A Man Of Many Talents

by Deborah Simmons

  At her words Christian jerked his attention from the intriguing curve of her backside back to the business at hand. “If so, you won’t find it tonight,” he replied. And if, by some miracle she did, he wasn’t about to use it. He didn’t care if ten men and a boy were down there banging.

  “Why not?” she asked, glancing up at him sharply. Christian began to realize that the lovely Miss Parkinson did not like to hear any negatives. This was one determined woman. Too bad he couldn’t redirect that steely resolve in a different direction…

  Christian tried to look just as resolute. “Because it’s too dark and far too dangerous. Do you have any idea what’s below?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  Christian shook his head at her recklessness. Brave and foolish. “There could be any sort of old cellars, dungeons, passages, and steps, all of them crumbling, and I for one don’t care to be entombed down there when either we fall or our knocking friend, who already knows his way around, locks us up!”

  At last he seemed to have gotten through to her, for she stopped her searching and straightened, visibly disappointed. And for some reason, seeing that slight droop to her mouth made Christian feel an urge to remedy it. “Aren’t there any plans to the house, made perhaps when the additions were built?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Well, you are the owner of the place.” When she looked nonplussed, he felt a pang. The Governess obviously wanted to act immediately, and without a firm and immediate plan, she appeared a bit lost. “Tomorrow we’ll start searching the library,” Christian promised.

  Miss Parkinson nodded, tight-lipped. “I just hate to give up now when we’ve finally made contact. Do you suppose he is trying to direct us to a specific spot?”

  “I don’t think so. The rapping doesn’t seem to be affected by our movements.” In truth, he didn’t believe the sound had anything to do with Sir Boundefort, beyond a judicious use of rumors about the old fellow’s appearances. Someone was trying to scare them away, or, worse, was involved in something nefarious. In either case, Christian thought it prudent for the brave and foolish Miss Parkinson to be safely away.

  “I’ll walk you back to your room,” Christian announced.

  “There is really no need,” she replied, wariness in her gaze and a certain chill back in her voice.

  “I insist,” Christian said, inclining his head. Although his hostess looked as though she would like to refuse, there was really no polite way for her to do so. Thankfully, the Governess usually observed the social niceties, so with a stiff nod she stepped forward. Christian grinned as he walked beside her, amused by her reluctance. Was she still concerned about his warning that he would not be caught in a compromising position? Christian wasn’t. Indeed, he was beginning to find the notion appealing.

  And although he had never been the fanciful sort, moving through the shadowed rooms of the house, alone in their circle of lamplight, was rather novel and inviting. Of course, the fact that she was dressed in her nightclothes, however utilitarian they might be, didn’t hurt. And then there were the lilacs. Every few steps a stray draft would send the scent wafting over him until it was all he could do not to seize her—just to see if she was really as delicious as she smelled.

  His pulse pounding, his senses roused, Christian discovered their little nighttime stroll was an exercise in restraint, an unaccustomed experience for him, to be sure. The very act of disciplining himself only seemed to heighten his interest in a sort of vicious cycle. By the time they reached the main stairway, all he could think about was rolling around in a big bed draped with lilac blossoms—and Miss Parkinson.

  When she halted at the bottom of the stairs and turned, her hand upon the railing, the lamplight gilded her lovely features and Christian was hard-pressed not to touch her. His palms were as damp as a lad’s and his breeches tighter than they had been in years. But the object of his attentions held her lamp before her like a weapon, and Christian wouldn’t put it past her to clout him with it.

  “There. You have seen me to the steps. I assure you that I can find my way to my room,” she said in her severest voice. Given his perverse bent since his arrival here, her tone only titillated him further.

  “I have no doubt of it,” Christian answered, enjoying the flicker of relief in her eyes, especially considering what he planned to say next. “But I will accompany you nonetheless.”

  She looked nonplussed, opening her mouth as if to speak, and Christian decided that her lips were very tempting when they weren’t pursed tightly in disapproval. He would have liked to keep them open, and at that moment fate stepped in and gave him the opportunity. Before she could protest, thunder crashed loudly outside, followed by a great lashing of rain and a gust of wind that rattled the windows and sent a draft swirling around the lantern, fortuitously extinguishing it. As Christian’s own lamp was shuttered, they were plunged into complete and utter darkness.

  For once, Miss Parkinson seemed to lose her aplomb. She made a sound rather like a squeak, so Christian set down his lantern and reached for her, his hands closing about her shoulders. They were soft and supple beneath his fingers, the material of her robe worn and smooth. Lilacs, faint yet poignant, invaded his senses, and he pulled her closer. A bolt of lightning illuminated her face, wide-eyed and gasping as he gazed down at her.

  And then he kissed her.

  It was certainly not his usual encounter, staged in the black bleakness at the bottom of Sibel Hall’s main stair, nor his usual partner, for Miss Parkinson was no experienced widow or mistress. And yet, for some reason, perhaps his heightened senses, energy surged through him as though diverted from the lightning outside. He felt a certain power in his own attraction to her, to be sure, but that was not all of it. In truth, he couldn’t explain it, and couldn’t be bothered to. He was too busy enjoying it.

  Her lips were lush and sweet, the swift intake of her breath an invitation to explore the richness of her mouth. Heady. Exciting. They fit together perfectly, as if he had been searching for her all of his life, and want flowed through him like life’s blood, urging him to press her tightly to him, to carry her up to his bed, to claim her as his own. This night. Every night. Always.

  Unfortunately his partner didn’t seem to feel the same way. Christian gradually realized that she was pushing at him, not in a manner designed to get them closer but to move them apart. He was so startled that it took a while for his brain to process that astonishing development: he was kissing a woman who didn’t want to be kissed, at least not by him.

  Since such a thing had never happened to him in his lifetime (hell, he was accounted quite a catch and a good lover as well), again he hesitated. Rather desperately, he suspected that if he just kept kissing her, she would come around. Eventually. It was only after she practically unmanned him that he realized his actions could be construed as forcing himself upon her. In the meantime, her knee came into contact with his groin, causing him to groan aloud and release her.

  In the darkness he could hear her rapid breaths above his own ragged grunts, and for a long moment they remained thus, only a hairbreadth apart yet as distant as the moon. As Christian grappled for some thought beyond his uncommonly fierce desire, some explanation for such unfathomable behavior, the Governess finally spoke.

  “I realize that professional seducers of your ilk feel the need to practice their wiles on any female in the vicinity, but I thought we had an agreement to avoid this… type of thing. In fact, I believe that you were the one who made it quite clear upon our acquaintance that ours was to be strictly a business arrangement. Indeed, you demanded that I avoid any situation that could be misconstrued. I might not be your social equal, my lord, but I feel I am entitled to the same courtesy.”

  Christian nearly recoiled at her biting tone. She hadn’t kicked him that hard, but he was beginning to ache. And not just in the groin area. When had he failed so miserably with a woman? Hell, when had he ever failed at all? And then, as if to add insult to injury, sh
e spoke again.

  “Believe me, I have been prey to your sort before, the idle, rich young gentlemen of the ton who make a jest or game out of trying to ruin the governess or the companion or any other poor female struggling to make a living who chances to fall into their orbit. Perhaps I was powerless before, but I will not stand for such abhorrent behavior in my own household.”

  Christian flinched, her accusations paining him far worse than any blow. And then, as the gist of her words sank into his muddled mind, Christian stared at her in horror. Was she truly a governess?

  “You’re a governess?” he croaked.

  “A companion,” she corrected.

  Christian gaped, dumbfounded, as he realized that he knew nothing at all about this woman who so intrigued him—and so aroused him. She was a gentlewoman, he was sure of that, but beyond her birth and her straitened circumstances, he knew little enough, and that discovery made him feel even more uncomfortable.

  “How? When? Where?” Christian asked, seized by sudden trepidation. Had he met her before? Treated her cavalierly in some long-forgotten encounter? That would explain her scorn. He shifted uneasily. How many dowdy, unassuming figures had he greeted in passing over the years without a thought to their difficult existence?

  In response, his hostess drew herself up stiffly. “After the death of my parents, I took a position with Lady Holland, whom I served until just recently, when I learned of my inheritance.”

  Lady Holland? Christian couldn’t place the name, so it was with some measure of relief that he dismissed the possibility of a previous meeting with Miss Parkinson. He could not so easily dismiss his new knowledge of her life, however. Although Christian initially had believed her to be a dependent, the confirmation disturbed him, as did the discovery of her vulnerability. It was one thing to imagine the imperious Governess slapping the wrists of her young charges, quite another to picture her fending off the importunities of full-grown males.

  The idea enraged Christian, and the blood that had been heating his cheeks began to pump through his body, fast and furious. “Who? Who dared touch you?”

  “It was nothing, I assure you, and that is how I view it,” she answered, dismissing him as easily as she had his kiss.

  “Who? Name them, and I shall see they never bother another defenseless female!” Christian said, seized by a sudden wild need for revenge upon the nameless, faceless males who had dared touch this woman. He took a step forward, only to note the soft tread of her slippers as she moved up the stair into the blackness.

  For a long moment Christian thought she wasn’t going to answer him, and then it came to him, that voice, positively dripping with contempt, floating from somewhere above him. “Why, Lord Moreland, the most recent miscreant was… you!” Then he heard her continue lightly up the steps, obviously unafraid of the darkness.

  Or of him.

  5

  Christian slept late, having spent an unusually restless night. He never wasted a lot of time pondering things, especially his actions. He usually did what he liked within reason, while adhering to the prescribed codes of honor and civility that were his birthright. But something had gone wrong last night, and it left a sour taste in his mouth.

  It was not the remnants of the kiss, for that lingered beneath the bitterness like a sip of heaven. In fact, despite his best efforts, Christian couldn’t rid himself of that tantalizing memory. It had been a long time since he’d been so affected by a simple kiss. Oh, who was he fooling? He lifted a hand to rub his face. Hell, he’d never been so affected.

  Impossible, he told himself. There could never have been such heat between an experienced man like himself and… Miss Parkinson. He must have imagined it all, his fierce response merely a product of the darkness and the storm and the tension between them, a desperate diversion from the gloom that was Sibel Hall. Or was it? He stalked across the room and shouted for Hobbins.

  Normally, such thoughts wouldn’t give him a moment’s pause, let alone cost him a night’s sleep. He would simply seek out the lady and prove to himself whether he’d been drunk—perhaps on too much ghostly atmosphere—or dreaming. But in this case there was little chance of a return engagement. For once in his life, he couldn’t proceed as he wished. And because of what? A misstep on his part? Miss Parkinson’s overreaction?

  Splashing some cold water on his face, Christian snapped the towel and jerked on fresh linen, his even temper upended by a surge of frustration, a heady mix combined with his underlying guilt and outrage. Only the entrance of Hobbins, wearing his usual stoic expression, stopped Christian from swearing aloud.

  “Difficult night, my lord?” the valet asked, after Christian ruined his second neckcloth.

  “No,” Christian lied. “And what does it matter how the damned thing is tied? It’s not as though anyone will notice in this dismal place.”

  “One has a responsibility to one’s appearance,” Hobbins pointed out, as he presented a third strip of linen.

  Christian frowned but took it, drawing a deep breath as he once again attempted a fashionable knot.

  “If I may say so, you seem extraordinarily tense this morning,” Hobbins commented, obviously having observed his employer’s ill temper.

  Christian sighed. He knew the old retainer would not be satisfied until he gave some sort of explanation, and an unsatisfied valet made for chilly relations. “For your information, Hobbins, I find this task extremely onerous,” Christian said, willing to admit that much. After all, it was the truth. As far as it went.

  “The ghost, or at least someone, finally decided to make himself heard last night, but I couldn’t even reach him, let alone discover who or what was behind his antics.” He slanted a glance at Hobbins. “I don’t suppose you found the missing keys?”

  “No, my lord,” Hobbins answered without hesitation.

  Had the valet even looked? Christian had no idea, but he knew better than to get the old fellow’s back up by asking him.

  “I presume the antics occurred behind the locked doors?” Hobbins said.

  Christian nodded. “Or least below them. The noises we heard were definitely coming from beneath the great hall, but there doesn’t appear to be any other entrance to the old cellars.”

  “We, my lord?” At Hobbins’s dry tone, Christian hesitated, his fingers halting their movements before he recovered himself and finished the knot as casually as possible. It was not his usual skillful design, but it would have to do. And, in the end, what was the difference? There was no one here of note to see him except Miss Parkinson, and she had made her feelings quite clear.

  “Miss Parkinson,” Christian muttered, half in bitter recognition of his thoughts and half in answer to Hobbins’s query. “She came down to investigate my footsteps.”

  “A redoubtable female,” Hobbins remarked.

  “An idiot, more likely,” Christian retorted. “She’s lucky I wasn’t some housebreaker intent upon the silver. Or her virtue.” The minute the words were out of his mouth he flinched, for they were much too close to the truth for comfort. He paused, struck by a sudden doubt, and slanted a glance at his valet.

  “Hobbins, do you think I’m conceited?” he asked.

  “Certainly not, my lord!” Hobbins answered, suitably affronted by the very suggestion.

  Christian was slightly mollified. He had never thought so either. After a lifetime of being pursued, however, he found the notion that a woman might actually refuse him rather startling—and mystifying. It seemed to him that from the moment he had assumed the title, barely out of his boyhood, the female population had been enamored of him. Too enamored, he thought sometimes. It was one thing to enjoy a choice of willing partners, quite another to be the object of marital traps and scheming mamas.

  Although Christian had always complained about such treatment, now he wondered if it might be preferable to rejection. The novelty of the sensation did nothing to diminish its impact, and just the thought of his ignominious defeat kept his mood sour. He shrugge
d, trying to shake it off, but it clung, intensified by her implication that he was no better than some randy old lecher attacking the household help.

  “Surely Miss Parkinson did not accuse you of being conceited?” Hobbins asked.

  “I stole a kiss, that’s all,” Christian muttered, once again engaged in a dialogue with himself as well as his valet. As far as he was concerned, Miss Parkinson was making entirely too much of it. Unfortunately, it seemed as though he was making too much of it as well, for the memory of that little encounter remained incredibly powerful. The body that had been pressed to his oh so briefly was more luscious than he had imagined, and her mouth—Christian set his teeth, knowing that it was better not to think about her lips. He had a feeling that that brief taste would haunt him far more thoroughly than any specter.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, my lord, Miss Parkinson is not your usual sort,” Hobbins said.

  “How well I know it!” Christian said.

  “What I mean, my lord, is that she seems to be a genteel young woman, despite her circumstances, and might not be accustomed to the flirtatious behavior of the ton,” Hobbins clarified delicately, using a polite euphemism for the sort of dallying that was rampant among the social elite.

  “Well, she needn’t act as though I were forcing myself upon her! I’ll be damned if I’m going to apologize for one little kiss.” The more Christian thought about it, the more annoyed he became, and the prospect of facing his hostess did nothing to ease his temper.

  As he stalked across the room, he decided it would be best to dismiss the entire episode and get on with the task of ridding the house of the alleged specter. Then, when he returned home, he might just have to break the other leg of a certain interfering earl, who was responsible for his grandson’s sudden dose of humility.

  As he stalked toward the door, a gust of wind from the open window sent a burst of moisture his way and set his teeth on edge. He swung toward his valet in exasperation. “And why does it always have to be raining here?”