Desire Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  “By Jove! That’s wonderful news, boy!” exclaimed Silas. “Ramstone, as I recall, is a fine estate.”

  “You’re familiar with it?” Luc asked, surprised.

  Silas nodded. “Knew Coulson slightly. When his wife was alive, dined there a few times. I’d heard that he’d died last summer and that the property had reverted to the Joslyn estate.” Silas looked around the table. “Well? How does a ride in the country sound to you?”

  Gillian could have kissed Sophia when her cousin said, “Why, I think that would be most enjoyable.”

  Trying to correct any misstep he had made earlier, Stanley said, “Yes, it sounds like a pleasant way to spend the afternoon.” Forcing a smile, he added, “Congratulations. You must be very happy.”

  “Thank you. I am ... I think.” Luc grinned. “I had something much smaller and simpler in mind and had not intended to become a landlord.” He pulled on his ear. “It will take some time getting used to.”

  Silas motioned to Stanley. “Ring for Meacham. Tell him to have Cannon harness the grays to the barouche and bring them to the front door.”

  It wasn’t until the ladies had left to put on their pelisses and bonnets that Stanley remembered Canfield. His face comical with dismay, he said, “Blast! I must withdraw from your kind invitation,” he said to Luc. When his uncle looked at him, he muttered, “I cannot go off and leave Canfield behind to fend for himself. He is my guest and it would be rude.”

  “Balderdash!” barked Silas. “If he follows his usual pattern, he won’t come downstairs until four o’clock or later. No reason for you to sit around waiting for him to make an appearance. Write him a note and have his man give it to him when he awakes.”

  Since he very much wanted to see Ramstone Manor, and keep an eye on Luc Joslyn, Stanley agreed with his uncle’s suggestion. The note written, he joined the others, like Luc, riding astride, while Silas and the ladies, despite the faint chill, rode in the barouche with the top down.

  Ramstone Manor lay about three miles from High Tower as the crow flew, but by the narrow, winding country road it was over six miles. The horses pulled the barouche at an easy pace; Luc and Stanley rode on either side of the vehicle.

  Sophia and Gillian insisted upon sitting with their backs to the horses and faced Silas, who sat opposite them. From her position, Gillian had an excellent view of Luc as he talked and laughed with her uncle. The curve of his mouth as he smiled at something her uncle said mesmerized her, and realizing she was staring, she dropped her gaze. It didn’t help. The memory of that mouth moving on hers, the taste of him flooded through her, and to her horror, her breasts tingled and her lower body clenched into a hard knot of desire. Unsettled and embarrassed, she said little for the remainder of the drive, keeping her gaze firmly away from the vicinity of Luc Joslyn.

  Luc directed them to a tree-lined lane that branched off from the main road and a scant half mile later, the trees stopped and they entered a circular driveway. A house with a three-storied gable on either end sat centered on the arc of the curve on the far side, and flanked by oaks planted over two hundred years ago, the house welcomed them, the sun glinting off the mullioned windows.

  In size, Ramstone Manor was comparable to High Tower and had been built in the sixteenth century. The taller gables were constructed of brick and connected by a two-storied wing of plaster; the steep slate roof gave the house a quaint air. A forecourt with low walls enclosed the front and a wide brick walkway planted with roses and lavender led to a fine two-storied porch.

  Luc and Stanley dismounted and helped Silas and the ladies from the carriage. A stable boy hastily hired from Barnaby’s staff raced around the corner of the house and took charge of the horses. Self-conscious in a way he had not thought possible, Luc escorted Silas and the others up the walkway to a pair of stout oak doors with heavy iron hinges dark with age. As they walked toward the house, he found himself wondering what Gillian thought of the place and realized with shock that while he wanted Silas’s opinion, in some indefinable manner, it was her opinion that mattered most. Irritated and just a little alarmed, he picked up his pace. The sprite was affecting him in ways he didn’t understand—or like.

  They had hardly crossed into the shadows of the porch before Bertram Hinton, formerly one of Barnaby’s footman, opened the doors with flourish. Having served first as Luc’s valet and these past months as factotum of the small household, he fairly vibrated with pride and eagerness to please. Slender and fair-haired, Bertram hadn’t yet seen his twenty-fourth birthday, but with shining blue eyes he saw his future clearly: he was Luc Joslyn’s man down to the last breath in his body.

  Bowing as if to royalty, Bertram murmured, “Welcome, sir. I have ordered some refreshments for you and your guests to be served in the salon that overlooks the rear garden.”

  Once everyone had been divested of their outerwear and Bertram had disappeared with those items, Luc led them down a wainscoted hallway to the back of the house. The room he showed them into was cozy with old-fashioned yellow chintz-covered chairs and sofas; a brick fireplace took up one wall, and dispelling the autumn chill that permeated the house, a cheerful fire burned on the hearth. Tall windows overlooked a garden that would be stunning in the spring.

  Luc was proud of the efforts of his miniscule staff. Alice, onetime scullery-maid at The Birches, Emily’s former home, proved that she had learned well while laboring in the kitchens at The Birches under Mrs. Spalding. Hot tea, coffee and a steaming punch awaited Luc’s guests, as well as thinly sliced saffron bread, gingerbread cakes and sugar puffs—and to Alice’s credit, they were as delicious as anything turned out by Mrs. Spalding herself, now at Windmere. After Bertram had whisked away all signs of their light repast, Luc gave the Ordways a tour of the main floor and the rear garden.

  Again it was Gillian’s comments Luc waited eagerly to hear. When they had peeked into the library with its blue and fawn rug and comfortable furniture covered in fabric in darker hues of the same color and she exclaimed, “Oh, what a charming room!” delight and pleasure speared through him. As the group walked down one of several winding paths lined with perennials and flowering shrubs, as the others commented on the extent and layout of the garden, Luc found himself waiting for Gillian’s opinion. Stopping before a rosebush where one brave pink bloom raised its head, she looked over at him and smiled. “Your garden will make High Tower’s head gardener most jealous,” she said. “Even now, with nothing at its best, it is enjoyable to wander through, and in the spring and summer, I suspect it will be spectacular.”

  Ignoring his happiness at her approval, he bowed and murmured, “Come spring, it will be my pleasure to give you ... and the others a tour.”

  A faint blush staining her cheeks, Gillian dropped her eyes and stuttered, “Th-th-thank y-y-you.” Hastily turning away from the steady gaze of those azure eyes, for the rest of the tour she was quiet and stuck close to her brother. I will not, she told herself severely, lose my head over a pair of broad shoulders and a handsome face.

  Canfield was in no danger of losing his head over anything, but he was less than pleased when he descended from the upper reaches of High Tower that afternoon to discover that he had been left to his own devices. Fuming, he stood in the main hallway, wondering why he had ever thought staying at High Tower would be amusing—even if it suited his purposes.

  In her letter, Sophia’s friend had been right on the mark. Canfield had, indeed, committed a most grievous transgression. Confronted with having seduced and ruined the daughter of a friend of his father’s, Canfield refused to marry the girl. “Pay ’em off,” he’d drawled to the duke in the library at the family’s palatial home. With his father’s blue eyes boring into him, he’d squirmed in his chair and muttered, “It was a wager—I won. That’s the end of it.”

  A monumental row followed, and when Canfield slunk away from the family home in late May, it had been with the knowledge that his father, despite being an old roue of the first order, was within a hair’s
breath of disowning him. He’d angered his father before by his actions, but this time it appeared he had crossed the line.

  Whispers and speculation about Canfield’s fall from grace spread through the ton. Upon his return to London, with the Season still in full swing, it hadn’t escaped Canfield’s notice, as the days passed, that doors once open to him were closing and that his circle of friends diminished. Only a few knew the truth, and while he smarted under the slowing of invitations and “friends” no longer having time for him, it was the tightened purse strings the duke had imposed that caused him the most heart-burnings. His mouth tightened. The bloody old bastard had chosen the worst possible time to conjure up a conscience.

  The profitable association Canfield had shared with Thomas Joslyn had kept a stream of gold flowing into his purse, but Joslyn’s death in March had changed everything, and to his dismay, the money dried up and he scrambled to tap back into that golden cascade. It was difficult. He’d only dealt with Joslyn and Joslyn hadn’t shared many details with him, but Canfield had been vaguely aware that, like him, Joslyn’s friend, Lord Padgett, was an investor in the smuggling activities. Padgett was not part of Canfield’s circle, and though they rubbed shoulders at various London affairs, beyond a polite greeting or nod, their lives were separate, Joslyn the only link between them.

  When Joslyn died, hungry to keep the money falling into his hands, Canfield discreetly approached Padgett. It was awkward, Padgett pretending not to know what he was talking about, but in the end, while admitting nothing, Padgett did give him a name. Beyond the one name, Edward Dudley, supposedly Joslyn’s man in London, Canfield knew nothing. A talk with Dudley had been called for, and wearing his oldest clothes, his hat pulled down low across his face to hide his features, he’d met the man in a disagreeable tavern on the edge of London. There had been an uneasy dance between them, but they’d come to an agreement. Which, Canfield thought sourly, as he stared blankly around the foyer of High Tower, had been working well until the duke had cut off a sizable amount of his funds.

  Canfield scowled. He’d already received the year’s second payment of his quarterly allowance at the time of the unpleasant scene in the duke’s library, and it wasn’t until July when he strolled into his bank to make a withdrawal that he discovered his allowance had been slashed to a pittance. Via Dudley, word had reached him not long after that a shipment from the continent had arrived in England and Canfield had been expecting a tidy return on his investment. The pouch of gold, however, that Dudley surreptitiously slid him when they met in a dark corner of the same disagreeable tavern was smaller than usual, and the suspicion that he was being cheated took root. When he complained, Dudley had shrugged. “Talk to Nolles if you’re not happy,” Dudley muttered. “He’s running the gang these days. You’ll find him at The Ram’s Head in Broadhaven on the Sussex coast.”

  Canfield had been careful to keep his identity a secret, and confident that neither Dudley nor this Nolles person had identified him, he decided a trip to Broadhaven was called for. Unwilling to blindly confront the smuggler leader, he’d been casting about for an excuse to visit the region when one night at a gaming hell, he’d overheard Stanley Ordway talking about leaving London to visit at his uncle’s home, near the village of Broadhaven. Canfield had struck up an instant acquaintance.

  So far, his friendship with Stanley and his arrival at High Tower had served him well. The recent note he’d received from his father had been cool, but there had been the hint of a thaw in the duke’s words ... and a nice draft for a goodly sum had been included. It was only, he thought, a matter of time before he was back in his father’s good graces—and the old devil completely loosened the purse strings. As for Nolles ... he’d moved slowly, wanting to get the lay of the land before revealing himself as the smuggler’s London investor: his friendship with Stanley had provided him with excellent cover.

  There had been an added benefit of association with Stanley Ordway: Gillian Dashwood. Canfield had long entertained erotic thoughts of Gillian, and finding the lady already at High Tower had seemed a stroke of luck. Except, he thought darkly, things hadn’t gone as he’d planned. That a little country mouse, no matter how lovely, had been able to outmaneuver him rankled every time he thought of it. The widow had won this hand, he admitted bitterly, but the game was far from over.

  Realizing he’d accomplished all he could at High Tower, and with the money from his father’s draft plumping his purse, he was impatient to be gone from the place. Stanley’s abandonment of him this afternoon provided him with an excuse to cut his ties, and spinning on his heels, he bounded up the stairs. Finding his valet puttering around the room, he ordered, “Pack everything, Hyde. We’re leaving.”

  Used to his master’s moods, Hyde nodded and began to drag out valises from the big wardrobe against the wall. “Are we returning to London, my lord?” he asked.

  Canfield shook his head. “Not yet. We’ll be staying for a bit longer in the area—at The Ram’s Head. I’ll meet you there.”

  Downstairs Canfield rang for Meacham. To the butler, he said, “I am cutting my visit short and my valet and I are removing to The Ram’s Head.” Plucking a bit of lint from the sleeve of his coat, he added, “Oh, and you can thank that miserable old man you serve for his hospitality.”

  Meacham bowed. “I shall do so.” He smiled with teeth. “Shall I help Hyde pack?”

  Canfield glanced sharply at him, but Meacham’s face displayed nothing but polite interest. “No, that won’t be necessary,” Canfield said. “And now, my good man, if you will send someone to the stables and have my horse brought ’round, I’ll be off. Hyde knows where to find me.”

  Congratulating himself on removing to The Ram’s Head, Canfield rode away from High Tower. He had matters under control—the widow was still at hand and he could now concentrate on his unfinished business with Nolles.

  When the Ordways returned home with Luc that afternoon, the news that Canfield had removed to The Ram’s Head was met with varying degrees of delight. Silas, Gillian and Sophy were plainly pleased; Stanley was less obviously so but it was clear that the unexpected departure of his “friend” caused him no pain.

  Luc shared their reaction but with reservations. Knowing Canfield’s reputation, his presence at Silas’s home had raised Luc’s eyebrow and he’d wondered what an out-and-out rake was doing buried in the country far from the dens of iniquity the man was known to haunt. It was obvious that Stanley wasn’t the hardened rake that comprised Canfield’s circle of cronies and that High Tower wasn’t the sort of place that Canfield frequented. So why was he here?

  Shrugging aside speculation for the time being, after declining an invitation to stay and dine, Luc took his leave of the Ordways. As his horse trotted through the twilight toward Ramstone Manor, his mind wandered to this afternoon. He should have been filled with satisfaction with the results of the Ordways’ visit to his home this afternoon, but, he admitted, for a man who had little more than a discreet dalliance in mind, he cared far too much about Gillian Dashwood’s reaction to his home.

  It shouldn’t have mattered whether she approved or liked Ramstone, but in some unsettling way, it did. Enormously. His mouth thinned. And if he’d bought Ramstone with an idea of the place providing a cozy rendezvous with the lady, he’d been badly mistaken. Ramstone Manor was now his home, not some snug nest tucked away from prying eyes. Mon Dieu! What if his sister-in-law came to call when he was, ah, entertaining Mrs. Dashwood?

  Luc was no puritan, but the notion of bedding Gillian at Ramstone didn’t set well. Ramstone Manor was respectable. He half-smiled. His plans for the beguiling little widow were not. And then there was her relationship to Silas. Was he really going to bed the niece of his friend?

  Luc moved restively in the saddle. Making Gillian his mistress seemed a poor way to pay back Silas’s friendship. Yet like a siren, Gillian called to something within him... . The memory of the sway of her hips as she’d walked down the garden path, the sparkle in
those topaz eyes and the soft curve of her full mouth when she looked at him, swept over him—with predictable results. He was instantly hard and aching with desire. A desire he was furiously aware that he might not be able to satisfy.

  Cursing under his breath, he kicked his horse into a gallop. Diantre! The sprite had him twisted in knots and had tossed him painfully onto the horns of a dilemma. Was the desire to have her naked beneath him so powerful that he could brush aside the bonds of loyalty and friendship he felt for Silas? And don’t forget that she may have murdered her husband, he reminded himself grimly.

  Instinct fought against the notion of Gillian being a murderess, but he couldn’t ignore it. Her husband had been murdered and she had been found next to his body, the signs of a terrible fight all around them. Luc’s desire cooled and his eyes hardened. Perhaps she beguiled her husband also—driven him mad with desire ... until she’d murdered him.

  It was a very unhappy and conflicted man who returned to Ramstone Manor. After complimenting Bertram and Alice on their efforts that afternoon, Luc retreated to the library. The library, he recalled irritably, Gillian had complimented.

  Scowling, he walked over to a mahogany lowboy, and from the small tray of liquors and glasses, he picked up a decanter and splashed some brandy into a snifter. Snifter in hand, his handsome face bleak, he stalked around the room.

  What was he going to do about Gillian Dashwood? If that kiss they had shared in the gardens of High Tower was anything to go by, she was no stranger to passion. She was also, he reminded himself, taking a swallow of the brandy, no virgin. She’d been married. And widowed. He winced. Her husband murdered—by her hand, some people thought. And then there was Silas... .

  Moodily he stared down into the amber liquid in his snifter. The wisest course would be to forget about her. Put her from his mind and forget about having that luscious little body writhing under his caresses. His lips twisted. The question was, could he? She was going to be living at High Tower, and every time he called upon Silas he’d see her there. He’d never been good at resisting temptation, and he feared that sooner or later the allure she held for him would prove more than he could withstand. Which left him where?