Holding a small brass lamp, she crossed through the gallery, shortening the distance to her chamber. Amidst the portraits of Whitelock’s ancestors stood busts on pedestals, large urns filled with potted trees, and sculptures that gleamed bright white in the shreds of moonlight slipping in through the part in the curtains. Earlier, when walking through this room in the daylight, she’d felt an unpleasant discomfort at seeing all the faces in the portraits staring down at her. A few of her employer’s ancestors looked downright menacing.
Yet now she felt perfectly at ease. There was something calming about the darkness in this particular corridor that she’d never felt before. The reason was likely because she’d lived in London all of her life. In town, one learned to be wary of dark places. Therefore, she never fully experienced the nighttime.
But there was something alluring about this quiet stillness. She could hear her heartbeat, the hushed whisper of her own breaths, the soft swish of muslin, and each rasp of her slipper soles on the floor. It was magical to be so aware and yet not feel guarded.
She lingered in the gallery, studying the sculptures in Whitelock’s collection. The candlelight illuminated a pair of nude lovers, reclining. Well, nearly nude. The artist had cleverly shrouded the loins of the pair, carving a swathe of rippling fabric into the stone.
Frances didn’t consider herself a prude. She enjoyed the human form . . . especially the male form. Nevertheless, that sense of uneducated uncertainty continued to plague her. Was she supposed to admire the alabaster breast of the woman and compare it to her own? And was she supposed to find more beauty in the sculpture? Then, of course, there was the man’s body. The hard, muscular ridges and valleys were appealing. Yet how was she supposed to admire the form of a sculpture when she had no human reference with which to compare it?
Stepping around to view the statue from behind, she could not help but notice that her admiration was not stirred the same way it had been when she’d spied Lucan, fully clothed on a London street or even today at Fallow Hall. Wasn’t this statue supposed to represent the epitome in male grace and beauty?
“You are quite the avid admirer, Miss Thorne.”
Frances jumped. She spun around so quickly that her taper sputtered and flickered out.
“Careful,” Lucan crooned, his voice emerging from the shadows lingering at the outer edges of the room. “Without a lamp how can your artistic perusal continue?”
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light filtering in through the windows. The sculptures around her seemed to possess their own faint glow, soaking up the moonlight. And then she saw Lucan clearly—the glint of amber in his gaze, the flash of white in his smile, the darkness of his hair and eyebrows that made the shadows appear gray in comparison.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, still attempting to catch her breath. “I could lose my post if you are caught.”
“As I said before, I’m too familiar with dark places to be discovered.” He drew closer, never looking away from her. “Besides, I told you I would come.”
Seven insignificant words and yet her pulse raced in her throat. Silly as it was, knowing that he’d come solely because he’d said he would touched on a tender wound that she’d carried with her for a long while.
“You needn’t have bothered,” she said, though her tone lacked any bite.
Lucan’s grin broadened, as if he’d noticed. “You’re glad that I’m here.”
“Nonsense.” She gave him her most condescending glare.
Unfortunately, it had no effect on him. He moved closer. Ignoring the sudden leap in her pulse and the warm tremor that coursed through her, she held her ground.
Reaching out, he slid her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “There. Try it again. I might believe you this time.”
“You needn’t have bothered,” she said again, the words coming out in a rush as his fingertips brushed her cheek. His nearness unsettled her, muddled her thoughts. “I know better than to have any expectations when a man gives his word.”
He traced the rims of her spectacles in something of a caress. His breath was warm against her lips. “This shield of yours didn’t protect you from becoming jaded, did it?”
“If I am, then it is for a good reason.”
“Your position at Mrs. Hunter’s forced you to learn things about the ways of some men that you should never have learned,” he said with a convincing amount of sincerity.
She tried not to let it affect her. “I learned the hardest lessons outside of that agency—promises made to me over the years only to hear excuse after excuse for why they failed to be fulfilled.”
“Your father loves you dearly.”
She issued a sardonic laugh. “I have heard him say the words too often to be swayed by them. ‘Frannie, my girl, I love you . . . ’ is what he says to soften the blow. I don’t think I could ever trust those words in the future.”
She wished her experiences had been different, leaving her more receptive to the possibility of love. But such a wish left her feeling silly and naïve. Therefore, she dismissed it.
When Lucan opened his mouth to speak, she shook her head, interrupting him before he began. “Before you tell me that the foundation for my lowered expectations has no proper footing, I will tell you that my father wasn’t the only one who used that tactic. The man I almost married did too. ‘Frannie, my dear, I love you. Don’t worry, I’ll make good use of your dowry funds and find the best barrister for your father.’ ” She still remembered the way Roger Quinlin had waved his hat in a salute as he rode off—and out of her life. “When he returned from Brighton a full year later, he brought his new bride with him instead of a barrister. Of course, I wouldn’t have known that if he hadn’t stopped by Mrs. Hunter’s to inquire about hiring a footman for his new house in St. James. Needless to say, we were both uncomfortably surprised by our unexpected reunion.”
“He was a toad.” Lucan’s fingertips strayed to her spectacles again. This time he traced the frame stem, his intense focus on following the path to her ear. His fingertips gently grazed the sensitive peak and then slipped behind to where the stems curved toward her lobe.
She shivered. “You don’t even know of whom I’m referring.”
“Roger Quinlin,” he stated matter-of-factly, as if his mind possessed a catalog of every person in London. “Purchased a commission instead of paying his debts of honor. Thought he’d look right smart in uniform.”
All right. Perhaps he did know Roger after all.
Lucan traced the other stem of her spectacles now. This time, he watched her. “You are better off without him, Miss Thorne. Rumor has it that he still allows his father to pay his debts, and he hasn’t been a faithful husband to his wife. Some men have no honor.”
She tried to ignore the sensations his exploration caused—the ripples that cascaded through her, the heat pooling low in her stomach. “And you pay all your debts?”
“All.”
“And would you be a faithful husband?” The moment the words were out, she wanted to drag them back in. This conversation had taken a turn. It was far too intimate. And with their gazes locked, she wondered what he was thinking . . . and also if he would kiss her again.
His grin faded, and he drew in one breath. Then another. “If I made such a vow, I would honor it. However, you know of the wager. I will not marry now or ever. If I truly cared for a woman, I would be more inclined to keep her far removed from the likes of me. I have a dark soul, Miss Thorne.”
He did not seem so dark to Frances at the moment. She could clearly see the light illuminated in his eyes. A trace of sadness lurked there, as well, deep within. She’d never taken the opportunity to see anything of substance in him. Yet now, she was beginning to see more. “If this woman truly cared for you, she would not stay away. It would be beyond her power.”
Frances felt herself inching closer until the round brass bottom of the lamp she held pressed against her breast, serving as a barrier between th
em. She didn’t know what was happening to her, but she couldn’t seem to stop the desire to be near him.
Perhaps she should be wary of dark places, even here.
“I’m not going to kiss you again,” he said firmly. Yet when he looked down to her mouth, he didn’t seem entirely sure.
Her lips tingled. “I made no request.”
“Yes, you did. You are,” he accused her, lifting both hands to cradle her face. He held her still as he leaned in, not quite kissing her. Not quite touching her with his lips. But almost. “I never should have kissed you in the first place.”
“That’s correct. You only kissed me to make a point, after all.” Unfortunately, she couldn’t remember the point at the moment. The darkness was wreaking havoc with her sense of reason, casting a spell.
“I can still taste you, Miss Thorne.”
A small whimper rose from her throat. His words shocked her. Thrilled her. “What do I taste like?”
“Temptation in its purest form.” His mouth hovered over hers, lips parted.
Frances tried to seize whatever animosity remained between them before she lost all reason. “It was only a kiss.”
He rubbed his nose along the length of hers, closing his eyes. “Hmm . . . you sound like the voice in my head.”
Her lips felt fuller now, plump and pulsating, aching to be fitted to his. The sensation made her anxious, jittery. She shuffled her feet, moving closer. She felt mesmerized by the night. Her free hand reached up to stroke the slender length of his fingers, feeling the ridges and the fine hairs of his knuckles.
“This is a test,” he continued, his mouth shifting, poised to claim hers. “If I can resist you, I can resist anything.”
Her chin tilted forward. She wanted to kiss him.
All of a sudden, he released her. It was so swift that she dropped the lamp. It fell from her grasp and would have crashed to the floor if not for Lucan’s quick reflexes.
Instead of handing the lamp to her, he set it down on edge of the dais where the nearest sculpture lounged. Then, he took a step back and raked both hands through his hair. The amber light was gone from his eyes. Now they were dark and forbidding. And her pulse quickened at the sight of them.
“I don’t understand what is happening,” she said slowly, as if waking. “Perhaps, I am overly tired and overwhelmed by my circumstances and that combination has made me more susceptible to . . . ”—you—“the night.”
“A plausible excuse,” he said on an exhale. “Let us both cast the blame elsewhere.”
“Yet by all appearances, you were about to kiss me again. I have been kissed before today, and I know the look men have before they make an attempt.”
“Do I possess that look right now?” His gaze lingered on her mouth in a caress she could almost feel.
She pressed her lips together to quell the ache. “You do.”
“Then you have your answer.” He turned and strode into the shadows. From a short distance, he asked, “You are well?”
Now, he was inquiring about her health? Frances’s head was spinning.
She took a breath to regain her composure. Since her eyes had adjusted to the dark, she could see he stood near the half columns flanking the windows. “If you are asking whether or not I had maids sobbing on my shoulder with their tales of woe against the horrible Lord Whitelock, then the answer is no. He is adored by every person beneath this roof—”
“Not every person.”
“Those who work for him,” she amended, exasperated. “I am not so jaded that I find their stories suspect. The opposite is true. I’m finding that Whitelock is even more of a paragon than I’d first imagined.”
“As you said earlier, sometimes we are jaded for good reasons. You, yourself, deal in ways to prepare young women to escape unwanted advances. I beg of you to give yourself the same courtesy. Be on your guard.” He took a step forward so that the moonlight glanced off his features to reveal a furrowed brow, as if he truly were worried. “I will come again tomorrow night. Whitelock will arrive in the morning.”
“How could you know that?”
He held her gaze before he turned away. “I pay attention, Miss Thorne. I pray that you do as well.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lucan sent a missive to an old card sharp in Wales the following morning. Any news about Miss Momper and her position at Whitelock’s hunting box would arrive in a matter of days. Part of him wanted to travel to Wales himself to make inquiries on Arthur’s behalf. Yet his obligation was here, watching over Frances. He would never forgive himself if he let anything happen to her.
Until recently, he’d always referred to her as Miss Thorne, even in his thoughts. He would continue to do so when he addressed her. In his mind, however, things had changed and not for the better. Some of her vibrancy or her alluring disdain—or whatever it was—had burrowed past the guards in charge of his control. She was a sly one. Her mouth could issue such venom, while her eyes, lips, hands, and body promised the sweetest antidote.
Lucan had always enjoyed women, but they’d never tested his control to this extent. How had he allowed this to happen?
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
“What are you doing, Montwood?”
Lucan lifted his gaze to see Everhart stroll into the breakfast room at Fallow Hall. His friend’s tawny brows drew together in a puzzled expression.
“Are you going to eat it or not?”
Lucan glanced down to the glazed bun in his hand, poised near his mouth. Instantly, he lowered the untouched pastry to the plate.
“I went to the market early this morning and brought back some of Mrs. Dudley’s pastries.” He’d needed to test his control and put his mind at ease.
“Capital.” Everhart removed a plate from the waiting stack on the sideboard. Then, reaching into the basket for a scone, he sat on the opposite side of the table. “These are far better than the rot from the kitchen.”
The rot, also known as Mrs. Swan’s cooking, was curdling and congealing in silver dishes on the sideboard. Fallow Hall’s ancient cook no longer possessed the skill to prepare edible food. Even so, no one had the heart to sack her. She was part of this estate and had remained here through several owners.
Lucan, Everhart, and Danvers rented this property from Lord Knightswold—an old acquaintance who’d recently married. Because he’d wanted to start a family, he found that living in an estate named after fallow deer, but that also intimated a certain note of infertility, had lacked appeal. The amusing part was that now there were two women in delicate condition beneath this roof. And because his friends doted on their brides, they made frequent trips into the village for food when Mrs. Swan’s cooking was unpalatable.
As usual, the kitchen fare was a far cry from inspiring temptation. However, that’s what Lucan needed today.
Satisfied with his success in resisting the bakery bun, he pushed the plate away.
“Not hungry after all that trouble?” Everhart asked, setting the jam caddy near his plate.
Lucan shrugged and picked up his tea instead. “I’ve lost my appetite for pastries.”
“But what about Miss Thorne?”
Everhart’s question caught him off guard, and Lucan spilled the tea down the front of his own waistcoat. Then, clattering the cup onto the saucer, he stood and wiped at the mess with a serviette. “Pardon me?”
“Sorry. Unrelated topic.” Everhart chuckled, his eyes bright with mischief. “I was inquiring about her welfare.”
Lucan wasn’t a simpleton, but he played along. “I imagine she is well.”
“Quite the extraordinary young woman. She faced her abduction rather bravely.” As if engrossed in his scone more than this inquisition, Everhart added a dollop of cream. “Although, I’m still not certain why you brought her to Fallow Hall. I imagine it has something to do with all that you never speak of.”
Lucan walked over to the sideboard and poured another tea. “It does.”
A sho
rt silence followed before Everhart asked, “We are friends, aren’t we, Montwood?”
“Of course.” Although, if Lucan were honest, he viewed both Everhart and Danvers more like brothers. They’d stood by him through the worst of his trials. Even when his blood family had cut him off, they’d remained. He would do anything for them.
“Then tell me this,” Everhart continued. “In all the years that we’ve known each other, you’ve never once wagered against me. Or Danvers, for that matter. Not a true wager. Yet a few months ago, you cleverly manipulated us into a high-stakes game.”
Still standing at the sideboard with his back to the room, Lucan stared straight ahead at the glossy paneled wall. He knew what was coming. “I did.”
“If you are in need . . . ”
“I would never ask you.” Lucan could have asked, he knew. Yet he’d never wanted to put that strain on their friendship. Since Lucan wasn’t certain how long his losing streak at the tables would last, he’d become desperate. The wager amongst friends had been his last resort. “You agreed to the wager. And you are content, are you not?”
“More than I ever imagined,” Everhart said, a smile in his voice. “I should like the same for you.”
Lucan laughed. “You would like me to lose.”
In that moment, Everhart’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood and Calliope entered the room. She greeted her husband with a glowing smile and a kiss upon his cheek before he withdrew a chair for her. Then, walking over to the sideboard to pour a cup of tea for his bride, he nudged Lucan with his elbow. “Au contraire, my friend. I want you to win.”
Lucan wanted to win too. But they were speaking of two separate victories.
“Prepare yourself, Miss Thorne,” Mrs. Riley said the following morning as they stood outside Lady Whitelock’s door. “There is no way of knowing what to expect.”
The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 12