‘Hazel said she knew she was in love with Lucas when she couldn’t stop thinking about him, when all she wanted was to be with him, that he had become the centre of her world.’
He scoffed again. ‘That sounds more like a mad obsession.’
‘Hmm, yes, perhaps. That’s what Hazel said as well. She said it was a bit like going slightly mad. But she also said it was rather a wonderful madness that made you giddy with happiness.’
‘And were none of the men at the Walbertons’ house party causing you to go mad or giddy?’ Not that he cared.
She laughed again, proving his point.
‘Well, yes, some of them were driving me rather insane, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t love.’
‘Driving you so mad you had to flee into a storm.’
‘Yes, rather silly of me, I know.’
‘So if you’re already mad and giddy, how are you going to tell the difference and know when you’re in love?’
Another rustle of clothing as she shrugged. ‘Well, I’m just hoping that when it happens I’ll know—just as Hazel said I would.’
‘Then I wish you luck in finding a man worthy of your giddy madness,’ he said, neither caring nor believing that she would ever find that illusory state.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, her voice equally sarcastic as his own. ‘I assume you’ve never been giddy yourself?’
Theo recoiled at the absurdity of this idea. This young woman really was quite mad.
‘I’m only joking. You don’t strike me as the giddy sort.’
That had to be an understatement. ‘Indeed, madam, I am not given to flights of giddiness.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you are. I imagine you’re always completely sensible. And a man who doesn’t believe in love would never allow himself to become giddy and certainly not to go mad over a young lady.’
Theo placed his brandy balloon on the table with more force than he intended. Why he was allowing this woman to blather on about love he had no idea. It was not a subject he wished to talk about or even think about. While young ladies may still harbour romantic illusions, love was something he had given up on six years ago. He even knew the exact date when all such delusion in that direction had disappeared from his mind, when reality had literally crashed down on him. Despite being left blind, his eyes had been opened to how fickle love was. But Lady Iris would have to discover that for herself.
As if unable to sit still for more than a second, she stood up and wandered around the room. He tried to ignore the sound of her picking up items and placing them back down again. She was obviously bored, but he had no desire to engage her in further conversation. Not if it led to ridiculous discussions on the nature of love. If she wanted entertainment she could find it herself—he certainly wasn’t going to provide it. But Max had other ideas. He stirred at Theo’s feet and padded across the room again to join their guest.
‘You must feel trapped by the storm as well, don’t you, Maxie-Waxie?’ she said, to the accompaniment of a thumping tail. Max’s obvious pleasure suggested that he, for one, did not mind being trapped inside during a storm with Lady Iris.
‘Well, the room’s big enough. Shall you and I go for a nice walk?’
Max yipped his approval, and their footsteps faded as they moved to the far end of the room. Theo tried not to listen. As long as she wasn’t bashing his ears with her endless chatter she could walk around the room to her heart’s content.
Eventually, after much childish talk about Max being a clever dog, a handsome dog, a friendly dog, they returned to the fire and Max chose to sit at her feet, his tail continuing its happy thumping. Theo braced himself for more mindless conversation. She said nothing. Good.
‘Now you’re doing it,’ she said as her soft hand touched his.
‘What?’ he barked out in surprise.
‘Drumming your fingers. I thought you said you didn’t like the noise.’
Theo had been unaware of his actions, but it was impossible to not be aware of the warm hand encasing his own. Nor could he ignore his own reaction, that jolt that shot through his body, the fire that erupted deep within him, the craving for more, that was all but consuming him.
He tugged his hand away. Young ladies did not touch gentlemen in that way, and surely she must know that. Her actions were merely further proof that she did not see him as she saw other men. If he needed evidence of how this Lady Iris regarded him, as something less than a real man, then that touch would provide it.
‘I’m merely getting tired,’ he lied, his voice annoyingly constricted. ‘I believe it is time to retire.’ At least it was time he retired from her unsettling company. He reached across to grab the bell. ‘I’ll ask Charles to escort you to your room.’
He rang the bell vigorously. ‘Weather permitting, the coach will be waiting to take you home tomorrow morning when you rise.’ Please, he said in silent prayer, make sure the weather is indeed permitting.
‘You rang, my lord,’ Charles said as he appeared.
‘Yes. Please show Lady Iris to her room,’ he replied.
Hearing her rise from her chair, Theo stood up.
‘Goodnight, then, and thank you once again for your hospitality.’ There was no note of sarcasm in her voice, but surely she could not consider his behaviour hospitable.
‘Goodnight, Lady Iris,’ he said with a bow.
As she walked from the room, Max rose from the floor and began padding after her.
‘Max, heel,’ he called, shocked at the animal’s easy disloyalty.
‘Goodbye, Maxie-Waxie,’ she said. ‘At least someone will miss me when I leave tomorrow,’ she added before the door closed behind her. Max emitted a small whimper then settled down on the rug in front of the fire where he liked to sleep at night.
Theo stood for a few minutes, still turned away from the fire, staring at a door he couldn’t see. It had been an unexpectedly disturbing night. As soon as he had resumed his usual equanimity he too would retire to his bedroom and put all thoughts of Lady Iris and her silky, smooth skin out of his mind.
CHAPTER FOUR
Iris followed Charles up the stairs and along the hallway to her bedroom, pleased to see that candles had been lit along the way. It was amazing what a difference a bit of warm light could make. The house was now not as intimidating as when she had stood outside, looking up at those forbidding turrets. The hallway was like those in the homes of virtually every other aristocratic family she knew. Rich carpets underfoot, walls adorned with paintings, and an abundance of antique furniture decorated with a seemingly endless array of vases, and silver, porcelain and ceramic figurines, presumably collected over the many years the family had inhabited this grand home.
Several lit candelabra had been placed in her bedroom, which was also pleasant and welcoming, with pale blue silk-lined walls, a canopied four-poster bed, a crackling fire and comfortable furniture. Despite the Earl being unsociable, it was apparent that the servants continued to maintain the home and keep it clean and well-aired.
‘Thank you, Charles. For everything,’ Iris said, meaning every word. He, if not the Earl, had made her feel that she was not intruding.
‘You’re welcome, my lady,’ Charles said, turning down the edge of her bedding. ‘It’s nice to have a guest in the house. It has been far too long.’
Iris tilted her head in question, but Charles, the loyal servant that he was, merely bowed before leaving. She wasn’t going to get any more information out of him.
On the bed a neatly folded nightshirt had been left for her. Iris picked it up and frowned.
A nightshirt.
She shook it out and shrugged. It was no more than she should expect. Charles could hardly go into the sleeping maids’ bedrooms and remove their nightclothes for an unexpected guest.
She held it against herself. Just like the trousers and shirt, it was much
too big, and the high quality of the finely woven linen suggested it belonged to a gentleman. She would be sleeping in Theo Crighton’s nightshirt. It was a strangely intimate thing to do, and, if she had to admit, rather exciting.
That surprising little shiver rippled through her body.
What was this odd reaction to the Earl she kept having? Men never affected her the way he did. Since she made her debut five years ago, men had been endlessly attentive, at times more attentive than she would wish, but none had caused her to be so conscious of herself. None had caused her skin to tingle or her heart to flutter. Perhaps it was merely the challenge presented by a man who paid her no attention. Or perhaps it was because he was unlike any man she had met before—aloof, mysterious and rather intriguing.
She took a tentative sniff of the nightshirt, trying to once again detect his lingering scent. There it was, just a hint under the smell of the laundry soap. And there it went again, that little shiver that was now almost a familiar sensation. It made her want to close her eyes and sigh in response to the feelings that were engulfing her. She looked around the room. No one was present. He would never know. No one would know. So what harm was there if she did exactly what she wanted to? No harm at all. She buried her face in the nightshirt, inhaled deeply, then did indeed sigh loudly. It was delicious and, if anything was going to make her giddy and slightly mad, his masculine scent would.
Giggling at her somewhat improper behaviour, she removed her shirt and trousers, pulled the nightshirt over her head and wondered if the next time he wore it he would be able to detect her scent on it. It was impossible to imagine the Earl doing something as silly as burying his face in his nightshirt and breathing deeply. He was far too controlled for such frivolous behaviour.
She snuffed out all but one of the candles, climbed into bed and sighed again. The ever-considerate Charles had thought to have a bed-warming pan run over her sheets. Lovely.
Blowing out her bedside candle, she snuggled down into the warm bed and stared at the crackling fire.
It had been a long time since she had gone to bed this early—not since before her coming out. Usually she was up dancing at a ball to the early hours of the morning, or going to the theatre, taking a late supper, or attending one of the many other dazzling Society events held throughout the Season. But after such an eventful day she had to admit she was tired, and, as her nanny would have once said, an early night never did anyone any harm.
But, despite her physical fatigue, her brain was still wide awake, and sleep would not come. Her mind continued to whirl with images of everything that had happened during her adventurous day.
When she had left for her walk she never thought her day would end with her dressed in a man’s nightshirt, sleeping in the house of a strange earl. And he was strange, in more than one way, not just because she had not been formally introduced to him and he was unknown to her family. He was quite decidedly a most unusual man.
Iris knew she should be concerned about her situation. If anyone found out it could ruin her reputation, and possibly destroy her chances of making a good marriage. But, surprisingly, that was not worrying her as much as it should. It would upset her mother, and for that she would be deeply sorry, but, as she had not yet met a man she could truly love and whom she knew truly loved her, marriage still seemed like an unlikely prospect.
Love.
She pulled her bedcover up to her eyes, as if someone could see her blushes in the darkened room. Why had Iris actually talked about love, and to a man like him? Someone who was quite clearly scornful of such things? He must think her such a flighty featherbrain. But she did believe in love, even though she had never actually experienced it.
She wondered if the Earl had been hurt in love and that was why he was so cynical, then dismissed the possibility. Such a man would be incapable of any tender emotions, and no woman could possibly fall in love with such a morose man. She certainly couldn’t. She rolled over in the bed as if to emphasise that point.
As intriguing as he was, and as much as he elicited rather unusual and rather thrilling reactions from her, he was not the sort of man she could ever see herself married to. She liked to have fun, to laugh, dance and enjoy herself, while the Earl looked like the sort of man who didn’t know the meaning or point of having a good time.
The wind continued to howl against the side of the house, making its way down the chimney and causing the flames to flicker in the grate. Iris snuggled deeper under her warm bedcover. Yes, the Earl was a strange man indeed. He was decidedly different from every man she had ever met. His stern, handsome face entered her mind, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he had got his scars. Presumably the same terrible event that had scarred him had also left him blind.
Was it some awful accident that had caused him to be so brooding, alone in his castle? Or had he always been such a misery? Whatever it was, he did not need to be that way. No one in Iris’s family was ever miserable, at least not for long. Her mother would not tolerate it. She tolerated most things, but never self-pity. Everyone was expected to buck up and count their blessings.
Someone should give the Earl a good talking-to and her mother would be the perfect person to do it. But her mother would never meet the Earl. Unfortunately, tonight’s adventure would have to remain Iris’s little secret if she was to protect her reputation.
Iris sighed. That meant the Earl would remain just as he was, hidden away in his castle, cut off from the world and nursing his grievances.
Such a shame. Such a waste. She yawned more loudly than was entirely proper for a well-brought-up young lady. There must be someone out there who could make the Earl smile and realise that there was still joy in the world. Maybe even teach him that love really did exist. It just wouldn’t be her.
With that thought in mind, she drifted off into sleep, only to have it torn away from her when a scream ripped through the air. She sat up in bed and looked around. The dying fire was still burning slightly in the grate, providing some light, but there was no sign of what had caused that chilling sound.
Was it the wind? It was still howling outside, but no more so than it had when she fell asleep. Was it part of her dream? Was the castle haunted? She bit her lip and reminded herself that ghosts did not exist and castles were never haunted except in gothic novels.
Then she heard it again. A man was screaming out as if the hounds of hell were ripping him apart. It was no dream. Nor was it a ghost—it sounded very real and very distressed.
Her heart pounding hard against the wall of her chest, Iris climbed out of bed and with shaking fingers lit her candle. Holding the candlestick holder out in front of her, she tentatively opened the bedroom door then stopped. She had no idea where the cry had come from, did not know the house and did not know what she would do if or when she found the source of the cry, but she had to do something. She could hardly go back to bed and pretend that scream had never happened.
Slowly, she edged her way down the now dark hallway, the candlelight flickering against the walls, her shadow appearing large and unsettling.
Then she heard it again, that mournful, painful cry coming from behind her. She turned and edged her way through the semi-darkness in the direction from which the cry had come. There were so many rooms in this large house, and the darkness was making her disorientated and confused.
The cry came again, louder, more plaintive, and it was definitely from the room at the end of the hallway. Placing her hand over the lone candle so it would not be blown out, she moved swiftly in the direction of the scream.
Her hand clasped the doorknob. She stopped and took in a deep breath. She had no idea what she was about to confront but there was no other option. A man was enduring some sort of torture. She looked back up the dark hallway and wished someone else, anyone else, was about who could help, but there was no one. The servants’ quarters would be at the top of the house, too far away for them to h
ear. It would be so good to have the ever-reliable Charles with her, but in the darkness she would never be able to find his room. And even if she could it would waste time. No, it was all up to her now. Pushing open the door, she braced herself for whatever horror she was about to confront.
CHAPTER FIVE
Iris was unsure what to expect, but her imagination had spun off into wild flights of fancy. If she were in a gothic novel, then inevitably the Earl would be under attack from a supernatural demon and she, the romantic heroine, would have to save him. As unpleasant as that would be, it was still a much better option than his being attacked by a human demon, against whom Iris suspected she would stand no chance.
Slowly she opened the door and peeked around the edge. There were no demons of any kind, human or otherwise. The only occupant of the room was the Earl, thrashing about in the bed, the bedclothes tangled around him, his face contorted but his eyes closed.
A nightmare.
Her first reaction was to breathe a sigh of relief. Just a nightmare. Then she admonished herself for being so selfish. The man was being attacked by demons, neither supernatural nor human, but demons of his own making. How could she possibly feel relieved about that, just because it meant she was in no danger? Although in reality he too was in no danger, in his head, whatever demons he was wrestling with were very real. As was his agony. He still needed to be saved and there was no one else around to do it.
She looked back up the dark corridor, then slipped around the door.
This was much worse than arriving unannounced at the home of someone to whom she had not been formally introduced. Worse than visiting a man’s house alone. Even worse than staying the night in a man’s home without a chaperon. What she was about to do bordered on the scandalous.
She was unmarried. This was a man’s bedroom. They were alone. It more than bordered on scandalous—it was the very definition of scandal. But what choice did she have? And the reality was, they were alone. No one would know what she was doing. Breaches of propriety only became breaches when they became public knowledge. And scandalous behaviour couldn’t become a scandal unless people were talking about it.
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