by Sylvia Day
“Is there something wrong with the tea?” the duchess queried, her voice muffled by the thick veil.
He shook his head. “No. I apologize for the—”
“What do you want?” she snapped suddenly.
“Beg your pardon?” He, of the dry wit and ready retort, could think of nothing more clever to say, his brain feverishly trying to comprehend why his body was ready to mate with an elderly duchess suffering a mental malady.
“Why are you here?” she repeated slowly as if it were he that suffered the brain affliction. “What have you come for?”
Hugh gathered his wits. “My carriage wheel was damaged in a rut. I require the use of—”
“I’m truly sorry, but I haven’t the means to help you.” She fled the room with as much haste as the maid.
Mouth agape, he decided something truly heinous polluted the water hereabouts. There was no other explanation for this craziness. Flushed, slightly disoriented, and quickly becoming mad as hell, Hugh strode out the open doorway, bearing down on the dark figure who scurried away.
“Oh, Your Grace,” he called out with deceptive courtesy. “Another moment, if you please.”
Her pace quickened. So did his.
His legs were longer.
She hit the steps, hiking up her skirts, and he lunged forward, catching her elbow. She gasped. He almost did, too, but restrained himself. Her arm was firm and well-formed under his fingers, not at all as he imagined.
“Perhaps I misled,” he said dryly. Her lace-covered face turned to his. “I wasn’t asking.”
She stiffened.
“You’re ill; I collect that.” His gaze narrowed as he attempted to discern the facial features hidden behind the veil. “It appears you are unaware that a blizzard is fast approaching, and this is one of the coldest winters on record. My servant’s arm was broken in the fall, and one of my horses is lame—”
“Lame?” she repeated, her voice tight.
Ah! He suddenly remembered Her Grace’s love of horses, as professed by the ancient Artemis. Cad that he was, Hugh had no hesitation in playing on her sympathies. “Yes, lame. I’m certain the beast will recover, given the proper care and rest. So, too, will my footman, if also provided with proper care and rest.” He released her arm and stepped back, prepared to give chase if she fled again. “I haven’t the time to seek out another domicile, Your Grace. I am the Earl of Montrose, not some thief set to rob you. I will return your horses and conveyance to you at my soonest, I can assure you of that.”
She stood silently for a long moment, her damaged brain seeking something to say, he was certain. Finally she gave a jerky nod of agreement and turned, taking the steps with remarkable agility for a woman of her vast years.
Relieved, Hugh turned and bellowed for Artemis. He had no notion if the madness was permanent or not, but he had no desire to catch it in any case.
“Go with him.”
Charlotte looked out the upper-floor window and watched the dashing earl hitch the horses to a cart. He was a tall man, broad of shoulder, with the most glorious shade of dark-honey hair. He stood silhouetted by the snow, his elegantly dressed body moving with latent power, his shoulders bunching and flexing beneath the velvet of his coat. She couldn’t see his face from here, but she guessed he would be handsome. Or at least she hoped he would be. A man blessed with so fine a form should have a face to match. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Who cares about proper?” came the laughing rejoinder. “We’ve never done anything properly. And the earl appears quite . . . interesting.”
Interesting? Yes, he would be. It had been so long since she’d spoken to someone even remotely her age. She told herself every day that she was content with her life here, but sometimes, at night, she wished for things to be different.
Turning, Charlotte allowed the heavy velvet drapes to fall back into place. Her gaze moved around the spotless, well-appointed room, with its damask-covered walls and Chippendale furniture, before settling on the trim figure who waited with an arched brow. “I don’t know. I’d like to help him, but the more assistance we extend, the more he may discover about us.”
“Keep him busy then. We can’t leave them out in the cold. The horse is injured and must be tended. The footman could use your healing touch. They’ll catch their death, and neither one of us could live with that. You’ve done well enough protecting our secret these last years. I’ve every faith that you will continue to do so.”
Charlotte moved toward the armoire. Opening the mahogany doors, she withdrew a dinner gown and spread it out carefully on the end of the bed. “I still think it’s ill-conceived. The duke’s orders were clear. The others can help him and send them on their way.”
“Neither Henry nor Tom can set a broken bone, and well you know it. Go on now. You are better with those horses than anyone. The earl could use your help.”
“But it’s late!” she protested.
“Excuses, excuses. It’s not late at all, and since Montrose mustn’t see me, I won’t be eating dinner with him, so you can put that away. You will have to entertain him alone, but you knew that already. Now hurry up and change, before you’re forced to chase after them.”
Charlotte sighed. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
Damning the fates for sending him out in this godforsaken weather, Hugh adjusted the harnesses and chanced another glance at the sky. It was growing dark quickly, the storm clouds rolling in with portentous haste. He worried about his injured footman and his horse. Risking the journey had been foolhardy at best, but his sister, Julienne, had invited him for the holidays. He’d declined at first, but in a fit of boredom had changed his mind and decided to go anyway.
And this was the result, of course. Julienne would point out all the ways he’d handled the journey irresponsibly: He should have written to accept her invitation so she could expect him. He should never have waited so long to leave. He should have stopped at an inn when the weather took a turn for the worse. He should have commissioned a sturdier equipage, instead of one built to impress. And she would be correct on all counts, as usual. One of these days, he’d like to prove her wrong. He’d like to prove to them both that he was capable of managing his own affairs. That he was a man one could trust to lean upon.
Hugh lifted his head and watched the two young men approach him, carrying blankets and flagons of spirits to warm his servants. They were strapping lads, as he’d requested, although one of them stuttered terribly and the other had a lazy eye. Regardless, they would serve his purpose, and they seemed eager enough. Not that he blamed them. If he were in their place, he’d wish for any fortuitous circumstance to leave this forgotten estate.
The soft nicker of a horse behind him urged him to turn around. His gaze moved upward from the snow-covered ground, following the lines of a massive horse. His mouth fell open as he perused long, shapely legs encased in breeches, a slim torso framed by a spread cloak, stunning green eyes, and rich crimson hair. He gaped, at a loss for words, deciding he would’ve been better off avoiding the blasted tea, because it certainly couldn’t be a woman who sat astride the hulking beast. And wearing breeches no less!
“My lord,” the fantastic vision murmured from her high perch. And it was a her. No man could bear that beautiful face or stunning, feminine bedroom voice. A voice that curled around him in the deepening dusk and heated his blood.
He snapped his mouth shut.
“You are . . . ?” he growled rudely. Hugh knew he was suffering from a deplorable lack of social grace, but truly, there were only so many bizarre things a person should be expected to tolerate in one day, and since this afternoon, he’d had more than his share.
“Charlotte,” she replied as if that were explanation enough.
“Right.”
He frowned, his gaze narrowing as it raked her lithe form for the second time. Her manly attire delineated every soft curve of her legs. The cropped, form-fitting riding jacket, though somewhat out of date,
showcased firm, high breasts and a trim waist. Impossibly he felt overheated again, although just moments before he’d been shivering. He studied her intently, noting her perfect posture and uplifted chin. “What are you attempting to do out here in this miserable weather?”
“I’m here to assist you, my lord.”
“Right.” He should argue further, and would, as soon as his brain was working again. At the moment it was completely occupied with the stunning redhead in breeches, leaving not one thought process free to refuse her.
Charlotte was not young, nor was she old. Five and twenty would be his guess. She was a classic beauty, with skin as clear as the finest porcelain. Her mouth was wide—too wide, some would say—and her lips full and carnal in their plumpness. She had lovely clear green eyes, and they met his with an easy forthrightness he admired.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The infinitely kissable mouth curled in a smile, and his gut tightened. A few moments ago he would have been alarmed. Now he was merely resigned. Apparently, he was getting aroused by all of the female inhabitants of the area.
“I thought we resolved that already,” she murmured, her throaty voice threatening to shove him over the precipice of aroused into thoroughly erected.
“A servant?”
“Hmm . . . More of a companion. I’ve been asked to accompany you.”
“For what purpose?” he scoffed. “I must make haste if I’ve any hope of reaching the next posting inn.”
“It’s already too late for that, my lord. You’ll have to remain here for tonight at least, perhaps even until the storm blows over, if it’s as wicked as the skies herald.” She chuckled, and his cock twitched.
“Hell and damnation!” It had been years since he’d been troubled by an unwanted cockstand, yet this unusual female had him throbbing in his trousers with a simple bout of amusement.
Her eyes widened at his curse.
“My apologies,” he corrected quickly. “My manners seem to have flown.” Along with the common sense of every individual he’d had the misfortune of meeting today. “I cannot possibly remain here overnight.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” he repeated.
“That is what I inquired,” she said dryly. “Why can you not stay?”
“There’s no room, for one,” he pointed out.
“There’s plenty of room. The manse is quite vast.”
He scowled. “How much of it is inhabitable?”
Charlotte laughed. And Hugh was captivated. He decided in that moment he would have her, and suddenly the storm he had cursed mere moments before became a blessing. It would trap them together, giving him the opportunity to seduce her into his bed. His mood brightened. Unlike the rest of his life, he made no stumbles in the bedroom.
“Oh, my lord. Don’t be fooled by the apparent neglect. There are several available rooms, all clean and ready for guests.”
He arched a brow.
“Truly.” She flicked the reins with casual ease, and the huge brute of an animal moved toward the lopsided gate. “We should make haste.”
“What exactly can you offer in the way of assistance?” he asked, vaulting onto the driver’s seat of the cart, while the two young men jumped into the back.
She patted the bulging saddlebag he’d been too distracted to notice before. “I heard your footman has a broken arm. I can set it and tend to him, while you attend to your carriage.”
Hugh nodded, resigned. It would save time, and if she couldn’t help John, at least she’d be pleasing to the eye in the meantime. Damned if the sight of her in those breeches didn’t make every thought leave a man’s head.
He urged the horses forward, and she moved aside to allow him to lead.
Charlotte’s hands were quite literally shaking on the reins.
She’d never been studied in such a manner in her life, in a way that made her skin hot and her palms itch. She was no ingenue—her attractiveness had been the backbone of her existence for many years. But it had been a novel experience to be raked by Montrose’s warm brown eyes. She felt looked at, truly seen, for the first time in years.
At first glance he appeared nonchalant, but she wasn’t fooled. He’d perused her in detail, and liked what he saw. It had been thrilling. Arousing. And she wanted the handsome earl, who was an obvious libertine, to strip her with his eyes again.
Charlotte had hoped he would be fine of face, but the reality was far more devastating than she had imagined. He exhibited none of the signs of ennui and dissolution common to men with a marked predilection to excess. Montrose was, in fact, youthful and quite fit. More than fit. Vigorous, actually, and virile. Potently virile.
His mode of dress was understated, almost reserved, which suited him because his physical beauty alone was attractive enough. Any further adornment would simply be too much.
There were varying forms of male arrogance: the arrogance of wealth and privilege, the arrogance of intelligence, and the arrogance of attractiveness. The Earl of Montrose bore all of those traits, and a little bit more. The intensity of his stare, the way his hands had tightened the harnesses, the leisurely, seductive grace with which he moved—it all betrayed him. A man that comfortable in his own skin would know all about sexual pleasure and wouldn’t doubt his ability to bestow it. He was a man who fucked often and well. A man few women could resist.
Charlotte watched him closely as they left the grounds and moved onto the snow-covered lane, noting the easy expertise with which he held the ribbons. She was a woman who appreciated men who had a way with horses, because she liked them so well herself. Quite frankly, she respected men who took the time to become experts in the things that interested them. And Montrose was just such a man.
Glancing up, she noted the rapidly darkening sky. Yes, he would definitely be spending the evening with them, and if the turbulent wind was any indication, he might be staying much longer than that. Blizzards could sometimes last for days, with the roads being impassable for weeks after they passed.
She would have to be careful or he could learn more about them than she wanted him to. She would have to keep him occupied so he wouldn’t sneak around in his boredom.
And she liked that idea far more than she should.
Chapter Two
“Will he recover?”
Hugh glanced over his shoulder and found the lovely Charlotte lounging against the stall door. “I expect so. A minor sprain, I think.”
Returning his attention to the task at hand, he continued to apply salve to the scraped and swollen front legs of one of his carriage bays. Unlike the main house, the stable was warm, well tended, and in excellent shape, a fact that didn’t surprise him at all.
“Allow me to have a look,” she murmured, coming toward him.
In the tight confines of the stable stall, there was no room to avoid her. She squeezed in between where he knelt and the front of his horse, her breeches stretching deliciously over a lush derriere. Hugh’s mouth dried at the sight, his entire body hardening as her scent, a soft mix of flowers, enveloped his senses.
“I agree.” Her tiny hands soothed over the raw scrapes, and the animal breathed a soft whinny. Watching the caressing strokes of Charlotte’s hands, Hugh swallowed hard. It was a common enough task she was performing, and yet his interest in her was so unusually strong, it made the everyday action startlingly erotic.
Earlier, while struggling to remove his trunks from the disabled carriage, Hugh’s gaze had continuously strayed to the beautiful redhead as she set his footman’s broken arm and tended to his abrasions. There was a quiet confidence to her deportment and an unflappable air of control that he admired. He’d struggled most of his life to find that sort of confidence in himself, but to Charlotte it seemed innate.
Most women of his acquaintance would have been no assistance at all, but Charlotte had been invaluable. With her help they’d finished quickly and returned to the Kent estate with barely a moment to spare. Outside the wind howled an
d blew around with such force it was hard to see. Even now, her gorgeous red locks were dampening, the snow in them melting in the warmth of the stable.
“You shouldn’t have ventured out here,” he said.
“I wanted to be certain you found the salve.” Still crouched, she turned to face him, bringing her ripe mouth within inches of his own. Across her nose was a light dusting of freckles, the bane of most women’s existence, but a trait he’d always found charming.
Hugh studied her with a frown, trying to reason out why he found her so desirable. Charlotte was beautiful, yes, but no more so than he was accustomed to. The revealing breeches could have much to do with his constant state of arousal, although he’d never before considered men’s clothing particularly enticing. Of course his brother-in-law would beg to differ.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
She arched a brow. “I told you—”
“No. Not here in the stables, here in Derbyshire.”
Charlotte sat and crossed her legs. Hugh did the same.
“I grew up here. I left for a while and then returned.”
“Your family is here?”
Hugh reached for a nearby towel and rubbed the salve from his palms. Then he picked up her hands and cleaned them as well, taking note of the calluses and ink stains that marred her fingers. The nails were trimmed to the quick, neat and without vanity, similar to the way she comported herself.
“No,” she murmured, a bit breathless. “I have no family.”
Finished with the cloth, he set it aside, but kept her hands within his. She didn’t protest, for which he was grateful. He enjoyed touching her, relishing the way it made his entire body prickle with a singular sensual awareness.
“Tell me about the duchess.”
If he hadn’t been holding her hand, he wouldn’t have known she tensed at his query. Her adeptness at hiding her feelings intrigued him. She was too young to be so expert at evasiveness.