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Mad About the Earl

Page 30

by Christina Brooke


  Disconcerted in spite of himself, he said, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, you needn’t do that,” she replied generously. “Though it is quite improper for you to stare at me in that odious way, of course.”

  Now the predator in him awoke, stretched, unsheathed its claws. “My attentions would not be welcome to you?” he murmured. Reaching out, he stroked one fingertip down her cheek. “Somehow, I don’t believe that.”

  Her skin was satin-soft, and he let his fingertip linger at the hinge of her jaw.

  Something in her eyes gave him pause. For a strange, heart-stopping moment, time seemed to hold its breath …

  As if something snapped inside her, his fair intruder blinked and shook her head slightly. Then she put up her hand to lightly bat his away. “I am not one of your high-fliers, Your Grace. Keep your hands to yourself.”

  Already, he missed the satin warmth of her skin. A singular and unprecedented need filled him. He folded his fingers into a fist to stop himself giving in to it.

  Most men in his position wouldn’t hesitate. She was dressed scandalously in a footman’s garb. She was alone, unchaperoned in his house at night. Entirely at his mercy. He affected her on a visceral level. Though she did her best to conceal it, he knew the signs. He could easily give in to his inclinations and make his best effort to seduce her.

  What stopped him? Not her clipped aristocratic accent nor her air of gentility. She might speak like a duchess, but he’d known—and enjoyed—duchesses who had the morals and inclinations of alley cats.

  No, there was some quality about this girl, some innate core of resilience, of feminine strength, that intrigued him. He responded to it in a way that ranged beyond his physical reaction to her, even as it seemed to heighten his desire.

  And for some strange reason, it held her inviolate. At least for tonight.

  “Why are you here?” he murmured. And why hadn’t he asked that question sooner?

  He could almost see the cogs whirring in her brain as she decided how much information to give him. “I wasn’t burgling the place, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I think you came to find out about the Promethean Club,” he said. “Unless you have designs on me,” he amended, giving her a flashing grin. “In which case, I’d be most happy to oblige.”

  She gazed at him wonderingly. “Do you know, you are quite the most conceited man I’ve ever met? And that’s saying something when you consider my family.”

  “Ah. Yes. Your family,” he said. “And who might they be? I thought you were all alone in the world.”

  Challenge sparked in her eye. “No, you didn’t, and my family is every bit as powerful as yours, so I think you should let me go now.”

  Was it his imagination, or did he detect a slight squaring of her shoulders, a renewed courage when she mentioned her family? She was proud of her origins, then.

  “You interest me exceedingly,” he said, mentally sorting through any dukes he knew with daughters around Cecily’s age. He couldn’t immediately think of any. “And will you not tell me who this so-powerful family of yours is? I shall discover the answer whether you do or not, you know.”

  She looked for an instant as if she was debating whether to trust him. Then her chin lifted. “I daresay you will. My name is Lady Cecily Westruther.”

  Well, now. This was a surprise. And she was correct. The Westruthers were every bit as old and powerful as his family. But surely she was one of the Duke of Montford’s wards. Why, then…?

  His stomach clenched. Suddenly it all made sense.

  Slowly, he said, “I knew your brother.” He blew a long, unsteady breath. “He was brilliant. Some called him a genius.”

  “He would have scoffed at that notion,” said Lady Cecily. Her voice was steady, her eyes dry. Only the convulsive movement of her throat betrayed any hint of grief.

  “Yes,” said Ashcombe. “He could never be satisfied with the boundaries of his knowledge. There was always more to discover.”

  Her expression held a mixture of pride, sadness, and a hint of surprise.

  “He belonged to the Promethean Club, didn’t he?” she said. “He was here, in this house, the night he died.”

  Where was she heading with this? “He attended a meeting here, yes. But those footpads set upon him quite a distance from this house.” Gentling his tone, he added, “I am sorry. More sorry than I can express. But it was a senseless, random killing. Nothing at all to do with his activities here.”

  His assurance didn’t seem to make an impression on her. What did she know to the contrary? Or think she knew?

  She licked her lips. “Your Grace, you must tell me everything you can about this club.”

  Deliberately, Rand said, “I am surprised that your brother should have mentioned the Prometheans to you.”

  “He didn’t. I found his diary a few weeks ago, and I—I read it.” She colored faintly, as if the admission embarrassed her.

  He experienced a hot flash of irritation. “If that’s the case and if you suspect someone in the club was involved in his murder, what possessed you to come here yourself? You had no way of knowing what trouble you might stir up.”

  She regarded him with the alert inquisitiveness of a robin. “Is it a secret organization, then?”

  “Not especially.” Only some aspects of it were.

  He spread his hands as if he were laying all his cards on the table. “I’m afraid if you were expecting cloaks and daggers, you’ll be disappointed. The Promethean Club is no more than a group of scientists, inventors, philosophers, and the like who meet once a month to debate and exchange ideas.”

  Lady Cecily regarded him in silence for a few moments, during which he had the odd, disconcerting sensation that she saw far more than he wished to reveal to her.

  “It sounds innocuous,” she said. “Given what I know about my brother and my … another member of the club, your explanation makes sense.” She narrowed her eyes. “But there’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”

  “Perhaps there is,” he said, refusing to show any hint of his unease. “But you will not hear any more from me tonight. Repay me for the information I’ve given you by letting me take you home.”

  Now that he knew who she was, for some reason her continued presence in his house and in that costume annoyed him. “We will discuss this in a more appropriate time and place.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Very well, then.”

  What? No argument? The quick about-face surprised him. Was she truly so mercurial, or had she accomplished her real purpose in coming here without his realizing it?

  As he rang for a servant, she replaced the perruque on her head. Gazing up at him with an impish gleam, she said, “Are you going to be like Scheherazade and spin out your tale over successive meetings?”

  His lips twitched. “Something like that,” he replied. With a wolfish smile, he added, “But my motives are not nearly as pure.”

  He had the dubious satisfaction of seeing her eyes flare with alarm. At last, he’d frightened her.

  That vague sense of irritation flared to annoyance. What sort of woman was this? He was not pleased to discover that while his physical intimidation had not scared her, the allusion to more amorous intent made her quake. A salutary notion, indeed.

  While his fair intruder wrapped herself in a cloak he found for her, Rand disposed of the perruque wig and gave orders for the carriage to be brought around.

  As he did so, he continued to question her, but she didn’t give him any more information about herself. He suspected she would withhold personal details just as he withheld information about the Promethean Club.

  Lowering to reflect that he needed to resort to trading information for a lady’s company. The most effort he ever expended over a woman was in calculating how best to extricate himself from her arms at the end of an affair.

  This one, however … Lady Cecily Westruther was neither intimidated by his
manner nor impressed by his rank. She was novel, but not quite in the way she meant. And his immediate, powerful response to her … Well, that was unprecedented.

  When he wanted something, Rand approached getting it with a single-minded drive and implacable determination. Lady Cecily Westruther was no exception.

  As he escorted her to his carriage, Rand began to plan.

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by

  Christina Brooke

  Heiress in Love

  Mad About the Earl

  Praise for Heiress in Love

  “Each scene is more sensual and passionate than the last.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Riveting tale of life, loss, convenience, and heart- wrenching love! Superbly written!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “With this delightful debut Brooke demonstrates her ability for creating a charming cast of characters who are the perfect players in the first of the Ministry of Marriage series. Marriage-of-convenience fans will rejoice and take pleasure in this enchanting read.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Clever, lush, and lovely—an amazing debut!”

  —Suzanne Enoch, New York Times bestselling author

  “A delightful confection of secrets and seduction, Heiress in Love will have readers craving more!”

  —Tracy Anne Warren

  “One of the most compelling heroes I’ve read in years.”

  —Anna Campbell

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  MAD ABOUT THE EARL

  Copyright © 2012 by Christina Brooke.

  Excerpt from A Duchess to Remember copyright © 2012 by Christina Brooke.

  All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  ISBN: 978-0-312-53413-4

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2012

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  eISBN 978-1-4299-5086-2

 

 

 


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