The Mysterious Miss Flint: Lost Ladies of London: Book 1

by Clee, Adele

  With wide eyes, they watched the road for another hour, but to no avail.

  The atmosphere in the carriage was just as bleak on the return journey.

  A dark cloud descended, one that rained melancholy and pessimism in bucket loads. The earl sat forward, his elbow resting on his knee, his hand covering his mouth as if trying to avoid inhaling the heavy downpour of emotion.

  Like the unsteady rocking of the carriage, Nicole’s thoughts swayed to and fro all the way back to Stanton House. Indeed, her mind was in such a muddle she entered the building through the front door instead of using the access route through the mews.

  “Can I interest you in a nightcap, Miss Flint?” The earl’s rich voice dragged her from her reverie. He stood before the grand staircase, his broad shoulders filling her field of vision. “After hours spent in the cold, it would be wise to take something strong to drink. The last thing either of us needs is to catch a chill.”

  And I don’t want to be alone.

  He hadn’t said those words. Yet for some reason, she heard them.

  “Thank you. Having spent many nights in the draughty manor, one gets used to the cold.” Despite the late hour, sleep was the last thing on her mind. She did not want to lie in bed with her thoughts flitting between macabre visions of Rose and naked visions of her friend’s brother. “But a drink would be most welcome.”

  The need to comfort him took hold, and she did not want to be alone, either.

  Taking his direction, she entered the room on their left, surprised to find herself in his study, not the drawing room.

  A fire burned in the grate, yet the air held a musky masculine scent that reminded her so much of him. He took a taper from the holder on the wall near the door, moved to the fire, and then to light the candles in the gilt branch on the desk.

  “Allow me to take your cloak.” As soon as the earl came to stand behind her, the energy in the room changed. Her skin prickled with excitement and her fingers fumbled to untie the ribbons. Large hands skimmed her shoulders, and her traitorous body shivered in response.

  The garment slipped away yet he did not move.

  “In the candlelight, your hair glows like amber.” His words drifted over her like a soft caress. He stood so close the essence of the man enveloped her.

  Her scalp tingled as he pulled a loose tendril through his fingers.

  “Fiery hair, fiery temper,” she said nervously as her body ached for him to touch her again.

  She would rather lust course through her veins than guilt.

  Lust would ease the ache in her heart, ease the strange pulsing between her legs. Heat pooled in the intimate place and the earl had done nothing but utter a few words.

  Drawing a deep breath to bolster her courage, she turned to face him.

  Lord above. From the moment he’d climbed out of his coach at Morton Manor, she’d known he was handsome. But with these strange sensations surging through her body, he looked utterly irresistible.

  With the back of his fingers, he stroked her cheek, and she resisted the urge to close her eyes. “I must thank you, Miss Flint, for agreeing to accompany me on my quest to find Rose. But I fear, that in my selfishness, I may have made a mistake. Suffered a complete lapse of judgment.”

  She tried to keep her face expressionless, sought to banish the crushing in her chest. “I don’t understand.”

  “I should not have persuaded you to come here.”

  “You would rather I stayed at the manor?” The muscles in her stomach tightened as if preparing for a punch.

  “It would have been the logical choice. What if Rose went back there only to find the building empty, deserted?” His expression turned grave. “To focus our search in one place and not two seems foolish now.”

  Nicole exhaled. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her near him. He spoke only out of concern for Rose. And yet the solemn conversation did nothing to quell the fluttering of desire in her belly.

  “Perhaps I should return to the manor tomorrow.” She didn’t want to go back there. She didn’t want to leave him. The thought of staying at Morton Manor alone sent a cold chill down to numb her toes. “I could gather a few of the villagers, search the woods and nearby houses. Someone must have seen Rose.”

  “Going back would be the most sensible plan.” He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled. “So why is it every fibre of my being wants to disagree, wants to argue that there’s a desperate need for you to remain here?”

  Hope blossomed.

  “Because you are a man of your word.” She placed her hand lightly on his sleeve. “You’re torn between helping me, as you promised, and finding Rose.”

  “Trust me.” He moistened his lips. The sight of his tongue caused a flutter of anticipation. “My desire to be near you stems from more than a duty to offer assistance. In truth, it is the reason I wanted to take you to Lady Chatwell’s ball. I wanted the world to know of our connection.”

  The fact he’d made such an open declaration surprised her. Particularly, when he seemed so confused by his thoughts. “I enjoy your company, too. Friendships are often formed through common goals.”

  “Friendships?” He managed a weak smile. “After our kiss in the alley, I believe we have progressed beyond a mere personal regard for one another. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  How could she not?

  One did not dream of undressing their friend or caressing their bare skin.

  “But did you not instruct me to kiss you?” She had been hesitant at first. But she’d wanted to kiss him from the moment he’d punched Baxter for insulting her. From the moment he’d pulled her hood up to protect her identity. “Was it not merely an exercise to prevent Lord Cunningham from spotting you? Was I not keen to banish a terrible memory?”

  He raised a mocking brow. “You’re teasing me, Miss Flint. You may play innocent, but we both know why it happened. A kiss was inevitable.”

  He spoke of the attraction that hummed in the air whenever they were together. It was impossible to deny the powerful bond that existed between them.

  “And had our search for Lord Cunningham taken us to Lady Chatwell’s ball would you have found a reason to kiss me there?”

  He didn’t answer straight away but moved to place her cloak over the chair behind the desk. “Perhaps not at first. Had we attended the ball, I would have taken you in my arms and waltzed around the floor. Of course, with a mere inch between our bodies, it would have been regarded as utterly scandalous.”

  “What, even for a mistress?”

  “We’d have caused such a scandal the courtesans would have blushed.”

  Nicole’s heart thumped against her ribs.

  He gestured to the row of crystal decanters on the side table. “Sherry?”

  Nicole nodded, although what need had she for a drink? His words and heated gaze had warmed her sufficiently.

  “Then, after partaking in refreshment, I would have taken you for a stroll in the garden. Through the rose-covered arbour to a secluded spot with a stone bench made for two.” He stepped forward and handed her the glass of amber liquid. Their fingers brushed and his eyes fixed firmly on hers. “And then, my dear Miss Flint, I would have kissed you. Thoroughly. Deeply.”

  Her pulse pumped hard in her throat. Gracious, for once she was sorry not to have left the carriage.

  “And … and if I had offered an objection?”

  “You would have been just as eager as I.”

  She smiled and sipped her sherry. “Then I am sorry to tell you that your fantasy has one major flaw. Having never waltzed, it would have made for an embarrassing spectacle.” Oh, she’d had tuition, danced with her brother and father when she was but a slip of a girl. “Bruised toes and a battered pride would have completely ruined your seduction scene.”

  With an arrogant grin, he took a gulp of whatever was in his glass, held the potent spirit in his mouth for a moment before swallowing it down.

  “That is where you’re wrong, Miss Flint. Your lack of exp
erience would have made the event far more interesting. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  Without asking permission, he snatched the glass from her hand and placed both vessels back on the side table. Then he moved the chair next to the desk to create a clear space.

  “Now,” he said coming to stand before her. “With my expert tuition, we shall have you waltzing in no time.”

  She supposed she should tell him that she knew the cotillion, a few country dances and a reel. That she knew rhythm. Once, when Jeremy was on a winning streak at the tables, excitement had caused Rowena to have a momentary lapse of kindness. She, too, had moved the furniture to demonstrate the steps of the waltz. Although with her nerves wound tighter than a thread on a bobbin, Rowena was soon stomping about in frustration.

  “With your right hand, you must clasp my left hand.” The earl’s rich languid tone drew her back to the present.

  Nicole suppressed a giggle. He spoke to her as though she had a cabbage for a brain. She slipped her hand into his, palm to palm. The mere touch sent her heart racing.

  “What now?” she said feigning ignorance.

  “Put your left hand on my shoulder.”

  She placed it clumsily on purpose.

  “More to the left,” he said as his hand slid slowly around her waist and came to rest on her back.

  When she straightened, they stood less than an inch apart. “Is this the required distance?” she asked despite the fact his coat brushed against the front of her dress.

  “I think you know it’s not.” His voice was a husky whisper. “We start with our feet together, and then you step forward with your left foot.”

  Nicole did as he asked. When her thigh brushed against his leg, he froze.

  “Is something wrong, my lord?”

  He breathed deeply. “Not at all. However, teaching is not my forte. I am compelled to omit all instruction and rush to the denouement of this particular lesson.”

  Nicole looked up at him. The look of longing in his eyes reflected the intense craving currently wreaking havoc in the pit of her stomach.

  The earl lowered his head. “Why is it that when I’m around you, I feel like a boy fresh from the schoolroom? Everything is novel and new.”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, their mouths so close they seemed to breathe in each other's words. “Am I so unlike the other ladies of your acquaintance?”

  “Trust me, Miss Flint. You are a true original.”

  Their lips met.

  He brushed his mouth slowly over hers. “You are witty and intelligent whilst still managing to be utterly irresistible.”

  Her breath came so quick one would think she’d run all the way from Holborn to Hanover Square.

  “And you, my lord, are everything a man should be.”

  He was strong, courageous, caring. In his presence, she felt safe. With him, she did not feel so dreadfully alone. With him, her mind was a confusing contradiction. Independence mattered a great deal. Equally, she wanted to be loved and cherished.

  But this man wanted pleasure, not love. Lest she not forget. She would be wise to guard her heart, for she’d fallen too far to guard her virtue.

  “Considering the intimate nature of our friendship, I suggest you call me Oliver.” Desire burned in his blue eyes. He brushed her lips again, firmer this time, far more demanding.

  When she breathed, an earthy masculine scent filled her head. She could taste it in his kiss like a potent drug, one capable of heightening every sensual thought and feeling. The longer his lips melded with hers, the deeper the need for him grew.

  “Oliver.” The word came as a breathless whisper — a plea for him to ease the crippling loneliness. Rose had spoken his name to her often. But never had the sound made the room spin. Never had it rendered her knees too weak to support her body.

  Still gripping her right hand in position for the waltz, the hand resting on her back edged lower, down to cup her buttock, to pull her closer against the hard length of his body. His tongue penetrated her mouth. Like a firework at Vauxhall, the kiss burst into something urgent, demanding.

  She could grow accustomed to the warm sensation spiralling in her belly. She could come to yearn for this man’s touch.

  “Say I may call you Nicole.” In a fever of impatience, he rained warm kisses along her jaw and down the column of her throat.

  Already drunk with desire, she was on the verge of complete surrender. All she wanted was to feel his hard body pressing down on her, protecting her, keeping her safe.

  A feral growl resonated from the back of his throat. “Stay with me.”

  She had no idea what he meant. Despite her body waving the white flag of surrender, her mind clung to the last thread of logic.

  You’ll be lonely again when you leave.

  But surely she would see him again. Surely nothing could break the bond that existed between them.

  There’s lust … there’s passion … but no such thing as true love.

  The memory of his words caught her short like a sudden slap to the face. To indulge her desires would only bring her more heartache, more pain.

  Pushing hard at his chest, she broke free from his grasp. “The hour is late. We should retire if we’re to visit the solicitor in the morning.” She was panting, still staring at his irresistible mouth.

  A wicked smile touched his lips. “Those were my thoughts, too.” He lowered his head and kissed her again.

  “No. You misunderstand me, my lord.”

  “Oliver. Call me Oliver.” His hand came to rest on her hip and moved seductively back and forth.

  “No. I meant we should retire to our own rooms.” The sudden look of disappointment on his face tore at her heart. “I cannot do this knowing Rose is out there somewhere. It’s not right.”

  It was a pathetic excuse. Had he whispered an endearment, given any assurance that this meant more than the need to satisfy a physical hunger, she would have given herself to him completely.

  “What more can we do to find her?” Frustration burst forth. “Peters is out there now, combing the area, making enquiries.”

  “There is only one thing we can do.” The answer got stuck in her throat. Drawing in a deep breath, she stepped away until she reached the door. “Once we have dealt with your father’s solicitor and I own the deeds, I must return to Morton Manor.”

  Chapter Ten

  They arrived at the solicitors’ office at ten. While Miss Flint wore the same old dress, a maid had styled her hair and given her a straw bonnet that fastened with a blue ribbon.

  Oliver couldn’t help but stare at her.

  Not that this new accessory proved unflattering. On the contrary, she was one of those lucky women whose radiance shone through, regardless. It was more that a woman of her beauty and intelligence needed something striking, something inventive to convey the true originality of her character.

  “Either you disapprove of the bonnet,” she said with a smirk, “or the wind has changed direction and now you’re stuck with that odd scowl.”

  Oliver smiled. “No, ‘tis not the wind. But simply that I imagine you wearing something bolder. Perhaps in sapphire-blue silk rather than straw, with an ostrich feather draped rakishly across the front.”

  “So you are an expert in ladies fashions, too.”

  “More an interested observer of what would suit you, Miss Flint.”

  “I’m surprised that a man with your responsibilities has time to think of hats.”

  It had nothing to do with a passion for millinery. “Where you’re concerned, I find it necessary to make time.”

  Indeed, she entered his thoughts far too frequently. At breakfast, he’d watched with fascination as she devoured a piece of toast rather than nibble the corners as ladies were wont to do. He liked the way her hair was a little unruly despite the maid’s effort to tame the vibrant locks.

  He liked everything about her.

  Then again, he was in the grip of a mild obsession, and so it was to be expec
ted. That was undoubtedly why his body flamed as soon as he took hold of her hand and assisted her from the carriage.

  Oliver pushed the swollen wooden door of the solicitors’ office. The jingle of the overhead bell brought the clerk scurrying out of a room located to their left.

  “My lord. Welcome. Welcome. May I congratulate you on a successful trip to Morton Manor.” Mr Andrews fiddled with his fingers as he spoke, which was perhaps part of the reason the words burst from his mouth far too quickly. “How fortunate that you remembered Mr Benting was an alias used by your father. Else you might never have solved the puzzle.”

  To what was the clerk referring?

  Was it his success in finding the heir to the manor? How did Andrews know the lady at Oliver’s side was Miss Flint? He had not yet made the introductions.

  “Is Mr Wild able to spare a moment of his time?” Perhaps Rose had heard of their father’s death and come straight to the office. Oliver shook the thought away. Had that been the case, she would have returned to Stanton House.

  “Mr Wild is ill, my lord. A terrible sickness came upon him, and he’s taken to his bed. His morning tea spurted out of his mouth like water from a fountain.” The clerk glanced left and right and bent his head. “Mr Wild asked that you not tell Mr Jameson how you discovered the Benting file. He asked that you say you found the papers inside your father’s desk and let that be the end of the matter.”

  Oliver inclined his head. While Mr Wild had been helpful, it was only through Mr Andrews’ foresight that they found the necessary information.

  “Of course. I would not want Mr Jameson to learn of your involvement.”

  “And you have my hearty thanks, my lord. I don’t mind telling you that Mr Jameson has been like a rabid dog this morning, snarling and growling at the slightest thing.”

  “Then Mr Jameson has returned from his trip?” Relief should have been the only emotion to surface, yet disappointment crushed Oliver’s chest in a vice-like grip. Once Miss Flint received her inheritance, there would be no need for her to remain in Town.

  “Yes.” Mr Andrews appeared confused. “He returned last night and is with a client as we speak. But surely you knew that.”