by London Casey
Yet she was radically different from the other women of her class whom he had known. He wanted to experience her difference.
He had despised William Bourchier—a feckless, brainless puppy, just like Highsmith and any number of Mayfair gentlemen. Soft, spoilt creatures who had never been tried by life. Jon stared down at his glass of brandy and his half-smoked cigar. What had he become? Was he all that different from any other Mayfair gentleman? He was living without purpose or any real plan.
He’d entered the dragoons full of idealism and the desire to be of service, as most untried young men would be. Yet what good did it do to try to make a difference in this miserable world? New Orleans had been the most shattering disillusionment—a needless loss.
The commanding officers above him had chosen not to attack the vulnerable city but had chosen instead to camp at Lacoste’s Plantation. The Americans had attacked while they rested and it had set in motion a chain of events—a hesitation to take action—that had led to their eventual harsh defeat in January.
As for Jon’s battalion, they had been made part of the reserves, and that had been the hardest thing of all to accept. The British had suffered devastating losses while Jon, who had expected to be killed in battle, had been relatively safe and sound with his men as they’d guarded the hospital.
Obviously he’d been mistaken. He hadn’t been meant to die in battle. Then, with the war over, he’d been given the news that his cousin, the heir, had died. His grandfather had demanded that he return home at once. But Grandfather hadn’t lived to greet him.
Jon was suddenly the earl.
His grandfather’s image intruded on the moment, curdling in his guts. The stern, frowning face; the cold eyes and deep, autocratic voice. When Jon had been a child, Grandfather had always seemed ten feet tall. Jon laughed at the memory. The almighty earl. The old bastard had crossed him at every turn but he couldn’t keep him from inheriting. Jon had never wanted the title—never even expected it. Now Jon was the almighty earl. God’s final, ironic jest.
Captain Jonathon Lloyd was the identity he’d fought and sweated blood to create, a man who had full possession and power over his destiny. All that had changed. The Seventh Earl of Ruel was a nobleman who owed a duty to the people of his estate.
Yes, he was angry about it. Even after all this time.
Yet there was nothing he could do. He had to marry. He had to create heirs. There was no one else to do it now.
He’d never shirk his duty.
So here he was, biding his time until he would marry. A sensible, practical, legal arrangement with a reasonable woman. Her mourning period was finally up. They would marry. He would settle down and what? Spend his days hunting and drinking and eating large suppers in the country? Spend his winter seasons in town, drinking, gambling and chasing opera dancers? What else was there?
The great wars had all been fought and won—won by other men. He curled his lip and laughed softly to himself. He’d become exactly what he despised most—a useless Mayfair gentleman.
But before he gave himself over to the estate, he could take this opportunity to experience something rare and different. The attraction between them demanded it. If he didn’t take what was being offered to him, he would wonder his whole life what it would have been like. He knew it would eat him up inside.
“You’re soft on her…”
Cherry’s words echoed in his mind. Yes, he was unexpectedly—and unequivocally soft on the lovely Lady Cranfield. Her pleas for help called to something in him that had been dead—or maybe just sleeping—since Badajoz, since New Orleans. That idealism which had made him believe he was a leader, the advocate and caretaker of the men under his command. Some of those men had been mere boys when they first came under his wing. Frightened, lost little pups. Knowing what it was like to feel alone and lost in the world, he’d tried to make a difference in their lives.
Now he might also be able to make a difference for Anne. She was so afraid of life. She’d been beaten down by what had happened with Cranfield.
Obviously, she had failed to please Cranfield in bed. Failed also to give the earldom an heir. Failed, at least in her own mind, perhaps, to save him in the accident.
Maybe she had withdrawn because she was afraid of failing again.
The thought settled into him uneasily and it could lead to only one conclusion; a conclusion he’d run from all this time. Maybe he wasn’t trying to do anything now because he, too, didn’t want to deal with the risk.
Fear of risk was the worst of all—the most inexcusable sort of cowardice.
Someone had to help her.
No one else appeared to care except for him.
It wasn’t as if there wouldn’t be rewards for him.
She just might prove to be the most sweetly submissive experience of his lifetime. He wanted to experience her. He wanted to get to know that sensual creature who peeked at him sideways through her lashes. Not to mention how much he wanted to possess her broad, round arse.
He refocused his attention on the conversations and card games occurring around him, scanning the chamber until he spied Mr David Kean. He arose from his chair to have a word with that gentleman.
Anne came clawing up out of slumber, chased into wakefulness by terror. The screams still echoed in her ears. Too much wine; far too much wine.
Thud.
Her throat constricted and her gaze flew to the ceiling. Shadows stretched and shrank on the ceiling, the candle flickering on her bedside table.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
She placed her hand over her leaping heart.
Thrump, thrump, thrump.
There were no horses waiting to come crashing their way through her ceiling. It was just her heartbeat resounding in her ears.
Weak with relief, she laughed softly, shakily.
She glanced at her sideboard, lingering on the decanter filled with claret. Then she put a hand to her head. No, she definitely did not need any more spirits tonight, else she’d have a headache. But neither did she wish to be alone with her fears unleavened by drink.
She could call Nellie. But was this to be pattern to the rest of her life? Trapped in this grand old house, sleeping with her maid in her room?
Pensive, she placed her fingers to her lips. Her mouth was sore to the touch.
Ruel’s savage kiss.
Energy charged through her blood. Oh, God. The whole scene that had preceded the kiss came rushing back in her memory. Her atrocious behaviour; flirting openly with Highsmith in front of Francesca and everyone.
Why had she drunk so much? She never drank to excess—only a bit here and there, in the privacy of her chamber, to sleep. What must Ruel think of her?
Did it even matter? He was leaving shortly. She would never see him again.
She had thought Ruel held the answers to all her current troubles. Why had she deluded herself like that? It wasn’t like her to be so foolish and easily lead by a meaningless fancy. Usually when she had a very strong, irresistible intuition, it was based on some rational reason she couldn’t yet see.
Yet there had been nothing behind her attraction to Ruel but lust.
She caught her breath. Was that it? Was lust the answer?
Ruel clearly wanted a more intimate interaction than she had originally intended. And finding that out had shocked her, insulted her, as it would have any—
No, be honest—it frightened you. Things must always go the way you envision them, or else you run away, not necessarily physically but internally.
The self-knowing was painful. She tapped her fingers on her lips. She’d never sleep again tonight. She arose from bed, donned her wrapper, took her lamp from her bedside table and wandered from her chambers to the corridor.
She’d go to the study and read until morning. Daytime always seemed a far safer time to sleep. Odd hours also helped to keep her life separate from those of the other inhabitants of Whitecross Hall. It had been only recently that she had broken with that habit.
Because of your fascination with Lord Ruel.
As if the thought of the man brought it to pass, she found herself at the junction of her passageway and that of the guest chambers. Though distant male laughter echoed from somewhere in the house, this corridor was silent—and dark, for Francesca was a lax task-mistress.
Light shone from under one door. She counted the doorways and a fluttering sort of elation rose in her stomach, her chest, up to her throat. It was Ruel’s chamber.
She recalled how safe he had made her feel when she had been under the desk, lost to her memories. She also recalled the free, vital way she’d felt with him each time he’d pressed his agenda—or rather his rock-hard body to hers. She wanted to feel that way again. She wanted to feel that way always. Young, free, invincible.
Suddenly, the last thing she wanted was to be ensconced in the study with her books. She was cold and alone. She longed for Ruel’s company. For comfort—a very adult kind of comfort. No matter the cost or what he wanted.
It was a shocking thought but she’d never had a stronger conceptualisation in her life.
Well, after her rejection of his advances, after her behaviour tonight, he’d likely had enough of her.
But what if he hadn’t?
Chapter Six
Suppose Ruel wasn’t alone…
Anne’s stomach twisted at the thought and she dropped her hand. No, he was alone. He just had to be. She needed him. Fate couldn’t be so cruel as to put him in the arms of another woman so soon. Before she could think again, she whipped her hand up and rapped softly on his door. Once. Twice. She waited, barely breathing. What if someone came upon her, here in the corridor, at his door? She had raised her hand, ready to knock again when she heard movement. A floorboard creaking.
Her heart seemed to stop.
The knob turned.
Her heart resumed beating, twice the speed as before. A jolt of energy ran like a shock through her limbs. A last urge to flee and pretend she had never come here.
But it was too late to back out now.
The door came open.
Ruel seemed taller, broader of shoulder, taking up the whole doorway. She shifted on her feet under his cool, enigmatic stare. After this evening, he probably wasn’t too happy to see her.
Should she apologise? She wasn’t good at such things—the words always sounded stiff and disingenuous to her ears. Her attempts made things worse than keeping quiet. Nevertheless, as she stared into his fierce visage, she wasn’t sure she shouldn’t at least try.
Footsteps sounded from the stairwell, followed by masculine voices. She startled and glanced back down the hall. He grasped her shoulders and she found herself pulled into his chamber. The door’s closing click and the sound of the bolt sliding home both resonated in her heart’s beat.
He turned back to her. His ash-blond hair was tousled and his carelessly tied, dark blue banyan opened in a wide V, exposing the light brown hair on his chest. A healthy growth of stubble shadowed his cheeks.
The intimacy of the moment thrummed on the air. Her first time in a gentleman’s bedchamber—William had always visited her. She stared at Ruel’s hard mouth and remembered the way he’d kissed her on the balcony. Hungry. Demanding.
With Highsmith in attendance.
After Ruel had threatened him.
She let her eyes drift over his powerful frame. It had been a threat he was more than capable of fulfilling. Now she’d put herself here, alone with him behind a locked door. The floor chilled her bare feet. She was cold to her bones and wasn’t that partly why she had come here? To seek his warmth?
He approached her, still looking none too happy. Maybe this hadn’t been such a wise idea after all. But it trumped being alone with her fears—anything would.
He took the lamp from her hand and placed it on a nearby writing desk. Then he took her hands. His were so hard; slightly roughened and large. Her knees went weak.
“Your hands are like ice.” His tone sounded impersonal, almost harsh. “How do you feel? Does your head hurt or do you feel ill? You put away a prodigious amount of claret this evening.”
She tossed her head. “It takes more than that to put me under.”
A shiver consumed her, spoiling the careless effect she’d striven for.
He let go of her hands and touched the lapel of her dark red velvet wrapper. “Take this off and get into the bed.”
At his words—no, his command—sweat damped her palms and internal tremors began to shake her.
Well, some hesitation was understandable. Yes, her coming here was an invitation to his seduction. But she had expected a little seduction. After all, she still had her pride…and she’d never lain with a strange man before. Did he think he could ask in that manner and, just like that, she’d obey and fall into his bed?
She pulled her wrapper tighter at the neck. “You seem to have a single-minded determination to see me stripped bare.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, staring down the bridge of his long, narrow nose, every inch the aristocratic earl despite his dishevelled appearance. “Anne, why are you here?”
“I—I just wanted to talk.”
“Try again.”
His glacial air made her feel colder. No warmth, no welcome to be found here. She lifted her chin. “What do you mean ‘try again’?” She mimicked his arrogant, authoritative tone. “You asked me a question and I have answered.”
“But you haven’t answered with the truth.”
“But I…” Her voice trailed off under his level stare.
“I am not in the mood for a chat, not after the way you behaved tonight. So unless you’ve a more compelling reason for being here, I’d prefer it if you left.”
“I h-had a horrid dream.” Her voice shook with a renewed fit of shivers.
Interest lit his expression. “About the accident?”
“They are always about the accident.”
“These are not mere horrid dreams but terrifying memories, correct?”
His voice might have moderated a bit but his expression remained cool, distant.
She grew nervous, biting her lip as she nodded.
“And you didn’t want to be alone.”
“I saw your light, under the door. I shouldn’t have imposed, I am sorry…”
“You did the right thing to come here, but if you want me to help you, then you must trust me.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, shifting from foot to foot under her long nightclothes.
His expression softened for the first time. “Why do you think I invited you into the bed?”
“I think the reason is obvious.”
“And you think I intend to ravish you by force? That is why you are looking at me as if I were the devil himself?”
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. How could she tell him that she had suddenly lost all her nerve? How could she possibly tell him that she trusted herself a lot less than she trusted him?
“I ask you to get into the bed only because you’ll be warmer there and in return you insult me with your distrust.”
“It just isn’t proper.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “Neither is visiting a man in his bedchamber, yet here you are.”
Caught making such a ridiculous excuse, she dropped her gaze and looked at her toes sticking out from beneath her nightdress.
“How can I help you if you won’t even allow me to show concern for your most basic wellbeing?” he softly chided her.
She shifted on her feet. Of course she wasn’t able to play the woman of the world. Why had she thought she could? This had been a mistake. It would be best to collect what was left of her dignity, flee to her chambers and not emerge until he had left. Nervously, she shrugged. “I—I should go back to my own bed.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s late and I have disturbed your sleep.”
“Anne, you know that neither of us wants you to leave.”
She flashed h
er gaze to his face. Did he truly wish for her to stay?
He took a step closer, took her sash and untied it.
Her mouth went dry. However, she didn’t pick the sash up.
He swept the garment back and off her shoulders. The wrapper slid to the floor, a dark red velvet pool at her feet, and left her standing before him in her sheer nightdress.
He moved his gaze over her slowly, deliberately, and her insides went all fluttery.
“Now get into the bed before I put you there myself.” His words sent hot chills through her. Those chills increased as her gaze moved over his hard-muscled body and she imagined him carrying out his threat.
“No.” Her throat went dry as the word left her lips. She had said it to goad him. To force a reaction. Now she wondered how wise that had been.
Something flared in his eyes. Her breathing quickened.
Then he was coming for her.
Her nipples beaded and a wicked desire blazed through her loins.
Oh, God…
She caught her racing breath in anticipation.
He swept her up. Her cheek landed between his bare chest and the open robe. The crisp curls tickled her lips and his clean, masculine scent overwhelmed her senses. She closed her eyes, her whole body singing a hosanna at being held against his hard body.
He stopped and deposited her onto the quilt-covered feather bed with as little ceremony as if she’d been his valise. Then he stood there, looming over her, his face looking fiercer than ever in the flickering firelight.
“Nan, what are you doing here?”
“No one has ever called me Nan.” She spoke with a catch in her breath.
“When you are Nan, you are not Lady Cranfield, dowager countess. You are simply my little wench.”
At his tone, another wave of pleasurable anticipation tingled through her.
“The things you say.” She laughed weakly. “This is not what I expected.”
The bed rocked with his weight as he sat beside her. “What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. I suppose that you might try to seduce me… I don’t know…” Her voice trailed off.