Just then, Arthur swung down from one of the rafters overhead, hanging upside down. “What have you got there . . . Is that a dog? Blimey!”
Lucan found it interesting that the driver was not in the least bit surprised by the boy’s sudden appearance. Which meant that Arthur spent a good deal of time here. And if Arthur spent time in the stables, then it was likely his sister had come here as well.
Absently, he introduced RJ to Arthur and watched as the lad dropped easily down from the beam into the driver’s waiting hands. Seeing the protectiveness from the driver—an action one might see from a father—offered Lucan another insight. As Arthur approached, the Beast of Fallow Hall began wagging his tail with such eagerness that it nearly threw him off balance. All the while, Lucan kept his eye on the driver. The man watched the exchange between Arthur and RJ, his stance indicating a readiness to rush forward if the need arose.
“Arthur, you’re just in time. I was just asking where this man took your sister,” Lucan said, knowing that the lad was too distracted to hear him. As for the driver, Lucan had a hunch that the direct approach was the best path to take.
“I could lose my post.” The driver swallowed, but there was more than nervousness in the action. In his eyes, pain lingered.
“I’m not even here.” Lucan lifted his hands in a shrug. “And Arthur isn’t here for this conversation either. Are you, Arthur?”
In answer, the boy giggled as RJ licked his face. He wasn’t even paying attention.
This must have satisfied the driver somewhat, because he shifted closer. He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked to the door one last time. “I drove Henny to Shalehouse, where all the companions go for their training.”
Ah. The familiarity of his address was tinged with bitterness—possibly from unrequited love?—and told Lucan that Miss Momper was the last person this man had wanted to drive to Shalehouse and never see again.
If each of the companions went to this one single location for their training, then it could be assumed they had all been elevated to the position of housekeeper. Just how many housekeepers could Whitelock require?
Then again, everyone knew the man had property all over Europe, like a lepidopterist collecting butterflies and pinning them to a board. Lucan hoped the viscount didn’t collect companions in the same manner.
Hmm . . . Disturbed by that thought and worried about Frances, Lucan found himself hoping that Whitelock’s spotless reputation was earned and that these dark assumptions were only a product of his own concern and perhaps even a deeper, unnamed emotion.
Stepping forward, Lucan extended his hand to the driver. “Thank you for watching over my friend in his sister’s absence.”
The man shook his hand and glanced down to Arthur. “He’s like my own brother.”
Or like a son, Lucan imagined. With a nod, he turned to leave. Before he slipped away, he ruffled Arthur’s hair and called RJ to his side. Then once he’d sent RJ home, Lucan made his way through the narrow hidden passages of Whitelock manor.
When the dinner hour approached and the servants were busy in other parts of the house, Lucan slipped into Whitelock’s study and carefully searched through his papers and ledgers for any clue to the evidence he had on Thorne. There were separate books kept for each of his properties, which included many in Europe and even a farm on the coast of China. Unfortunately, Whitelock was careful to the point of appearing boring on paper.
Frustrated, Lucan slipped through the passageway again and climbed the narrow stairs to wait for Frances. He didn’t have to wait long.
Frances stepped into the gallery and placed her lamp on a crescent table near the archway. Leaving the security of the light behind, she crossed the room, heading straight for his shadowed corner.
“Lucan, I must speak with you.”
As of yet, he’d given no indication that he was here. None other than being here, each night, waiting for her in the same spot.
She came to the reclining sculpture of lovers and hesitated, searching the shadows. Then, as if certain of precisely where he stood, she continued her trek, albeit slowly. “I know you are here,” she whispered.
“How?”
She lifted her hand, reaching out in the darkness. “I can feel your presence. This room changes when you are in it.”
“Do I make it a dark and frightening place?” Unable to help himself, he closed his fingers over hers. The touch sent a rush of indescribable yearning through him. He drew her near and had the sense of sinking slowly, his body melting into her embrace.
He worried about the depths of his feelings toward her intensifying in such a short time. Surely, the reactions she elicited within him should cause him to want to disappear through the passageway instead of lingering, waiting for her.
She shook her head, the distant lamplight providing a halo of gleaming bronze around her hair. “Dark perhaps but not frightening. In fact, I feel quite safe with you.”
A sweet ache spirited through his heart, awakening it to impossible imaginings. If she knew what nightmares lingered inside of him, she would never feel safe with him. “Your tender, foolish words surprise me. Where is your level head, Miss Thorne?”
“Firmly atop my shoulders. The words were not meant as a declaration, merely an observation.” But when she spoke, she belied those words by threading her fingers through his. “I believe I know what your suspicion was earlier. I have put it all together, and I think that Miss Momper might be with child, and that is the reason for her absence.
“If it is true,” she continued, “then likely, she formed an attachment to a young man, either on the grounds or in the village on her afternoons away from work.”
Apparently, she hadn’t jumped to the same conclusion Lucan had. She was still blinded by Whitelock’s shiny snakeskin. “That is one option,” he said.
She looked over her shoulder as if afraid of being overheard. When she turned back, she kept her voice low. “In fact, she might have been dismissed for it. Whenever I mentioned her name this evening, Lord Whitelock did not appear pleased.”
Alarm shot through Lucan. Instantly, he set his hands on her arms and drew her deeper into the shadows.
“I shared my suspicions in order to keep you safe, not for you to put yourself at risk,” he scolded softly, barely resisting the urge to pull her against him. “How did he react when you mentioned her?”
She shrugged, oblivious to the panic running amok inside of him. “His lordship repeatedly changed the subject, but in a way to make it clear that I was rising above my station by asking about his personal business. I should have known better—I did know better.”
“Your station,” Lucan growled. “I wish you would put those thoughts out of your mind.”
Beneath his hands, she stiffened. In the dim light, he saw her purse her lips. “How does knowing my place and embracing my altered status deserve your anger? You have nothing to do with it.”
A fair reminder but not one that improved his mood. “It’s common knowledge that Whitelock’s wife—the very one that caused you such worry earlier today—was an heiress to a fortune earned by trade. There is not a drop of royal blood in her line.”
“For some, bloodlines matter little.”
Lucan didn’t know why, but he was suddenly incensed by that remark and how she’d spent so many years scraping by on her own earnings. “You, however, are the great-granddaughter of an earl. It is well within your grasp to marry a duke, if you are so inclined.”
“I am not inclined to marry a duke, an earl, or even the second son of a marquess,” she hissed. “If I marry, it will be to a man of whom I will prove to be an asset. A widower, perhaps. Or an elderly shop owner.”
He gripped her tighter. Pulled her closer. “And if I choose to marry, it will never be to a woman who wears spectacles and tempts me beyond reason.”
In that same instant, he claimed her mouth. His lips pressed hard against hers. His tongue swept past her teeth. This was not the slow unending kis
s he’d imagined earlier when playing the piano for her. This was born of frustration and pure, raw hunger. He growled low and deep, a clear warning that she was dealing with a feral beast. Yet instead of pushing him away, Frances clung to him.
Her hands slid up between them until her fingers dove into the hair at his temples. Finally, she slanted her mouth beneath his, urging him deeper. An equally hungry sound rose from her throat as her tongue parried with his.
He’d never kissed any woman like this before, with a complete lack of finesse and no carefully weighed control. There was no thinking involved. It was all basic animal need that pushed him now.
And he needed Frances. Desperately. If the blood pooling and pulsating in his thick erection wasn’t proof enough, then the near-painful tightening of his bollocks was. This had been building since he’d first kissed her, taunting his control all the while.
She broke away from the kiss, pressing her cheek against his as she gasped for breath. “Touch me, Lucan.”
He shuddered at her low, throaty command and kissed her again. He gripped her waist, tilting her hips toward his. The only distance between their bodies was a thin layer of clothes. Yet even then, he could feel her enticing heat. The firm swells of her breasts molded against him. His hands twitched, one battling to inch upward and the other wanting to find the hem of her skirt.
Touch me . . . but if he did, it would be for his own pleasure, not hers. He’d never touched a woman without cataloging her preferences and ensuring her satisfaction before he took his. He didn’t trust himself to do that now. Now—when it mattered most. Now—when he had the urge to take her against the wall, thrusting deep until his hunger abated.
Lucan moved away from Frances so swiftly that he had to take hold of the wall for support. He didn’t dare look at her.
“Please know that I would love to touch your entire body—every delectable inch—with my hands and my mouth, but not while you are here, beneath Whitelock’s roof.” Damn, he was shaking all over. Even his voice shook.
“And if you abducted me just once more?”
Lucan pressed his forehead to the tapestry on the wall. “I’d never let you return.”
“Never is a long time, Lucan. Think of your wager, after all.” By the sound of her breathy laugh, she must have thought he was teasing.
“Ah yes, the wager. I’d nearly forgotten.” Insanely enough, it was the truth. “Besides, you are not one who can adopt such a worldly perspective.”
“At my age, do you think I am still naïve to the arrangements men and women decide upon?”
Now it was his turn to laugh. Did she think he knew her so little? “I know the persuasive power of desire and how it mingles with curiosity to create an irresistible concoction. That heated brew is inside of me now . . . and you. Yet no matter what you might profess at this moment, you are not the type of woman who could make such an arrangement. The light of day would bring regret.”
“And what type of woman am I, then?” she scoffed.
“The kind that frightens me, Miss Thorne.” He looked over his shoulder to see her grow still in the shadows. “Because whether you know it or not, you require a certain depth of feeling before entering into an affair. And what scares me is that I could oblige your every need but at great risk to us both.”
Her soft gasp filled the space between them. Such a small intake of air, and yet he felt himself pulled by the force of it. He’d all but confessed how much she meant to him. How she alone tempted him beyond reason. How he would marry her and love her for the rest of his days if circumstances were different.
She took a step toward him. “Lucan, if we were to—”
“I will be away in the morning,” he said quickly, interrupting her so that she could not say more to tempt him. Or before he could confess any more of his feelings. He’d already said far too much. “My aunt sent me a missive and requests my company. Should you need me for anything, I will return by afternoon. And as usual, I will be here for you in the evening.”
“Every evening . . . for how long?”
For as long as it takes to keep you safe. Forever, if need be. “You know the answer.”
Aching with reluctance and unfulfilled desire, he slipped through the passageway door.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Frances spent the morning reading poetry to Lady Whitelock. Not surprisingly, after Lucan’s heated kiss last night, her tone was far more passionate than usual.
The viscountess was in a dream state again, floating in and out of awareness. Mrs. Darby sat in the corner with her needlework, while Nannette lingered near the hearth, dusting the row of porcelain figurines on the mantel.
Frances could not stop thinking about Lucan and the startling words he’d spoken.
You require a certain depth of feeling . . . I could oblige your every need.
Was it true? Did he care for her beyond what had begun as his promise to her father? The notion seemed to turn her heart and lungs into vapor, floating like the wispy clouds in the sky today. It was difficult to catch her breath.
She closed the book as the clock in the hall chimed the luncheon hour. Both she and Nannette slipped away, leaving Lady Whitelock in the nurse’s care.
“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Nannette said as they walked down the back stairs toward the kitchens. “With her ladyship forever in such a state, Lord Whitelock must be lonely. Henny used to say as much too. She’d go around sighing all day long, half in love with his lordship.”
Startled by the news, Frances paused on the stair. “Surely not.”
“It’s true. They all do—the companions, that is. That’s why they don’t last,” she said with a nod, as if her life’s experience had made her an expert. “They spend all that time alone with his lordship, forgetting that he’s just a right nice fellow, and believing something else. I’m sure once he’s aware of it, he has to find them another place in order to save their feelings.”
An icy chill swept through Frances, forcing her to grab the handrail for support. Miss Momper had been in love with Lord Whitelock? The suspicion that the young woman could be with child resurfaced. Then, linking those two thoughts left Frances with an unwelcome realization.
No. She truly did not want to believe Whitelock capable of such an atrocity, of preying upon a woman in his own employ. She wanted to believe that he was good and kind. That he wasn’t a lecher like so many others. Yet hadn’t she felt uneasy in his presence lately? Certainly, that made it a possibility. Could it be that her own arrogance and belief that he was as good as rumor promised had blinded her to his true nature?
“He’s been so generous,” Nannette continued, “that we’d all do anything for him.”
Perhaps he wants your gratitude . . . Lucan’s words ran circles in Frances’s head. It had taken a great deal for him to admit his suspicions too. He usually kept his thoughts and feelings locked tightly away, yet he’d offered her a few glimpses, demanding nothing in return. At first, she would have discounted every word from his lips, but thinking back, he hadn’t lied to her. Nor was he a man who’d sully another’s character for no reason. He was honorable and . . . she’d already admitted to trusting him. If he believed she should be wary of Lord Whitelock, she would trust that too.
At the bottom of the stairs, Nannette placed her hand over Frances’s arm. “We really like you here and want you to stay. And . . . well, I just hope you don’t fall in love with his lordship as well.”
Frances shook her head with resolution. “That would be impossible.”
“It’s only impossible if you’re already in love with someone else.” Nannette smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Are you?”
“In love?” she scoffed. In love with Lucan? What a notion. She desired him, yes. But love?
Love required a certain level of trust, of knowing that your heart was in safekeeping. As she absorbed her own thoughts, a rush of panic flooded her. Years ago, she’d vowed never to open her heart again. Never to leave it vulnerable. Men were undese
rving, selfish and lecherous . . .
Except for Lucan. He was noble, honorable, caring, generous, and everything she’d ever wanted. Everything.
Dear heavens! Was she in love? The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet, and she reached for the wall to steady herself.
The answer was clear. “Yes. I believe I am.” Very much indeed.
Twenty miles from Fallow Hall, Lucan entered the Flame and Spit. Inside the pub, there were a half dozen patrons, all hunched over their tankards, including its proprietor, Aunt Theodosia.
Theodosia laughed when she saw him and slapped her hand down on the oaken bar. Brackets of wrinkles surrounded her mouth, displaying a lifetime of smiles, while the fan of creases by her clear blue eyes held a few sorrows. He knew that most had come during the years when her younger sister, Lucan’s mother, had suffered abuses.
He couldn’t help that he thought of his mother every time they met. And from the tears shining in his aunt’s eyes as she opened her arms wide for a hearty embrace, it was clear that she was thinking the same thing. He hugged her tightly, lifting her over the half door that kept her customers away from the ale. Her famously flaming plait of red hair held more silver now and swung over her shoulder as he set her down.
“Let me look at you,” she said, brushing the road dust from his shoulders and not entirely meeting his gaze.
Lucan knew it was because he had his father’s eyes. That’s what she said hurt the most when she saw him. “I’m past the age of growing taller, Aunt.”
“I know. I just like to make sure you’re still in one piece.” She poked him here and there, turning him around until she was satisfied that he wasn’t at death’s door. “No holes from duels at dawn or anything?”
“Not today.” He grinned.
She pinched his chin. “Don’t tease an old woman.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He earned forgiveness by bussing her cheek. “If you merely needed certainty of my existence, a note would have sufficed.”
The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Page 18