He had kissed her. He had pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He’d done his best to be gentle, trying to express tender, sweet affection with the touch of his lips to hers.
Only somehow, when he pressed his lips to hers—why had it felt like kissing a statue?
Because she had stiffened? Because he had been a touch intimidated by her perfection—that perfect mouth, perfect nose, those perfect eye, and the perfect curves that previously his hands had ached to hold? He certainly had held himself back, despite her quips about violent passion. She was, after all, a delicate young lady who had been sheltered from life. He had no wish to frighten her. When he pulled away, she had stared at him, eyes wide and that perfect mouth pulling down at the corners.
He had not been able to bear the look in her eyes—the disappointment.
But it was only an awkward first kiss, he told himself. He had done as poorly with his first mistress, had he not? And he had promised himself to move slowly. To take his time with this. Real love deserved such consideration.
But the moment left him confused, and rather put out about the whole thing. Just as he had felt at fourteen when he accidentally knocked over his mother’s favorite Grecian statue, causing poor Athena to lose the only hand she had had left and getting him another of those agonizing sermons from his father on what he owned his name, his titles, and his position. As if any of that had to do with knocking over a statue.
Looking up at Miss Audrey Colbert, he realized he was still standing in the hall. He had been staring into space. He had better manners than that.
He dredged up a smile. “It’s a rather daunting thing to have just proposed and been accepted—and it has left me unaccountably dumbfounded. Do forgive me.”
She came forward, her hand extended. “Oh, please. There is nothing to forgive. And, do...well, please allow me to be the first to wish you happy.”
Smiling, he took her hand. Such a sensible woman. If not for her encouragement, he would not have hoped to win his Chloe. His Chloe. He could not stop his chest from puffing out. His titles and wealth had drawn other females, but such things ought to be of little importance to a woman of deep feelings and sensitivity. A woman such as Chloe. She had her own wealth, and beauty enough to lure a duke to her. But she had accepted him.
He glanced back at the drawing room, frowning, hearing again Chloe’s voice as had she rehearsed the title she would soon wear. That had been a bit odd for a woman who set so little value on such a thing.
A soft voice pulled him from his thoughts again. “No wonder you looked dazed.”
Arncliffe glanced at Miss Colbert and smiled. “Would you—I told Chloe I would see myself out, but would you walk me to the door? I have a need for your council, if you will be so kind as to give it.”
Swallowing hard, Audrey nodded and started down the stairs. Lord Arncliffe kept pace with her, a solid, unsettlingly male presence. She ought to have found an excuse as to why she could not help him—she really had no business acting as his confidant. Not with him now engaged to her cousin. But she had not been able to resist that pleading look in his eyes.
“Miss Colbert—oh, confound it, if we are to be cousins, can it not be something simpler?”
Audrey smothered a smile. “Of course, my lord. As you wish, my lord.”
He glanced at her, frowning. But his expression relaxed. “You are teasing me, I hope. I do get fed up with all the pomp and privilege, however.”
“Until you need to use it?”
He grinned. “Yes, until I need to use it. I am caught out as a hypocrite—if I wanted to be judged solely for myself, I ought to have styled myself Mr. Connor Derwent and had done with all the rest of it.”
“But then you would have become the odd lord who won’t call himself what he is. You would still have had a label around your neck, a far harder one for others to get around than merely being another marquess.”
“Another marquess—I like the sound of that. As if we were as common as daisies on the road edge.”
“You are, I assure you. Particularly this season. It is just that you are marriageable, and marriageable marquesses are in short supply at the moment. Especially ones with a fortune and who are thought handsome.”
His mouth twisted. “I would be thought handsome if I were eighty and had only one eye, so long as I also had my titles and the money to support them.”
“True enough. But after you settle with Chloe...”
“I shall be envied then for my wife.”
Audrey’s smile froze. She forced a light tone into her voice.“Yes. Yes, you shall be. And a fine wife she will be for you.”
Arncliffe stopped on the landing and turned to her. “Will she? And will I make a good enough husband for her? I am afraid I did all the wrong things—no bent knee, no moonlight, no music, and the wrong scent even.”
“Chloe said all that to you, my lord?”
“Please spare me from more titles and call me Connor?”
“Very well—though I would rather not be Cousin Audrey. That has rather an old, grim sound to it.”
He took her hand. “What if I call you Audrey—simply Audrey.”
She tried to make a joke of it. “Better than simple Audrey, I suppose.”
“I fear I am the simple one. What is it that women think romantic, Audrey? Can you help me with that? What would Chloe think romantic? I failed her on the proposal and I would rather get the rest of it right.”
She parted her lips to tell him to forget such nonsense as moonlight and scents. What Chloe needed was guidance and a strong hand. But she glanced at him and hesitated, doubt washing over her like a cold rain. She had been so certain of herself—so certain that she was doing good. Had she?
“Do you love her?” she asked.
For a moment, he stared at the dark blue runner on the stairs. At last he looked up at her. The mixed green and brown in his eyes made her think of deep forest glens, like those isolated enchanted ones from childhood tales. The faintest brush of gold flakes warmed the centers. “With all my heart, I love her.”
Something twisted in her chest.
Looking down, she saw that he still held her fingers. Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled her hand away. She had to wet her lips before she could find her voice. “Then she is very lucky, and I can hardly advise you more than to continue as you are.”
Turning, Audrey hurried down the stairs ahead of him. The porter jumped up from his chair beside the front door to hold out his lordship’s tall hat, his tan gloves, and his mahogany walking stick. She turned to her cousin’s husband-to-be, a smile pasted on her lips, her poise back in place. She could not let him see how those words had torn her open—she dared not. Oh, what a fool she was.
But at least she had the satisfaction of knowing she had done the right thing for him—and for Chloe.
* * *
“Why can you not write him for me?” Chloe protested. “You know how I hate when the ink stains my fingers—and it always spatters my gown! And I never think of the right words to put down until two days later—but you always think of them!”
Audrey turned from Chloe’s wardrobe where she had been selecting the gown for Chloe to wear tonight. “Because, cousin, I shan’t be there forever to write your notes to him. You must wish to express your thoughts and feelings. This is the most important occasion of your life!”
Frowning, Chloe held up her left hand. The diamonds on her finger winked in the candlelight. “Do you think that your toes ought to tingle when a gentleman kisses you?”
“No gentleman ought to kiss you unless he has proposed to you and been accepted—so you had best be speaking of Con—of Lord Arncliffe.”
“Oh, I was—in a fashion. And do stop giving me that head-mistress face, for it makes me feel I am back at that awful Miss Minton’s Academy. Besides, I cannot help it if gentlemen always seem to want to kiss me.”
“It is not the wanting that concerns me—it is the allowing. You are engaged now—to Arncliffe.”
Chloe sat up on her bed and hugged her knees. “Yes—and it is quite lovely. I shall be Lady Arncliffe! And that wretched Miss Dunlow who thought she would catch him will be quite put in her place!”
Coming over to Chloe’s bed, Audrey sat down, a white silk gown shot with gold clutched in her arms. “You do realize there is a man behind that title—a gentleman who cares a great deal for you. He is not a fish that you landed and should now parade to show your success.”
“Oh, yes, I know. A fish is horrid and smelly.” She gave a sigh. “But I do wish he could kiss better.”
“Better? Save his learning to kiss you at all for your wedding night. Now come and get dressed or you shall be late to dinner with his mother and his aunts.”
Chloe watched, eyelids lowered, as her cousin rose from the bed. When Audrey turned her back, Chloe stuck out her tongue. She pulled it back and bit the tip of it. She ought not to blame Audrey for having to dine with a bunch of old ladies who would no doubt be boring and would fall asleep after the tea tray. Well, at least they could admire her ring.
Feeling better, she sat up, all smiles.
She had stopped smiling by the time she met Arncliffe’s frosty mother and his staid, dour aunts. Stiff old biddies, far worse than she had expected. She had to put on her best manners, simpering like a ninny, keeping her eyes downcast, acting like a little dolt. The only spot of fun she had was when she winked at a rather dashing footman, making him blush. Of course, he could not keep his stare away from her for the rest of the night and that put her in better humor.
But Arncliffe did not even try to kiss her. Not once. No indiscreet whispers in her ears. No hot glances. No stolen presses of her hand in his wonderfully large ones.
He did look quite handsome, however, in his black evening clothes, his hair smooth as old gold. Although she wished he did not always look so sober. She could also wish that he had dark hair, and not such hard features. However, when she glimpsed their reflection in the library mirror after dinner and saw how well they looked together, she almost forgave him for his restraint. She did so like men with broad shoulders.
But, lud, what a dull, dull evening.
Would every night be like this?
That thought swept terror into her as she sat in the carriage on the way home, wedged between her cousin and her aunt. They had come along, too, although Audrey had looked oddly pale and said hardly anything to anyone. Anyone might have thought she was sickening, but Audrey was never ill.
Aunt Colbert was going on and on about such a beautiful house, and such polite company, and how Arncliffe was such a gentleman.
Chloe took a breath and forced her shoulders to relax. It could not possibly be like this every night. His mother would not live with them, nor would the aunts. Thank heavens his father had passed away years ago, otherwise, he would not now be a marquess. And he did have a lovely house, with its own square even—Arncliffe Square.
Why had he not at least kissed her hand?
Wistfully, Chloe stared out the window, remembering a man who had not been a gentleman with her—a man who had taken the kiss he wanted from her. A searing kiss, his lips so warm and firm, his tongue coaxing open her mouth until a jolt of intimacy at such a thing when straight through her.
He had also told her right after that he wanted her for her money, and her good looks were just a bonus. When she had scorned him, he had laughed at her. His Irish brogue lifted his taunting words as he told her that he would have her anyway. She had been thrilled—and a little terrified. She had slapped his dark face, spun on her heel and run from him, away from the terrace where he had led her after their dance.
She had met him since, riding in the park, or at the theater. Sometimes he escorted other ladies. But always he came to her, staying away long enough to make her angry with him, teasing her with his touches, with his assumption that she would have him.
Him? An Irishman? An obvious fortune hunter?
Never!
But still he had watched her. And she had watched him as well. She also had wondered what might have happened if she had not run from him that night?
However, a rogue such as him would not have made her a marchioness. He could give her nothing she really wanted. No position. No real security. She would always be fretting about his wandering eye, and would probably have to watch him fritter away her fortune.
No, she would marry Arncliffe. She would. And she would stay away from his boring mother, and his dull aunts, and she would make him make life fun for her. She would.
Even so, she fell asleep dreaming of black eyes and a dark-haired man with a glinting smile.
* * *
Audrey smothered a yawn as she opened the morning paper. She had always had breakfast with her father, she with The London Times and he with The Morning Post. She had still not given up the habit, even with him gone these past eight years.
However, the real truth behind her early rising of late was that she had been unable to sleep. It showed on her face, she feared, in the dark circles gathering under her eyes and the fatigue that even now numbed her mind.
But it would pass. Ten days had slipped away since the betrothal. The announcement had appeared in the papers. The vicar had only two more Sundays to call out and say that Connor Derwent, Lord Arncliffe, was to marry Miss Chloe Anne Colbert unless there should be anyone who could say why they should not marry. Of course, no one would ever say such a thing.
The invitations had gone out three days ago. No one would think twice now of how tired Audrey looked during the next fortnight, for everyone would be looking at Chloe, as they usually did. She would be mercifully busy, for there were still flowers to choose, wines to order, decorations to arrange for the wedding breakfast afterwards, and a dozen other things to keep one too occupied to feel anything other than exhaustion.
She heard her mother’s cane thumping—fast and unsteady—and she put down her paper. What was wrong?
Panic tightened her chest. She started for the door. Her mother stepped in, still in her nightcap and billowing dressing gown, her cane tight in one hand, and waving a note in the other hand. “She’s gone—Chloe’s gone. I think she’s been abducted!”
CHAPTER THREE
Audrey almost laughed, this news sounded so absurd. However, her mother’s expression did not look the least teasing—not with her cheeks flushed and worry glazing her eyes.
Taking the crumpled sheet from her mother’s trembling fingers, she scanned the black, strong hand scrawled across the vellum as her mother’s words tumbled out. “It’s that Irishman. It must be. He’s the only Fitzjoy we know! Oh, I ought to have warned Chloe against him!”
“You did, Mother. So did I. As well as warning him off as best possible,” Audrey said, rubbing the knot between her eyebrows. She could box Chloe’s ears for having proven such easy prey—running off to meet him at a midnight masquerade. Of all the silly things! A sick knot tightened in her stomach. She looked up from Fitzjoy’s note and glanced at the gilt-edged clock set on the carved mantle. Gone seven hours already. The girl would be ruined if word of this became known—her reputation would be fixed as a fast girl who had spent the night with a rogue.
Glancing at her mother, Audrey asked, “How did Fitzjoy get this note to Chloe? Was it through Meg?”
“Oh, but you cannot blame poor Meg if she is a touch foolish.”
“I can and I will dismiss her for her folly if this destroys Chloe’s life! I specifically told Meg about Fitzjoy the first time I intercepting one of his missives. The man’s a blackguard! For all we know, Chloe is already...already...”
“Please do not say it! We must hope that fence has not yet been jumped. But if it has, what are we to tell Arncliffe?”
Taking her mother’s hand, Audrey led her to the round, cherry-wood breakfast table, seated her, and poured her coffee. “Drink this, love, and do not distress yourself further. Fitzjoy must have marriage in mind, which may be her salvation, for it means a long carriage ride to Sc
otland. And you know how she is in a closed carriage.”
A faint smile lifted Mrs. Colbert’s mouth. “Oh, yes. Yes, I had not thought of that. That will slow them—but what are we to do? I supposed we ought to send for Uncle Ivor and—”
“Uncle Ivor? I cannot see him stirring his bulk from his club, not even for this disaster. And if we are to avoid scandal, there must be as little said about this as possible.”
“Does that me we must accept Fitzjoy as Chloe’s husband? How very uncomfortable a relation that shall be.”
Audrey threw Fitzjoy’s note onto the table. She saw her duty clear, and seeing it made her want to throttle her cousin. Of all the—
She caught the recriminations before they could fully form. Fuming wasted time. Starting for the door, she called back, “Tell everyone—even that simpleton Meg—that Chloe and I had to leave town of a sudden. Better still, I shall impress upon Meg the story I want her to know.”
Mrs. Colbert plucked the note from the table. “But what of this?”
“Oh, just say that Chloe departed with me after returning from that foolish masquerade.”
“Buy why would she—or you—gallop off in such a fashion?”
Pausing at the door, one hand on the cold, brass knob, Audrey waved her other hand, desperation tightening around her chest. “Darling, can you not make up some elderly, invalid relative, and some dreadful immediate illness?”
“There’s her Aunt Sylvie?”
“She’ll do.”
“But she’s quite a healthy sixty.”
“Then have her struck by lightning—or something else startling. I really cannot think of what just now.”
“But where ever will you be?
Audrey offered a grim smile and said, “Where else—chasing after Chloe!”
* * *
With her face turned toward the carriage window and her scented handkerchief pressed to her mouth, Chloe struggled for control over her body.
The voice, so melodious with its hint of Irish lilt, came from the opposite corner of the coach, a touch of amusement in the tone, and scraped across her nerves like a knife across slate. “Sulking still, dear one?”
Stolen Away: A Regency Novella Page 2