He shoved her away after she’d kissed him back with the same passion. “You see?”
She couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
Without another word, she picked up her bags and walked out.
He moved to follow, but stopped at the top of the stairs. “I always keep my promises. We shall meet again, Shelly Holmes. And this time, you will not deny me, or yourself.”
She might have stumbled at the bottom, but she could pretend she’d knocked a case into her leg. She went into the salon. There was the murmur of voices. Seth, the earl and Arielle all came out to watch her climb into a carriage. They waved her off, wishing her good fortune.
With their own brand of regret, they returned to find Ethan rooted where he was at the top of the stairs, his face burning with a flush of…rage? Sorrow?
The three looked at him curiously.
Just then, a nondescript man slipped through the half open door. He looked nervously about as the earl scowled at him, but Ethan’s stillness erupted in a blur of motion as he ran down the stairs to snatch at the piece of paper the man held.
“Charleston, South Carolina,” Ethan said, reading off the written copy of the passenger list in his hand. “I wonder why she’s going there?”
And then he’d offered his hand to the earl and Seth. “Congratulations.” He kissed Arielle’s brow. “I heard what happened. I am so glad you helped Isis find rest and found your strength in hers. Be good, Arielle. I’ll be gone for awhile. Wolf hunting.” He turned for the door, the flush fading to a look of deadly determination. Arielle and Seth shared an intimate smile.
“Wolf hunting…In Romania? We have very few left here.” The bewildered earl followed Ethan down the steps. “You can’t leave now, right before the wedding. Where are you going?”
But Ethan was already gone, his steps light as he hurried down to his curricle.
Seth took Arielle in his arms. “I have a feeling Miss Holmes will be the hunted one before long.”
The earl watched, not sure whether to dote or worry, as his daughter exchanged a far too long and far too passionate kiss with her fiancé.
Then, seeking the quiet of his study, he stuffed his pipe, wondering why he never understood anything.
Then he coughed on his own smoke as an even scarier thought struck him.
What the deuce would his first grandchild look like? He’d best acquire a taste for steak tartare….
Catspell Page 27