Then a quick, light pattering sounded from the corridor. She pressed her ear to the door. Footsteps. She waited as the sound faded, gave it a few seconds just in case the person had merely paused, and then started to open the door.
More pattering.
She froze. Footsteps padded up the hall past her room. Not as quick. A solid stride. A door creaked open, and then closed. That was certainly no ghost.
After waiting for a moment in case any more hallway wanderers appeared, she inched open her door just enough to peek into the corridor.
Empty.
Gwenllian scooted out on her haunches and closed the door behind her. With any luck, Oliver would never know she was gone.
Hiking her chemise up so her knees would not catch on it, she crawled down the corridor to the grand staircase and peeped through the twisting spindles of the carved banister.
Nothing.
She stood with the caution of a hunted doe and crept down the stairs. Her satin shoes made no sound. She had not brought her shawl, but she did not reckon on needing it. Last night the ghost had broken into the pinery, the warmest place in Primroselea. She'd hazard all Lombard Street to an egg-shell the ghost was going there again.
The glowing Argand lamp sat at the back door as usual, but Gwenllian left it on the floor. There was enough moonlight by which to find her way and she did not want the ghost to see her coming.
She was across the gray lawn, past the shadowed flowerbeds and blackened hedges, and up to the silvery glass hothouse almost before she knew it. Panting more from apprehension than exertion, she peered through one of the panes. A silhouette stirred amongst the plants.
The ghost was inside.
She had guessed correctly. The ghost had come again, and it was in the pinery. She must fetch some of the servants. The footmen or ... were any of the Baron's pistols already loaded?
The silhouette approached. Gwenllian started to turn, intent on dashing back to raise the alarm, when the silhouette stepped into a shaft of moonlight and his visage was bathed in silver.
Mr. Wyckliff.
Ten
Gwenllian wrenched open the pinery door. “How dare you!"
Mr. Wyckliff's eyes widened in shock. “Miss Lloyd?"
"Isabella!” Gwenllian shouted. Her voice sounded threatening even to her own ears. She stalked down the aisle. “Isabella!"
"Mrs. Wood is not here.” Mr. Wyckliff seemed to have recovered from his initial surprise. He seemed genuinely amused.
"Oh yes? Pray tell, why else does a notorious rake loiter in a pinery in the wee hours of the night?” She stood on tiptoe, straining to see into the distant dark of the far end of the vast hothouse. “Isabella!"
He chuckled. “Are you going to challenge her to a duel?"
She whirled on him. “What?"
"I'm just wondering what you intend to do with her once you find her."
"So she is here!” Gwenllian snapped. She marched part way down the aisle again, stopping to part the leaves of some of the exotic plants in case Isabella was hiding among them.
"No, Mrs. Wood is not here.” Mr. Wyckliff sighed. “Nor is she under that bush. She is not here, Miss Lloyd."
Gwenllian was rapidly coming to the same conclusion. For the sake of heat preservation, the pinery had just the one door—the door by which she had entered—and she knew no one had left through it. Which meant that if Isabella had been here, she would still be here. And she was not. Gwenllian and Mr. Wyckliff were the only people in the building.
She shuffled a circuitous path back to his side. “So Isabella was never here?"
"Never. Mrs. Wood does not interest me,” he stated. “You, on the other hand."
Her heart skipped a beat. She waited for him to continue, but he just gazed at her. The light was too dim to determine his exact expression. Still he said nothing. The anticipation was excruciating.
"What about me, sir?” The words tottered forth hesitantly.
He did not answer.
Instead, he stepped forward so that his body was only inches from hers, his left hand smoothly seizing her elbow so she could not back away. Not that backing away was even an option in her mind. She had hoped for, waited for, this moment practically since she met him. Her breath escaped in little, shallow puffs. For just this instant, she wished she could shed being a virtuous lady. If only she were a hussy like that Isabella—because then she would know what to do.
Mr. Wyckliff bent to kiss her forehead. The touch of his lips was feather-light, as if he feared her made of brittle china. He kissed her temple, then her cheek. His lips lingered. His breath felt warm against her skin. Anticipation prickled up her spine. What would he do next?
She shouldn't give him a chance. She should struggle and free herself. Maybe even slap him. But excitement writhed in her belly and she could not have moved for all the tea in London. He must have interpreted her immobility for acquiescence. He kissed her cheek again.
While his touch remained tender, the pressure was not so light as before. Once more he lingered, his lips hovering just above her cheek. She listened to his breathing, as shallow and ragged as her own. It was now or never.
She shifted, trying to move her lips to converge with his. Suddenly, he pulled her against his chest. The buttons of his coat felt hard and cold through her thin chemise but she did not care. The warmth of his hands caressing her back erased all such concerns. He hugged her tightly, so tightly it seemed difficult to breathe, and then just as suddenly he released her and stepped back.
"My deepest apologies, Princess.” His voice was thick and the words seemed forced.
She folded her arms, hugging herself against the emotional chill. It was as if he had tempted her with syllabub and then jerked it away from her outstretched hand. How could he do such a thing? Did he not realize what she was offering? Here she was, willing to ruin her reputation for him, and he had the impudence to turn her down.
"Of all the ... What sort of rake are you?"
"Pardon me?” He sounded genuinely surprised.
"You heard. Here am I, ready, and there you are, and ... and nothing!” she yelled. “You are a poor excuse for a rake, sir."
"You are offended that I did not ravish you?” He chuckled. “I think you will find you are supposed to be offended if I do."
"Certainly I am offended. You can barely see me and yet still you cannot stand to touch me. Am I as disagreeable as all that? No one wants to marry me, but you'd think a man would take what's on offer."
She whirled, storming for the door, but he grabbed her arm.
"That isn't the way of it at all."
"Unhand me!"
"I'll not unhand thee, lass.” If a voice could blaze, Mr. Wyckliff's managed it. She tried to twist away but he swept her into his arms and held her snug against his chest. “'Appen tha'll listen to me now."
He inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled, once, twice. Gwenllian felt him rest his chin on the top of her head. When he spoke his Yorkshire cadence had disappeared.
"All I have that is truly mine is my honor as a gentleman. And at this moment I would throw it to the wind for one night with you. Believe me, this restraint is tearing at my soul like a whip shreds flesh. You are so far from disagreeable. Can you not tell I ache for you with every inch of my body? I would take you directly even if I were to die for it. But I cannot forget. I cannot forget. I will not besmirch your honor.” His head lifted and she felt him muzzle her hair. “Tha'rt too precious,” he began, his voice husky again.
"I do not want to be precious,” she interrupted, her eyes watery with frustrated tears. “I want to be yours."
He swore and suddenly his lips were on hers, forcing hers open, and the fierce intimacy of his mouth swept all thought from her mind. She returned his kiss, hoping her fervor would compensate for her inexperience, and was rewarded by his groan of animal satisfaction. The sound set off a sympathetic vibration within her own frame, as if a jolt of lightning had leapt from him and crackled deep into
her core.
Her hands gripped the fabric of his coat, trying to feel the muscles of his strong back, trying to pull herself even closer against his body. He was covering her face in kisses, along her jaw, down her throat. He was like the orange wine when she had drunk too much and she was dizzy and breathless and warmed through. She ached in places she had never known felt pain. It was an insistent, desperate ache and she urgently needed him to touch her. She wanted ... she was uncertain what she wanted but she knew with certainty that she could only find it with him.
Mr. Wyckliff broke off his wild kisses with another low groan. She could feel the full-length of his body protesting the interruption.
As he fought for control, he whispered against her ear, “Tha hast broken open my heart."
She was beyond words. As his smoldering lips returned to her throat, she arced into him, letting her head fall back even more, trying to give him as much access as he could desire. His head dipped lower. He was going to ... She felt his hot mouth plant kiss after searing kiss upon the sheer fabric covering her breasts. Little encouraging mews escaped her lips. She had never felt anything like this before—so delightful, so exhilarating. Her body was reacting of its own accord and every twitch and quiver built upon itself towards some new, delectable pleasure. She did not want it to stop.
His hands roamed her body, their agitated movements becoming more driven. She could feel the tension in him, in the tautness of his muscles and in the jagged chuffing of his breath. His left hand was caressing her throat, stroking downward. Then he gripped the neckline of her chemise and roughly tugged. He was going to rip the fine batiste.
And she willed him to do it.
At this moment she did not care if they collapsed into the dirt beside the pineapple plants. She wanted to be his as much as he wanted to take her.
"You might leave the pineapples their peace."
Gwenllian jerked out of Mr. Wyckliff's arms like a scalded cat and twisted around in time to see Letticia stepping inside the pinery, holding a silver candelabrum aloft. As the glowing candlelight overran them, Letticia's eyes widened. She stared at Gwenllian, then up at Mr. Wyckliff, then back to Gwenllian with an expression more of shock than outrage. Gwenllian had the distinct impression that they were not the people whom her sister expected her light to reveal. But she would have to ask Letticia about that later, for the anticipated outrage was not long in filling Letticia's cold eyes.
"Mr. Wyckliff! How dare you assault my sister in my own home!” Letticia's voice was rising into a screech.
Gwenllian rushed forward, waving her arms in panicked, imploring attempts to hush her. “Please, please, not so loud, I am fine, I am fine."
"I shall have the dogs set upon him!"
Mr. Wyckliff laughed with the tone of one who always laughs at misfortune. “I shall leave your house at once, my Lady. This was entirely my own fault. The virtuous Miss Lloyd resisted me, as I am certain you witnessed. Her reputation is spotless. I shall call out anyone who says otherwise.” He bowed, first to Letticia and then to Gwenllian. “Miss Lloyd. Please forgive me. My only excuse—"
"You have no need of excuses,” Gwenllian interrupted. “Nothing untoward happened.” She turned to Letticia and grasped her arm. “You saw nothing worth making such a scene."
Her sister pulled away. “Do not protect such a scoundrel."
"If you make him leave, people will talk,” Gwenllian warned. Then she smiled. “And, even worse, your house party will be uneven."
"Oh, do not jest. Not at a time like this."
"I do not jest.” But Gwenllian's giggle belied her words. “Your party will be uneven. And you well know that three couples does not bear thinking about."
Letticia recognized her own words and glared at her. She stepped to her sister's side and gave her a hug. “Please,” she whispered. “I am not compromised if you say nothing."
Letticia yielded. “Mr. Wyckliff may stay, for the moment. But you, my girl, you are coming with me.” Letticia grabbed her wrist and dragged her away like a naughty child, leaving Mr. Wyckliff standing alone in the pinery.
* * * *
Letticia sat sipping chocolate at the sparsely laden breakfast table as Gwenllian entered the room.
"Where is Oliver? Where is everyone?"
"They have all gone to church,” her sister replied. “Knowing what a late hour you kept, I let you sleep. I took your dog out and everything. Of course, knowing how you spent such late hours, you are lucky I did not send you to church regardless."
She ignored the jibe. “And Oliver?"
"Down in the kitchen. He's happy, leave him be and come sit. Chocolate?"
"I am exceedingly in need of chocolate, yes, please.” She sat beside her sister and watched her sure hands pour out the delectable elixir. Everything was so normal. After the excitement of last night, normality seemed strange.
"Speaking of late hours, what were you doing outside?” Gwenllian inhaled deeply and savored the unmistakable aroma before taking a sip of her chocolate.
Letticia picked up a slice of dry toast. “Hmmm?” She was pretending disinterest, and not very convincingly.
"How did you come to be outside last night? Do not tell me you haven't an explanation,” Gwenllian teased. “You've had all night to think of one."
Letticia put down the piece of toast without having taken a bite. “You should have seen your Mr. Wyckliff and Geoffrey this morning,” she declared. “I caught them circling each other like two tomcats before I sent them off to church. Never have I..."
"Letticia!"
"Yes?"
"Why were you outside?"
Letticia stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, then at her. “Let me fetch something from my bedchamber."
When Letticia returned, she walked straight to Gwenllian's side and held up a slip of paper. Written upon it were the details of a jewelry purchase. An expensive jewelry purchase.
"When I was in London, a few months back, I went to Endicott's to have a necklace fixed. The amber one, remember? When I gave my name, the assistant apparently remembered it from a previous transaction because he asked me if I had liked the work they did for my ruby."
"Ruby?” Gwenllian was puzzled. Her sister did not care for rubies.
"That is precisely what I thought to myself. I have pearls and sapphires and many other gems, but not a ruby. I gave no sign of that, though, and instead I thanked them. Then I pretended to remember that I had lost the details of the sale and, as I prefer to retain those sorts of records, could they write it out again for me? Which they did. And here it is.” She handed the page to Gwenllian and sat. “It isn't mine."
Gwenllian stared at the dignified handwriting in shocked silence. It clearly delineated the sale several months earlier of a ruby pendant to Lord Berwentford. She placed the paper on the table as if it were made of glass. Normality had clearly left Primroselea.
"Perhaps it is a surprise,” she ventured.
"Edgar has never bought me a ‘surprise’ in his life."
"A mistake, then?"
"If it were a mistake, Edgar would not have paid it—and he has paid. In fact, he has paid for many things which I have never seen."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the mysterious ruby having understandably put me in a curious mood."
"Understandably,” Gwenllian affirmed.
"I systematically went through his papers when he was not at home."
"You never!” she gasped, proud of her sister's daring.
"I did. On the whole he had been very discreet. But I found evidence of certain expenditures: jewelry, horses, gowns and other lovely things bought over the past year, none of which were bought for me. Unfortunately, neither was there a name identifying for whom they were bought. But I think you will agree this can lead only to one, indisputable conclusion."
"Mistress.” Gwenllian said the word as if it represented an infestation of vermin.
Her sister nodded. “And I have already done something a
bout it."
She leaned forward. “Do tell."
"I have busied myself making delicate inquiries, mostly in London, through servants and the like; yes, I know you disapprove of such measures but it had to be done. I have thus been able to narrow the field to two—"
"Oh, no, do not tell me,” Gwenllian interrupted with a groan. “Isabella and Mariah. It is no wonder. You already had this party planned, even before I met Mr. Wyckliff."
"Yes, he was a definite stroke of luck, that one."
She sighed. “Then it was never about me."
"Of course it was, dearest. I would have held a party to promote your interests even if you had met him in the dead of winter. It ... just ... was also about finding out which of those two hussies carries the broom."
"I would nominate Isabella.” Gwenllian frowned. “Excepting that she constantly looks at Mr. Wyckliff as if she could eat him without salt."
"Yes, if she already had a baron it would be unlikely for her to trade down. Though Mariah is not much better. One of them is hoping for a busy nocturnal schedule."
"I caught Mariah looking through your things in the library, remember?"
"Yes, I am uncertain how to take that."
"Does the Baron know you are aware of his transgressions?"
"No. He doesn't know and I intend to keep it that way."
"Why?"
Her sister shrugged. “Knowledge is power."
"Would it not be more advantageous to confront him?"
"And what good would come of that? I have no intention of relinquishing my position as his wife, and baroness."
"Perhaps he would stop."
"What society do you live in? Why should he stop when so many of his fellow Englishmen do not?"
"You could still try,” she began, knowing she sounded naïve and foolish.
"I am not going to chance his throwing my failure to produce an heir in my face. I won't be put aside in favor of some smug slut. I have worked too hard to go back."
The Secret Hunter Page 13