“I’ve been thinking of him lately.” Her attempt at a smile touched him in a place deeper than lust. He suddenly realized that cozy chats deep into the night were as dangerous as forbidden kisses. “Perhaps because… you call me Eleanor.”
Leath knew he shouldn’t touch her. If he touched her, her unusually confiding mood and the hunger that had tormented him since he’d kissed her would lure him to more. And she was a virtuous woman. While he was a gentleman. An affair would do neither of them credit.
It was a struggle to sound merely kind when his pulse pounded like a battalion of drums. “Have you contacted the War Office?”
She sighed. “My mother must have written a hundred letters, but at the time, the war was raging. They had more important things to think about.”
“More important to them,” Leath grunted. Sergeant Major Trim had given his life for his country. That deserved more respect than he’d received.
Behind him, the kettle boiled. Leath lifted it and poured water into a bowl. He expected Eleanor to smile to see him using a cloth to hold the handle, but she seemed lost in memories. It was as if she’d forgotten his presence. He should be grateful. There was safety in distance. But he couldn’t help mourning the end of an interval when they’d spoken almost as… friends.
Hell, Eleanor Trim befuddled him more than anyone he’d ever met. He needed to talk to Dr. Angus about Crane. But still this woman held him as captive as if she’d cast a net over his head. He had a grim feeling that like a fish in the sea, he was well and truly hooked.
What in blazes was he going to do about it? He couldn’t even blame Eleanor. She wasn’t trying to captivate him. He retained a lurking suspicion that she didn’t like him, however smitten she claimed to be, however hot her kisses.
“I wouldn’t have managed nearly so well tonight without you.” He hated how stilted he sounded. The awkwardness that abruptly descended reminded him that he’d been in the saddle most of the day and that hauling Crane through the rain hadn’t been easy. He was cold and weary and, as he met Eleanor Trim’s cool gaze, discouragingly lonely.
“I’m here to serve, my lord,” she said neutrally.
Was she mocking him? He remembered all his reasons for avoiding this woman, not least her dashed slippery behavior. His eyes sharpened on her. “In fact,” he said thoughtfully, “you were astonishingly quick to serve. You appeared out of nowhere.”
She stared back as uncompromisingly as a young saint facing martyrdom. Except now that he’d kissed her, he’d learned that, with the right encouragement, she could sin gloriously. “I waited up to talk to you, my lord.”
“What the devil have we been doing for the last twenty minutes?”
His sharp question made her frown. “I’d like to know your plans, given what happened the other night.”
With a loud clank, he slammed the kettle back on the heat. A mixture of hope and disbelief set his heart banging against his ribs. He’d convinced himself that she was out of reach. Was he mistaken? “My plans? For bedding you?”
Her eyes widened with shock and she stepped back. Much further and she’d be in the corridor. “No, of course not.”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it,” he muttered, disappointment descending like a landslide. He wanted Eleanor Trim. At this moment, he wanted her more than he wanted his political career or his good reputation. For a brief, dazzling moment, he’d wondered if he might yet get her.
She licked her lips, setting his blood to flame. He needed to get out of this kitchen before he abandoned his honor. Her hands twined nervously at her waist, another characteristic gesture. “When are you going to dismiss me?”
He scowled, cranky with her, the world, himself. Heaven had created her to lie in his arms. Why did this world make that perfect outcome impossible? “What bloody rot is this?”
The tense line of her shoulders eased until she stood more naturally. How interesting that she was more comfortable with his bad temper than his questions. More than ever, he was convinced that she hid something.
“I can’t bear this waiting, my lord. It’s cruel. I know you want me gone. I heard you talking to your mother last week. When you caught me—”
“When I caught you red-handed in my bedroom,” he said silkily, perversely beginning to enjoy himself. He’d had no idea that she’d been on such tenterhooks.
She nodded. “It’s a good excuse to get rid of me.”
“I have no intention of telling my mother that I kissed her companion. I told you that what happened was my fault.”
“You also told me that gentlemen didn’t chase the servants,” she retorted.
“Miss Trim…” Although in his heart, he called her Eleanor. “That night reflects badly on both of us. Perhaps we should close the door on it.”
She regarded him uncertainly. “You don’t want me to leave?”
Hell, no.
He bit back the quick reaction and spoke with as much avuncular reassurance as he could muster. By the look on her face, that wasn’t much. “My mother is in better spirits these days.”
“That’s because you’re home.”
He frowned. “Not completely.”
“That night you thought I was stealing.”
A few days ago, he’d pushed for her banishment. Now he must have gone mad, because the thought of her departure made him want to punch the wall. “Nothing’s missing.”
“I could have been deciding what to take.”
“Was that what you were doing?”
“No.”
He waited, wondering if she’d confess her reasons for invading his apartments. But she remained silent. And watchful. Always watchful.
“I will discover your secrets, you know,” he said evenly.
She started, then stood tall in the lamplight. “Your imagination runs away with you, my lord.”
A faint smile curved his lips. “I don’t think so.” He collected the bowl and the cloth. “My instincts never fail, Miss Trim, and they scream that you’re not what you seem.”
“Then why keep me here?” she asked, puzzled rather than pert.
He shrugged and met her eyes, feeling as though he drowned in autumn gold. “Heaven knows, Eleanor, heaven knows.”
Chapter Eleven
Nell slept late the next morning, a luxury for a servant. The doctor had pronounced Mr. Crane unhurt apart from his broken arm, but the hall clock had struck four before she’d settled the patient and cleaned up. The marquess had stayed to the last, which had surprised her. Something else that surprised her was Mr. Crane’s unmistakable respect for his employer. During her previous encounter with the two together, Leath had snapped at Crane for wasting time with her.
The light outside her windows was bright. Yorkshire had such strange, violent, unpredictable weather. Howling tempest one minute, unreliable brilliance the next. It was so different from the green gentleness of her home. The landscape was as mercurial as the man who owned this barren wilderness. Except that the moors weren’t barren. There were rich mines and valleys of good farmland. At first glance, the moors seemed all desolation and solitude. But when one looked more closely, there were hidden subtleties, secret treasures—an appeal more powerful for not being immediately visible.
Very like the Marquess of Leath.
After that odd, confiding conversation in the kitchen, his lordship had punctiliously kept his distance. One would imagine that he’d always called her Miss Trim and that he’d never kissed her.
She should be grateful. It would be too ironic if this quest to bring Dorothy’s seducer to justice resulted in her own ruin. But stupidly, she missed that resonant voice saying her name as if she was the first and only Eleanor in the world.
Exhausted as she’d been, she’d taken forever to fall asleep. Now that she’d learned that her position was safe, she should feel reassured. But somehow she didn’t. Instead, questions buzzed around her mind. As ever, with Leath, she had no answers. When she’d taken a risk mentioning Dorothy, she
’d watched avidly for some hint of guilt. She’d seen nothing.
Then he’d drawn her into speaking about her father, something she always found painful. Nell had loved Robert Trim with a little girl’s adoration, and through her mother’s eyes, she’d learned to love him into maturity. Her mother had always mourned her first husband, fond as she was of scholarly William Simpson. It continued to anger Nell that some administrative bungle had deprived Frances Trim of those last tangible memories of Robert’s life in Portugal.
When Nell hurried down to the marchioness’s apartments, Leath was taking tea with his mother. The last time she’d seen his lordship, he’d been dirty and rumpled and worried for Mr. Crane. This morning, in a dark blue coat, buff breeches, and boots polished to a mirror shine, he looked ready for Mayfair. But the burning glance he cast her was familiar from last night. And as it had last night, the sight of him set her heart racing with excitement.
“Your ladyship, I’m so sorry. I overslept.”
The marchioness waved her hand. “James told me about your heroics. You needn’t have rushed. Have you had breakfast?”
“No, my lady,” Nell said, her conscience twitching at Lady Leath’s concern. She’d imagined a closer relationship with the family would promote her cause. Instead it muddied her convictions. Perhaps she should leave, even without the diary. Every day, her loyalties became more tangled.
The marchioness gestured to a tray of cakes and sandwiches. “There’s plenty here. Or I can ring for more.”
“You’re too kind.” Nell meant it. She glanced at the marquess, expecting him to disapprove of this informality, but his faint smile lacked the usual reserve.
Overwhelmingly conscious of his intense gray gaze, she hesitantly chose some food and poured a cup of tea. The marquess’s presence stole her appetite. Feeling awkward, she sat on the window seat, deliberately setting herself apart. “How is Mr. Crane?”
“In a sorry way, I’m afraid,” Leath said. “Dr. Angus called again this morning and says it’s a bad break, likely to take months to heal.”
Poor Mr. Crane. He was distantly related to the Fairbrothers, but from a much less prosperous branch. His wages supported his sister and widowed mother in London. “How will his family manage?”
The marchioness laughed. “James, clearly Nell thinks you’re a heartless tyrant.”
Nell blushed. “My lady, I didn’t—”
“Paul will continue to receive his salary,” she said.
“After all, he was injured in my service.” Leath’s response was wry, rather than annoyed. Nell didn’t trust this sudden amiability.
“Which leaves James without a secretary,” her ladyship said.
Why on earth were they involving Nell in this discussion? “Perhaps your steward can help.”
“Powter is far too busy. And he has an abominable hand.” Leath studied her with an expression she couldn’t read, although it made her shift uncomfortably.
“Nell writes beautifully. Her letters are works of art,” the marchioness said. “She could help you, James.”
Nell was so shocked that she fumbled the cup and spilled tea on her skirts. Nervously she slid the cup and saucer onto a small table and reached for a napkin to dab at the stain.
“Clearly she’s overjoyed at the prospect.” Leath’s voice was as dry as sawdust.
“I’m not qualified,” she said unsteadily.
“Don’t be a goose, Nell,” the marchioness said. “You’re the most capable young woman I know. Is there anything you can’t do?”
I can’t resist your son. She set the creased napkin on the tea tray and told herself to stop acting like the goose her ladyship had called her. “I certainly don’t feel up to filling Mr. Crane’s shoes.”
There, that came out almost sensibly.
The marchioness made an airy gesture. “It’s only until James arranges another secretary from London. A couple of weeks at the most.”
“What about my duties with you?” Under her lashes, Nell glanced at Leath. He looked particularly enigmatic. She wondered how he’d reacted when his mother had suggested this scheme.
“We’ll try mornings with James and afternoons with me. We’ll see how it works.”
“His lordship may decide I’m completely inadequate.”
He shot Nell a searing look. “Do you intend to ensure that’s the case?”
She started with surprise, although it wasn’t a bad strategy if she wanted to avoid him. “No, of course not.”
“I’m collating a major report. It’s essential I finish it,” he said.
“It sounds complicated,” Nell said doubtfully.
“So you won’t help me?”
Oh, dear God, when he put it like that, how could she refuse? In truth, she was torn. The prospect of hours in the marquess’s company terrified her. Already he’d undermined her defenses. She didn’t need to see his brilliance in action. Because she had a sinking feeling that he was brilliant. His intelligence drew her almost as strongly as his big, strong body did.
On the other hand, this could be her opportunity. His secretary would have access to his papers. Perhaps the diary was amongst them.
“Good Lord, Miss Trim, I’m not asking you to do anything that you don’t already do for my mother,” he said impatiently. “There’s no need for this soul-searching.”
She leveled her shoulders and tried to convince herself that this wasn’t a horrible mistake. “My lord, I’m willing to try. Thank you for your confidence.”
Which raised another question. Why on earth did he want to work with her when he didn’t trust her?
Leath soon recognized his blunder in taking Miss Trim as his secretary. But he needed help to finish these reports. And despite the thaw in their relations—a thaw that had turned into a tropical heatwave in his bedroom—he still didn’t trust her. He wanted her under his eye until he learned her scheme.
He hadn’t bargained on how disturbing her nearness would prove. After a week of struggling to pretend that Miss Trim was a female version of Crane, he was exhausted. And making vilely small progress in his work. The moment she glided into his library, all thought of political economy scurried out the opposite window.
He couldn’t even censure her for encouraging his distraction. She’d reverted to perfect servant mode. If she was infatuated with him, she did nothing to put herself forward. Instead, she was almost eerily self-effacing, speaking only when spoken to, willing to assist but not to make suggestions, fading into the background in her gray dresses.
Perhaps his kisses had killed her romantic interest. Perhaps she’d never had a romantic interest and she’d been in his room for some other purpose. For the life of him, he couldn’t think what that could be. He found it impossible to see this self-possessed woman succumbing to curiosity and invading his room, however much she fancied him.
Even now, when she read out a list of figures that would bore any reasonable man into catatonia, he couldn’t help recalling what they’d done in that wide bed upstairs. Her soft sighs when he’d kissed her. His hand curving around her breast. Worse, he couldn’t help imagining what would have happened if she hadn’t protested.
Leath stood staring out the window at the unseasonably fine day. He hoped the view would distract him from Miss Trim.
No chance.
Her docility should make things easier. But it… didn’t.
“My lord?” She clearly thought that low voice placed them on a purely professional footing. Instead it made him imagine her whispering naughty suggestions in his ear as he slid inside her. He burned to see her naked with that fairy hair drifting around her like a veil, offering glimpses of the white body beneath. Eve before original sin.
He turned. “I’d like to ride out to the drainage project in the west pastures.”
From behind Crane’s desk, she regarded him with that unreadable gaze that had driven him mad all week. “I’ll finish that letter to your agent in Staffordshire.”
“No, I want you
to come with me,” he said, and saw his own surprise at the suggestion he hadn’t intended to make reflected in her face.
Then she once again became a cipher. “I don’t ride, my lord.”
She didn’t want to accompany him. He couldn’t blame her. She’d have to be dead not to feel the prickling sexual awareness.
“We can take the gig.” He paused. “It’s probably the last good weather. Don’t you long to be out in the fresh air?”
Something wistful flashed in her eyes, but it vanished so quickly that he couldn’t be sure. His voice deepened to persuasion, although they both knew that if he issued an order, she must obey. “Even my mother is sitting on the terrace. It’s inhuman to stay cooped up.”
At Miss Trim’s reluctant smile, triumph surged. Lately she hadn’t smiled at him, much as he resented noting the lack. Damn it, he should be glad that she played down the sizzle between them. But he’d reached a point where one more minute in this room would have him flinging her onto the couch and taking his pleasure.
“As you wish, my lord. I’ll fetch my bonnet and shawl.”
Cursing his susceptibility to this prim female, he rang to order the gig brought around. Perhaps a brisk moorland breeze would blow some sense into his thick head.
As he sat beside Miss Trim in the gig’s confoundedly confined seat, Leath derided himself for a mutton-headed idiot. Every jolt bumped his hip against hers. On the drive from the house and bowling through the village outside the gates, that created a damned suggestive rhythm.
Bump. Release. Bump. Release.
He thought he’d go mad with it.
Worse came when they struck the rough track over the moors and the bumps became more violent. The contact of hip to hip lasted until he felt her heat through her serviceable merino dress, and her sweet, fresh scent filled his senses. He wished to Hades he could buy her some new clothes. Scarlet. Cut low. Clinging where gray wool suggested. What quirk of his nature made her puritanical costumes so provocative? Perhaps if she dressed to seduce, he’d lose this itch to tear every respectable thread away.
A Scoundrel by Moonlight Page 10