by Evie Dunmore
She had not replied to his message. And he had not seen her at breakfast.
He prowled through the doors of the music room and methodically scanned the rows of plush chairs.
At last he caught the familiar glint of mahogany hair.
His palms turned hot and damp.
His heart began battering against his ribs as if he had run up a few flights of stairs.
He stood, stupefied. How could this happen to him? He was nearly thirty-and-six.
Annabelle looked up from her lap, and her clear green gaze hit him in the chest like a physical object, hurled with force.
He swallowed. Oh, it was most definitely happening to him.
He felt Caroline’s gaze on him, vaguely expectant, and he realized his abrupt stopping had caused a pileup behind him. He smoothly fell into step again and steered toward his chair in the front row near the piano.
Annabelle was seated at the very back, next to a baroness he knew loosely. Neither woman probably spoke a word of German. He should have had a translation of the songs printed for his guests. It suddenly seemed very important that she liked the songs.
Caroline took the seat beside him, wrapping him in her powdery fragrance.
He resisted the urge to turn his head to glance back.
A rare flash of anger crackled through him. He had found half of society’s social conventions and rituals void of reason from the moment he had been old enough to use his own brain. He mastered them, of course, but rarely had he felt these petty constraints chafing as much as he did now, where he could not sit next to the woman he wanted in his own music room. And all around him, people were scraping the chairs and dragging their heels over the polished wooden floor, coughing and wheezing and just plainly incapable of sitting still.
Finally, the pianist and the singers appeared, a soprano and a mezzo-soprano called the Divine Duo.
The noise died down. His irritation remained. The duo, their ridiculous name notwithstanding, was excellent, their voices rising and falling seemingly effortless, carrying the gamut of human emotions from melancholy to joy and back, and yet his mind refused to take flight with the melodies. Instead, he was starkly aware of the clock above the fireplace behind the pianist and of Annabelle some fifteen rows behind him.
He glanced at the clock a total of four times.
At a quarter to two, the last song finished.
At thirteen minutes to, the applause had ceased and everyone was making for the exit.
The progress to the door was slow, encumbered by guests wanting a word, a moment of his time, and the moments added up. Then he was stopped dead by the protruding bosom of the Marchioness of Hampshire. As he dutifully exchanged pleasantries, Annabelle was being herded right past him by the flow of people.
She did not spare him a glance.
“Did you enjoy the concert, dear?” the marchioness loudly asked Caroline, who was still by his side.
“Quite,” the countess replied, “to think that something so sweet would come from the pen of a staid and stoic German.”
Sweet?
Sebastian realized he was frowning down at her.
She raised her thin brows questioningly.
“I suppose,” he said slowly, “that they have feelings, too. The Germans.”
Her eyes took on a slightly bewildered expression. Then she gave a small apologetic shrug.
When he looked up again, Annabelle had disappeared.
* * *
He was running late. He was never late, and he had to force himself to maintain a dignified pace as he approached the maze. Relief crashed through him when the entrance came into view. She was waiting for him next to a limestone lion in her new coat and the same hat she always wore, a brown, nondescript thing that he’d quite like to see her replace with a dozen new ones.
“Miss Archer.” He lifted his top hat.
She curtsied. Her cheeks were flushed, but that could well be the cold.
He offered his arm. “Would you accompany me on a walk?”
“Your Grace—”
“Montgomery,” he said.
She arched a brow. “Your Grace?”
He arched a brow right back at her. “I believe we can safely suspend that formality in light of the circumstances.”
There was a hitch in her breathing.
He wondered if she was going to play coy and deny the circumstances. Not a chance. He could still feel the soft, round contours of her body imprinted on his palms, urging him to fill his hands with her again, and he would, soon.
Finally, she took his proffered arm.
For a long moment, the only sound between them was the crunch of icy gravel beneath their feet as he led her into the maze.
Absurd.
He had talked his country out of a trade war with the Ottoman Empire. Now he didn’t know where to begin.
“Did you play here as a boy?”
She was gazing up at him, a tentative playfulness in her tone that was new, and it took him a moment to reply. “No. I never did.”
She looked bemused. “How does one keep a boy away from a maze for even a day?”
By locking him up with a pile of books and duties.
His mother, cold and unflappable as she had presented herself to the world, had been quietly terrified by her husband’s antics. She had been determined that her son would be much different.
“What do you think of Mendelssohn?” he said instead.
That elicited a small smile. “I confess sweet isn’t the word I’d use to describe him.”
“Well, good,” he said, “for he really is not.”
“I didn’t understand a word, but the music was so . . . moving. It was as though someone had reached into my chest and—” She interrupted herself, suddenly aware of her glowing enthusiasm.
“And what?” he coaxed as he steered her onto a side path, moving them deeper into the maze. Whenever her passion rose to the surface, he felt an elemental jolt of response in his body. Maddening. She made him forget who he was, left him only the base needs and cravings that seemed to come with being a man. And he seemed unwilling to stop the indulgence.
“Melancholic,” she said softly, “that’s the word I’d use to describe him.”
Melancholic was precisely the word.
Holy God but he wanted to be inside this woman.
“The last song,” she said, “it sounded so wistful, it almost made me sad. What is it about?”
He nodded. “Auf Flügeln des Gesanges. It is about a man taking his sweetheart on a flight of fancy.”
Her hand flexed on his forearm, holding on more tightly. “What does it say?”
Her skirts brushed his leg with every step now. If he were to turn his head, pull her closer just an inch, he would smell the warm scent of her hair.
He shook his head, trying to unearth his German amid his swimming senses. “‘On wings of song, my love, I carry you away,’” he said, “‘away to the fields of the Ganges, where I know the most beautiful place—’” Now he stopped himself. Reciting romantic lines?
“How does it end?” she whispered.
Her eyes were a hundred miles deep. A man might never come up again once he took the plunge.
Damn it all.
“They make love under a tree,” he said.
He felt rather than heard her gasp.
He rounded a corner and pulled her against him in one movement. He saw her eyes widen when he lowered his head, and then he kissed her.
Soft.
Her lips were indescribably soft, petal soft, and for a blink he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, only savored the velvety warmth against his mouth. And at last he exhaled. And it seemed that he had been holding this breath since yesterday, when he had last held her in his arms.
He inhaled deeply, jasmine and sweet
woman.
The sun was bright and hot on his closed eyelids.
Somewhere, a robin sang.
He ran the tip of his tongue over her plush bottom lip.
She made a tiny noise in her throat, and his eyes slitted open.
Her eyes were closed, her lashes quivering like crescent fans against her cheeks.
His heart swelled in his chest, so fast, so violently, it ached. He pressed his mouth back to hers, and she opened for him, gave him access to the drugging heat that had had him aching half the night. He angled her head back to taste her more deeply, and she let him, shyly stroked her tongue against his, and his cock grew heavy. With a silent curse, he stilled again. He had meant to make it up to her, the frustrated claiming in the alcove. He carefully loosened his grip and molded her body against his with a tenderness that he had not afforded last night. But the feel of her against him . . . their fit was so, so good. Her teeth scraped against his bottom lip, and he groaned. Without breaking the kiss, he wrestled a hand from its glove and cupped the delicate curve of her jaw in his palm. The cool, satiny feel of her skin against his fingers sent another searing rush of pleasure through him. He wanted to ease her onto the ground and straddle her . . . undo all the hooks and buttons down her front, then strip away the more intimate laces. He’d touch every soft and giving inch of her with his hands and tongue, the pale fullness of her breasts, the sweet nip of her waist, the tender place between her legs . . . That especially. He would lick and kiss her there until she was writhing against his mouth.
He felt a resistance in her, and he realized that he had arched her back over his arm, and he was moving his hips against hers.
He tore his mouth off hers.
She blinked at him with a heavy-lidded gaze, her curls dislodged by his roaming hands. He noted his glove, flung carelessly into the snow.
“Annabelle,” he murmured.
At that, she smiled faintly. “Montgomery.”
He liked hearing his name like this, soft and husky. His hand went to cradle her face again, his thumb dragging over her bottom lip, and she pushed into his caress and pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if they’d done it hundreds of times before and would do it a thousand more.
Part of him recoiled with a sense of alarm.
He dropped his hand.
He picked up his glove and began to pace.
* * *
She watched him as if in a dream, his hands, one bare, one gloved, clasped behind his back. The world was unnaturally bright around her, the greens and whites glaring beneath a sharp blue sky. She wasn’t feeling quite steady, and her hands were yearning to reach for him again. His strong shoulders seemed their rightful place now.
She hadn’t slept. She had replayed their encounter in the alcove, over and over, recalled every sound and touch, and she had resolved to not follow his invitation and to stay away from him. She might as well have decided to stop breathing; one look at him across the music room, and her feet had carried her to the entrance of the maze at two o’clock sharp.
Montgomery turned back to her, his face determined. “Annabelle. I’m aware that we have not been acquainted for long, if one merely counts the days. And yet . . . surely you must know . . . how much you occupy my thoughts.” He shook his head, and in an afterthought, he took off his hat and dragged a hand through his hair, leaving the short locks in disarray.
“I could in fact say that I desire your company all the time, and I have reason to hope that you return a measure of these feelings.” He stepped closer and took her hand, his usually calculating eyes soft and warm like smoke.
Her heart gave a violent thud. Where was he going with this?
“Annabelle, I would like—”
He raised his head like a predator catching scent.
Now she heard it, too—rapid footsteps scattering gravel.
Montgomery’s brows lowered ominously as he stepped away from her.
“Your Grace!” Ramsey burst into the alley; he was red-faced, his breath coming in gulps. His usually immaculately parted brown hair all but stood on edge.
Goose bumps spread over Annabelle’s neck.
“This better be of importance, Ramsey.” Montgomery’s voice was cold enough to freeze the poor valet into next winter.
The man flinched. “I believe so, Your Grace.” His eyes darted nervously between the duke and Annabelle.
She tugged her shawl closer around her shoulders. “I’ll return to the house,” she said, suddenly aware of her disheveled appearance. She didn’t wait for Montgomery’s dismissal, but rounded the hedge onto the main path quickly.
She still heard Ramsey’s voice, carrying clearly in the quiet afternoon air. “Your Grace. Your brother, Lord Devereux—he’s gone.”
Chapter 17
Utter silence followed Ramsey’s announcement. Sebastian’s mind was a blank, the words floating through his head incomprehensibly. Then they sharpened and came down like a blade.
“An abduction?”
“Unlikely,” Ramsey said quickly. “Apparently, his lordship left a note.”
He was already on the main path.
Annabelle had turned back, her eyes large in her pale face.
“You heard?” he asked, not slowing down.
“Yes,” she said, “I could not help overhearing it.”
Well. Ramsey had announced everything loudly enough.
“Come.”
He was vaguely aware that both Annabelle and Ramsey were forced into a run to keep up with him. He managed to slow down for her, but his mind was already racing ahead. “Where is his protection officer?”
“I had him wait at the ground-floor study, Your Grace,” Ramsey panted.
Groups and couples were milling on the terrace and the garden that came into view. Heads were turning toward him, expectations reaching out to him like tentacles.
He changed course toward the servant entrance at the east wing.
“What other information do you have?”
“None, Your Grace,” Ramsey said. “I came to find you as quickly as possible.”
“You did well,” Sebastian said, all but shouldering his way through the back door into a dimly lit corridor. Two maids froze on the spot, their eyes widening beneath their white caps as if they’d seen a ghost when he strode past.
There wouldn’t be a note from Peregrin had anything happened to him. Unless it was a ploy. He forced that thought aside until he reached his study. A tall, burly man hovered by the door, his bowler hat in his fist by his side. Craig Fergusson. The man had been in his employ for a decade. He had one task—to guard his brother, discreetly and effectively. He suppressed the urge to grab Fergusson by the throat to shake an answer out of him right here in the hallway.
Ramsey lunged ahead to push open the door, and everyone filed into the study.
Sebastian rounded on the protection officer. “What happened?” he snarled.
Fergusson gulped. “Last night, we stayed over at the hotel in Carmarthen—”
“Yes?”
“And this morning, when I was waiting for his lordship and his valet in the hallway to come down to the breakfast room, I became suspicious because the young lord always likes to eat plenty, but the train was about to leave. So I got a feeling and went to investigate. I found the valet in the antechamber, knocked out clean by some laudanum—”
“Knocked out?” Sebastian interrupted, every hair on his body standing on end.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Fergusson said. “I only got the man to wake with some good slaps. He’s still groggy. He said Lord Devereux had asked him to share some wine the night before, and then he quickly fell asleep and heard nothing.”
Disbelief momentarily eclipsed alarm. “He thinks my brother drugged him?”
Fergusson shifted uncomf
ortably. “It appears so, Your Grace.”
Peregrin’s valet had been with the family for twenty-five years; he had been Sebastian’s valet before he had given him to Peregrin, to make sure his brother was surrounded only by the most trustworthy people. That man was probably not part of a ploy.
“I understand there is a note,” he said.
Fergusson nodded as he fingered an envelope from his satchel. “He left this on his bed.”
Sebastian snatched the letter from the man’s hand.
The thick paper was from his own stationery. He broke the seal and tore the envelope open with his fingers. Two lines, in Peregrin’s loopy handwriting.
Sir,
In regards to the Royal Navy, I have given it due consideration, and I simply cannot do it.
Respectfully,
P.
I simply cannot do it.
Very likely not abducted, then.
Sebastian briefly closed his eyes. His heart began to beat again, a hard tattoo against the wall of his chest. Not abducted. Not hurt. But the truth was that the little runt had bailed on him.
He very carefully placed the letter onto the desk. “Any indication where he is now?”
Fergusson shook his head. “No one’s seen him. Several trains and plenty of coaches are leaving from the train station from six o’clock in the morning. I brought every schedule.”
Sebastian ignored the papers Fergusson laid out on his desk; he already knew that there were several routes to coastal towns, and at least one train stopped at Plymouth. Ferries were leaving from there. His brother could well be on his way to France. And his protection officer was presently here at Claremont.
An emotion moved through him, almost too strong to be contained.
He went behind his desk, whipped out a sheet of paper, and began jotting down instructions.
“Get the coach ready,” he said to Ramsey as he was writing, “and send a cable to Edward Bryson that I will see him this evening.”
“The h-head of Scotland Yard, Your Grace?”