Recklessly Yours

by Allison Chase

  It was a summons he couldn’t resist, even if it hadn’t been directed at him.

  “If you’ll excuse me a moment, Lady Penelope.” Without hearing her reply, he bowed and wasted no time in striding away.

  “Colin, there you are. Has it been your intention to ignore me all night?”

  At Ivy’s approach, he halted in his tracks.

  “Of course not. Are you enjoying yourself?” He tried his utmost not to let his impatience show. “I see you are not dancing.”

  “I confess I’m a trifle fatigued tonight. . . .” She linked her arm through his, leaving him no choice but to let her lead him on a stroll along the edge of the room—away from the terrace.

  His mother unwittingly came to his rescue by inquiring whether he and Ivy meant to dance together. “I believe Lady Harrow could do with some punch first, Mother,” he replied before Ivy could speak. “And I’d not be tempting her out onto the dance floor until the occasion of another sedate quadrille.”

  “Oh, you are quite right.” His mother’s eyes widened with alarm. She slipped her arm through Ivy’s and drew her to her side. “Come, my dear, let us endeavor to make you comfortable.”

  “Oh, but—”

  Confident he’d left Ivy in capable hands, he cut a determined path toward the terrace.

  “Lord Drayton.”

  He bit back an oath as he ground to another halt. “Miss Willow.”

  She stepped into his path and earnestly thanked him for the splendid ball. And suddenly something didn’t sit right with him. He’d watch one sister disappear out the terrace doors, and when he tried to see where she was going, the other two sisters conveniently headed him off.

  Before the youngest Sutherland could engage him any further in conversation, he smiled, gave her gloved hand an affectionate squeeze, then excused himself and walked briskly off. If anyone else called his name, he didn’t hear it.

  The terrace was sparsely populated, with Miss Sutherland nowhere in sight. His first thought was that she’d stolen down to the stables again. But to what purpose? He had shown her everything that morning. The horses, the facilities, everything. An uncomfortable sensation crept over him.

  Did her interests lie merely in the purchase of a racehorse? He had believed that her enthusiasm for all things equestrian had been what had sent her down to the stables the night before. But if not, what was the tantalizing Miss Sutherland searching for?

  The ballroom lay at the easternmost end of the house, and she could have gone in either of two directions: down the steps and into the gardens—and perhaps the stables beyond—or westward, toward the other rooms that opened onto the terrace.

  The former notion brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Had she stolen into the shrubbery for a tryst? Who would it be? Bentley? No, Colin had just left him behind in the ballroom, dancing with another young miss.

  Besides, his instincts denied the possibility that Miss Sutherland had scampered outside to compromise herself in the shadows. As sensual and alive as she was, she was no fool of a chit bent on ruination. Like her sisters, she had good sense about her.

  Then . . . ?

  He began strolling casually until he got beyond the torches and the candlelight spilling out the ballroom windows. The music faded into the chirping of crickets and the swish of the trees. He considered the row of darkened windows and French doors stretching out beside him. Where had she gone, that she couldn’t have accessed more easily from within the house?

  Unless she hadn’t wished to be seen.

  Willow watched Lord Drayton—or Colin, as she sometimes dared to call him—stride out to the terrace. She had done her best to delay him, but she hadn’t been clever enough. Had Holly gotten enough of a head start?

  Whirling, Willow craned her neck until she located Ivy walking arm in arm with the duchess. Ivy, too, cast worried glances toward the gold-tinged shadows of the terrace.

  With a flutter of her fan, Willow caught Ivy’s attention. Then she flipped her fan closed again and pointed its tip in the direction the earl had gone. Ivy’s brows knitted in comprehension. Willow pressed a hand to her bodice to suggest that she go, but Ivy shook her head. She said something in the duchess’s ear, then began threading her way out of the ballroom.

  Willow’s instinct was to follow Colin. Perhaps his leaving had nothing to do with Holly. Wishing to set her mind at ease on that count, she headed for the terrace, hoping to find him leaning on the balustrade, enjoying the night air and speaking with guests.

  “Miss Willow.” Lady Sabrina’s satin-clad hand settled lightly on Willow’s shoulder, effectively holding her in place. “There is someone who wishes to dance with you, but he is afraid to ask you himself.”

  “Oh, I . . .”

  “Please, it would mean the world to him, I’m certain.”

  “Good gracious, why would anyone be afraid to ask me?” Yet the answer seemed obvious. It must be Geoffrey, the youngest and most retiring of the Ashworth siblings.

  “Why, here he is now.” Lady Sabrina reached out her hand, but the wrist she caught and the figure she drew closer were far too solid and imposing to belong to the youthful Geoffrey Ashworth.

  Lord Bryce’s stormy gaze—so much darker and more mysterious than those of his siblings—shifted to encompass Willow. It descended on her with near physical force, rendering her slightly weak in the knees. “Good evening, Miss Sutherland.”

  “G-good evening.” Her voice fluttered like the diaphanous wings of a moth.

  “Bryce, Miss Sutherland appears not to be engaged for this set.” His sister raised her eyebrows; her narrow chin thrust forward as if to impale her brother should he show the slightest prevarication.

  He hesitated for an instant, an eternity that made Willow squirm inside with mortification. Then the word delighted, uttered in his deep, brooding voice, caressed her ears, and she discovered her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, her fingertips tantalized by the hardness of the muscle beneath his sleeve. The music began. In Lord Bryce’s guiding arms Willow found herself swept round and round in determined circles, flying, soaring, until the room blurred and she lost track of where they were, lost track of everything but Lord Bryce’s severe countenance, his steady hold, and the inscrutable gaze that never left hers.

  Chapter 13

  Perhaps Ivy had been correct in predicting that the duke’s private office held no evidence of the colt’s disappearance, but Holly believed she had discovered something equally noteworthy. She had flipped through one ledger containing pages and pages of names—horses and buyers, races and winners—with corresponding numbers that indicated prices, sizes, weights, and speeds. Nothing unusual there. But the second ledger she chose held a fascinating clue: references to the Ashworths’ Devonshire estate.

  She had not previously considered that a significant number of the Ashworth Thoroughbreds were not bred at Masterfield Park, but rather some two hundred miles away at the family’s remote country home. Could Prince’s Pride have hailed from faraway Briarview? That would explain why none of the racing enthusiasts here seemed to have heard of the extraordinary animal. And despite Victoria’s conviction to the contrary, Prince’s Price could have been secreted out of Ascot days ago.

  Or perhaps not. That morning, Lord Drayton had curtly turned their horses back toward home after Holly attempted to ride into the vale. The small valley contained dangers, he’d said.

  But could the vale contain more than marshy bottomlands?

  The clicking of a brisk tread along the terrace brought her up sharp. With a gasp she sprang up from the desk chair and blew out the single candle she’d lit. She headed for the door, then remembered the ledger book still in her hands. She doubled back to the desk, fumbled with the drawer, and shoved the ledger inside. The footsteps continued their approach, echoing briskly against the side of the house.

  Lord Drayton? A footman who might report back to his employer about finding her here?

  Indecision held her frozen. The office itself
didn’t open onto the terrace. She had reentered the house through the library next door, passed through the corridor, and come into the office.

  She cracked the door open and listened. Did she have time to slip back into the corridor and get far enough away before whoever it was emerged from the library? Or should she remain where she was and hide? With a glance over her shoulder she quickly dismissed that idea. The room offered no concealment but the small space beneath the desk. If she were going to be apprehended, she was not going to suffer the added ignominy of being caught crouching on all fours beneath a desk.

  Her resolve sent her across the threshold. Having no idea where the corridor led, she shut the door behind her and set off as fast as her feet could take her.

  Colin walked through the library, and when he reached the corridor, he paused, listening to the retreating footsteps. Light footsteps, like those of a lady in dancing slippers. Louder, silk and taffeta rustled like a chorus of crickets. Colin smiled, though not altogether pleasantly.

  He wondered if she had merely been in the library and had slipped out right before he stepped in from the terrace. But why the harried escape? Perhaps she had been elsewhere—say, in his father’s office. But what could possibly hold her interest in all those volumes of horse statistics and estate records?

  It occurred to him that this wasn’t the first time he’d caught her skulking about, assuming, of course, that it was Miss Sutherland and not another guest sailing along the corridor ahead of him. Each soft footfall drew him on like a tender call to battle—a fragrant, beguiling but equally perplexing battle.

  He started after her, but then another sound, a heavier footfall, stopped him cold. He pricked his ears as, up ahead, a hush blanketed even Miss Sutherland’s taffeta crickets.

  Her flight had been interrupted. Or perhaps it had never been a flight. Perhaps she hadn’t detected Colin and had not been running away at all, but rather hurrying to something. Someone.

  His insides ran cold—the murderous sort of cold that throughout history had prompted men to wrap their hands around other men’s throats and squeeze and squeeze. He pivoted and without hesitation retreated the way he had come, back across the library and out to the terrace.

  Who was it? he wondered bitterly. Bentley? Loathing congealed in his gut. Colin had left the other man in the ballroom, but that didn’t mean the insufferable blighter hadn’t made his way through the interior of the house to the appointed place. Bentley had been a guest here many, many times over the years, and he knew the layout nearly as well as Colin did. Yes, probably Bentley. He couldn’t think of who else it might be.

  Damn it. Damn it.

  Holly hurried around the corner, praying she might find the main corridor and cross back to the east wing before Lord Drayton—or whoever—found her. Footfalls in the darkness behind her brought her to a halt. When she stopped, the other tread stopped as well, nearly propelling her heart out of her chest.

  She could just make out the closed doors on either side of her. Another corner loomed ahead of her. Behind her, the corridor lay empty. Where had the sound come from? She saw no one, detected no movement. But then it came again: step, step . . . followed by the light squeak of a floorboard beneath the runner.

  Her heart now reaching into her throat, she gripped the closest doorknob and gave a twist, but just before she could push the door inward and dive inside, an arm slipped around her waist from behind.

  A cry rose up inside her. She was roughly spun about, her breasts and belly crushed against a solid form. Arms closed around her, cutting off escape. A face, shadowed and indefinable, loomed above hers.

  “Lord Drayton, please . . . I—I can explain. . . .”

  A whisper fell against her cheek. “Not Lord Drayton, my dear.”

  Colin lingered in the rectangle of light spilling from the ballroom doors. Damn, and damn again. He couldn’t do it—couldn’t stroll back inside, take up where he had left off with Lady Penelope, and lead the next waltz as if nothing were amiss.

  He turned about, beginning to feel like a child’s top, going round and round. She wouldn’t thank him for interfering. She’d be mortified. But if nothing else, he owed it to Ivy to make sure her sister was safe, that she hadn’t encouraged a situation that exceeded her expectations, not to mention her experience.

  Feeling obligated to make sure Stuart Bentley or some other fop didn’t at that very moment have her pinned against a wall, his hands tunneling beneath her skirts, Colin broke into a sprint.

  Not Lord Drayton? The shock of the revelation slammed the breath from Holly’s lungs. She struggled against the arms that held her, trying to claw her way free.

  “Release me this instant!”

  “No, my dear.” The sour taste of wine wafted beneath her nose. His face drew nearer and she tried to make out his features, but in the paltry light she could only see that he was older than the earl, heavy featured, his graying hair slicked back off a high forehead. He looked . . .

  Like any number of men from the ball. Had this man seen her slip away from the crush unaccompanied, and believed she’d hurried to these quiet halls for a seductive adventure? Did he perceive her struggles as a game, a challenge?

  He bent his head closer. Did he mean to kiss her? Revulsion rose in her throat. She wedged her arms between them and tried to shove away. The hands gripped her relentlessly while his slash of a mouth peeled open and hot laughter scalded her skin.

  “Whatever you want, I have no interest. I demand you let me go this instant.”

  His only response was his obscene laughter.

  “Sir, you are in your cups.” She tugged for all she was worth. “Come morning you will regret your actions.”

  “Shall I, mon amie?”

  “Indeed, yes!” She lashed out with her hand, her palm striking the side of his head and not the cheek she had aimed for. But she was not Laurel Sutherland’s sister for nothing, nor Aidan Phillips’s sister-in-law, for that matter. They had taught her how to fight, to defend herself. If this man refused to behave like a gentleman, then it was time for her to stop behaving like a lady. She lifted her foot—

  Her knee hit squarely in the man’s groin. He let out a yelp, his arms loosening and opening a fraction of space between them. As he bent over, she seized the opportunity and swung her fists, jabbing at his throat, and something fleshier—his cheek this time? When he howled and lurched backward, she ran, blindly, having no notion in which direction she went. She only hoped she would end up at the library where she could escape to the terrace and the safety of the ballroom.

  “Miss Sutherland, is that you?”

  She collided with a torso—solid like the stranger’s yet familiar, protective. Arms closed around her, wrapping her in safety. “Lord Drayton? Please let it be you this time.”

  The bravado that had saved her from that drunkard’s lascivious intentions now abandoned her in a torrent. Sobs choked her voice, strangling the syllables of his name. Until this moment, she had not realized how frightened she was. Who had accosted her? Could it have been Mr. Fenhurst, who had always been kind to her and her sisters? Or Lord Arnold, whose youthful wife proved he had a penchant for younger women? The man in the corridor had seemed larger and stronger than either of those two, but could her fear have magnified his size and strength?

  She buried her face against Lord Drayton’s shoulder.

  “What is it? What happened?” The questions came sharply, penetrating her fear, demanding an answer. “And what did you mean, by ‘this time’?”

  She pressed her cheek to his coat front. “There was a man. At first I thought he was you following me, but . . .” She raised her face, taking in the firm lines of his chin, his jaw, the stony contour of his cheek. “It wasn’t you.”

  “I did follow you, Miss Sutherland, but when I heard you stop in the corridor, I assumed—” He broke off. His hand cradled the back of her head, his fingers gently stroking her hair. The library door stood open beside them. Lord Drayton held her t
ightly, his lips tickling her ear as he made soothing sounds to calm her. She relished the reassurance of masculine superfine, and the muscle beneath, against her cheek.

  “It was my own fault,” she said. “He must have seen me leave the ballroom and followed me. He must have assumed I went looking for . . . for . . .”

  He framed her face in his hands and raised it from his chest until their gazes met. His voice, when he spoke, was as steely as a knife-edge. “What did he do?”

  “He . . .” Now that she was safe, it all seemed a blur. He had seemed to materialize out of nowhere, from the shadows themselves.

  An ill sensation rose, wrapped in layers of shame that forced her head down. There were reasons decent young women didn’t wander alone through dark corridors. She drew a steadying breath. “He seized me and refused to let go.”

  The earl’s hands tightened until she could feel the calluses, acquired from years of riding, against her cheeks. “Did he take privileges with you?” When she didn’t answer, he spoke more loudly, more fiercely. “Did he hurt you?”

  “He didn’t hurt me exactly. In fact, I may have injured him. I struck him and kicked him as hard as I could. Then I ran.”

  She couldn’t be quite certain, but she thought the corners of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile.

  “Come.” His strong arm looped about her waist. As he walked her into the library, she didn’t know if it was lingering fear and shock that made her knees wobble, or the intimacy of his hold. But if not for his steadying arm and the solidness of his side against her, she would have toppled. He brought her to the settee before the fireplace and gently handed her down onto the cushions. “Wait here.”