SEDUCED AT MIDNIGHT

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  He drew a deep breath and leaned back against the oak panel. A bit too close, that escape.

  Of course, given his current mission, he was perfectly within his rights to be wandering the corridors and peeking into rooms. Still, he had no wish to be caught eavesdropping at a door crack by Lady Julianne and her friends. Bloody humiliating, that's what that would have been. An insult to his abilities as a Bow Street Runner to be discovered in such an ignominious fashion. And such detection would make it necessary to converse with Lady Julianne—without time to prepare himself first. Not something he cared to contemplate when the first thing that popped into his mind whenever he thought of her was, I want you.

  And bloody hell, it seemed as if he thought about her all the time.

  Just then he noted a sound in the corridor. He pressed his ear to the crack in the door and heard the quiet rustle of gowns. Once the sound faded, he peeked into the corridor. Lady Julianne and her cohorts were just turning the corner, clearly on their way back to the party. Good. He'd wondered what she was up to, and now he knew. So now he could focus on what he needed to concentrate on: discovering the identity of the murdering ghost thief. Excellent.

  Not wanting to return to the party directly on the heels of Lady Julianne's group and risk any chance of it appearing he'd followed them, he decided to recheck the windows to make certain they remained locked. Experience had taught him one could never be too careful or thorough. Yet even while that task should have fully occupied him, his mind was filled with her. As it had been from the first moment he'd seen her two months ago. A day he'd rue until his last breath.

  The damn woman was nothing but pure distraction. By damn, it was all her fault he'd nearly been caught. All her fault he'd felt compelled to follow her. All her fault he'd even known she'd slipped away from the party. While his watchful gaze had carefully scanned the drawing room, looking for any activities that could be deemed in the least suspicious, his eyes had been drawn to her again and again. The only reason he'd known she left the party was because he was so thoroughly, painfully aware of her. A bloody irritating situation he found himself, unfortunately, unable to control.

  Bad enough to have a woman on his mind when he needed to focus on work. But to have this particular woman embedded in his thoughts … he shook his head. Bloody hell, it was nothing short of madness, and he was nothing short of a bloody idiot. Might as well be fixated on a damn royal princess. Or on owning a fancy Mayfair town house like the one in which he now stood. Or inheriting a hundred thousand pounds. All things he would never have.

  He'd learned long ago not to waste his time and energy chasing after the impossible. Better—and much wiser—to set goals he could actually achieve. A woman like Lady Julianne Bradley was so far beyond his sphere as to be utterly laughable. Indeed, if he were insane enough to admit his ridiculous fascination with her to anyone—something that wouldn't occur without benefit of a severe blow to his head—he'd be laughed out of England.

  Yet still she haunted him. Night and day, although the nights were the worst. When he lay alone in his bed, staring at the ceiling, imaging his fingers skimming over her creamy skin. Wreaking havoc with her perfect, blond curls. Memorizing every curve. Her body over him. Under him. His body sliding deep into her silky heat—

  He cut off the thought with an exclamation of disgust and moved along to check the final window. Like the others, it remained locked. In an effort to escape his torturous thoughts, he exited the room. His intention to return to the party was waylaid as he approached the third door. The door she'd entered.

  Instinct and something else he refused to examine too closely had him slipping into the room. After closing the door behind him he drew a deep breath. And smelled only the scent of beeswax and the leather volumes that lined the walls.

  Hoping for a whiff of her, weren't you? his annoyingly honest inner voice asked.

  He wearily leaned his head back against the oak panel and dragged his hands down his face. Yes, damn it, that's exactly what he'd hoped—that her scent still lingered. What was wrong with him?

  Lady Julianne Bradley is what's wrong with you, you oaf.

  God help him, as much as he wanted to, he couldn't deny it. From the moment he'd laid eyes on her, he'd wanted her. With a raw, intense hunger unlike anything he'd ever experienced. A hunger that confounded and confused him.

  With an effort he pushed off from the door and headed across the room to recheck the multitude of windows. But the task was too mundane, one that allowed his thoughts to remain fixated on the exact thing he wished to purge from his mind. Julianne.

  Part of him wanted to simply stare at her, drink in the almost shocking flawlessness of her beauty. Never had he seen a more exquisite woman. He was accustomed to ugliness, so used to it that beauty never failed to surprise him. But never more so than her beauty. Because it was so utterly, completely pure. Of course he knew enough of her class to know her outward beauty wouldn't extend inward.

  Still, outwardly, everything about her was perfect. Her silky golden blond curls. Her smooth, creamy complexion. The perfectly matched dimples that flanked her gorgeous, perfectly shaped mouth. Her fine, delicate cheekbones. The clear sapphire blue of her eyes. He'd taken one look at her and completely forgotten the murder investigation that had brought him to her home.

  But then the other, darker half of his fascination for her had kicked in, one that hit him like a blow to the gut. The one that didn't want to simply admire her from afar but desperately longed to yank her against him, wreak havoc with all that golden blond perfection, and put out this damnable fire she'd inexplicably lit in him.

  What the bloody hell was it about her that affected him this way? Yes, she was beautiful, but it wasn't as if he'd never seen a gorgeous woman before. He'd even sampled several upper-class ladies and discovered they were not at all to his taste. Nothing but bored aristocrats looking to relieve their ennui by tupping a commoner. A brief nibble of the forbidden lower class, of a man who didn't require padding beneath his clothes to give the illusion of musculature, that titillated for a few moments before they returned to their fancy homes and neglectful husbands. He'd found those women shallow and spoiled and had forgotten them quickly once the physical passion was spent, as he was certain they'd forgotten him.

  So why was he so fascinated by Lady Julianne? Ridiculous as it seemed, part of what continually drew his eye was the way she moved: graceful, yet with an underlying energy. So many ladies of her class were so bloody limp and languid they reminded him of soggy bread. It was as if silk resided under their skin rather than bones. But Lady Julianne walked as if she had a purpose for doing so. Punctuated her words with elegant gestures of her slim hands.

  During his previous investigation he'd observed her dancing at several soirees and had been unable to tear his gaze from her. He'd never danced in his life, had never wanted to or even considered doing so. But during those waltzes, while he watched her gracefully whirl and twirl in the arms of some lucky bastard, he'd found himself wishing he were that lucky bastard. That he could sweep her into his arms and lead her around the dance floor. Feel the energy and grace of her while they became lost in the music.

  Yet it had to be more than her poise and elegance. It's those eyes, his inner voice whispered. The innocence and vulnerability shining in their deep blue depths. Possibly. He wasn't accustomed to seeing innocence in any form. Clearly the novelty of it had affected him. Made him want to admire it. But then, as he damn well knew, he'd want to steal it. Take it away from her. Make it his own.

  You're good at stealing. His conscience slyly raised its head from the grave in which he'd long ago buried it. Money. Secrets. Innocence. Lives…

  He roughly shoved that hated inner voice back to the dark, dank depths of his soul from where it had escaped. He closed his eyes, and his mind instantly conjured Lady Julianne's image. Yes, damn it, it was those eyes. She had eyes a man could get lost in. And every time he'd seen her since that first time, he had to force himself
not to succumb to the temptation to drown in those shimmering blue pools. Then there was the way she looked at him … as if she were equally as fascinated with him, something he'd obviously misread. Why would an innocent earl's daughter give a man like him so much as a second thought?

  She wouldn't, you dolt. So it's time to forget about her and concentrate on the task at hand.

  Right. The murdering ghost thief. A disparaging sound rose in his throat. Ghost indeed. There was no such thing. The person responsible for the recent rash of crimes was just that: a person. A very clever person. A very clever person Gideon had every intention of catching.

  "You might be clever," he muttered, "but you're going to make a mistake. And when you do, I'll be right there. Waiting."

  And speaking of waiting… He'd finished checking the windows and had lingered here long enough. It was time to continue his search. And he'd best remember he was looking for a criminal and not that fancy bit of aristocratic fluff. She was destined for the Duke of Eastling—his teeth clenched at the mere thought—or another fop of the same ilk. No matter what, a purebred princess like Lady Julianne would never, could never, belong to a lower-class mutt like Gideon. Which was perfect, as he didn't want or need a purebred princess. Plenty of willing women right in his own little unfancy corner of London. All he needed to do was put that distracting woman from his mind. And he would. Starting right now.

  He opened the door a crack. After ascertaining the corridor was empty, Gideon slipped from the room. He was about to head back to the party when from the corner of his eye a slight movement at the opposite end of the corridor caught his attention. Turning, he narrowed his gaze at the window marking the end of the long hallway. And saw it again. A slight ruffling of the blue velvet curtain.

  With a well-practiced silence he slipped his knife from his boot. Keeping his back against the wall, he cautiously made his way forward, every sense on alert. When he reached the end of the corridor, he quickly discovered the culprit.

  The window, which he knew had previously been locked, was now slightly open.

  Upon examining the lock, Gideon saw that it had not only been disengaged but very cleverly incapacitated in a way that would make it seem as if the lock were in place should anyone attempt to resecure the window.

  He cautiously opened the glass panels. Chilly air blew through the opening. After making certain no one was lurking about in the flower beds below, he stuck out his head and looked down at the narrow walkway along the side of the house. No footprints were visible in the soft, moist dirt.

  Leaning back inside, he inspected the sill and carpet below the window. No mud. Which meant that the window had been opened by someone in the house, and no one had used it to gain entry or escape. Yet. If he had to guess, he'd wager someone had opened the window with the intention of returning later and using it to enter the house. Of course, if the Times got wind of this, they'd no doubt speculate that a ghost wouldn't leave footprints.

  After closing the window, he used his knife to hack off a small triangle of wood from the corner of the sill then wedged the piece between the frame and the sill to create a makeshift lock. He tested his handiwork to make sure it held. Merely a temporary fix, but one that would prevent an intruder from the outside entering until Lord Daltry replaced the lock.

  Satisfied, Gideon crouched low and pushed aside the left velvet panel. Nothing save some small balls of dust. He moved aside the right panel, and grim satisfaction filled him at the glint of gold. Reaching out, he picked up the object and turned it over in his hand.

  A snuffbox. Enamel depicting a hunting scene, trimmed with gold. Obviously expensive. And obviously not the property of a ghost. A closer examination revealed no initials. Dropped by the person who opened the window? Definitely possible. No dust marred the outside of the piece, so it hadn't been behind the curtain for long.

  Gideon rose and slipped the small box into his pocket. First he'd recheck the inside of the house, then head outside to make certain no one lurked on the grounds, tasks that would require all his focus and attention, leaving no room for things he shouldn't be thinking about.

  Thank God.

  Chapter 3

  Julianne and her friends no sooner stepped into the drawing room when a pair of masculine voices said in unison, "There you are."

  They turned as a group. Matthew, Lord Langston, and Daniel, Lord Surbrooke, stood not three feet away. Their gazes were filled with what appeared to be a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

  "Yes, here we are," said Sarah in a bright voice. She slipped her hand through her husband's arm and offered him an equally bright smile. "And so are you. Where have you been?"

  Matthew cocked a brow. "Where have I been?"

  "Yes. I've been looking for you everywhere. I believe you promised me a dance."

  "As I've been standing in this exact spot—which provides an excellent view of the room, by the way—for the past quarter hour and haven't seen a trace of you until now, I'm curious as to where 'everywhere' might be," Matthew said.

  Sarah waved her hand in a vague gesture. "Oh, here and there."

  "But obviously not here."

  "Obviously, my darling husband, who simply must stop worrying about me lest I'm tempted to cosh you right here in Lady Daltry's drawing room." She shoved up her spectacles. "Don't forget; things are only found in the last place one looks for them."

  "I suppose you've been looking for me 'everywhere' as well?" Daniel said to Carolyn. Amusement laced his voice, and Julianne's breath caught at the smoldering, intimate way he was looking at his wife.

  "Naturally. Of course, it's nearly impossible to keep track of anyone in a crowd such as this."

  Daniel and Matthew exchanged a glance. Then said in unison, "They're up to something."

  Sar/di„ah raised her chin and gave an injured sniff. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Oh?" Doubt was written all over Matthew's face. "The four of you nowhere to be found, then sneaking back into the party—"

  "We weren't sneaking," Julianne felt compelled to interject.

  "Very well," conceded Matthew. "Walking back into the party in a furtive manner." His gaze encompassed all four women, then he turned toward Daniel. "You know what's going on here, don't you?"

  Daniel nodded. "Oh yes. They've clearly read another book."

  A guilty flush heated Julianne's cheeks, one she prayed neither gentleman would notice, but her prayers clearly went unanswered when Daniel's gaze locked on hers for several seconds. "And by the looks of it, it's another tome steeped in scandal."

  "Which could prove very interesting," Matthew said, his tone thoughtful, "especially given the adventures their last two reading selections initiated. What have you literary ladies been reading?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about," Carolyn said, mimicking her sister's earlier words.

  "You realize I have ways to make you reveal your secrets," Daniel said softly.

  A becoming blush suffused Carolyn's cheeks, but she pressed her lips together and remained silent.

  "How about you?" Matthew asked Sarah. "Anything to say?"

  Sarah pushed her spectacles higher on her nose. "Would you care to dance?"

  Matthew chuckled, then leaned closer to whisper something in Sarah's ear. Julianne didn't hear what he said, but whatever it was, it caused scarlet to stain Sarah's cheeks.

  "What were you two gentlemen doing while we were… indisposed?" Emily asked in her usual impudent manner.

  "Discussing the topic that is on everyone's lips," answered Daniel. "The recent murders and robberies. Several people were wondering if the thief might strike again tonight. If so, he might well be caught."

  "Why is that?" Sarah asked.

  "There is extra security on the premises," Daniel said. "In the form of a Bow Street Runner. Mr. Gideon Mayne."

  Everything inside Julianne stilled for the space of several heartbeats, then thundered back to life. He's here. Her gaze immediately scanned the room
.

  "Hopefully then the scoundrel will be caught," Sarah said. Or at least that's what Julianne thought she said. How could she possibly concentrate when he was here?

  She'd met the Bow Street Runner two months ago, purely by chance when he was investigating a series of murders plaguing Mayfair. He'd interviewed Julianne and her mother because they'd attended a soiree at one of the victims' homes.

  Gideon Mayne had instantly captured her imagination the moment he walked into Julianne's home. Left her speechless. Breathless. He was unlike any gentleman she'd ever come in contact with in her very sheltered existence—not surprising as he wasn't by any stretch a gentleman. The tall, broad-shouldered, muscular Runner possessed a compelling air of competence and strength, mixed with a hint of danger and a large dose of adventure.

  Everything about him fascinated her. His sheer size. His sun-browned skin. His thick, dark hair that required a trim. His large, capable, calloused hands. His deep voice that bore a slight trace of hoarseness. His mere presence shrank their spacious drawing room to the size of a hatbox and gave breath to every secret fantasy and romantic dream she'd kept buried in her heart for years. And he'd had the very same effect on her every time she'd seen him since.

  He was the personification of the man that had previously lived only in Julianne's most secret, adventurous longings. And a man she hadn't believed existed outside her heated imaginings.

  Until he'd stood before her. And nearly stopped her heart. Her heart, which had recognized him instantly. As a man of strength. Passion. Integrity. A man who was trustworthy and capable of getting things done. A man able to make decisions—ones that didn't involve what time he was scheduled to arrive at his club or which card to play at the gaming tables.

  A man of adventure.

  A man who, given their vast social differences, could never, ever be hers.

  How many times had she told herself to forget about him? Hundreds? Thousands? Yet he remained firmly embedded in her mind, filling her with longings that, in spite of her best efforts to suppress them, grew stronger every day. Longings her reading of The Ghost of Devonshire Manor had only served to inflame—