“With difficulty,” she said. “But it was easier than trying to get it undone. I am not used to doing this alone.”
She meant without the aid of a lady’s maid. But he could only picture some strange man’s hands upon the buttons, and he clenched his jaw when a rush of blood seared through him. She was a widow, after all, and it would not be at all against Society if she took a lover, so long as she remained discreet.
But he’d be damned if he liked that thought.
“Valentine?” She glanced over her shoulder, her chin against the bare skin.
He doubted she had any idea of the coy image she created—the lover beckoning some lucky man to bed.
God’s wounds, what was wrong with him? Just help the woman out of her clothing and not think about lovers. He’d gone this long without sex—he could survive a few more weeks with her in his house. After all, if silks and talk of lady’s maids did not remind him of her station in life, then nothing would. Chastity was no maid but a duke’s daughter. She was everything he hated about Society.
If only he could remember quite why he hated it so much now.
He fumbled his way through the buttons then rose, turned his back, and waited, listening to the rustle of clothing and the odd huff of annoyance. Fists clenched so tight his knuckles hurt, he stared at the row of rose bushes lining the pathway and the oak trees just beyond.
“You can turn around now.”
He inched around and eased out a breath to see her back in her plain uniform and cap. A strand of hair coiled down the back of her neck and he flexed his fingers whilst fighting the desire to tuck it into the cap.
“You need to be more cautious. What if someone had spotted you?”
“Why do you think I was behind this bush?”
“I spotted you,” he reminded her.
“Well, you are the only member of the household who would be strolling around here in the heat of the day.”
“Not to mention someone might have seen us together and think…”
Her brows rose. “That we were lovers?” She gave a brief, tight smile. “Do not fear, Lord Kendall, no one would suspect you of bedding the help. You do not have that sort of reputation.”
He frowned. The words were not biting yet he felt as though she had taken a chunk from him and he could not figure out why. Having a reputation for not being a rake was a good thing surely? He could not have wounded her pride by saying it was a mistake. She’d said the same, after all.
“You should put an end to this, Chastity. Leave and be with your sisters,” he said tersely.
“Not a chance.”
“You have found out nothing. This is a waste of time.” And despite what he had told himself, he wasn’t certain he could really survive much longer with her pottering around his house.
“I will find out what happened, I know it.” Her jaw remained tense. “Eleanor is still gravely hurt. I cannot just let this be.”
Blast, why did she have to bring up her sister? He’d immediately liked Eleanor and her gentle but curious manner. She did not care for the foibles of Society either—he could tell by the way she’d been tinkering with a figurine rather than embroidering or painting or taking part in the softer arts.
The fact he respected her sister and Chastity’s love for her did not help him summon a good argument to get her to leave.
“You should go,” he said vaguely, clawing his mind for a firmer response. All he could find was images of bare skin and lace.
“I’m staying and that is final.”
“I am your employer,” he called after her as she turned away, her clothing and some linen of some kind bundled under her arm.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. He wished he understood her—yet he did not. Understanding her would mean getting closer to her. Forgetting how back in his old life—a life he wanted nothing to do with—with utter ease would be a mistake.
That lifestyle…those people…they had ruined his family, and he would never forget that.
Chapter Eleven
Unlike Demeter, Chastity never had a vivid imagination. She didn’t much like the idea of ghosts so concluded if she did not believe in them, she would never see one.
Tell that to the shiver running down her spine as she moved down the darkened corridor of Heath Lodge. The light of the lone candle bounced off the walls, creating movement where there was none, and a slight breeze whispered about her shoulders, causing the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
A creak from somewhere in the house made her jolt. She stilled and pressed a hand to her tight chest and massaged it until the tension vanished.
Where was everyone anyway? Since supper, she had scarcely seen any of the other servants and they had all seemed melancholy at the dining table—even Mr. Lowe.
Why had she not simply gone to bed after her chores were done? Why had she decided to seek out Valentine? She had nothing new to tell him.
Her breaths unnaturally loud in the gloom, she pressed forward. One length of the hallway and she would head to bed and conclude Valentine had gone out somewhere. Where, she did not know nor did she want to think about it. Maybe he was wrapped in the arms of an old lover somewhere. Maybe he’d kissed her because he simply had needs to be fulfilled and he’d grown tired of being reclusive.
She stilled at a soft growl emanating from the darkened recess of the corridor. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Or beasts. Or eyes watching her in the darkness. Her heart beat faster. The chances were one of the cats had snuck in from the stables. Though she had never heard a cat growl like that. A dog then? She lifted the candle and peered down the shadowy length of the building.
No signs of movement and she refused to let her imagination play games with her. After all, she had been in slightly sticky situations before—like when she and her sisters had tracked down some men threatening Cassie. A stray animal wouldn’t scare her away.
She took another step forward, her footfalls too loud even with the long, soft rug underfoot. Her candle caught on gilded frames and she pulled in a breath. The only thing moving here was her and the candlelight. Nothing else. There most certainly was not something behind her.
A shiver trailed up her spine. Now why had she put that thought into her head? She had gone from imagining one stray cat to a whole pack of beasts, waiting to pounce and tear her to pieces. Easing out a shuddery breath, she took another step toward the sound. Was she not a grown woman of thirty? How ridiculous to imagine such things.
The feeling of being watched came over her again and she twisted suddenly and lifted the candle high.
Nothing.
“Silly girl,” she muttered to herself. Of course, she could turn around considering there was no salivating pack ready to chew on her bones but if there was an animal in here, Mrs. Cooke would not be happy and she needed to gain the housekeeper’s approval soon. Mrs. Cooke knew everything that happened in this house. She could be useful to the investigation.
She didn’t know about the kiss, though. At least she certainly hoped not. The rest of the staff would never talk to her again if they thought she was having an affair with Lord Kendall, and her time here would be wasted. They would know he did not want her, though, had they seen the expression on his face when he talked of being lovers. He’d said it with such disdain that it still rankled her, and she did not know why.
After all, she didn’t want to be his lover either.
The growling sound stuttered and started again. Brow knitted, she paused. Was that...? She moved the candle about, casting the light upon the walls until she came across the slumped figure of a man.
She shook her head. Of course. A snoring man.
Not just any man. She neared and kneeled beside him. Lord Kendall.
Despite this being his usual unruly hair, unshaven jaw and cravatless look, he seemed worse than ever. His clothes were crumpled, and she smelled strong alcohol emanating through the heat of his skin. His feet were bare.
She shook her head and prodded his
arm with a finger. “Valentine,” she whispered.
A nonsensical mutter made her jolt. Sighing, she put a hand to his forehead to ease his head back. He dropped his head against the wall, his mouth slightly ajar and snored again.
“What a state you are in.” She glanced up the hallway. No one would come down at this hour if his valet was not here, so she had to find a way to move him herself. She had only come to slip a note under his door about the other two girls, neither of whom seemed to have any attachment to Julian.
“Valentine,” she tried again, jabbing her finger against a firm chest.
An eye cracked open but she did not think he recognized her. He closed it again with a muttered, “No.”
“You cannot stay here. You shall catch a cold.”
“It’s summer,” he murmured.
“Even deep in your cups you will still argue with me.”
Both eyes opened and he stared at her for several moments. She had seen drunken men before—her late husband mostly—but he never looked like this.
Even with the limits of the candlelight, his eyes were two dark pools of pain, as though he had been drinking to escape something awful. She had not thought Valentine to be much of a drinker so what had happened to make him imbibe so much?
“Chastity.” His voice was thick and gritty.
“Yes.”
“Chastity. Duke’s Daughter.” He lifted his chin. “All wrong.”
Did he mean she was all wrong? Or that this situation was? She shook her head. Analyzing his drunken ramblings was pointless.
“We need to get you to bed.”
“No. I’ll stay here.”
“You must go to bed,” she insisted.
“It is no less than I deserve.”
“You are quite the brute at times, it is true, but even I do not wish you to die from sleeping on a cold floor.”
He snorted, lifted a hand, and let it drop, slapping the wood hard. “Cold floor is good enough for me.”
“Good Lord, I am not certain why you are determined to flagellate yourself but I am not going to waste any more time listening to such nonsense.”
Valentine smirked. “I like a commanding woman.”
“Good. Now I command you to stand and go to bed.”
With a heavy, overly dramatic sigh, he dragged himself up from the floor and she dropped the candleholder onto a console table to rush to his side as he flopped against the wall. He looped a heavy arm around her shoulder, and she pressed hands to his back and chest to navigate him toward his bedroom in the dark.
She resisted the urge to mutter about how heavy he was or think on the muscles currently flexing beneath her fingers. Once she successfully dumped him on the bed, she lifted his legs on top of the blankets, lit a candle, and debated his sprawled form.
“Too many clothes.” He tugged his shirt, and she heard a button ping across the room and clatter to the floor.
“Really?” She rubbed both hands over her face and eyed his struggle. “I am not removing your trousers though.”
With difficulty, she fought to remove his shirt after carefully setting aside his cufflinks. She tugged the fabric from beneath him and cast her gaze up to the ceiling as he set a hand behind his head and the other upon his bare chest. His open collars revealed the slight tuft of dark hair to her before and seeing the dark, wiry hair over hard muscles and ridges made her throat tighten. She needed to go. This was too intimate.
He took her wrist before she could escape. “Stay.”
“Most certainly not.”
“I cannot be alone.”
The words were low and so quiet she had to pause and debate them. Had he truly said such a thing?
Chastity met his pained gaze, glanced at the chair in the corner of the large room, and let her shoulders sag. “I shall be here.”
He closed his eyes, the furrows between his brows softening. Her fingers twitched with the desire to press her fingers to his skin and smooth them out altogether. Whatever had caused him to behave so, it pained him greatly.
She would stay. But only until she could be assured he had fallen asleep. Which would not be long with any luck.
“It’s all my fault.”
“Pardon?”
His eyes snapped open, and she sucked in a breath at the agony in them.
“I killed him, you see.”
“Killed who?”
His eyes fluttered closed. “My father,” he said on a deep inhale. “I killed him.”
Chastity staggered back and sunk onto the chair as his breathing deepened and snoring filled the room. Good God, was she in the bedroom of a murderer? And why was she not leaving immediately?
∞∞∞
When had he swallowed a mouthful of sand? Valentine smacked his lips together and ran his tongue over dry teeth, grimacing at the gritty feel of them. He rolled onto his side, eyes still shut, and winced when his head gave a thud in response.
He inched open an eye, blew out a breath so scented with stale alcohol that even he could smell it, and noted the closed curtains and dim light of the room. The night had not yet turned to morn thankfully. Plenty of hours left to sleep off his over-indulgence.
But first he needed water.
He scratched his bare chest. Better than last year. At least he had managed to peel off some of his clothing, though he noted his pantaloons were still in place.
Tossing a leg over the side of the bed, he took a breath and sat up. He groaned and put a hand to his skull when it gave an agonizing thud of protest at all the movement.
“Oh!”
He swiveled his head around so quickly his stomach rolled, nausea burning up his throat and leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He stared at the shadowy outline of Chastity, his focus not only hindered by the darkness of the room but by the alcohol still swimming around his body.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, voice gruff.
“You wanted me to stay.” She put a hand to the back of her neck and rolled her shoulders.
“Nonsense,” he grumbled, rising slowly to the washstand and the jug of water that he could just make out now his eyes had adjusted to the gloom.
“You practically begged me to.”
“Well you may go now.” He fumbled to grab the jug and put the cool porcelain to his mouth, tipping it back and back. Blast. He cast the jug aside. “No water,” he muttered.
“I can go and fetch you some.” She rose from the chair and straightened her skirts, then came around the bed to take the jug.
Valentine sank onto the welcoming softness of the mattress, his fists pressed into the sheets, and closed his eyes. “If you do not mind,” he said reluctantly, eyes still closed. The last thing he wanted was her serving him but the thought of hauling his aching head to the kitchen made his stomach churn.
“But first you must tell me about last night.”
He snapped his eyes open. She clasped the jug to her chest. “What happened last night?” He widened his eyes. “Dear God, we did not—”
“You were so drunk you could scarcely stand.”
“Ah.”
“I have scarcely seen you touch a drop of alcohol so why did you imbibe so much last night?”
“In case you had not noticed, I am rather suffering. Perhaps we may have this conversation another time.” Or preferably, never.
“You want water, you must give me answers.”
He let his scowl deepen. “Why should you care?”
“Well, I—” She gestured to him. “I had to carry you to bed and help with your shirt. Surely I deserve an explanation?”
“Mrs. Cooke should have told you to stay away from me.” He pressed fingers to the side of his head in a bid to ease the dull throb there.
“I wondered where everyone was.” She set the jug down and he eyed it mournfully. He was never going to get a drink of water. “You said something about your father.”
Bloody well damn it all to hell.
He waved a hand. “The ramblings of
a drunkard.”
She bent and put her hands to his thighs, fixing him with a determined stare. “You said you killed him.”
“Bloody hell,” he said aloud, all politeness be damned.
Apparently, he had fully opened his wounds and exposed himself to her last night. Of all the people to confess such a thing to.
Straightening, Chastity folded her arms. “Did you really kill your father?”
“No.” He blew out a breath. “Well, yes. But no.”
“What does that mean?”
“Can I not just have that water?” He offered up what he hoped was a contrite expression. “Please?”
“Not until you tell me if I am working for a murderer.”
“You forced me to take you on if you recall.”
“Valentine.”
“Very well.”
Let her have the whole sordid story. At least then she would understand why the fiery connection of their kiss had been a complete mistake. With any luck, he’d frighten her off for good. It might put his finding answers to Julian’s death a little behind, but he could make servants talk eventually surely? After all, he was their employer. They should have no secrets from him.
He grimaced. Doubtful indeed. He did not have the knack for people that Chastity appeared to have.
“Well?” she prompted.
“Will you sit? My head hurts staring up at you.”
Chastity eased onto the bed next to him, making the mattress sink a little. She kept an appropriate space between them. Well, appropriate if one did not consider they were alone and he was in a state of undress.
He stared at the faint lines of the floorboards. “My father killed himself on this day twenty-one years ago,” he said simply.
“Oh.”
“Precisely. So now you see why I decided to get myself in such a state. It is a ritual of sorts.” He snorted.
“So why did you say you killed him?”
Did the damned woman have to be so inquisitive? He laced his fingers together and pressed his fingers hard into the back of his hands. It might have been so long ago, when he had been a mere boy at Cambridge, but it felt fresh still.
Temptations of a Duke's Daughter (The Duchess's Investigative Society Book 2) Page 9