by Clee, Adele
Instinctively, he vaulted the steps in one swift movement and ran across the sodden lawn, ignoring the squelching sound underfoot as he tried to maintain his balance.
He almost collided with the chestnut mare in his attempt to reach the woman before she tumbled from her horse. She clung to its neck, her long black hair hanging loose, obscuring her face. She made no protest when he placed a hand on her shoulder, the other on her back, and eased her down into his arms.
Dripping wet tendrils of hair stuck to her face and her lips were a pale shade of blue. He glanced down at the fine muslin dress molded tightly to her body and wondered why the hell she was out riding in such flimsy attire. Bellowing for the servants, he held her more firmly as he carried her up the stone steps, suppressing his frustration at the state of his new boots.
When the butler failed to answer, he kicked the solid wooden door as hard as he could and eventually heard the slow clip of shoes on the tiled floor.
As Dumont opened the door, Sebastian barged past him into the hall, almost knocking down Mrs. Bernard, who’d heard the commotion and come running.
“Good gracious, my lord. What have you done to her?”
Sebastian groaned inwardly. What was the woman thinking? That spending six years abroad had turned him into a heathen. That insisting on eating his breakfast in bed meant he was a cold-hearted debaucher.
“We’ve been frolicking about in the river and I thought it would be rather entertaining to bring her back here,” he replied with some sarcasm.
All the life drained from Mrs. Bernard’s face until it was as white as her hair.
Sebastian sighed. “I’m joking. I merely found her on the steps.”
Mrs. Bernard placed her hands on her hips. “Well, what to you intend to do with her?” Her displeasure at such improper conduct was evident in her tone.
“If I knew that, I would not be standing at the door in a pool of water.”
Sebastian tapped his toe in the puddle to reinforce his point. Mrs. Bernard’s head moved swiftly between the puddle and the woman in his arms and he could not decide which one she found more distressing.
“Are you bringing her in, my lord?”
“If I do not put her down quickly, I’m certain we’ll both end up in bed.”
Mrs. Bernard made the sign of the cross and muttered something about needing help from the Lord.
“With a fever!” he said. “We will both be in bed with a fever. I am cold and wet and my back feels as though it is no longer attached to my body.”
Sebastian glanced down at the limp woman in his arms and as he readjusted his grip, he managed to pull her dress more tightly across her body.
He had always preferred a curvaceous figure. Not that this woman was plump, on the contrary, he had felt her narrow waist when helping her down from her horse. She had the sort of figure artists dreamed of painting: soft and round in all the right places, and he had a sudden desire to brush away the tangles of hair from her face.
With an open mouth, Mrs. Bernard continued to stare at him.
“What would you have me do?” he continued. “Leave her to die on the steps.” He knew he was being overly dramatic, but it had the desired effect.
Finally, Mrs. Bernard turned to Amy, a housemaid who’d been hovering in the background waiting for instruction. “I’ll need blankets … in the drawing room. No … in the library, and some tea and ask Tom to light the fire.”
He carried his mystery maiden through to the library and waited while Tom moved the chaise nearer to the fire. Amy covered it with a blanket and he lowered her gently down.
Mrs. Bernard’s gaze drifted over him, her white-flecked eyebrows meeting in the middle. “You need to get out of those clothes, my lord, or you’ll catch your death.”
“Yes, in a moment.” He stared at the woman as water dripped onto the Persian rug, wishing one of them would move her damn hair off her face.
As though the Lord had heard his prayers, Mrs. Bernard knelt down and began lifting the wet tendrils from the woman’s face, smoothing every piece of hair away until left with nothing but pale, porcelain skin. Then she placed the back of her hand on the woman’s forehead and peered beneath her closed eyelids.
“Well?” he asked with a shrug, not bothering to hide his impatience.
“Oh, there’s no damage done. Nothing that a cup of tea and a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
“I didn’t mean that. Who is she?”
Mrs. Bernard stood up and called Amy and Tom over to the chaise and they all gathered around to study the woman’s face.
Amy spoke first. “Well, I can’t be sure. Her dress is all ruined and with her eyes closed it’s hard to tell, but it looks like Miss Beaufort to me.”
Mrs. Bernard squinted. “You know, Amy, I think you might be right.”
Sebastian considered the lady lying on his sofa. Her cheekbones were delicate, her dress clung to long shapely legs, and the beautiful curve of her — he shook his head. “You’re obviously mistaken. Miss Beaufort is just a girl.”
They all turned and looked at him as if he’d gone completely mad.
“No, she must be what … one and twenty now, my lord,” Mrs. Bernard said looking up at the ceiling as though she expected to find the answer there.
Good God, had he been away that long? He glanced down at the lady in question. What the hell was she doing riding about the countryside half dressed?
Mrs. Bernard, Amy, and Tom were all staring at him, eyes agog while waiting for his response.
“You must remember, Miss Beaufort, my lord,” Mrs. Bernard said in a tone that suggested he had been involved in a terrible accident and had lost all cognitive abilities.
“Of course I remember her. She’s just grown somewhat since we last met.”
Now that he thought of it, she appeared vastly different from the girl he remembered.
Sophie Beaufort had been the most irritating child imaginable. She had an annoying habit of popping up at the most inopportune moments. At one particular party, he was in a secluded area of Beaufort’s garden, about to indulge in a passionate clinch with Melinda Albright when they heard a cough coming from the bushes. The sound brought the lady to her senses. His lasting impression was an image of Miss Albright dashing across the lawn, followed by a plump girl wearing a ridiculously frilly dress.
Once again, his gaze fell to the lady stretched out on his chaise, to the raven-black hair cascading over her shoulders, to the swell of full breasts as her chest rose with each deep breath.
Mrs. Bernard interrupted his reverie. “We need to get her out of those wet clothes, my lord.”
For once, his housekeeper’s thoughts echoed his own.
In a desperate attempt to focus on anything other than the removal of Miss Beaufort’s clothing, he said, “Give me a moment to change and I’ll ride over to Brampton Hall and collect some dry clothes.”
The figure on the chaise murmured, her eyes fluttering briefly before closing again.
“But she can’t stay here, my lord, not while you’re in residence,” Mrs. Bernard whispered.
“I have heard James Beaufort is away,” he said and they acknowledged him with a collective nod. Perhaps when Miss Beaufort woke she could tell him why her brother found it necessary to give him a priceless family heirloom. “There must be someone staying with her, a chaperone or someone in charge. I’ll simply bring them here.”
They all turned and stared at him and Amy put her hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle.
Sebastian threw his hands up. “And pray tell me what is so amusing?”
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” Amy said offering a curtsy, “but it’s just the thought of someone trying to take charge of Miss Beaufort. Everyone knows she takes care of things when his lordship’s away.”
Takes care of things? What was Beaufort thinking, leaving her alone while he gallivanted about town?
“Well, in that case, no one need know she’s here. It’s more than likely
she’ll be fit to return home after dinner and in the meantime I shall have her maid brought over.”
Mrs. Bernard sighed. “Well, I suppose a few hours can’t hurt.” She turned to Amy and Tom and wagged a plump finger. “And that means no loose talking down in the village. If I hear so much as a whisper, I’ll know where to come.”
Chapter 5
Sophie raised her head off the pillow and peered into the darkness. Other than a growl from her stomach, she could only hear a strange snorting coming from her maid as she slept in the chair.
Thank God. After lying awake for hours waiting for everyone to go to bed, her patience had all but up and left.
It was not easy feigning an illness in the hope of gaining unrestricted access to Dane’s house. Thankfully, the rainstorm had provided the perfect excuse. Although she really did feel cold to her bones, and her nerves were in tatters after the comte’s departure, which all added credence to her distressed state.
The memory of Dane holding her tightly in his arms flashed into her mind, the blood rushing to her cheeks when she recalled feeling a flicker of desire. Damn him. She guessed that scoundrels had a certain way of rousing unwanted feelings. Luckily, she’d had her eyes closed, making them much easier to suppress.
Peeling back the coverlet, Sophie eased herself out of the bed. Taking the chamber candlestick from the side table, she edged her way past her snoring servant and lit the wick from the fire burning low in the grate.
She tiptoed over to the armoire in search of her clothes but found it empty. It was too dark to go rummaging around for them now and she didn’t want to wake the whole household. Besides, if she was discovered wandering about in her nightdress, she could say she’d woken up dazed and disoriented from her illness. And in her bare feet, she had less chance of anyone hearing her footsteps.
Sophie turned the knob and opened the chamber door, glancing over her shoulder to ensure her maid still slept, before slipping out into the corridor and down the stairs.
After numerous attempts trying to locate Dane’s study and while having to conceal a groan when she stubbed her toe, Sophie’s hand settled on another door in the hope she had found the right room at last.
Taking a deep breath to calm her racing heart, she eased the door away from the jamb. The candle flickered as she entered and she sheltered it with her hand before closing the door softly.
Breathing a sigh of relief, for she had accomplished the most difficult part of her task, she stared through the muted light to the large, imposing desk sitting squarely in front of the window.
She moved closer, her footsteps light and slow, placed the candle on the desk and began flicking through the neat stack of papers in the hope there might be a letter from her brother.
There was nothing.
Such a solid, sturdy desk must hold a whole host of secrets. Where better to hide a letter or a necklace?
With that thought in mind, she moved around to the drawers, feeling a sudden rush of excitement as she trailed her fingers over the hard mahogany planes. The thrill of stepping into dangerous territory caused a nervous flutter in her stomach, and her hand shook as she touched the cool, metal handle.
In the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a shadow but had no time to react as a large hand closed firmly over her mouth.
“Why, Miss Beaufort. I had no idea you were such an early riser,” the Marquess of Danesfield whispered, his tone rich and languid. Sophie struggled to break free from his grasp and he pulled her back against his hard chest. He lowered his head, his cheek brushing against her hair. “Now, I am going to release you and then you are going to tell me what the hell you are doing in my desk.”
Sophie suddenly became aware of the state of her undress as the heat from his body seemed to penetrate the thin fabric, caressing and warming her skin until it burned.
When he released her, it took her a moment to remember how to breathe. But if he was expecting her to cower in fear, to offer an apology or explanation for her conduct, then he was sorely mistaken. Instead, she thrust her elbow into his ribs with all the force she could muster.
She heard him groan and she swung around to face him. He was hunched over, one hand cradling his chest the other braced against the wall for support. Sophie took the opportunity to take a few steps back, to place some distance between them.
“How dare you manhandle me in such a manner,” she cried brushing her hand down the front of her nightgown.
“Manhandle you! I fear I am the one with a cracked rib.”
He winced as he straightened and she braced herself for the verbal onslaught. But he just stood there, staring, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement.
He had altered somewhat during the last six years. He appeared taller, his shoulders stronger, more powerful. His hair was far too long, she decided, as she watched him push back an ebony lock from his brow. However, his character still posed the same contradiction: extreme arrogance infused with a playful, boyish charm. Those wicked brown eyes stared back at her and she noticed the faint shadows beneath.
The life of a rake had obviously taken its toll.
The thought caused a series of lascivious images to flood her senses, images that had no place in the mind of an innocent woman and her gaze fell to the opening of his shirt and the dusting of dark hair. She swallowed deeply and bit down on her bottom lip by way of a distraction.
A subtle smile played on his lips and he dragged the chair from the desk and dropped into it with casual grace. His gaze settled on her face before drifting down over the front of her nightgown, lingering in all places he should not dare to look.
“Were you in such a hurry to see me that you neglected to dress?” He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his arms behind his head. “Or do you consider this appropriate for the occasion?”
“Do not be ridiculous,” Sophie replied, trying to sound annoyed rather than embarrassed for she did not want him to think her prudish. “You know very well why I’m dressed like this — someone has stolen my clothes.”
“How utterly inconvenient,” he replied. “However, it appears the only person intent on stealing is you, Miss Beaufort.”
Now she truly was angry. “How dare you. I have never stolen a thing in my life,” she snapped, raising her chin in defiance. “And I certainly have no intention of doing so now.”
Well, it was not a lie, she thought. One could not steal something that already belonged to them.
He sat up and folded his arms across his chest. “No, you just sneak around in the middle of the night in a state of undress, for what, Miss Beaufort? Who or what were you hoping to find?”
His slow, seductive voice caressed her skin like a gentle breeze and she cursed inwardly. It didn’t matter what she said. Being so skilled in the art of playful flirtation, he was capable of twisting her words, capable of stirring strong emotion.
Taking a deep breath, Sophie placed her hands on her hips. “Let us stop these childish games. I believe you have something I need. Something upon which my life depends.”
Dane gave a lascivious grin as he stood and took a step towards her. “I’m not used to a lady being so forward, but I’m more than happy to give you everything you need, and more.”
Sophie stared at him, shocked at such barefaced arrogance and in a moment of frustration cried, “You … you debauched fool.”
Dane straightened and placed his hand over his heart. “Now I am offended. I have it on good authority that I’m one of most intelligent men in all of England.”
He stood there like a shrine to conceit and Sophie knew he was right about one thing — he was no fool. Why did he make her feel like a helpless animal ensnared in a trap? Why did she feel so intimidated, so useless, so pathetic?
If she could not deal with Dane, how on earth would she deal with the Comte de Dampierre?
Dane probably expected her to run back to her room in fear of her virtue or crumble into a weeping wreck. Well, if nothing else, she wo
uld wipe the smug grin off his face.
Gathering every ounce of courage she possessed, she stepped closer until she felt the warmth radiating from his body. He looked surprised when she stretched out her hands and placed them gently on his shirt, letting her palms glide over the hard planes.
His muscles flexed beneath her touch and it took every ounce of self-control she possessed to stop her fingers from exploring, to curb the sweet fire heating the blood in her veins.
She would take great pleasure in putting this rogue in his place.
“Perhaps it was wrong of me to judge you so harshly,” she said softly, dismissing all of her fears and doubts. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear. “I’m sure you are regarded as highly intelligent by your peers.” When she moved her hands up over his shoulders, she heard him suck in his breath, heard his groan of appreciation. “But I don’t think half the whores in London count,” she yelled as she pushed him back into the chair with all the force she could muster.
Sophie swung around, crossed the study and was at the door when he grabbed her arm and brought her back round to face him. Like Lucifer, he glared at her, his dark eyes penetrating her soul. Anyone else would have expired on the spot but Sophie was swimming in the sea of success and he was drowning in turbulent waves of emotion.
“I see some things never change,” he growled. “You are just as bloody irritating.”
She shrugged her arm out of his grasp. “How strange. It did not seem to bother you a moment ago when you were panting like a dog.”
He jerked his head back as though he’d been stung. But when he spoke, his words were calm, measured and dripping with sarcasm. “What an eloquent turn of phrase. Do all the ladies of your acquaintance share your … unconventional habits?” His eyes roamed over her hair, over the front of her nightgown and Sophie crossed her arms over her chest in defiance.
“Do you always lose control so easily?” Sophie countered.
The corners of his mouth twitched, whether in anger or amusement she could not quite tell, but she could feel the restrained tension emanating from every muscle in his body.