“Oh!”
“I’m sorry to startle you. I knocked several times, but there was no answer.” His arms were crossed over his chest, as if to barricade the door with his big body. He was frowning. “I must say I am severely disappointed.”
Daphne’s heart froze and her mind skittered like a frightened rodent.
Good Lord! Had he found out? Had—
He grinned at whatever it was he saw on her face and a wave of near-crippling relief—mingled with annoyance—rose in her throat and she closed her book with a snap.
“Disappointed, my lord? At what? Seeing a woman reading a book?”
“Well, there is that.” He pushed off the door and commenced to prowl, inspecting random items in a distracting fashion that made her entire body tense before finally stopping in front of the settee on which she was seated. He reached down and gently prodded the book she was clutching, cocking his head until he could read the title.
“Hmm.” His expressive eyebrows shot up. “A little light reading?”
Daphne clutched the book more tightly and fixed him with the haughtiest look she could muster. “Yes, well, I’m afraid I’ve already dashed through this month’s issue of The Lady’s Magazine.”
His sensual lips curved and smile lines bracketed his beautiful mouth.
“Have you indeed?” His warm, knowing look caused disparate parts of her body to tingle and heat.
She heaved a sigh of irritation to cover the disconcerting reactions. “Is there something I may help you with, my lord, or did you come to discuss ladies’ fashions?”
He lowered himself onto the settee beside her, his body ludicrously large on the tiny piece of furniture. When he shifted his hips to insinuate himself into a more comfortable position, the action brought his warm hardness closer to her. Daphne considered inching away but there was no place left to inch—no place that wasn’t filled by Hugh Redvers.
Amusement glinted in his green eye. “My dearest Lady Davenport,” he drawled, the honorific sounding even more intimate on his lips than her Christian name, “I should dearly love to discuss the latest fashions in hemlines with you. Or”—his smile shifted and became sly—“even German philosophy.”
Daphne could only stare; his recognition of Kant was so unexpected, so . . . erotic, the thumping in her heart dropped lower. She squirmed and her hip brushed his. A bolt of lightning shot from the point of contact and she sprang to her feet. He rose with her, making her escape only temporary as he towered over her, favoring her with a solicitous look while taking her hand. The feel of his warm, slightly roughened skin against her own caused her throat to constrict to the diameter of a pea.
“I apologize if my reference to ladies’ garments was . . . inappropriate.” His contrite expression was belied by the smoldering gleam in his eye and his fingers slid beneath her palm and brushed the thin, sensitive underside of her wrist.
Daphne snatched away her hand and used it to smooth her skirts, swallowing convulsively before clearing her throat. “I have business to attend to. I’ve been shirking my duties.” She hated how breathy and foolish she sounded, and glared up at him, as if her condition was his fault. Which it was.
“Shirking?”
Daphne ignored his invitation to banter. “You needed something from me?”
“Yes, I do need something from you.” He loomed over her, standing closer than politeness allowed.
Daphne waited. And waited. “Well, what is it?” she finally snapped, irked that he’d driven her to ask.
The corners of his mouth curled up and charming crinkles appeared at the corner of his eye. Oh, he was such a pest! Why did she keep rising to the bait he dangled? She crossed her arms over her chest and waited. She would not say another word. Not one more word.
“I just encountered Randall. He was looking for you.”
“Yes?”
“He was rather frantic. He has been called away on family business.” He waved a huge hand dismissively. “Something about a daughter and a child and so on.”
“His eldest daughter is close to her confinement.”
“I believe that was it. In any case, that means he will not be able to join us on our inspection of the Dower House.” He smiled slowly. “I’m afraid we shall have to do that together. Alone.”
Her heart stuttered. “If you’d care to postpone, we could—”
“I would not.”
Daphne filled her lungs and then slowly exhaled. An entire morning spent with him. Alone. She compressed her lips and nodded. “Very well.” She waited. “Was that all?”
“No, I also wanted to ask why you abandoned me in the library.”
“The library?” she repeated stupidly.
“Yes, you know—the room with all the books? You’ve emptied out that charming desk. Have I driven you away by some action of mine?”
Daphne’s mind raced. She could not tell him the truth—that she could no more concentrate on a book in Hugh’s presence than she could cartwheel to London. No, she could not say that. So she lied.
“I thought you might wish for some privacy.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Did you? And is that what you did when my uncle was alive—work in this room?” He glanced around the cramped, poorly lit room with an expression of distaste.
“No. I worked in the library.”
“But now you have abandoned the library so that I might have it all to myself?”
Frustration joined the host of other emotions roiling in her bosom. Why could he not leave her be? What was he getting at and why was he here?
“I have done so out of consideration for you. Courtesy,” she added, in case he didn’t know what consideration meant.
It was vexatious to be pressed on the issue, especially since the truth was so humiliating. That she’d fled the library because concentration was impossible with him nearby; that all she could think about when he was in the same room was his face, his body, and his teasing looks; and, most of all, that the urge to do with him the things she’d read in his wicked, wicked book was overpowering.
She gritted her teeth; that horrid, blasted book she wished she’d never seen but could not stop reading. And rereading.
Daphne realized he was quiet and glanced up. He was smiling, as if he could see inside her head—all the naked images of his person crammed in there, and how they cavorted with naked images of her person, and—
“Considerate?” he repeated. “I find it very inconsiderate, Daphne. It would please me if you did not abandon either your desk or the library or any other part of Lessing Hall because of me. I assure you, my dearest auntie, I will quell my unease at seeing a woman surrounded by so many books—or—horrors!—reading one.” His words were light, but his expression was not. “If you continue to evacuate rooms when I enter them, I can only think you wish me away from Lessing Hall.”
“No,” Daphne blurted. “That is, I should be very happy to continue working in the library.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. Do you need help moving your things?”
“Thank you, no. There is not much here.”
Hugh smiled and bowed, leaving the room without another word.
Daphne collapsed on the settee with a ragged sigh. Lord. Now she had no excuse to avoid him. Each day it was more and more of a struggle not to grill him on his past—especially when the newspapers seemed to speak of nothing else. But she knew what opening such a door would do, and she had no interest in sharing the details of her own past. No, they were in a state of détente and prying would upset that delicate balance.
Weeks had gone by and she was no closer to telling him the truth than she had been that first day in the glade. If anything, she was farther away. Enforced time with him had only made her realize how much she liked the man who inhabited that gorgeous body. Behind his lazy amusement and teasing manner was a keen intellect and fascinating person. He was also a kind and gentle man who spent part of every day with her sons, who viewed him as a god.
It had take
n every bit of self-control Daphne could muster to avoid following him around like a puppy—just to be near him. And now she was committed to a morning ride with him to the Dower House? A half day with him? Alone?
She closed her eyes and prayed for rain.
* * *
Hugh smiled as he closed the door to the dark little room where he’d found his beautiful young aunt hiding; as if she could hide from him.
He thought of the book she’d been clutching and his smile grew into a grin. The things the woman read must be bloody well incomprehensible to all but a few minds in the entire country. Not only that, but it appeared she read them in their original languages. He’d seen her many language books, which filled several rows in his uncle’s vast library. Not just French and Italian—subjects deemed proper for the delicate intellect of a woman—but German, Greek, Latin, and even Dutch.
“Bloody hell,” he said under his breath as he strode toward the Great Hall, his mind stuck on the woman behind him instead of the task in front of him. He shouldn’t tease her—it wasn’t only ill-mannered, it was dangerous; dangerous to his peace of mind.
Hugh gave a bitter bark of laughter. What peace? Every day he wanted her more.
When he’d realized she’d removed her possessions from the library, a room she loved, he’d been relieved. And then unhappy. And finally furious. Relieved she’d removed temptation, unhappy he could no longer sit and watch her while he pretended to read, and furious his presence had driven her from a room in her own house.
He scrubbed a hand roughly through his hair, wishing he could remove his head and shake out its contents, which seemed to be mostly useless rubbish these days, anyhow. He’d promised himself he would leave her alone and be grateful she’d begun avoiding him. At least one of them was showing good sense. That intention had lasted all of a day. He couldn’t leave it alone; he couldn’t leave her alone. What was it about her? And what the hell was she hiding? Because it had taken him only hours in her company to know she was hiding something—and whatever it was, she burned with guilt over it.
Not that it was any of his business. He should let her get away to London, but he’d taken every opportunity to put a spoke in her wheel. It would be better for all involved if she left, particularly if the anonymous letters were correct and she was unsafe here. Especially since there’d been another letter last night.
Thinking about the most recent missive made him glare fiercely just as he passed through the foyer, where a footman loitered near the front door.
“Find William Standish and bring him to the library,” he ordered, forgetting he was not on the deck of his ship.
The man shot away like an arrow from a bow and Hugh felt a pang he’d spoken so harshly. After all, it wasn’t the poor sod’s fault Hugh was in the throes of adolescent infatuation at the age of seven and thirty. He glanced at the enormous longcase clock just inside the library and saw it was a quarter past two; the perfect time for a brandy. He poured two fingers of rich amber liquid into a glass—added a third for good measure—and went to look at Daphne’s language library, as if he might know its owner better if he looked at the books closely enough.
He shuddered at the fatuous thought. Good Lord, he was an idiot!
Was this cursed attraction to her punishment for his past behavior? As if he’d enjoyed too many years of carefree whoring, and some vile cosmic force had taken note of his erstwhile happy, pleasure-seeking, and ultimately selfish existence and decided it was time to extract payment? Payment in the form of sexual frustration, a feeling he couldn’t recall ever experiencing until now. And, by God, a feeling he did not like in the least.
An image of Daphne came unbidden to his mind, her slim, graceful body, her cool sapphire eyes, and those plump lips he couldn’t stop imagining beneath his. He stared at the desk before him and visualized her on it, his hands lifting her skirts and stroking her long legs all the way up. He would take her slowly, exploring her most private places with a deliberation calculated to drive that remote look from her face. He’d tease her with fingers, hands, lips, and tongue until those aloof blue eyes melted and she begged to be put out of her misery. And then he’d fill her so deeply she’d not know where her body ended and his—
“You summoned me, sir?”
Hugh yelped and spun around. “Good God, man! Must you creep about so soundlessly?” His high-pitched voice was bad enough—but his erect rod—proclaiming his tortured state for all and sundry to see—was beyond infuriating.
Will wore his signature superior smirk. “I apologize if I startled you, my lord.”
“Sit.”
Hugh dropped into the chair behind the massive desk and gripped the arms while his hammering heart slowed. He stared at the smooth surface in front of him. The desk was a work of art and Hugh would always think of it as his uncle’s possession—just like everything else in the blasted place.
Just like his widow.
“Damn and blast,” he groaned. He was so bloody hard it hurt.
“My lord?”
Hugh threw back his drink and adjusted his pounding erection before leaning back in his chair and scowling at the other man. “I want to know every last detail about this letter.”
The superior look slid from Will’s face. “I found it last night—just before I left for home. I’ve asked anyone who might have been near where the note was left, but nobody saw anything and nobody unusual was here either yesterday or for two days prior.” He pinched the narrow bridge of his nose. “It was on the floor in the tack room, I’ve no idea how long it might have been there.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I’m afraid I’ve exhausted my sources of information.”
“Sources? Which sources are those?”
Will’s pale face reddened. “Perhaps sources is the wrong word. Other than the servants here, I did speak to one of the weavers who works with my sister, and she has a cousin who is a cook-maid—” His voice petered out as Hugh’s eyebrows went up and up and up. He expelled a noisy mouthful of air. “The truth is I’ve no idea how to go on with this, my lord. The note could have come at any time, from anyone.”
“What about the man you know from Tunbridge Wells? The runner or whatever he is, has he turned up anything?”
“He said the situation over at Whitton Park is tense as the servants have not been paid in some time, but other than that . . .” Will shrugged. “He is doing all he can, but he has discovered nothing linking anyone to either the letters or her ladyship.”
“Is there anyone else we could use?”
“Not anyone I would trust. I daresay you wouldn’t want any word of this to get out.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Hugh drummed the desk with the three fingers of his left hand. Should he tell Daphne about the notes? Was it possible she might be aware of what was going on? He dismissed the thought. Why worry her when they weren’t even certain there was a problem? He was beginning to think it was all a prank, some disgruntled ex-servant stirring the pot. After all, what bloody danger could she be in at Lessing Hall? It made no sense.
“We’ll give your man a few more days. I am hesitant to go prancing about asking questions myself about such a sensitive matter. I’m afraid my interest would not go unnoticed.” That was a bloody understatement. Word of Hugh’s return had spread like proverbial wildfire. Every paper Hugh read was full of his exploits, both real and imagined. Anytime he went into Eastbourne, he could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes; he didn’t even want to think about how bad it would be in London. Already he’d hired five men from the village to patrol the property and they’d tossed a dozen newspapermen from the estate. Who knew how many others lurked undetected? No, he’d not be able to look into a damned thing without drawing a crowd.
Hugh plucked the quill from its holder and absently smoothed the barb. “I want to get someone into Whitton Park. That is all we have at present—Lady Davenport’s enmity with Hastings.”
Will nodded. “I agree. Unfortunately, your uncle severed all connectio
ns with Hastings when he and Lady Davenport married. We have almost no contact with Whitton Park—neither its master nor servants.”
“That in itself is rather unusual in such a small community, is it not?” Hugh met Will’s pale blue eyes. “Do you know the source of the disagreement between my uncle and Hastings?”
“I have no clue, my lord. Your uncle went to Whitton Park with some regularity when her ladyship’s mother was still alive.”
“Ah yes, the orchid connection,” Hugh said, his lips twisting.
Will gave him an odd look before speaking. “I have always assumed the earl stopped paying visits because of Lady Hastings’s death, but perhaps it was because of something Hastings did? The man is generally known to be a disreputable character, and you know how your uncle was about such things.”
Yes, Hugh did know. His uncle had been a bulwark of respectability, a stickler for proper behavior; he would have wanted nothing to do with a man like Malcolm Hastings. Or a man like Hugh.
“The late earl was not the only person in the neighborhood who did not welcome Hastings’s company, although he did take things one step further by making sure there was no overlap in staff, except Rowena Claxton, who was with Lady Davenport at Whitton.”
Hugh smiled at the mention of Daphne’s hostile maid. Lord, but that woman disliked him! She was old enough to remember what he’d been like as a lad. No doubt she worried—
“Do you think it might be one of Hastings’s servants sending the messages?” Will asked, breaking into his thoughts.
Hugh thought about the scrap he’d interrupted that first day. Perhaps that was the danger the notes warned about—that Hastings was trying to force Daphne into marriage. But Hugh couldn’t see it. His advances were obnoxious, but he could hardly force her to marry him.
Hugh shrugged. “I don’t know, but I want you to ask your man to try and get somebody inside. Perhaps Hastings is seeking to hire a new servant or some such. Tell him to make it a priority. In the meantime, make sure Lady Davenport never leaves the house alone.”
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