Dark Temptation

by CHASE, ALLISON

  What had she been thinking, arriving unannounced, unescorted, uninvited?

  She had considered asking her cousin Rachel to come along, but that would have meant having to explain about her foray onto the moors last night. Bad enough that the Gordons believed she had wandered out to the beach and fallen asleep alone. If they guessed the truth . . .

  Even before this morning, uneasiness had crept over her whenever she was around them. Whispers cut short when she entered a room; the continual barrage of barely concealed scowls from Uncle Barnaby and Dominic; warnings that she avoid places like Edgecombe—admonitions based, so far, on vague misgivings about curses and ghosts, rather than on rational, concrete evidence that the house posed any true danger.

  Uncle Barnaby had demanded to know what she had seen from the beach, and had seemed relieved by her claim that she had witnessed nothing. That she had fallen asleep. And that she was willing to admit the change in the harbor lights had been produced by her imagination.

  There was more to learn in all of this; she felt certain of it.

  Wishing the earl would say something, anything, she ground the toe of her shoe into the dirt. ‘‘I do hope you’ve a liking for muffins, Lord Wycliffe.’’

  His inscrutable gaze returned to her face. ‘‘I do. Thank you, Miss St. Clair.’’ The eyebrow quirked again. ‘‘So you know who I am. Is it possible we’ve met somewhere previously, and I’ve done you the disservice of forgetting?’’

  ‘‘We have not, at least not formally, but I’ve done quite a bit of reading about Edgecombe. When you told me your first name last night, it wasn’t difficult to make the connection. I’ve long had an interest in the place. Its history, its previous owners. The connection to the Keatings is fascinating. I’ve wondered, is your family somehow descended from the Keatings, or was Edgecombe purchased later?’’

  ‘‘We have no connection to the Keatings.’’ His jaw stiffened and clenched. Had she said something wrong? ‘‘My father bought Edgecombe when I was a boy.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ She longed for the tension in his features to ease, longed to glimpse something of the tenderness he had shown her in the chapel. Had she merely dreamed that side of him? The strength of his arms around her, the heat of his body against her had been solid, real. She hadn’t imagined those things, but neither did she detect anything welcoming or gentle in him now.

  ‘‘May I do something for you, Miss St. Clair?’’

  A clear dismissal. Go home, a little voice advised. But what welcome awaited her there, among relatives who seemed to have something to hide?

  ‘‘I . . . wonder, my lord, if it would be possible for me to see the house sometime? Not today, of course. I’ve taken you unawares, and I won’t inconvenience you further. Perhaps I may return with my cousin Miss Gordon?’’

  His eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘‘You may see the house now, if you wish. If you truly care to, that is. And then perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me the real reason you’re here.’’

  Her stomach tightened around a ball of apprehension. ‘‘I don’t understand your meaning. Of course I—’’

  ‘‘Miss St. Clair, you didn’t come here merely to bring me muffins, though I appreciate the gesture. Nor are you here to sightsee. You want something, and I’ve a good notion what it is. I’ll tell you right now the answer is no.’’

  ‘‘Lord Wycliffe, how can you possibly know what brought me here today?’’

  In truth, he didn’t wish to know. He simply wanted her to leave. Or, at least, to not look up at him so ingenuously with eyes that were not simply gray—not dark and somber like the shadows hanging over Edgecombe, but as deep and vivid as clouds with the sun shining behind them.

  Damn her. Why hadn’t she sense enough to stay away?

  ‘‘I’m of no mind to play games, Miss St. Clair. Please just state your business.’’

  ‘‘Oh . . . yes, all right. Please, my lord. I need your help.’’

  Christ, no. She mustn’t need from him. Mustn’t believe she could rely on him for anything. He wasn’t dependable, wasn’t steadfast. He wasn’t someone in whom a nice young lady could safely bestow her trust. Couldn’t she see that?

  He supposed not. He bore no distinguishing scars, no brand marking him a criminal, no sign revealing the state of his finances or that his world was slowly closing in on him from all sides. She saw only the nobleman, a peer of the realm, a man of supposed good breeding and gracious intent.

  He thrust out his chin and showed her his sternest expression. ‘‘Then you admit, Miss St. Clair, to a motive beyond muffins.’’

  ‘‘Yes. No!’’ A breath slipped past her supple lips, and she said more quietly, ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Good of you to clarify.’’

  He set off walking back toward the house, brushing by her without sparing her a glance, but reasonably certain she’d be quick to follow, and that some sort of explanation would be not long in coming.

  ‘‘Lord Wycliffe, please.’’ Her skirts rustled as she hastened to match his strides. ‘‘I realize we found no evidence of a mishap last night, but I do know what I saw. I was not dreaming.’’

  He wished he were dreaming. Wished her appearance today were nothing more than a sweet, wistful dream he might indulge in for a few hours’ respite before waking to the bleak and uncertain realities of his life.

  ‘‘Lord Wycliffe—’’

  ‘‘I believe you,’’ he tossed over his shoulder. ‘‘And as I advised you last night, let it go.’’

  Her hand came down on his forearm, exposed by the sleeve he had pushed to his elbow. Suddenly there was warmth and the impossibly soft touch of her fingertips sending shards of awareness to pierce him. The dream turned sensual, alarming. Dangerous.

  He stopped and turned to glare down at her. To warn her away with callousness, if he must.

  Before he spoke she removed her hand and said, ‘‘There’s more. Last night my aunt and uncle treated my claims with indifference. Today, when they realized I’d left the house, that indifference transformed into anger. And anxiety. And fear too, I believe.’’

  ‘‘Your uncle knew you’d left the house? What explanation did you give?’’

  ‘‘I made no mention of you. I told him I’d wandered down to the beach to prove to myself all was well. Which leads me to my point. He asked if I’d seen anything. As if he feared I might have. And as if he might have something to hide.’’

  Chad’s pulse bucked. Had she just provided him with his first clue into the mystery surrounding his summons to Edgecombe? Could her family be somehow involved, perhaps part of the very same smuggling ring he had aided?

  But no, that would be too easy. He would be a fool to think he could spend one night in Penhollow and have the answers he sought.

  ‘‘Perhaps you only imagined anger and fear,’’ he said, ‘‘where there existed only concern for your safety.’’ She huffed the beginnings of a retort, one he quickly defused by speaking over her. ‘‘You still haven’t told me what you want of me.’’

  ‘‘Last night you were willing to listen when no one else would. I know you doubted me, but—’’ ‘‘Actually I concede the possibility that something odd may have occurred last night.’’ Shrugging, he turned and began walking. ‘‘I went down to the cliffs this morning to inspect the coastline for anything we might have missed last night.’’

  Together they thudded over the footbridge, her stride noticeably quickening until they descended onto the grass on the other side. She came up beside him, bringing with her a flowery fragrance that tantalized his senses. ‘‘What did you discover?’’

  ‘‘Nothing.’’

  ‘‘Oh. But that doesn’t mean there mightn’t be something to be discovered. Perhaps at water level—’’

  ‘‘I’d had the same thought,’’ he admitted, then silently cursed himself for encouraging her.

  ‘‘Perhaps if we went by boat—’’

  ‘‘If I went by boat, Miss St. Clair.’’ T
hey reached the terrace steps, and he stopped again, angry with himself for having failed to end the conversation before putting dangerous thoughts into her head. ‘‘At the first opportunity I’ll hire a vessel and see if I can’t discover what this coastline might be hiding, if anything. You, Miss St. Clair, shall remain onshore, where you belong.’’

  She rounded on him. ‘‘I am the one who witnessed the incident firsthand.’’

  ‘‘That makes no difference. Not with the treachery of the seas hereabout.’’

  ‘‘I am not afraid of a little water, my lord.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps you should be. Perhaps you should be afraid of a great many things.’’ Such as entering the home of a man you do not know, alone, while being so damnably unaware of the effect you have on him.

  If she only knew the thoughts—urges—her proximity aroused in him, how fiercely he fought the impulse to drag her into his arms and kiss her, to seek relief from the burdensome darkness of his world in the sweetness of smooth, tempting flesh . . . in innocence and the stubborn, reckless naïveté that had sent her here in the first place.

  He shoved his blowing hair from his eyes. ‘‘Why is this so important to you? You said you are only visiting. Why concern yourself with affairs that have nothing to do with you? Confound it, Miss St. Clair, who are you that you are so hell-bent on probing into the secrets, if indeed there are any, of an inconsequential village in the middle of nowhere?’’

  ‘‘My lord, in my experience I have learned that nothing is inconsequential. Not if it involves the lives and well-being of innocent people.’’

  ‘‘What of your life? Your well-being?’’

  ‘‘I can take care of myself.’’

  ‘‘Then why do you need me?’’

  She appeared flustered by the question, but his little triumph paled as he found himself holding his breath and wishing her answer held some redeeming truth he might latch onto as he fought to salvage his life.

  ‘‘I can’t be everywhere at once,’’ she said. ‘‘Nor can I, due to my circumstances, move as freely about this village as you can. I’m asking for your assistance, my lord, as a second pair of eyes and ears. I’ve no one else to turn to. And you seem a reasonable man.’’

  ‘‘Ah. You wish to use me.’’

  ‘‘Yes. No.’’ Flustered again, she frowned. ‘‘I mean—’’

  ‘‘Again, thank you for clarifying.’’ He climbed the terrace steps two at a time.

  She scurried up behind him, stopping slightly out of breath, cheeks faintly flushed, and he wondered where their chase would end. Here? In the house? He’d carelessly offered to show her the inside, but now he recognized the prospect as a bad idea. How could he trust himself with her when she looked as she did—fresh, windblown . . . and so tempting?

  He needed her gone. Not only because of how she tipped his senses on end, but because at some point dangerous men would make demands of him, perhaps even claim his life.

  ‘‘Will you help me?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Miss St. Clair, you are nothing if not dogged. I . . . Hang on one moment. . . .’’ It suddenly struck him. Her tenacity, her inquisitiveness, her impulsiveness. He could think of one explanation. He set her basket of muffins in the low wall bordering the terrace. ‘‘St. Clair . . . as in the family who owns the Beacon? Are you Cornelius St. Clair’s granddaughter? Are you Sophie St. Clair?’’

  A wave of scarlet engulfed her from neck to hairline. Her lips opened, compressed, then opened again with a quiver that made him wish he’d held his tongue. But in the instant it took all of that to happen, the mortification on her face hardened to stoic, proud resolve. ‘‘Yes.’’

  A queasy sensation crawled through Sophie, and she felt as though she once more stood before the earl with her cloak flying open to reveal her nightshift beneath.

  Tucked away into one of the remotest corners of faraway Cornwall, and still she could not escape the scandal. Chadwell Rutherford must have heard about it in London—who hadn’t?

  ‘‘This explains quite a bit,’’ he said, a corner of his mouth pulling into the first hint of a smile she had yet seen from him today.

  The gesture made her want to turn and hide. But what good would hiding do? Her family had sent her here in hopes of defusing the gossip, yet her ruined reputation had followed her as faithfully as an old dog. The earl must think her wanton and shameless, must suppose she came to Edgecombe seeking a lurid assignation.

  She forced open a mouth that felt as tight and stiff as starched linen. ‘‘I assure you the greater portion of whatever you heard about me bears no resemblance to the truth.’’

  He folded his arms across his chest. ‘‘Then what is the truth?’’

  ‘‘You wouldn’t believe me.’’ No one else had, not even the people who claimed to love her most.

  ‘‘I do know a thing about rumors, Miss St. Clair. How they grow and spread and take on a life of their own.’’

  Was he giving her the benefit of the doubt? Finally would someone give credence to her side of what had happened that deplorable night? Not daring to meet his eyes lest the sympathy she believed she detected turned out to be as flimsy as her family’s trust, she turned and put a few steps’ distance between them. Feeling confined, backed into a corner as she had been that night, she tugged her bonnet strings loose and removed the silk-and-straw contraption from her head.

  ‘‘It was the night of the Winthrops’ annual charity ball. Grandfather allowed me to cover the event for the Beacon. My task was to sit quietly in a corner and take notes on who attended, what they wore, the size of the donations . . . that sort of thing. I went there with another story in mind.’’ The wind sifted through her hair, bringing cooling relief to the searing memories. ‘‘I’d had a tip, you see, about wrongdoing within the Winthrop Benevolent Society.’’

  ‘‘What kind of wrongdoing?’’

  ‘‘The pilfering of funds.’’ She glanced briefly over her shoulder. ‘‘By the Winthrops themselves. For years they’ve effectively been stealing from orphans and widows and men who were wounded in the wars against Napoleon.’’

  She heard his quietly approaching tread. ‘‘How does that explain your being in Sir Henry Winthrop’s bedchamber?’’ The murmured question, almost but not quite an accusation, grazed her nape and made her shiver. ‘‘With Sir Henry.’’

  ‘‘My tip—from a maid in their employ—was that I’d find proof of their perfidy in files kept in Lady Gertrude’s private salon. When the guests sat down for supper I stole upstairs to search. But the house is a veritable maze, and—’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ Did he? Or was that simply what one said when nothing could be done to change a wretched situation? ‘‘And the kiss?’’

  She whirled, a reproach hot on her lips. So the sordid details had made the rounds, had they? Skulking into parlors, shops, private gentlemen’s clubs. She had probably been the toast of White’s—had the Earl of Wycliffe raised a glass in honor of her supposed exploits?

  But as she beheld his face—those strong, even features and cognac-colored eyes—she detected no hint of censure. Only the opportunity for the truth, at long last, to be heard.

  She wanted to kiss him for it. Instead she said, ‘‘When I realized I’d entered the wrong room, I decided to make a quick search anyway. But Sir Henry had spilled sauce on his neck cloth and came up to change it. Oh, he was furious to find me rummaging though his things. Caught me by the shoulders and propelled me out his bedroom door with promises to summon the authorities immediately. At that moment several guests appeared at the top of the stairs, and before I knew it . . .’’

  Her throat ran dry as the humiliation of the incident roared through her. ‘‘He grabbed me in his arms and forced a disgusting sham of a kiss on me. Behind me I heard the gasps of onlookers. It was hideous. Then he released me and said, ‘Sorry we haven’t more time now, love. Next week, perhaps,’ and pretended to be shocked and embarrassed by our audience.’’

  ‘‘D
amn the rotten whoreson.’’ The earl’s voice plunged with restrained emotion, and tense white lines formed on either side of his nose. ‘‘Obviously he guessed what you might be after. By compromising you he effectively discredited any accusations you might have made against him. You would have sounded like a jilted paramour. And as far as his marriage is concerned, it’s common knowledge that Lady Winthrop turns a blind eye to her husband’s dalliances. She’s too preoccupied carrying on affairs of her own.’’ His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

  ‘‘You believe me.’’ It was not a question, not even a statement, but a palpable outpouring of relief. She closed her eyes to savor the sensation.

  She opened them at the warm touch of fingertips beneath her chin. The earl stared into her face with an intensity that made her nerve endings tingle, that made her wonder, as she had last night, if he might lower his head and kiss her.

  His thumb brushed back and forth against her lower lip, making it burn, tremble. Myriad emotions deepened with the hue of his eyes and held her motionless while a rippling awareness inside left her wanting . . . as she had never wanted before. Waiting . . . for what she had never experienced before. Thunder rolled across the sky, the sound vibrating inside her and wrapping around a growing, unsettling ache.

  Then his fingers fell away and he straightened to his full height, towering over her until he seemed unreachable, removed and distant. ‘‘What I believe, Miss St. Clair, is that you are here in Cornwall for no good reason, and that you should contact your family immediately and ask them to bring you home.’’

  ‘‘They won’t allow it. Not yet.’’

  ‘‘Have you told them of your suspicions concerning Penhollow?’’

  She sighed. ‘‘My family wouldn’t believe me. They’d think it merely a ruse on my part to return to London. Unless, of course, I found solid evidence.’’

  She couldn’t help the hope that entered her voice, or the wistful glance she cast him. But his handsome features had become closed to her again, as shuttered as the windows of his house had once been.