James inhaled, and dust caught in his throat right away, coating his windpipe and turning the otherwise simple task of breathing into a strenuous affair. A cough escaped him, brought on by the stale air. Determined not to be swayed by it, he took slow measured breaths, held his lantern high in front of him, and started forward. As he went, he did his best to avoid the cobwebs, of which there were plenty, but a few still caught in his hair while one stretched softly across his face before he could swipe it away with the back of his hand.
A few more paces and the path turned toward a dead end where a wooden ladder offered a means to ascend to the next level. James considered the spot while trying to work out where he would be if he were still on the outside. The wall beside the ladder probably marked the doorframe to the Indian salon, hence the break in the path.
Swinging the lantern around, he looked to see if there might be a similar handle here, but found none. Instead, there was what appeared to be a slat placed high upon the wall with a block of wood directly below it, forming a step. Stepping up, James pulled the slat aside and looked through to the room beyond. Even though it was shrouded in dark tones of gray, he was still able to make out enough of the room to know that he’d been right in his assessment. It was indeed the Indian salon.
With a tug, James pulled the slat back into position and stepped down to face the ladder. Glancing up, he saw nothing but darkness above. Considering the height of the ceilings in the downstairs rooms, he knew that the climb would consist of at least ten feet. Fleetingly, he wondered when the ladder had last been used and whether or not it would carry his weight. He then stepped onto the lowest rung, bouncing a little to see if it would bow beneath him. It not only held, but seemed to be remarkably solid.
Somewhat awkwardly, thanks to the lantern that he was forced to bring along, James started to climb. The wooden rails were rough beneath his hands, occasionally catching his skin as he hauled himself upward. After counting twenty rungs, he paused, his breaths just a little uneven because of the effort. Clasping the ladder tightly with his left hand, he held the lantern up with his right. It couldn’t be much further now, could it? The light didn’t reach far enough for him to be able to tell. Instead, the darkness wrapped itself around him, denying any point of reference.
Muttering an oath, James continued to haul himself upward until finally, ten rungs later, he climbed through a solid square opening and stepped out onto the second floor. It was less dusty up here and there were fewer cobwebs as well, James noted, which made him wonder if perhaps this passage was used more often than the other.
Moving slowly, he studied each wall, looking for slats or handles while keeping an eye on the floor as well. The last thing he needed was to fall to his death, which was what would undoubtedly happen if he stepped into another ladder opening. For several paces, there was nothing, but then a slat and a handle came into view and James didn’t hesitate to take a look at the room beyond. It was a bedroom, just as he’d known it would be, and although he couldn’t see any occupant, he was able to make out the silhouette of boots upon the floor and of a lonely hat that was sitting on a chair.
Turning away, James studied the following rooms in a similar manner. Loud snoring came from many of them, and in one, the occupant appeared to be having a lively time with one of the maids. Shutting the slat as silently as possible, James continued on his way until finally, he happened upon a room dressed entirely in white sheets. This had to be it—the room he’d been hoping to find when he’d considered the opportunities that a secret passage offered: the late Earl of Duncaster’s bedchamber, and most likely the room that had once belonged to the earl’s father.
James pulled on the handle in front of him. A click sounded, and then the door popped open, granting him entry. For a moment, he remained quite still, taking his time to assess the outlines of each individual piece of furniture. Even though they’d been covered, a glimpse of legs beneath the sheets was enough to inform James of the period in which they’d been made. Most appeared to be modern, but one was not. Without hesitating further, James crossed to an escritoire crafted in a more dated style and carefully nudged aside the sheet that was covering its surface.
Crouching down, he stuck his hand underneath, searching for a hidden compartment. Finding none, he opened a drawer and reached inside. It seemed too shallow, so he pressed his fingertips against the back. The wood there suddenly gave way, swiveling sideways and revealing a space beyond. James felt around inside, his heart lurching when he came into contact with a solid object. Pulling it out of the drawer, the lurch turned into a steady gallop at the realization that he’d found a book.
Closing the drawer, he pulled the sheet back into place and reached for his lantern. He was just about to see if the book he’d found was actually the journal when a clicking noise drew his attention. His eyes darted to the door at the other end of the room. Someone was turning a key.
Before he had time to blink, he was on his feet and moving swiftly toward the wall-panel through which he had entered. He slipped silently through it, closing it just as the other door opened. Drawing a breath, he peered through the slat that still remained slightly ajar, to see Lady Duncaster standing before a painting of a man that hung on the wall. “I miss you,” she said, her words reminding James of drooping flowers after a rainfall.
Unwilling to intrude on her private moment, he slid the slat quietly back into place, shoved the book inside his jacket pocket, and made his way back toward the ladder. No more than fifteen minutes later, he was back inside the Turkish salon where he took a moment to dust himself off with his hands.
Determined to return to his bedchamber quickly so that he could study the book in private, he headed for the door, reaching it just as it swung open, the edge of it hitting him squarely in the forehead.
“Damn!” The expletive was out before he could think.
“Oh, I do beg your pardon!”
James winced, his skull still reverberating like a bronze bell after a hefty ring. He stepped back away from the door and held up his lantern. “Lady Newbury.” He couldn’t seem to help the dry tone. “What a surprise.”
“Are you all right?” She asked, the words rushing from her mouth. “I didn’t think anyone would be in here so I . . . oh, I’m so sorry!”
“It was an accident. Considering the late hour, you were right to presume the room empty. May I ask what you are doing roaming around at”—he glanced toward the clock on the side table next to where they were standing and frowned—“three o’clock in the morning?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied. “You?”
“The same,” he said.
“I see.”
Silence followed, drawing out until it became somewhat awkward. “You really shouldn’t be down here alone,” James finally said. “Allow me to escort you back upstairs.”
She hesitated, seemed to consider her options. “Wouldn’t you rather get something cold for your head?”
“No. I’ll do just fine without.”
Considering her deep frown, she didn’t seem very convinced, but she finally nodded. “In that case, I’d be happy to accept your assistance.”
A soft wave of heat settled inside his chest as she linked her arm with his. A gentle reminder of her feminine appeal? Or just the relief of knowing that he’d soon be allowed to study the book he’d found? Starting forward, James chose to believe that it must be the latter. She was just a woman, after all, except that this was about as true as claiming that the Taj Mahal was just a building in India or that the Atlantic Ocean was just a body of water. She’d raised his awareness, and he’d been sorely pressed not to think about her since their previous encounters.
“You mentioned when last we spoke that you box.” Her words were soft—perhaps even a little bit cautious.
“Yes.” A curt response intended to ensure a certain distance.
There was a
pause, measured by ten exact steps, and then, “Do you engage in any other sporting activities?”
“You ask an awful lot of questions for a lady unwilling to offer much of herself in return.”
“What do you mean?” Quiet dread snuck its way into her voice.
James wondered if she was aware of it. “Nothing,” he said, deciding to avoid that path for now. “In answer to your question, I like riding and fencing as well.”
She made a little sound, perhaps of approval, and for a moment he thought she might say something more. When she didn’t, he said, “What about you? Do you have any interests besides reading?”
“I err . . . yes, I . . .” She turned her head to look at him at the exact same moment that he turned his head to look at her, and they were suddenly very close—so close in fact that he was able to see the occasional fleck of brown nestled against the green of her eyes. It shimmered in the glow of the lantern. His eyes dropped to the sumptuous curve of her mouth, and the gentleman within him took a step back, giving way to the scoundrel. Hell and damnation, he wanted to taste her. It wasn’t logical in any way, but an urge brought on by some elemental need awakened within him the moment she licked her lips.
His conscience urged him to reconsider even as he turned to face her more completely, closing the distance and dipping his head toward her, while the expectation of that one intimate touch sent darts of awareness coursing through him, tightening his stomach and teasing his skin with prickling heat.
The echo of footsteps approaching made him pause, his every nerve hovering between action and inaction. Eventually, he pulled back, but not without noting Lady Newbury’s parted lips or the dazed expression upon her face. She hadn’t muttered a single word of protest. Indeed, she would have let him kiss her without complaint. He was absolutely certain of that as the footsteps rounded the corner ahead, bringing none other than Scarsdale with them. How bloody perfect!
Spotting them, the earl came to an immediate halt. “It seems we meet again,” he said, his tone as dry as tree bark on a hot summer’s day. “Lady Newbury. What a wonderful surprise.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to go for a walk,” she said. “Lord Woodford has kindly offered to show me back to my room since I wasn’t as wise as the two of you in bringing a lantern with me.”
“And I suppose you were unable to sleep as well?” Scarsdale asked, addressing James.
“Exactly. And you?” James inquired.
“The same,” Scarsdale said. “Perhaps we should keep each other company? Once you’ve escorted Lady Newbury back to her room, that is.”
“I was actually hoping to return to bed myself. It is rather late, after all.”
A caustic laugh burst from Scarsdale’s mouth. “So it is,” he agreed. “Well, never mind then. Perhaps another time?” James inclined his head and Scarsdale nodded in return. He looked at Chloe. “I very much enjoyed your company earlier today and was wondering if you might like to take a ride with me tomorrow. We could have luncheon in the village.”
“A fine suggestion, my lord and one that is much appreciated,” she said, sounding genuinely pleased. “Thank you.”
Scarsdale smiled kindly at her, then gave Woodford a brief, but somewhat uneasy, glance. “It’s settled then. In the meantime, I plan to enjoy a brandy in the smoking room. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
James hoped not. He’d already had enough of Scarsdale to last him a lifetime and intended to make a deliberate effort to avoid him for the remainder of his stay at Thorncliff. If Lady Newbury wanted to spend time with the man, then that was her business.
“Good night,” Lady Newbury told Scarsdale as they parted ways. The earl returned the salutation before continuing along the hallway, his footsteps gradually blending with the silence.
“He seems quite taken with you,” James said, slanting a look at Lady Newbury as he guided her toward the stairs.
“Scarsdale was wonderfully supportive after my husband’s death. He was one of Newbury’s closest friends and the only one who took an interest in how I was faring in the wake of Newbury’s detrimental duel with Wrightley.” She halted at the foot of the stairs and drew away from James so that she could better face him. “I get the distinct impression that the two of you have your differences. Personally, however, I cannot fault Scarsdale for anything since he has shown me nothing but kindness.”
“I understand.”
She winced a little. “I very much doubt that, my lord.”
He couldn’t help but frown. “Why do you say that?”
Tilting her head, she regarded him a moment. “I think I would like to retire now,” she eventually said, not answering his question as she started up the stairs.
James hurried after her. “I did not mean to cause offense,” he said, aware that his question had somehow managed to push her away.
“You’ve done no such thing. I assure you.” Her fingers trailed along the polished wood railing while her other hand clasped the skirt of her gown, raising the hem so she would not trip. “But the question you asked of me will lead to a place that I’m not yet willing to let you enter. Forgive me, but our acquaintance is still in its early stages and far too fresh for me to confide in you the parameters of my marriage.”
“I wasn’t asking you to,” James said, a little bothered by the fact that she found his question intrusive when all he’d meant to do was voice his curiosity.
They reached the top of the landing and she deliberately stepped toward him, her eyes searching his face as if to determine if he was speaking the truth. “Why do you always look so somber?” The question sounded like a private thought, mistakenly spoken aloud.
“I’m a serious man, Lady Newbury,” he said, deciding to answer. “Few things amuse me.”
“Or perhaps there’s another reason—one that you’d rather not talk about.” His heart thudded against his chest and the fine hairs at the nape of his neck bristled. “The same reason you got angry when I quizzed you about your time at Eton, perhaps?”
The muscles in his arms tightened. He tried to think of something to say—something that wouldn’t sound bitter or snide. “Your curiosity triggered an unpleasant memory.”
She nodded solemnly. “Then you do understand why I do not wish to continue the conversation we were having.” Raising her hand, she brushed her fingertips carefully across the right side of his forehead. “There’s a slight bump, but nothing your hair won’t conceal. Once again, I’m sorry.”
When she moved to pull away, he caught her by the wrist, and there it was again—that tension he’d felt before when he’d been tempted to kiss her. She didn’t want to get close, and frankly, neither did he, but to deny that there wasn’t something between them would be a fantastic lie.
Beneath the touch of his hand, he felt her pulse quicken. Her eyes held his, displaying a confidence that would have been convincing had it not been for the slight hitch of her breath. His gaze meandered down her arm and across to her shoulder where a slight tremble of pale porcelain flesh confirmed her state of agitation. James had no doubt in his mind that she wanted to flee.
Stubbornly, she remained where she was, perfectly still with her wrist still wrapped in his hand. He admired her control. The tip of her tongue swept across her bottom lip, innocently moistening it, and something fierce began to claw at James’s chest. A sharp inhale brought the scent of honey-sweetened lemons with it, fueling the beast that had sprung to life within him.
Desire.
That’s what it was—this elemental need to pull her close and taste her, to press his palm against the curve of her breast and . . . Loosening his hold, he released her and took a step back, his chest rising and falling heavily against the tight fit of his waistcoat. “After you,” he said, gesturing toward the right.
Dipping her head, she set off in the direction of her room while he followed slightly
behind—still close enough to light her way, but not close enough to allow for further temptation. Reaching her door, they bid each other a polite good night. He turned away before she’d finished closing her door, eager to return to his own bedchamber where he would finally be able to study the book still resting snugly in his jacket pocket, while hopefully putting Lady Newbury out of his mind.
If only it would be that simple.
Chapter 5
Dressed in a blue floral print day-dress and a straw bonnet tied with pretty blue ribbons, Chloe set out for Hillcrest—the closest village to Thorncliff—the following day. Seated beside Scarsdale in his curricle, she looked forward to escaping Thorncliff for a while, and most notably a certain earl.
“Lady Duncaster says there’s a lovely little eatery with an outdoor terrace that serves fresh fish and excellent dessert,” Scarsdale said, glancing in her direction. “Would that interest you?”
“It sounds lovely,” Chloe replied, looking back at him with a smile. His arrival at Thorncliff had been welcome, adding stability to what had started to feel like emotional upheaval after her first encounter with Woodford.
They found the small restaurant without too much trouble, located next to the mill so that they could enjoy the soothing cascading of water while they ate.
“How’s your cod and spinach pie?” Scarsdale asked, taking a bite of his own food. He’d opted for pork chops and potatoes instead.
“Delicious,” she said, savoring the smooth texture of the fish and the creamy flavor of the pie. Setting down her knife and fork, she reached for her wine.
“I hope you won’t think me too forward,” Scarsdale said as he finished his meal and pushed his plate aside, “but I cannot help but be concerned about you and would therefore like to caution you.”
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