but I didn’t want to open it in your absence.’

  He controlled himself with an effort.

  ‘That was the whole point of my sending it here. You wanted the blasted thing.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But I’m afraid you will either have to do this with me or take it back. Would you care for some tea?’

  He had no idea what to do. Shake his fists at the sky? Walk out? Laugh? Kick the damn trunk into toothpicks and kindling and toss it into the fire? Take her upstairs and do what his body was clamouring for ever since that blasted kiss?

  He sat on the sofa and ran his hands through his hair.

  ‘Brandy?’ she asked and he nodded. The scent of cinnamon permeated the whole house and he realised he hadn’t eaten in hours.

  ‘Is there anything to eat?’

  ‘Of course. I must admit I wasn’t quite certain I would approve of Jem, but Nora’s knee is bothering her, it always does before a frost, so it is quite useful to have someone who can help us with the fetching and carrying. He is helping her fix the window catches in the small back parlour so I shan’t bother him. I will go and ask Nora to prepare us a tray myself. Here.’

  She handed him a glass of brandy and was gone before he could react. Something buffed at the back of his legs and grey eyes glinted at him as Inky slunk out from under the sofa and went to sit by the trunk like a sculpture of the Egyptian cat god Bastet beside a sarcophagus.

  ‘I think you’re the only sane one in this house,’ he said, but Inky merely widened her eyes and, very deliberately, inched the empty china bowl where Olivia sometimes dropped titbits for her towards Lucas’s boot. They viewed each other for a moment and then Lucas gently nudged the bowl back towards its owner. The sleek dark fur above Inky’s liquid grey eyes gathered together into a look that would have separated a beggar from his last rag, and again, even more slowly this time, the paw nudged the bowl, this time tapping it gently on the floorboards a few times before settling it against Lucas’s boot.

  ‘My God, did you take lessons in relentlessness from your mistress?’ Lucas muttered. ‘I don’t have anything but this brandy and I doubt I will be forgiven for encouraging you to tipple.’

  Before either could continue their stand-off, the door opened and Olivia slipped back into the room.

  ‘There. Jem will bring it when it is ready.’

  She went to stroke Inky and placed the bowl back in its place. She did not look at him as she moved towards the wall and then back to her desk. She was nervous, but for all her lack of artifice he had no idea what she was thinking this time. Nothing that boded well for him, no doubt.

  ‘I keep changing my mind,’ she said at last. ‘More than anything I want to help the Paytons, but not at any price. So I have been trying to think of other ways to go about this and I decided I shall visit the vicar, Mr Eldritch. Perhaps he can help me after all. I told Jem to take back the trunk when he has finished helping Nora.’

  He put down his brandy and went to stare at the trunk. It sat and sulked and the thought of hauling it back into the attic at the Mausoleum felt...wrong.

  ‘Not everything can be tucked back into place, Olivia. Come. Let’s see what treasures we can unearth. At the very least a skull or perfumed billets from my father’s mistresses. Open it.’

  It was cowardly to make her do it, but she didn’t question his command. With a brief look at him she sank to her knees by the trunk and raised the lid.

  It was surprisingly neat for a trunk that stood untouched for twenty years. He wondered if Tubbs had dusted it inside as well as out before bringing it downstairs. Probably.

  She touched one of the books with the tip of her finger and he felt a prickling on the back of his neck. He had given his father that volume of Hume’s The History of England. He could remember the feel of the cherrywood-coloured leather when he had chosen it at the bookstore in London the last time he had been there with his family, the year everything went wrong.

  She looked at him and he crouched by the trunk as well and opened the book. The edges of the paper were a little frayed, soft from frequent reading, and the inscription on the front page was faded but legible. Even at that age his handwriting resembled his father’s. A little rounder, bold and large, to make a point.

  She read his inscription, her voice fading at the end. ‘“I couldn’t find Volume One, but I shall buy it for you when I do. Mr Marley assures me you can begin here. Happy birthday, Papa.”’

  He closed the book and put it on the carpet.

  They took them out one by
one. Most of them were books his father acquired in Boston and told him nothing but that his father loved history. Halfway through the process she went to the desk and brought back a notebook and pencil and began making a list of the books with the seriousness of a quartermaster-general facing a protracted siege.

  ‘Another list for the wall?’

  She glanced up from a cumbersome copy of Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy. ‘Lists help me think. If it bothers you I shall stop.’

  ‘Not at all. Pray continue; there should be some record of what my father left behind aside from more unwanted Sinclairs.’

  She ignored his comment, which was probably for the best, and he returned to examining the books, handing them to her as he took them out. Beneath the books were sheaves of papers that looked like shipping documents and accounts.

  He sighed and took a pile over to the sofa.

  ‘I will look through these, though I doubt there is anything of interest. You see if anything catches your eye in there. If you find evidence of his mistresses, feel free to toss it in the fire.’

  ‘What memorabilia do mistresses usually leave behind? Under duress Mr Mercer informed me that the only blatant signs of Henry’s mistress were embroidered pillows, a pot of dying flowers and some feminine garments which I hope Mr Mercer disposed of before Colin’s arrival. You are probably better versed in the tell-tale signs of a mistress given your substantial experience in those quarters. What evidence should I be looking for? Requests for baubles? Complaints about being used and then cast aside when they were no longer sufficiently entertaining?’

  Her voice was light, almost funning, but it couldn’t conceal her bitterness and it took the sting out of her comments. Knowing how disappointed she was in her godfather, he should have been more careful.

  ‘I apologise for ever mentioning the word. Shall we agree to proceed without discussing mistresses?’