by Sara Bennett
“Silk stockings,” he murmured. “Very fine. Now these were made to be seen.”
“You are insolent,” she managed with a dry throat. Her gloved fingers clenched.
He cupped her thigh, ran his hand along it, as if searching for the letter hidden in her drawers. He did the same with her other leg. “Very nice,” he said. “Does Lord Appleby buy you these pretty things to wear? Does it give him pleasure to unwrap you, slowly, like a bonbon, and find your soft center?”
Antoinette swallowed. His large hands were at her hips, and she noticed they made her troublesome curves appear less dumpy, while at the same time his touch was sending a maelstrom of conflicting sensations through her. One of them was certainly pleasure, but heightened beyond anything she’d felt before. It worried her…frightened her. She had to force herself to be still when she wanted to jump up and run. But was she running from him, or herself?
He made a sound of approval, as if her shape pleased him. Those pale eyes were glittering. He drew his hands downward and his fingers accidentally brushed her most intimate place; or was it on purpose? Antoinette squeaked and jammed her legs together, trapping his hand like a vise. He looked surprised, and then he stared down at his hand, hidden in the folds of cloth, cozy between her thighs, and grinned.
“Go away,” she gasped, self-preservation finally tipping the balance on her need to be courageous. Reaching to pull the rags of her bodice about her, she said, “You’ve searched me and found nothing, now leave me alone.”
“I can search you again.” There was a hopeful note in his voice.
Antoinette fixed her brown eyes on the pale gleam behind his mask. Was he teasing? Her voice came out louder than she meant: “No!”
He sat back. His hair was wheat fair, with a curl that made it seem to dance around his head in the fading sunlight streaming in the open coach door. When she found herself wondering what it would feel like to run her fingers through it, Antoinette knew she must get him out of her coach.
“Please go…”
His smile hardened and his gaze dropped to her thighs. “You are holding me captive, Miss Dupre, and while I am enjoying it very much, it is making it difficult for me to go anywhere.”
His hand was still held in that intimate embrace. Antoinette opened her legs and wriggled away from him, pushing down her skirts. “How dare you?” she managed, her voice trembling as much as her hands.
“How dare I?” he repeated, and there was something in his voice that warned her to be careful. “Oh, I dare, little sparrow. I am a man who dares anything.”
“A man who manhandles helpless women!” she said shrilly, her composure cracking.
He laughed and said, “There’s nothing helpless about you. Perhaps the truth is you are enjoying yourself a little too much, Miss Dupre.”
The blood rushed to her head—she had to stop him. Antoinette flung herself at him.
He caught her wrists, easily restraining her. Her hair whipped about as she pushed forward again. He grunted and wrapped his strong arms around her, holding her tightly against him, her face buried so deeply into his chest that she could hardly breathe. But still she wriggled and struggled, fighting him and railing against the entire situation she found herself in.
He was too strong. The muscles in his shoulders and arms bunched, and she knew with frustration that he was holding back so as not to hurt her. That was when she gave up.
“Hush, sparrow.”
His voice was a deep rumble as he slipped his arm around her waist, supporting her, while he stroked her untidy hair from her face, and then smoothed her damp cheeks with the back of his hand. Until then she didn’t realize she was crying. Shattered, feeling like the only survivor of some dreadful shipwreck, she lifted her heavy lids and looked up.
He was bent over her, and now he groaned. She felt his mouth on hers, warm and passionate, exploring her lips and molding them to his, tasting her own salty tears. This forbidden desire had struck like lightning, and sensible, practical Antoinette didn’t know how to halt it. Worse, she didn’t want to.
She heard him sigh. “You are wasted on Lord Appleby.”
The coach door closed, softly, and when she dared to look again the highwayman was gone.
Trembling, frantic, she began to search about for the letter. She found it tucked behind her, crumpled but safe. She clutched it to her, relieved beyond words.
Does that mean he’ll come looking for it again?
The voice—her ancestress’s voice—made her start guiltily, because instead of being afraid at the prospect of another run-in with the highwayman, she was looking forward to it.
Chapter 2
She was still sitting there, stunned, when the coachman reached her, rubbing his freed hands, worry in his eyes as he took in her disheveled state.
“Are ye all right, me lady?”
Antoinette looked up at him. She hadn’t thought of this man as her friend, not after he had caught her trying to sneak out of the second-from-last coaching inn and unceremoniously bundled her back into the coach. “Don’t even think of running off, me lady,” he’d warned her. “I have orders to shoot, and so I will.”
“You’d shoot me?” she’d said in angry surprise.
“Aye.” His eyes had narrowed, he had bared his teeth, and she had believed him.
Now, far from being a monster, he looked tired and shaken.
“Me lady?”
“I believe I am in one piece, thank you.” If the highwayman expected her to faint or have a fit of hysterics, then he was mistaken; she was made of sterner stuff.
She’d had to be.
Her parents had died when she was barely five and Cecilia just turned two, leaving them to the guardianship of their uncle Jerome, a dreamy, otherworldly man. They had loved him dearly, but he had never been much of a guardian when it came to practical matters. As she grew older Antoinette had taken over the reins of their household and their lives, and so it had been until six months ago when their uncle died and Lord Appleby stepped into their midst.
At first Antoinette quite liked him. Appleby was a self-made man and proud of it, and she found his conversation interesting, although sometimes overly concerned with himself. His manufacturing company was involved in the building of the Paxton-designed Great Exhibition building, and when it opened on May 1 she had hoped to visit London and wander through the many rooms of displays from all corners of the world.
Her uncle Jerome claimed Lord Appleby as an old friend, but Antoinette wondered if they were really little more than acquaintances. They seemed to have met at one of the London clubs, and then Appleby arrived to visit when Uncle Jerome was in his last illness. After that he seemed to be always there, and after Uncle Jerome died, he came to call upon Antoinette and Cecilia, offering in some measure to take the place of their relative.
Cecilia, always eager to believe the best of people, insisted Lord Appleby was just being kind, but Antoinette was more cautious. Money, especially a fortune as large as the Dupre girls’ fortune, could cause people to do wicked things. But, as Cecilia pointed out, Lord Appleby, with his London house and country properties and manufacturing business, was already a wealthy and influential man. His latest venture, supplying the cast-iron components for the Great Exhibition building, had made him a household name. Why would he want their money?
When he invited Antoinette to come to London and be his guest at the opening of the Great Exhibition, she’d agreed. As well as the pleasure she expected from attending such an event, she thought it would be a good chance to get to know Lord Appleby better.
And now she knew him better.
Dusk was on the verge of night as the coach began to slow. Antoinette huddled within her fur-lined cloak, fetched from her luggage by the coachman, and peered through the window. She could see a long driveway down into a valley, and there, at the bottom, soft lights shining from many windows. Wexmoor Manor appeared to be a stone building of three stories, old and a little forbidding.
She was here at last.
As they drew closer, servants came out onto the cobbled forecourt and stood silhouetted against the flare of torches. No London gaslights here. The coachman jumped down from his seat and opened the door for her, and as she stepped down, he touched the brim of his hat. In the flickering light he seemed almost shamefaced, as if the holdup had been his fault.
“I hope you’ll put what happened out of your mind, me lady,” he said quietly. “It were just some lad on a prank, I reckon. Best forgotten.”
Amazed, Antoinette blinked at him behind her spectacles. “You could have been shot!”
“Oh well, I weren’t, so no harm done,” was his answer to that, and he shuffled his feet.
But of course! Antoinette realized with a sense of betrayal. The coachman was in on the plot. Lord Appleby would not have risked his man getting shot. The whole thing was staged for her benefit. Probably the servants at Wexmoor Manor were aware of it, too. Well, she would know the answer soon enough.
“Miss Dupre?”
Antoinette turned to face the figure at the open door, silhouetted against the light; a big woman with a cloud of white hair. “I’m Mrs. Wonicot, the cook and housekeeper here at the manor. Do come inside.” Her voice was authoritative as she led the way.
Flaring candles did little to relieve the effect of dark wood paneling and gloomy Jacobean furnishings. A moth fluttered about a vase of sweet roses, the spent petals scattered on the polished floor. Antoinette breathed in a combination of flowers, wood polish and…mutton stew. Her stomach rumbled.
“Miss Dupre? This is Wonicot, my husband.”
Mrs. Wonicot was trying to capture her attention. She was a big, motherly-looking woman, but there was something cold and suspicious in her eyes, and her mouth had such a disapproving look that Antoinette knew she could expect no welcome here. Her husband, a small man with a balding head, murmured a greeting without looking up from his boots.
“We didn’t know you was coming until yesterday. Lord Appleby’s letter didn’t reach us till then.” Mrs. Wonicot’s voice was growing chillier by the minute, as if the tardiness of the post was Antoinette’s fault. “We’ve done our best to prepare, of course, but we’re a long way from London here. I hope you’re not expecting all the comforts you’re used to, miss.”
“I’m sure there will be no need to—”
“Sally…” Wonicot interrupted, and touched his wife’s arm in what could have been a comforting gesture or one of warning. He colored when he saw Antoinette watching and went back to staring at his boots.
“We’re only poor ignorant country folk here,” Mrs. Wonicot finished triumphantly.
Antoinette drew her cloak around her and decided that she was too tired to be bothered with haughty housekeepers. Tomorrow, maybe, they might be able to find some common ground.
“My room…?” she hinted, watching a couple of burly servants carrying her luggage up the oak staircase. There was a small landing at the top, and candlelight illuminated a portrait, a man wearing dark clothing and white lace, glaring down at her.
Lord Appleby’s ancestors? But surely not. He was a self-made man and the first of his family to have more than two farthings to jingle together in his pocket, as he was so fond of telling anyone who would listen.
“Your room’s up here. This way.” Sally Wonicot waddled ahead, puffing as she mounted the stairs, head held high. Wonicot remained in the hall, but as Antoinette followed the housekeeper, she was certain she felt his eyes lift from his boots and fasten on her back.
She was deep in enemy territory here. She could trust no one.
An ache gripped her heart. She missed her home in Surrey. She missed her sister and Miss Bridewell, far more of a friend and confidante than a mere governess. It was Miss Bridewell who had sent her the letter, after discovering Lord Appleby’s dark secret. It was Miss Bridewell who had warned her of the dangers of her situation, making Antoinette aware that it was unlikely Lord Appleby would accept the loss of her fortune without a fight. Tread carefully, she had written. Trust no one.
How right she had been! “This is it.” Mrs. Wonicot’s sour tones interrupted Antoinette’s thoughts as she opened the door at the end of a short passage.
The bedchamber was clean, with a faint trace of lemon polish. The reflected gleam on old wooden surfaces and the scent of newly washed draperies spoke of much effort to ready the room in time. An old four-poster bed with time-dulled red velvet curtains stood in pride of place.
“King Charles slept in that bed when he was at war with Parliament,” Mrs. Wonicot offered, noting Antoinette’s interest. “Him that had his head chopped off.”
The grate was empty and cold, but the evening was mild enough not to require a fire. Candles flickered in a draft from the window, and Mrs. Wonicot hurried to shut the casement, muttering about the dangers of the night air.
“Oh please don’t, I enjoy the night air.” Antoinette spoke before she could stop herself.
Mrs. Wonicot turned and gave her a disapproving stare. “Be it on your own head then,” she warned. “I won’t take responsibility if you sicken and die while you’re here.”
“I’m sure no one would expect you to,” Antoinette assured her, and removed her cloak, turning to lay it over a chair. From behind her came a gasp. She looked over her shoulder. Mrs. Wonicot was staring at her, mouth open, hand pressed to her generous bosom.
“Your clothes! Goodness gracious me, child, whatever happened?”
Her tone was so different from the earlier chilly one that for a moment Antoinette was too surprised to answer her. She’d completely forgotten the state of her dress, but now she looked down at the torn bodice ruefully. “We were held up along the road by a highwayman.”
The woman swallowed, shook her head. “You must be mistaken.”
Angrily Antoinette asserted, “I assure you I am not! A man in a mask held us up at pistol point and demanded…Well, he was searching for…for jewelry. He tore my clothing and—and man-handled me.” She felt her face color.
Mrs. Wonicot appeared to be genuinely shocked, but a moment later her expression hardened and she pursed her lips. “I’m sure it was nothing of the kind,” she said firmly, as if daring Antoinette to argue with her. “Just a lad having a lark, that’ll be what it was, Miss Dupre. You’re not used to our country ways.”
“Are these country ways?” Antoinette retorted angrily, gesturing at her torn clothing. “This was no lark, Mrs. Wonicot.”
“If you say so.” She seemed determined not to believe Antoinette.
“I want it reported to the local magistrate.”
The woman’s eyes widened, and now there was fear in them as well as defiance. “Whatever for? You’re not hurt, are you?”
There was something very wrong about this conversation, Antoinette decided. Mrs. Wonicot was trying to put her off, and the only reason she would do that was if she knew exactly who had held up the coach and was protecting him. Antoinette smelled a conspiracy. As if the housekeeper realized she’d blundered, she turned away, hastily making for the door and murmuring about sending up a supper tray.
A moment later Antoinette was alone.
The room was very quiet. Antoinette wished Mrs. Wonicot hadn’t told her about King Charles sleeping here, because now she felt as if he were watching her, with or without his head. But of course he wasn’t, and even if he was, Antoinette knew she had more to fear from the living than from ghosts.
She went to the window and stared out into the darkness. Lord Appleby’s London house was in Mayfair, where she had truly felt at the heart of a big and bustling city. London never slept. Now all she could hear were the country noises; the murmur of farm animals and the hoot of owls, punctuated by the rustle of the garden.
Was Cecilia looking out over the park back at their home in Surrey? Antoinette prayed she was safe, and that Lord Appleby was too busy in London to think of her.
She remembered the threatening note in his voice when she refu
sed to marry him and hand over her fortune.
“You know, if anything were to happen to you, dear Antoinette, your sister would be the sole heir to your family fortune. I’m sure she wouldn’t turn me down. A little persuasion, a reminder of what can happen to young women who are too independent, and she’d soon agree to be my bride. What do you think?”
Antoinette shivered. Appleby was wrong. Cecilia would fight him, just as she had, and that was what had worried her ever since she’d read Miss Bridewell’s letter. She knew now what His Lordship did to women who stood up to him.
There was a flickering light through the trees. Thick woods, like a dark bulwark, sheltered the house to the north, and the light seemed to come from within those woods. Was it another house? A neighbor or a tenant? Then she heard the scrape of boots on the cobbles below, and looking down at the forecourt saw the dull glow of a lantern, swinging in the hand of someone walking toward the woods.
For some reason she thought she recognized Wonicot, perhaps the gleam of light on his bald head. Whoever it was, he was certainly in no hurry. Antoinette wondered if he was heading toward the village for his nightly ale, with the added bonus of an hour or two away from Mrs. Wonicot.
She yawned. She was tired; the journey had been an eventful one. She needed to sleep so that she could be alert tomorrow and ready for anything Lord Appleby’s servants might have in store for her. Antoinette removed the precious letter from inside her stays and slipped it under her pillow. Tomorrow she must find somewhere safer to hide it.
Until she escaped and made her way back to London.
Chapter 3
Gabriel tore off his mask and threw it into the corner. Frustration and anger, mostly with himself, made him want to smash something. Or someone. Lord Rudyard Appleby would do. How he would love to have Appleby before him now, his prisoner, in chains and groveling for forgiveness.
It was a nice image, but Gabriel doubted Appleby was the kind to grovel. He probably thought he’d done nothing wrong in stealing Gabriel’s rightful inheritance. He probably thought himself clever because he’d made Wexmoor Manor his, and left Gabriel with a hole in his heart.