The Curse of Lord Stanstead

by Mia Marlowe

  When she turned to face him, he Sent her another directed thought, a stronger suggestion this time, that she should desperately want to go with him. Without question.

  Her arched brows nearly met over her fine straight nose. “Why are you looking at me like that? Are you softheaded? Now release me at once. I must find Daphne.”

  She ought to have been falling over herself to come with him. Why hadn’t she responded to his Sending? Was he losing his touch? “I’m sure Westfall will see to your sister’s safety. Meanwhile, the backstairs look less crowded. Come.”

  “No. Let me go.”

  “Suit yourself. If His Grace asks, you must tell him I tried to do this the easy way.” Garret hefted her over his shoulder, her shapely bum pointed at the fire-darkened crown molding, and strode purposefully toward the servants’ staircase in the far corner where the smoke seemed less dense. Cassandra Darkin screamed, but since every woman in the place was shrieking, what was one more?

  Of course, the woman he carried was also pummeling his back with her fists, but there was so much confusion, no one took notice.

  Before Garret ducked down the narrow stairs, he Sent a quick message to Westfall, hoping the man could detect a deliberate thought headed his way amid the bombardment of panic that must have been assailing him. Garret informed the viscount that he had secured the fire mage and would be leaving with her forthwith.

  If Westfall met them at the ducal coach, well and good. If not, the man would have to make his own way back to Camden House. Cassandra Darkin was squalling like a scalded cat. If Garret didn’t steal her away amid the cover of general panic, there’d be no way to do it later.

  The lady wasn’t disposed to come willingly and no amount of Sending seemed to change her mind.

  “Put me down this instant, you miserable Cretin!” she demanded, her voice echoing in the smoky stairwell. A fit of coughing dulled the bite of her words as Garret hustled down the flight of steps.

  “Since you asked so nicely, I’ll be happy to comply,” he said. “As soon as we’ve reached safety.”

  “As if you…give two figs…for my safety.” Her words came out in short bursts as his jogging steps forced air from her lungs. “A man who forces his attentions…on a woman is…not to be trusted.”

  “Neither are you if you think I forced that kiss on you. I may have initiated things, but by God, you gave as good as you got, and you know it.”

  Whether from the sting of truth or lack of oxygen, she fell silent. Garret wasn’t accustomed to having to work so hard. Women generally found him charming even without a well-aimed suggestion from his gift. His Grace had detected Garret’s thought invading his mind, but Camden and Westfall were the only ones who had ever recognized that Garret’s implanted idea was not their own. Cassandra Darken acted as if she’d not even received his Sending. No one had ever deflected one of his directed thoughts before.

  Cassandra Darkin might be a fire mage, but she was obviously much more.

  The stairs ended in a small stone-floored scullery. Garret shouldered open the low door and pushed his way into the alley behind Almack’s.

  Fire-truck bells clanged an urgent message as they raced toward the scene. Men shouted. Women and horses screamed. The fire was out, but until the building was cleared, there was still danger from the thick smoke. Garret wished he’d thought to toss a chair through a window to give the smoke a way to escape and fresh air to enter the assembly room.

  “We’re safe,” Cassandra said. “Put me down.”

  Garret ignored her and broke into a dogtrot around the building to where His Grace’s equipage was waiting at the head of a long queue of coaches. He glanced up and down King Street, looking for Westfall, but didn’t see him anywhere.

  First things first. Delivering Cassandra Darkin into the duke’s custody where she couldn’t set any more fires was more important than playing nursemaid to a half-mad viscount who, by rights, still ought to be in Bedlam.

  Garret opened the carriage door and unceremoniously hustled in Miss Darkin. Then he barked an order to the driver to return to Camden House with all speed. Garret barely had time to slam the door and settle on the squab opposite Miss Darkin before the equipage lurched forward and began bouncing along London’s cobbles.

  A bar of yellowish light shot into the coach each time they rattled past a streetlamp, illuminating Cassandra’s face every few minutes. Her luminous skin was stretched taut over her cheekbones and pinpoints of flame seemed to flicker in the depths of her amber eyes. But she didn’t seem angry.

  With the whites showing all around, her eyes flared with fear.

  “You can’t do this,” she said quietly.

  Her half whisper was far more compelling than her earlier screams. Garret’s conscience pricked him, but he shrugged it off.

  “And yet,” he said, “I just did.”

  “My father is a very wealthy man. If it’s money you want—”

  “I’m not abducting you. Well, not in the usual sense. I’ve told you the truth. Look around you. This is the Duke of Camden’s carriage.” Even in the half-light of the occasional streetlamp, the interior of the coach bespoke opulence. Garret moved over to sit beside her so she could see the duke’s crest embroidered in gold thread on the tufted opposite squab. “For better or worse, you’ve come to His Grace’s notice and he wishes to see you.”

  She made a scoffing sound. “Do you know how likely I think it is that a duke wishes to see the youngest daughter of a baronet?”

  “In the ordinary scheme of things, you’d be right, but you and I both know you are far from ordinary.” Even more than her penchant for flames, Garret wondered why his thoughts had no impact on her.

  If you can hear me, smooth your hair behind your ear.

  Her hands remained in her lap, fingers laced. “If the Duke of Camden wished to make my acquaintance, His Grace might have called, on any day, at my father’s home.”

  “At first, he wasn’t certain if it was you or your sister he needed to find,” Garret said. “For all the duke knew, the one causing the fires might have been the lass who empties your chamber pots. But once His Grace determined that you and your sister were at Almack’s, he knew he had to act before something disastrous happened. And, as ill-chance would have it, something did.”

  That earned him a frown, and then her gaze returned to her lap where she studied her gloved hands with absorption. Even though she was doing her best to ignore him, he felt a tug toward her unlike any he’d ever experienced. She was a presentable girl, with fine, even features and a rather spectacular bosom, but she couldn’t be considered a beauty.

  And yet, his chest constricted when her chin trembled. Against his will, a warm surge began to spread through him. He tried to tamp it down. Nothing good could come of caring for her.

  “I did not cause those fires.”

  Garret heard barely concealed desperation in her tone. He remembered the gut-wrenching sickness he’d felt the first time he had dreamed a future for someone and then watched in helpless horror as it inexorably came to pass. Like him, Cassandra Darkin was meeting a part of herself she hadn’t suspected existed and didn’t much like. The acquaintance wasn’t likely to improve with time.

  “Perhaps you didn’t cause the fires on purpose,” he said as gently as he could. “But can you deny there have been unexplained conflagrations in your life of late?”

  Her shoulders sagged.

  “You admit it.”

  “I admit nothing, Mr. Sterling.”

  The streetlamp they passed flared white-hot. She might seem to be riding passively in the duke’s coach, but he sensed she was a bubbling cauldron on the inside. The glass in the next lamp shattered as they approached. Flames licked down the iron post before sizzling to smoke and vapors at the pavement.

  “My dear Miss Darkin, if you aren’t responsible for that light show, I’ll eat my cravat.” He took one of her hands. She tried to pull it away but he held her tight. “We’ll have a series of inf
ernos dogging us all the way to Camden House, unless I help you find a more harmonious frame of mind.”

  “How do you intend to do that?”

  “A spooked mare requires a soft word and a gentle touch and—”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Sterling.” She lifted her chin and stared pointedly out the window, avoiding his gaze. “What lady doesn’t live to be compared to a horse?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant the same principle applies.” Garret resisted the temptation to gather her into another kiss, though the urge was strong. Cassandra Darkin was a prickly sort and he liked his women soft-spoken and biddable. Still, covering her mouth with his had real appeal. “I’ve never had these sorts of dealings with a fire mage before, you understand.”

  “A fire mage?”

  “That’s what the duke believes you are.”

  Curiosity made her fist unclench in his hand. When he stroked her palm, her fingers uncurled completely.

  “And a fire mage is…what, exactly?”

  “A powerful elemental.” Her furrowed brow told him she still didn’t understand, so Garret continued. “An elemental is a magician with a special affinity for one of the four elements—earth, water, air or, in your case, fire. You are able to bend flames to your will.”

  “No, I’m not. That’s just the problem. I have no control.” Her hand began to tense so he laced his fingers with hers to keep them from closing up again. “I’m not even sure—no, I’m positive I didn’t cause any of those fires. How could I?”

  “It’s a gift. Just as some people are quick to comprehend mathematics or intuitively grasp languages, your mind is able to harness fire, whether you understand how you’re doing it or not,” Garret said.

  Her hand seemed to relax in his grip so, one finger at a time, he tugged at her glove until he was able to peel it from her hand.

  “No, don’t do that.”

  “I must,” he said. “Distracting you with a kiss at Almack’s allowed you to focus well enough to put the fire out. A few light caresses ought to see us safely back to Camden House.”

  As if to prove him correct, there seemed nothing out of the ordinary about the next streetlamp they passed.

  “There you see,” he said. “You’re calmer already.”

  She arched a brow at him. “I wouldn’t lay money on that, were I you.”

  …

  Cassandra’s insides were jumping, a kind of desperate fluttering, like a moth beating itself against a lamp chimney, not caring if its delicate wings were destroyed in the process. All the heat that had emanated from her earlier now turned inward, spiraled downward and settled to a roil between her legs. Every stroke of Garret Sterling’s fingertips sent a message of longing racing over her.

  But she couldn’t ask him to stop. She wanted so many things. Impossible things. Wicked things. Cassie closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip.

  What is happening to me?

  She’d never considered herself a particularly sensual person before, not even with Roddy. Now, her whole world shrank to the featherlight touch of Sterling’s fingertips on the skin of her inner wrist. Even though he only stroked up her forearm as far as the crease of her elbow, she seemed to feel his touch in other places as well.

  Intimate places.

  Sliding along her jaw. Down the side of her neck and over the mounds of her breasts. Slowly circling the sensitive tips.

  Her nipples tightened almost painfully beneath her corset and chemise, the tender skin aching for a brush of his fingers.

  Dear Lord.

  She hardly dared breathe.

  “You needn’t worry that your family will be concerned over your absence,” Garret said softly.

  His words sent a jolt of guilt to her belly. While her senses were fully engaged with “unmaidenly” imaginings, her family hadn’t once entered her mind. But of course they’d be worried about her. Daphne would be in hysterics when she couldn’t find her.

  “Why do you think my family won’t be concerned?”

  “Lord Westfall knows you’re with me and can ease your sister’s mind. I Sent His Grace a message that you are safe and on your way to Camden House. No doubt the duke has dispatched a footman to your parents’ home with the news that you will be His Grace’s houseguest for the foreseeable future.”

  “When did you have time to send a message?” Let alone two? He’d supposedly let Lord Westfall know she was in his care as they had escaped from the burning assembly room at Almack’s.

  “We all have certain gifts.” Garret shrugged. “Once we arrive, you’ll see that you are expected. I’m sure his housekeeper is airing the bedchamber you’ll be assigned, as we speak.”

  “I can’t stay at Camden House.”

  “If you’re concerned for your reputation, you needn’t be. His Grace’s sister, Lady Easton is in residence. She’s a stickler for good form so Polite Society will harbor no doubts about the propriety of your installation in the duke’s household. And I’ve no doubt your parents will be charmed by the duke’s interest in you.”

  “Interest in me?” Panic stirred her gut. According to Lady Waldgren, the reclusive Duke of Camden had a reputation for being a trifle odd. Whispers about the mysterious circumstances under which he had lost his wife and infant son were still grist for society’s gossip mill, even fifteen years after the fact. But he was a peer of the realm and his name wielded significant influence. “You don’t mean to say that His Grace is seeking a wife.”

  “No, nothing like that. By God, that would make me some sort of filthy procurer. Besides, I’d never willingly help another bachelor give up that happy state.” Garret snorted as if he considered avoiding the parson’s mousetrap the highest and best use of a man’s time on earth.

  He also stopped stroking Cassie’s wrist and she narrowly resisted the urge to beg him to continue. Without his touch, the heat inside her began to surge in a different sort of way, one that boded no good for nearby flammable surfaces.

  “In any case, the duke is content that his nephew will be his heir,” Garret said. “Besides, you flatter yourself. His Grace is not in the market for a child bride.”

  “I’m no child.”

  Garret’s lopsided smile returned. “No, I can see you’re a woman. In fact, I gather that’s what started all this trouble, isn’t it?”

  Cassandra’s cheeks heated with embarrassment, though surely he couldn’t be aware of the way she’d succumbed to Roderick’s charm. “I still don’t understand. Why does the duke want to meet me?”

  The coach rumbled to a stop before an opulent Mayfair home bedecked with light streaming from every long Georgian window. Mr. Sterling made no move to disembark. “It’s like this, you see. His Grace is a bit of a collector.”

  “What does he collect?”

  Garret Sterling brought her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across the back. His warm breath streamed over her skin, sending gooseflesh rippling to her toes. “People like us, Miss Darkin. He collects people like us.”

  Cassie peered at the elegant town house. There didn’t seem to be anything sinister about Camden House, but apprehension still shivered up her spine.

  He collects people like us.

  One of her uncles had been a collector. When she was small, he had tried to interest her in his insects, all impaled on placards, labeled in Latin, and neatly numbered. He studied them, he had explained, and tried to learn why they were the way they were. Between the alcoholic fumes used to incapacitate the specimens and the long pins to affix them to the placards, the whole process had made Cassandra queasy.

  She had no wish to be part of anyone’s collection, least of all the mysterious Duke of Camden’s. Being poked, prodded, and inspected as if she were a strange bug was an unpalatable prospect. But she did wonder if His Grace could somehow explain the fires.

  And why she was the way she was.

  Chapter Four

  While with an eye made quiet by the power

  Of harmony, and the
deep power of joy,

  We see into the life of things.

  —William Wordsworth, from “Tintern Abbey”

  “Ah, there you are, Miss Darkin. Welcome.” A hawkishly handsome gentleman strode across the elegantly appointed parlor toward her and Garret Sterling. His dark hair was dusted with only a few silver bars at the temple and his clean-shaven face was relatively unlined, save for around his eyes. Marks of deep sadness were etched at the corners of them, but a half smile now lifted his mouth. “Edward St. James, the Duke of Camden, at your service.”

  He favored her with a stiffly correct bow, but she was certain he was no one’s servant.

  “How good of you to come,” he said, his voice a rumbling purr.

  “I cannot claim credit for my presence, Your Grace. I had little say in the matter.” Cassandra cast a sidelong glare at Mr. Sterling and gave only the most perfunctory curtsy to His Grace. Duke or no duke, Camden was responsible for her being abducted and carted off as if she were a bag of meal. She wasn’t going to pretend to be pleased about it.

  “No doubt you have questions, my dear. They’ll all be answered, in due course,” the duke said. “Please be seated.”

  The “please” didn’t make it any less of a command and she was not his “dear.” However, she saw no profit in further argument and sat on the end of the settee nearest the fireplace, wishing she could make the flames flare higher to show her displeasure. She ought to be able to do so, if she was what Garret claimed, but the fire appeared to be doing nothing more than burning logs at a normal pace.

  Garret Sterling settled on the other end of the settee, lounging with one ankle propped on his opposite knee. The duke sank into a leather wing chair across from her. For the first time, Cassandra noticed there was another person in the room. An artfully made-up woman dressed in the “first stare” of fashion was watching her intently from a Sheraton chair in the far corner. No one bothered to introduce her.