His large hands still cupped her buttocks, while her fingers remained tangled in the thick hair at his nape. Her eyes finally focused on his, and her breath stalled at the intense heat blasting from his gaze. She shifted slightly in his embrace, the movement rubbing her against his arousal. He inhaled sharply, and heat flared in her. Fierce and aching.
And unwelcome.
Sanity returned like the slap of a cold, wet blanket. What on earth was she doing? Kissing him. As you've wanted to since that first evening, when he coaxed you into that amusing duet. Yes. And giving in to the temptation only proved how unwise a decision it was. For with one mere kiss he'd inflamed her, resurrected tormenting needs and desires she'd thought she'd buried. Thoughts and feelings she never wanted or expected to experience again. But here they were, pounding through her, harder and stronger than she ever recalled them being in the past. And God help her, that frightened her.
Disentangling her fingers from his hair, she took two shaky steps back, away from him. His hands slid slowly from her buttocks. It was nearly impossible to stand her ground and look at him when everything cautious inside her screamed at her to flee. Now. Before she gave in to her body's cravings and threw herself against him.
The coward in her longed for him to speak first. To say that what had passed between them was a mistake… a lapse in judgment that would not be repeated. But when silence stretched between them, she decided it would have to be her.
"Lord Robert-"
"Robert." One corner of his mouth lifted. "I believe we are officially on a first-name basis now… Allie."
The way he said her name, in that husky voice, rippled a warm shiver down her spine. Clearing her throat, she said in what she hoped passed for a brisk tone, "I accept my full share of the blame for what just happened. I think we can both agree that it was a mistake. One that will not be repeated."
"Oh, but it was not a mistake," he said in a soft voice completely at odds with the dead seriousness in his gaze. Reaching out, he clasped her hands, shooting tingles up her arms. "And it will happen again. Surely you realize that."
She wanted to deny it, to open her mouth and refute his frightening statement, but the words refused to form in her throat.
"You felt it, too," he whispered, his eyes steady on hers. "Just as I did. That 'certain something.' I know you did. You might not want to or be ready to admit it to yourself, but I felt it in your response. Tasted it in your kiss. It's there, between us. And it's not going away. Indeed, it's only gaining momentum."
His honesty and obvious acceptance of something so completely unacceptable stilled her. She moistened her dry lips. "If we ignore it-"
"Impossible." He squeezed her hands and stepped closer to her. "And why would you want to?"
"Why? How can you even ask?" There was no disguising the anguish sneaking into her voice. "To involve myself with another man…" Her words trailed off, and a shudder ran through her.
"But I am nothing like David." A muscle jerked in his jaw and his eyes narrowed. "But you think I am. You've told me so. Twice. And I believed you were paying me a tremendous compliment." An incredulous sound burst from his lips, and he released her hands, stepping back from her with a half-baffled, half-angry expression. "May I ask exactly what I've done to give you any reason to think so badly of me?"
"I did not mean that I believed you to be a criminal-"
"Very kind, I'm sure," he murmured dryly.
"But you do remind me of him in other ways. Ways that are difficult to describe."
"We resemble each other?"
"Physically, no. David was very handsome."
"Ah. I see. Well, that splat you just heard was my manly ego hitting the floor."
Embarrassment flooded her. "I did not mean to imply… what I meant was… oh, botheration." Annoyance shoved her embarrassment aside. "The truth of the matter is that while David was very handsome, you are even more so. But it's your manner that is just like him. You possess the same carefree, fun-loving, never-take-anything-seriously personality."
"I'm afraid I must beg to differ. There are a number of things I take very seriously."
"Perhaps. But it matters not. I refuse to risk myself again. To any degree. For any man. Clearly no one has ever betrayed your trust."
"Not in the way yours was betrayed, no."
"Then you cannot possibly understand the humiliation and despair."
Something flashed in his eyes. "I know despair," he said quietly. "But what either of us has experienced in the past has no bearing on this… attraction we feel for each other. I want to show you something." Reaching into his cream brocade waistcoat, he withdrew a piece of vellum, which he carefully unfolded and handed to her.
Allie looked down and stilled. It was a sketch. Of her.
" Elizabeth gave this to me," he said, "so I would recognize you at the pier. I believe she sent you one of me for the same reason."
"Yes." And I've looked at it every day.
"I've looked at that sketch every day, Allie," he said softly.
Her gaze snapped back up to his. Before she could react to his words, which so eerily mirrored her own thoughts, he went on, "I've been enchanted by that woman from the moment I saw her."
Allie stared at the laughing young woman in the sketch, and a lump settled in her throat. Handing him back the drawing, she said, "She doesn't exist anymore."
"Yes, she does. She's just hiding." He reached out and trailed a single fingertip down her cheek. "We simply need to coax her to come out and play."
A confusing mixture of fear and longing shook her. "Why would you want to?"
"Because I want to know her. I think I'd like her… Indeed, I already do. And I think she'd like me."
God help her, she already does. Far too much.
He refolded the sketch, then slipped it back into his pocket. "You are welcome to try to ignore your feelings, resist them, if you like, but I can promise you won't be able to. Not for long."
The sheer arrogance of his statement-combined with the fact that she feared he was correct-irked her. A pique of pride lifted her brows. "How can you be so certain?"
"Because unlike you, I'm not afraid of how our kiss made me feel. Because I cannot even imagine not exploring those feelings further. Because you think I'm handsome, and I think you're absolutely beautiful. And because, if it's the last thing I ever do, I will make you realize that I am nothing like David." He stepped toward her until they almost, but not quite, touched. Then he leaned down to whisper directly in her ear, his warm breath tickling across her sensitive skin, "You won't be able to ignore what's between us, Allie, because I won't let you. And you'll never again doubt that I can be a very serious man."
*********
Closing his bedchamber door behind him,-Robert leaned back against the oak panel and drew in a much-needed deep breath. Her luscious taste lingered on his tongue, and the memory of her flowery scent teased his senses. God help him, he wanted her. And was determined to have her.
But her words drifted back to him. I did not mean that I believed you to be a criminal…
He squeezed his eyes shut against the guilt battering him. What would she say, how would she react, if she knew about his own criminal past? Images of the fire, the damage he'd caused, of Nate, all collided in his mind, and he dragged his hands down his face. He'd denied he was anything like her thieving late husband, and he wasn't-but would she believe that if she knew about his darkest hour?
The years rolled away, and he vividly recalled that night. Visiting a pub on the outskirts of London. His surprise at seeing Cyril Owens, the blacksmith from the village near Bradford Hall. Cyril drunkenly bragging to a group of sailors about a girl he'd recently had, and how he'd used his own brand of charm to "convince" her. Filled with disgust, Robert had turned away. But then Cyril had said her name. Hannah.
He'd realized with horror whom Cyril meant. Hannah Morehouse, Nate's daughter. Nate Morehouse was more than just of one of Bradford Hall's longtime grooms-mo
re than just a servant. Robert admired and respected the man; he considered him a friend. He recalled Nate mentioning how concerned he was about Hannah, how withdrawn and quiet she'd become over the past several weeks. And now Robert knew why.
The urge to wrap his hands around Owens' neck was strong, but he managed to control the impulse. There were better ways to see justice served. So he'd gone to Nate. Told him what he'd overheard. He'd then assured the stricken man that he would handle the situation, in his own way, vowing that justice would be done. Dear God, he'd been such a young, impetuous fool. All my fault…
He dragged his hands through his hair and blew out a long breath. His stomach clenched as he imagined Allie's reaction to the story, given her disastrous history with David.
It was not a chance he was willing to take.
Not yet. Damn it, he wished he could tell her the truth. Wished he wasn't bound by his promise. He couldn't avoid forever telling her the version of the story everyone knew, but surely he could put it off a while longer.
Yes, surely there was no harm in waiting a while longer.
Chapter 12
Redfern limped up the cobbled walkway leading to the earl's house, cursing his rotten luck. Blast that screamin' banshee of a maid. If it weren't for her, he'd have the bloody box. And he wouldn't be sportin' a sore ankle from leapin' over the damn balcony rail. Bad enough he'd landed with a bone-jarrin' thud, turnin' his ankle, but he landed with that bone-jarrin' thud right in some sort of thorny bush. Now his ankle throbbed, his best breeches and jacket were torn all up, and his arse hurt like hell. Were there any bones in a man's arse? 'Cause if there were, he knew he'd broken the bastards. All 'cause of that screamin' wench. Typical woman. Never knew when to shut up. Maybe when he'd washed his hands of the nightmare this job had become, he'd pay that screamin' wench a little private visit.
But for now, the earl were not going to be pleased he'd failed to get the box. Why the devil would he want the piece of junk? He'd considered avoidin' the earl, not reportin' in until he had the goods, but decided it were better to let Lord Shelbourne know he were on the job and huntin' for that box. Otherwise Shelbourne might get it into his head to kill first, ask questions afterward. I'll get the box tomorrow. Without fail.
He knocked on the big double doors. Shelbourne's uppity butler Willis opened the door. Damn, Redfern hated the way that pompous bloke looked at him-down his long, skinny nose as if he were his bloody majesty and Redfern were a piece of flotsam on his shoe. Devil take it, the man somehow seemed to sniff all his comments. He were nothin' but a servant! Well, when Refern collected his blunt, the first thing he were going to do were hire himself a fancy butler he could sniff orders at.
After a quarter hour wait, where he were forced to stand on his throbbing ankle-'cause in spite of all the hoity-toityness of his lordship's fancy house, there weren't one single chair in the bloody foyer-Willis finally led him down the corridor. Well, when Redfern collected his blunt, the second thing he were going to do were buy himself a fine house and fill the bloody foyer with bloody chairs so a bloody body could sit itself down. Yes, he'd set himself up right nice, and never again take orders from any nose-in-the-air nobleman.
Seconds later Willis opened a door. Redfern offered him his best sneer, then limped across the carpet. The door closed behind him with a firm click.
The earl sat in a brown leather chair near the fireplace, a brandy snifter cradled in one hand, the other hand resting on his mastiff's enormous head. Both the earl and the dog watched his hobbling progress across the room through narrowed eyes, and Redfern weren't certain which made him more uncomfortable-the man or the beast. He weren't particularly fond of dogs, especially dogs wot looked like they could chew his arm off with one bite. Shelbourne certainly seemed to love the monstrous beast, always pettin' it. He'd even heard the earl talkin' sweet to the beast several times, in a silly high-pitched voice like one would use with a tyke. He indulged in a mental shrug. Just no figurin' the Quality.
Redfern halted in front of the earl. The heat from the fire only partially eased the chill of unease snaking down his back. No, the earl didn't look happy-and he hadn't even told him the bad news yet. Maybe this was a bad idea.
"Well?" the earl asked in that icy tone of his.
Trying to inject confidence into his voice, Redfern said, "I've got me some good news, my lord. That box you want? You'll have it by this time tomorrow. You've got me word on that."
"Really? Unless you intend to rob me, I do not see how that is possible. You see, Redfern, I have the box."
"You?" Redfern repeated, confused. "How'd-"
"Mrs. Brown gave it to me."
Although muddled by all the whys and what-fors, Redfern instantly understood the ramifications. Relief relaxed his shoulders. "Well, fine, then. You've got what you wanted. Now, about my blunt-"
"I'm afraid there's a problem, Redfern. You see, the box contained a note I wanted. The note is no longer in the box, leading me to believe Mrs. Brown still has it."
"Bloody hell, wot's this now? First you wanted the ring. Then the box. Now this note. Why the blazes, if all you'd wanted was this foolish note all along, hadn't you just said so?" He clenched his hands to curb the overwhelming desire to plant the earl a facer. "You blame me for botchin' a job, but how can you expect me to succeed when I don't have all the bloody facts?"
The look the earl leveled upon him was no doubt meant to freeze his blood, but there was no cooling the anger bubbling in Redfern's veins.
"I wanted all of them," the earl said. "The ring, the box, and the note were together until you separated them. My error was in assuming you were intelligent enough to carry out the simplest of orders."
He took a leisurely sip from his brandy, then continued, "I want that note, Redfern. And you're going to get it for me. Do you understand?"
"I understand." But it's the last bloody thing I'm doin 'for the likes of you.
"Good. Mrs. Brown is traveling tomorrow to the Bradford country estate in Kent. I'm certain she'll have the note with her."
He hesitated. Blast and be damned, hopefully the earl weren't going to want him to read this bloody note. Well, if so, he'd figure some story. He'd gotten himself this far without knowin' how to cipher words. 'Course, the earl didn't know that. And none of his business it was, either. "How will I know which note you're lookin' for? You know how ladies are, always keepin' letters and such."
"This letter will be old, and will have been folded many times so it would have fit in the ring box. It will be hidden somewhere-she wouldn't keep it out in the open. Bring me the letter, and I'll make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. If you fail…" The earl shrugged. "I believe I've already made myself clear regarding that scenario."
Very clear. Still, nothin' but anticipation surged through Redfern. He would indeed be a rich man. Because the blasted earl were going to have to pay a king's ransom before Redfern would surrender that letter.
*********
Robert eyed the rough-looking character who answered his knock on Michael Evers' door. Although properly garbed in servant's attire, the man looked more like a cutthroat than a butler. No doubt because of the huge muscles evident beneath his black jacket, his shaved head, the scar that diagonally bisected his forehead, and the small gold hoop earring dangling from his left lobe. He looked as if he could pulverize stone without breaking a sweat.
"Bloody early fer a visit, ain't it?" the giant growled. He crossed his beefy arms over his massive chest and regarded Robert from his extraordinary height with an obsidian-eyed glare.
Robert handed the man his calling card, which was swallowed up in his ham-sized palm. "I need to see Mr. Evers. Immediately." Although he favored the man with his best aristocratic stare, it was damned difficult to peer down his nose at someone who stood a foot taller than him.
"Well, we'll just see if Mr. Evers needs to speak to you." With that, the door slammed in Robert's face.
Momentarily stunned, he stood on the porch, a coo
l gust of early morning air blowing about him. Then amusement tickled him. Damn, but Michael certainly employed a colorful group, both at his boxing emporium and his home, and it seemed some new face or another was always popping up. This giant was unfamiliar to Robert. As he recalled, Michael's last butler had been thin as a stick and sported a patch over one eye.
Robert knew his friend could afford properly trained servants, as well as a much grander residence, thanks to his lucrative career. But Michael preferred to live simply, in a part of town that, while decent, fell short of being fashionable. And he'd once told Robert that he liked to hire people who needed a second-or in some cases a third or fourth-chance in life. An admirable and noble sentiment to be sure, and Michael could certainly defend himself against any ruffian who might be foolish enough to cross him.
The door swung open. With a jerk of his head, the giant indicated he should enter. "This way," he growled, leading Robert down a short corridor. Opening a door, the giant shouted across the threshold, "Here's the bloke wot came to see ya."
Robert entered the breakfast room. Michael looked at him over the rim of a steaming cup of what, based on the redolent scent in the air, was strong coffee.
"Good morning, Jamison. You're looking a mite better than when I saw you last."
"Feeling better, too."
"No more being bashed on the head, then?"
"No, Although I suspect your, er, butler would be happy to oblige."
"Don't worry about Crusher. His bark far outweighs his bite."
"I don't believe I'd care to experience either his bark or his bite. Do I want to know why he's called Crusher?"
"Probably not." He waved Robert forward. "Sit down. Enjoy some coffee. Would you care for some food?"
"No, nothing, thank you. I cannot stay. We are leaving for Bradford Hall as soon as I return to the town house."
"We?"
"Me and Al-Mrs. Brown."
"Aye? And how is the lovely widow? Fully recovered, I hope?"
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