Christiana could do nothing more than watch as he pulled away from the wall and slowly approached. His eye color looked like molten silver this morning, and the expression on his face caused a feverish reaction to ripple through her body.
What is he looking at so intently?
At once she realized the beast had been surveying her appearance, obviously pleased. Self-conscious, she glanced down and fought the urge to blaspheme. Not intending to see the horrid man today, she’d opted not to wear her matronly housekeeper’s garb. Instead, knowing she would be in the stuffy malting house, she’d donned a morning gown of mint green sprigged muslin—much too fine to wear whilst malting. But the coolest gown she owned. Her hair had also been gathered into a thick single plait that extended down the length of her back. Mortified, she remembered using a green silk ribbon to tie it off.
Faced with his heated perusal, embarrassment washed over her.
No doubt the man thought she’d dressed thusly for his benefit.
“You look exceptionally lovely today, Miss Tatum.”
“Mr. Randolph, I have much work to do.”
“Yes, I can see that,” he remarked with a lazy grin, stopping before her.
“Then you understand I have no time to converse, particularly about your sleeping habits.”
She’d hoped the insufferable man would take the hint and leave, but he did something that took her breath away. He placed a large, masculine hand atop hers, sending tingling shivers of delight coursing through her body. How strange the touch of his hand caused such an effect.
“I need very much to speak with you.” His voice sounded low, intimate. “Much as I detest admitting any flaw in my character, I concede there may have been some truth to your words of condemnation.” Leaning closer, he added in a whisper, “Remember, I am nothing if not astute.”
“Mr. Randolph, I do not think—”
He stopped what she’d been about to say by placing a finger to her lips, just as he had the morning in the dining room when he’d told her she must never clean chimneys again. She found the gesture bold, highly inappropriate, and very effective. She could barely think let alone speak.
“I dislike being at odds with you.”
“You do?” she murmured against his fingertip.
He laughed softly and tapped her lips a final time. “You were quite right when you gave me that set down in the brewery. I have been overbearing, judgmental and, at times, obnoxious.” With an easy smile, he added. “However, it would be remiss of me not to point out that you have also been overbearing, judgmental and, at times, obnoxious.”
She could not help but smile at the man’s roundabout apology. “Perhaps, but a gentleman would never say as much.”
“My dear Miss Tatum,”—he placed a hand dramatically over his heart—“I know not whether to be flattered you consider me a gentleman or insulted by such a thinly-veiled criticism regarding my lack of manners.” He lowered his head a degree. “Admittedly, where you are concerned, my manners have a tendency to take flight.”
A wave of breathlessness swept over her to such an extent she might faint. Never before had she sensed herself in such danger, not even on a smuggling run.
Do not engage in conversation with this man, she told herself.
Mr. Randolph is far too dangerous and much too experienced with women.
With a delicate shrug, she turned her attention back to her work. “In my defense, I must say ‘tis your own fault. You have a frustrating manner of making everyone at Bellewyck Abbey feel defensive.”
“Defensive because of my presence—or because of my questions?”
“Both, I suppose.”
A soothing breeze swept into the room, caressing the bare nape of her neck. She instinctively turned her face toward the gentle wind, savoring the cool respite. Then, feeling his gaze upon her, she studied his expression. She saw no humor banked in his eyes. He seemed genuinely interested in what she’d said.
“You must understand,” she continued. “We have been left alone for years without interference from anyone. A person in such circumstances becomes accustomed to not having others breathing down their neck and scrutinizing everything they do.”
“I see,” he murmured low. “And is that what I have been doing? Breathing down your neck?”
“To a fashion.” She heard the breathless quality of her voice and made a conscious effort to speak with some measure of decorum. “Your questions seem more an attack than curiosity. I tried to tell you what Bellewyck Abbey means to all of us. You truly have no idea the struggles we have endured just to keep this estate going.”
“You are mistaken,” he said, mesmerizing her with his kissable mouth. “I do realize how difficult it has been. Yet I have a job to do as well.”
Their gazes held. And the longer he looked at her, the more she remembered abandoned dreams of love and romance.
She turned away.
“You may not believe me, but I have never thought myself ignorant or insensitive to the feelings of others.” He took a step to the side, and attempted to look her in the face again.
She averted his gaze, focusing on her work.
“Leastways, no one has ever accused me outright of being an insensitive brute.”
“Until me?”
“Until you.” His seductive, low, velvet voice caressed her from the inside out, raising gooseflesh upon her arms.
Intrigued by the provocative timbre of his voice and its effect on her, she looked up at him. He stood much too close. And the confines of the small stone house, as well as the quiet intimacy of their aloneness, made it easy to become lost in his heated gaze.
“How long will this take?”
“How long will what take?” she whispered, unable to stop looking at the enticing curve of his upper lip.
He looked down at the barley.
“Oh.” She tried to focus on her duties. “Several days. The temperature must be watched closely while the rootlets grow.”
Devlin groaned inwardly, desperate to ignore the hedonistic effect her words conjured. Think about anything but sex, you fool.
“How,”—he paused to clear his throat—“how does one watch the temperature?”
A faint smile curved the secret corners of her mouth. “Do you feel the cool breeze from the windows?”
“Not really, it seems damnably hot in here to me.”
Beneath his steady gaze, a rush of color blossomed upon her cheeks, a telling sign that had nothing to do with Miss Tatum’s labors and a great deal to do with the undeniable passion between them. He knew when a woman wanted him, but never had it mattered so much.
A soft sigh escaped her slightly parted lips.
Desire became an aching torment. He had to taste her lips—here and now.
He lowered his head, his intent obvious. Yet a hairsbreadth away from her mouth, she stepped away and walked over to a large wooden tub. The perplexing housekeeper then cleaned the shovel she’d been using.
Far from amused by her resolve—and unable to move due to a rigid arousal that felt like the mainmast on a ship of the line—he watched her set aside the instrument, organize a few things then slowly walk about the stone outbuilding to adjust or close some of the windows.
Blessedly, her meticulous dedication to duty gave him time to rein in his lust, albeit with some difficulty. He focused on his heartbeat, breathing, and the estate ledgers. He also prayed he’d be able to walk out of the damn cottage with some…dignity.
At long last, she returned to face him, her demeanor cool and composed.
“Would you care to visit the hops?” she asked.
Sweet heaven, is she going to pretend nothing whatsoever is happening between us? It was a brave attempt, but hardly the best tactic to use—especially with a man experienced at seducing women. Fortunately for her, he was once more the master of his ship.
“My dear Miss Tatum,” he replied, unable to suppress a grin. “You are the most single-minded woman I have ever met. In
deed, let us go and visit the hops.”
Summer had started to wane, but the morning was clear and warm. A breathtaking day of golden sunlight and gentle breezes. Studying her demeanor as they walked, he listened as she pointed out various outbuildings on the estate.
He found himself fascinated how the sun’s radiance affected the already brilliant color of her eyes, and made them sparkle like the rarest of jewels. Wisps of long raven hair, pulled free from the unrelenting tug of the wind, danced in a teasing manner about her face. What struck him most, however, was the serenity of her countenance. The absolute joy upon her face as she walked beside him speaking about Bellewyck Abbey.
When had he felt so at ease in the company of a woman? For that matter, when had a woman kept him so enthralled by her presence? He saw no rhyme or reason to it.
She wasn’t clothed in the latest fashion, although her gown today was rather fetching. Neither was she skilled at games of seduction men and women employed when alone together. Miss Tatum didn’t pretend to be coy, her manner not the least bit contrived.
He sensed she enjoyed simply walking with him, at times not saying anything for the sake of conversation. They were contentedly silent for long periods of time, completely different yet alike in many ways. At one point she stopped walking, closed her eyes, and smiled with endearing happiness.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Listen. Do you hear the gentle swooshing of the wind through the trees? ‘Tis my favorite sound.” She looked at him then. “Do you have a favorite sound?”
“I—uh—do not believe I have ever given it much thought.”
“Do you have a favorite color?”
“Violet-blue.” He looked into her eyes. “And what, pray tell, is your favorite color, Miss Tatum?”
She pursed her lips together thoughtfully. “I—uh—do not believe I have ever given it much thought before.” Much to his surprise, she’d tried to imitate the sound of his voice as well as repeat his words. Her eyes twinkled with mischievous laughter. It proved contagious.
How could such an extraordinary woman be involved in treachery? Unfortunately, she was the only person the other servants looked to for information and guidance. As a result, it seemed logical he could best learn what he needed to know from her.
One problem persisted.
Never before had he felt this way about a woman. In addition to her rare beauty, Miss Tatum had a quick wit, keen mind, and a tempestuous spirit. She cared deeply about others. He even found her devotion to this decaying estate admirable. These were traits he not only admired in a woman, but wanted in a wife.
Stunned by his musings, Devlin stopped walking.
For God’s sake, he must remain focused on what he needed to do. He had an obligation that took precedence over anything. Later, when he had all the answers—and provided she was innocent of any wrongdoing—then and only then could he consider a more amorous acquaintance with Miss Christiana Tatum.
Firm in his resolve, he returned to her side in two strides. Consequently, with no small amount of amazement he heard himself say, “Have you ever considered leaving Bellewyck Abbey, Miss Tatum?”
“You are brave to ask me that after our argument in the brewery.”
He gently grasped her elbow to stop her from walking away. “I must know. Have you never thought about it?”
“No.”
“Do you not wonder about life beyond Bellewyck?”
“What is so wonderful beyond Bellewyck?”
“London.”
She visibly shuddered and pulled away. “What I know of London, I do not like. Filthy water and air fouled by the stench from the Thames. Too many people, too many carriages, sickness, poverty, resurrection men, rat-infested prisons, orphaned children left to the mercy of deviates who prey upon their innocence or find themselves placed in asylums no better than prisons.”
“Who told you such things?”
She said nothing, but turned and entered one of several majestic arbors containing neat rows of sturdy vines and blossoming hops. He followed then studied his surroundings. The dense foliage transformed the chestnut-colored arbor into a shelter from the rest of the world.
Private, cool, and very intimate.
“Did Lord Bellewyck tell you such horrid atrocities about London?” He shadowed her movements until he stood at her side and could see her face. “Did he threaten to send you there as a child if you did not clean the chimneys?”
She averted her face at his question then meticulously checked the hop vines. “I rarely saw his lordship. I spoke with him even less.”
Devlin gently touched Miss Tatum’s right shoulder and turned her about to face him. “You are hiding something from me. Please, if you know anything about the earl and the ward, tell me now.”
“I told you—”
“I know,” he interrupted with a low growl of frustration. “The Earl of Bellewyck never had a ward. At least phrase your answer differently. Or, is one required to use the prescribed response?”
“Has it not occurred to you that I am telling the truth?”
“God in heaven, I am not a fool. Someone is lying.” He raked a hand through his hair and looked about the enclosed arbor with its dense, aromatic foliage. Glancing back at her, he saw she held a large hop leaf.
“Forgive me, I did not mean to raise my voice. But I must know why there is so much confusion about so simple a matter. Lord Bellewyck’s Will was dated ten years ago and it mentioned a ward.”
“So you have told me,” she murmured.
“Yes, well, the codicil containing particulars about this ward is missing.”
“Perhaps Lord Bellewyck lied about having a ward.”
Devlin reined in his temper. “One does not make false claims of guardianship.”
Her response was to walk deeper within the arbor, giving him no choice but to again follow.
“You must realize Pemberton will find the codicil in time. I daresay his anger will be most profound to learn of any deliberate deception.”
His words had no effect whatsoever. Amazing.
“You never heard talk about an orphaned child? Come now, think carefully. Perhaps you overheard your mother and the other servants discussing the earl’s ward?”
“For mercy sake.” She turned to face him. “You cannot obtain the answer you want simply by asking the same thing over and over. By my soul, you would try the patience of a saint.”
“I am trying to find a child,” he said with deadly calm.
She sighed, her expression gentle, sympathetic. “I know you are concerned about a child, and I wish I could tell you what you want to know.”
“But?”
Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something then decided against it. When she would have turned away, he cradled her face in his hands.
“You must tell me.”
“There is nothing to say.”
She grew very still, quiet. In her eyes it seemed as if a painful sadness from a haunting memory had risen from her heart. A sadness that touched his soul.
He wanted to comfort her, to take away the pain.
And in their private arbor of dappled sunlight and lingering shadows, with the heady scent of the hop blossoms surrounding them, the lovely Miss Christiana Tatum proved too powerful to resist any longer.
Devlin lowered his head, hesitating a moment to see if she’d pull away again. She did not, and he pressed the most gentle of kisses upon her soft mouth. It wasn’t enough. He kissed her again, more intently, and she sighed sweetly against his lips.
Gently stroking the tender flesh of her half-parted lips with his tongue, he coaxed with finesse and patience until she opened her mouth enough for him to deepen the kiss. Though skittish at first, she moaned with pleasure, twining her fingers through his hair. An adventurous novice, she soon mastered the sensual art of kissing using one’s tongue.
With a groan, he pulled her hard against his body. Aware his arousal pressed against the layers of he
r thin muslin gown, he mimicked the art of lovemaking with a subtle thrust of his hips. However ungentlemanly his actions, he wanted her to understand how quickly passion escalated, and where unrestrained intimacy could lead.
Still, she did not demure.
A wild tattoo drummed throughout his body. His breathing turned ragged, his restraint failing fast. Another moment and he’d be lost. As if struck by a bolt of lightning, he suddenly knew why.
This was more than lust. More than a man’s physical desire to satisfy sexual urges. He’d not put a name to it, but what he felt for Christiana Tatum seemed stronger than any emotion he had ever known. The startling, somewhat numbing, realization made him pull away from a kiss—for the first time in his life.
He looked down at her upturned face, noting her dreamy, half-lidded gaze, and passion swollen lips. She was an innocent. To the depths of his soul, instinctive certainty made him forget all the doubts he’d harbored about her. At the moment, he didn’t give a damn about anything but possessing her completely.
What was it she said on their ride into the village? True love knows no station in life.
Does a man who never believed he would need or want love dare toss it aside because the most remarkable woman he’d ever met happened to be without family or fortune? A duke, born to power and privilege, he had a family history of wealth and influence in Britain that dated back to the days of William the Conqueror. What need had he of family connections—even did she have them? He certainly had no need for a fortune. And as far as society was concerned, he’d never courted or wanted its approval.
Dear God, was he actually considering marriage to this perplexing woman? If anything, she’d be better suited for the role of mistress. The possibility brought a smile to his lips. Could he persuade her to consider such an arrangement?
Gently cupping the sides of her face again, he kissed each dainty, delicate eyelid, the petite bridge of her nose, reverently making his way down the soft side of her neck, to her enticing décolletage, and thence returning to her delicious mouth.
“No more.” She rested the palms of her hands upon his chest. “Upon my soul, I cannot breathe.”
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 12