Dysart helped himself to another swig of ale. “That a fact? D’ ye tell secrets to yer footmen?”
For some odd reason, Rowan felt a ridiculous urge to look about the common room and make sure no one could overhear. “I haven’t got any.” Not in his personal employ, at least. “Can’t afford the salary.”
“P’rhaps I should be askin’ how ye were planning on paying me.”
“I can afford you.” Or rather, his wife could.
Dysart lowered his brows. “I’m not so sure.”
Rowan pushed back from the table. Enough was enough. “Find Higgins, then. You find him, you’ll find the money, and you’ll be paid.”
Chapter Thirteen
Twenty-two. Emma raised her candlestick, squinted toward the back of the shelf, and counted the bottles again, but their number remained obstinately the same. Her stomach twisted. Six bottles of her papa’s private collection missing. Six bottles of the finest Hermitage. Not even the king had access to this vintage.
Blast it all.
She forced herself to inhale slowly through her nose. The chill air in the wine cellar carried the heavy scent of damp earth and mustiness. Setting her candle on the empty shelf, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She must ask Grundy to question the servants, naturally, but another suspicion chased the first thought from her mind.
Her husband had served one of the missing bottles to her on their wedding night. A little tonic for the nerves—a frightfully rare and costly tonic, but he hadn’t known it at the time. Now he was aware of the bottles’ existence, but he couldn’t have drunk them. She’d have noticed by now if he made a habit of over-imbibing. Since that first day, she hadn’t seen him in his cups, not once.
Taking up the candle once more, she turned for the door. The cellar was far too chilly this time of year to endure for long, and she clearly wasn’t going to find the answers to her questions on an empty shelf.
She rounded the aisle and nearly collided with a solid wall; although, for a wall, it was suspiciously warm and pliant. Battencliffe.
“Good heavens, what are you doing sneaking about?” That came out rather more sharply than necessary, but her heart was only just settling back into her chest.
“I came looking for you. Grundy said you were down here, if you must know.”
Looking for her, indeed. Ever since yesterday morning’s encounter in the study, he’d been carefully avoiding her. He’d gone out goodness only knew where and didn’t come in until late in the evening. She’d lain awake, waiting in vain for him to come through the connecting door.
“Did he tell you what I was doing?”
“No.”
“I’ve been taking inventory. It seems a few bottles of Papa’s private store have disappeared.” She set her candle on a spare table, where an open bottle already sat. A nice strong claret but fit for everyday consumption. No doubt Grundy had set it out to breathe for their supper before he left on his half day. Wishful thinking on the butler’s part. Since their wedding day, they hadn’t dined together once. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
Battencliffe drew himself up. Given their past interactions, she could hardly blame him. “If you’re going to accuse me of drinking them, I haven’t.”
“But…Your pardon. I wish I didn’t have to point this out.” Truly, she didn’t. Part of her recognized that, as badly as this marriage had begun, Battencliffe had made certain efforts. Yes, he showed reluctance when it came to dealing with his finances, but he had made an attempt to calm her wedding-night nerves. He had demonstrated a desire to get to know her, even if she didn’t always know how to reply to his questions. For those reasons, she wanted to be absolutely certain of his innocence. “You did know of them, their value.” And in all the time he’d spent away from the townhouse over the past days, he could have peddled them, no matter that she hoped to goodness he hadn’t.
“I haven’t touched the bloody wine.” He spat the denial. “Not to drink, not to sell. Although suddenly the thought of a glass wouldn’t go amiss. Though I prefer something stronger.” He raked a hand through his hair and looked away. “In fact, this entire house requires something stronger.”
“What?” Granted, she’d confronted him directly enough to set him off, but the circumstances didn’t seem to warrant such an extreme reaction. What did the house have to do with it?
“Nothing.” Again, that keen edge to his voice.
Time to try a different tack. “What did you come after me for, then? Surely you can’t be asking for another session at balancing the books.”
Blast, and why had she made reference to that disaster? Her snappy reply called up inadvertent images of sitting in his lap while his hands wandered. Her nipples tightened as if his thumbs were once again teasing them to hardness.
That entire encounter had remained decidedly incomplete. Her body somehow knew it, and her brain kept calling up reminders at the most inconvenient of times.
Such as now.
He stepped closer. Too close. The freshness of sandalwood cut through the mustiness of the cellar. “If I asked you to, would you give it to me?”
Good Lord, how did he do that? The question might have been perfectly innocent but for the husky note underlying the words. She’d give him anything he wanted as long as he continued to talk to her in just that seductive tone.
No, he’s distracting you, the same way he did yesterday. This was his war; this sensuality was nothing but a salvo. Would it be so bad if he won? He’d have to, eventually, if she was ever to bear him his heir.
“Heaven only knows you need the practice.” There. Let him make of that what he wanted. “And while we’re on the subject, it occurs to me that you might start learning what estate management entails.”
“My brother doesn’t even bother with that.” Any hint of seduction dropped out of his voice, and his words once more took on an argumentative edge. “He lets his land steward handle those matters.”
“I thought we’d established that letting someone else see to these things for you is a good way to get fleeced.” She crossed her arms against the penetrating chill. “It’s the same principle as doing your own books. That way no one can cheat you.”
He made no reply to that. He simply mimicked her stance, folding his arms. Although she couldn’t see very well in the flickering candlelight, she imagined him setting his square jaw.
“You’ve a whole town full of resources, you know, with so many landowners in for the Season and more coming every day. You could talk with them. See how they manage.”
“I imagine every last one of them leaves it to a land steward, same as my brother.”
“I’ve been looking into it. Lord Highgate has extensive properties in Dorset. The Marquess of Enfield holds lands in Kent, as does his younger brother. I hear the brother does quite well breeding horses.”
“Yes, and there’s also Higgins in Derbyshire,” he muttered.
“There you are, though I haven’t heard of him. Then in Cornwall, the heir to the Epperley title holds more than one manor.”
“Yes, his grandmother lives in one, and trust me, you don’t want to deal with her.”
“And then there’s Lord Lindenhurst.”
“Lindenhurst?” He released a breath as if he’d just been punched in the gut. “Who told you anything about him?”
Oh dear. She hadn’t meant to pry into Battencliffe’s past. The name had come out in all innocence. “I hear he’s in Town,” she said cautiously.
He turned his head to one side, studying her from the corner of his eye. “Yes, but who told you?”
“His wife paid me a call.”
Blowing out another breath, he strode across the room and back. “You met his wife?”
“Yes, just the other day.”
A silence. Then, “What did she tell you?”
“Nothing.” Only that dropped hint, which had to be unintentional. But yes, there was clearly something behind it. Something in
Battencliffe’s past he’d prefer to keep hidden. Part of her wanted to lay a hand on his arm. She suspected that under his polished veneer, he was shaking. “Not anything of substance. And what would you expect from a first meeting?”
“There won’t be another.” He fired off the order rapidly. “Not if I have any say in the matter. She must have had a reason for coming.”
“She wished to meet me. And she may have hinted at a history between you two.”
“What. Did. She. Say?” Each precisely clipped word trembled with agitation.
“Nothing clear. I meant to ask you for details when the time is right. Clearly, this is not it.”
“No. No, it’s not. What’s more, it will never be. How dare she—”
Abruptly, he turned and stalked to the entrance. Emma was certain he was about to walk out on her, or she would have stopped him. Too late, she realized his intent.
“Wait!” Her order echoed off the walls not a second after he slammed the door closed. She rushed over and pulled on the handle. Drat it all. The latch had caught. “You realize you’ve just shut us in?”
“What?”
“Why did you close the door?” She fought to keep her tone even, especially since her teeth were likely to begin chattering at any moment.
“I didn’t want to chance the servants overhearing.”
“It’s their half day. We’ll be down here for hours before anyone misses us.”
“Nonsense.” He reached for the handle and pulled. When the door refused to budge, he yanked. “What the devil sort of door is this?”
“A broken one. Once it’s closed, you can open the latch only from the outside. Papa meant to have it repaired, but he hadn’t got round to it. Since the servants were all aware, we reckoned there was no danger. They all know to leave the door open when they’re down here.”
“That’s utterly ridiculous.” He beat his fists on the door and shouted.
“No more ridiculous than carrying on so. There’s no one to hear you.”
Still, he kept at it, while Emma hugged herself against a growing chill. At last, he let out a string of curses that would have made Aunt Augusta reach for the sherry. He landed a final jab in the center of the door and came away shaking his hand.
“What have you done to yourself?” Emma asked.
He shrugged. “My fists have suffered worse against human opponents. Bony things, noses.”
“Let me see.” She took his hand in both of hers. The skin over his knuckles had split. “You’re bleeding.”
“So I am.” He produced a handkerchief for her to bind about the wound. And then he turned the tables on her, wrapping his fingers about hers. “Your hands are blocks of ice. How long have you been down here?”
“Long enough to count the wine bottles twice.”
His fingers went to the buttons down his front. “Take my coat.”
“What good will that do? Then you’ll be cold.”
“I insist. It’s only fair since it’s my fault we’re stuck here.” He shrugged the garment off and set it about her shoulders. His freshness and the warmth of his body surrounded her as she poked her arms into the sleeves. “I shall simply have to find another way to warm myself.”
Despite their contrariness, her heart gave a hopeful patter that his methods would somehow involve cuddling close. Until, that was, he reached for the open bottle of wine breathing on the table.
“It isn’t brandy, but in a pinch it will do.” He set the bottle to his lips and took a swig before offering it to Emma. “I suppose this is more of the forbidden private stock?”
“Not this one.” She inhaled the bouquet before taking a mouthful. She closed her eyes to fully experience the flavor of this vintage. Heavy and rich, the wine trickled warmth down to her belly, its acidity an ache at the curve of her jaw. “This is quite a decent claret, but the flavor isn’t as subtle as the Hermitage.”
His gaze was fixed on her throat. Slowly, he raised his fingers and traced them down the column. The movement sent a bolt of heat into her belly, headier than any sip of wine. Good Lord, he might be more intoxicating than the entire bottle if he insisted on staring at her with such intensity.
“I enjoy simply watching you drink,” he murmured in a raspy tone she somehow associated with kissing. “The expression of pleasure on your face…”
“Why not share in the indulgence?” She proffered the bottle. “Take a sip and tell me what you taste.”
He did so, wiping the back of his hand across his lips. “Wine.”
“Well, yes, but not all wines taste the same. This one—” She took another mouthful and held it for a moment. “—holds hints of plum and…well, earth.”
He gave her a grin that bode no good at all. “I suppose I could give it another go, but if I taste anything remotely resembling horse manure, you can have the bottle.”
“If you let yourself become intoxicated, you’ll lose all the subtlety.”
“Because horse manure is the very definition of subtlety.” He took another mouthful. “Thankfully the horses were pastured somewhere away from the grapes.” Eyeing her, he set the bottle down. “You could laugh, you know. Are you always so serious?”
She folded her arms. Despite the fine wool of his coat and the claret in her belly, the chill had settled into her bones. “I’m serious about good wine.”
“And your account books and everything else I’ve seen you do. What would it take to get you to smile once in a while?”
“You learning how to keep proper accounts.”
“You see? Completely incorrigible. I mean to do something about that.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, rubbing up and down her arms.
“What can you do? It is my nature. You cannot change me.”
“I can make you laugh.”
Oh, good Lord. No, he really couldn’t. She would not allow it. But she could not summon the words that would stop him while he stroked her like that. She wanted those hands on her. She wanted them at her waist, her thigh, her breast…But most of all, those scandalous places he had promised.
“What? No protest? You’re even taking the challenge out of this. But no matter.”
He pulled her into his arms, flush against his body. She didn’t question the action; she simply wrapped herself about him, drinking in the heat radiating from his person. His big hands spread across her back and pressed her close.
“Now, what shall we do to make you laugh? Certainly not jokes about German sausage. They’re the wurst.”
She raised her head from his shoulder. “That was bad.”
“No, I just said it was the worst.”
Her lips quirked upward. She couldn’t stop them. To cover the movement, she said, “How is it you’re not known to all society for your profound witticisms?”
“This isn’t wit. It’s intentionally poor humor. And I saw you. You nearly smiled. So why don’t I tell you about the time I stayed up all night? I wanted to see where the sun went, but then it dawned on me.”
If the heat of his body weren’t so delicious, she’d have pulled away and crossed her arms. “Really, now.”
“No? Let me think.” He reached behind her for the wine bottle. “Maybe you should have some more. It may help.”
“There isn’t enough wine in the world to drown out such drivel.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Which reminds me of the time I went to the theater to see a performance on puns. You know.” He winked. “A play on words.”
Her jaw dropped, the line was so awful. At the same time, she expelled a gust of air that some unforgiving soul might mistake for the beginning of a laugh.
An unforgiving soul such as her husband. “Careful there, I nearly had you. Perhaps you don’t actually believe people who indulge in bad puns ought to be banished.”
“From society, perhaps. They’re a danger to themselves.”
“Some feel they should be drawn and quoted.”
She couldn’t help herself. Laughter b
ubbled up from somewhere inside, an entire gale of it. It emerged in a loud, full-throated bray, just the way Miss Conklin hated it. Emma clapped her hand to her mouth far too late to contain the noise. Cheeks heating, she pulled out of her husband’s embrace.
“There, was that so hard?” His voice was light and teasing. No doubt he would repeat to all his friends that he’d married a young lady with the world’s most embarrassing laugh.
“You see why I hide that?” She couldn’t even look him in the face, for fear of seeing mockery.
“Yes, I do, actually.” His tone was still light, but she didn’t at all expect what he did next. He pulled her back into his embrace. “I’m glad you did, because now I know something about you that no one else does.” He set his lips just beneath her ear, hot and sensuous.
“You have a laugh that sends me straight to the bedchamber. It makes me want to swive you until neither of us has breath or sense left.”
Good heavens. Heat filled her, beyond the nearness of his body. She wasn’t at all sure what swiving was, but he made it sound deliciously sinful.
Still, she deprecated. “It’s not decorous.”
“No, it isn’t. And that’s why it’s perfect. I want to hear it again and often.”
Yet more heat flooded her at that admission. Not just in her midsection, but in the region of her heart. He’d accepted a part of her she thought offensive to polite society. It was certainly offensive to Miss Conklin. Battencliffe not only accepted, but dear Lord, he approved. The acceptance alone was a gift she couldn’t set a price on.
She stared at him, unable to summon a more intelligent response than her dropped jaw. His gaze followed the movement to settle on her lips, and something changed in the atmosphere about them. It became charged with electricity, like a scientific parlor trick, only the spark leapt back and forth from Battencliffe to her and settled between her legs.
What a Lady Requires Page 12