The Dangerous Lord

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “I don’t think it was the house that kept her from sleeping.”

  “Oh?” He ate some egg. “Then perhaps Miss Taylor was simply too excited after the ball to sleep. Such a reaction is common in young women.”

  “Particularly when they’ve been insulted.”

  He feigned an expression of innocent bewilderment. “‘Insulted’? Who in their right mind would insult Miss Taylor?”

  “You know very well who.” Sara stabbed her sausage so viciously with her fork that it made him uneasy. “She was quite distraught over your treatment of her.”

  Guilt trickled into his consciousness. Damn her; he had no reason to feel guilt. He’d done nothing to Felicity she hadn’t deserved. “She wasn’t mistreated, I assure you.” When Sara opened her mouth to retort, he held up one hand. “This is a personal matter that even your license to meddle doesn’t cover, so stay out of it.”

  “If you could have seen the way—”

  “Sara—” he warned.

  “You made her cry!” Sara said bluntly. “A stalwart little thing like Miss Taylor. When we found her, she’d been weeping, though she strove very hard to cover the fact.”

  He couldn’t imagine Felicity crying over anything, and the thought of his kisses driving her to such an extreme was too ludicrous to comprehend. Setting down his spoon, he leaned back and knit his hands over his belly. “Go on; you’re clearly determined to talk about this. Out with it. And who is ‘we’?”

  “Lady Brumley and I. We went in search of Miss Taylor because her disappearance from the ballroom concerned us.”

  “Concerned you, perhaps. I doubt Lady Brumley felt anything more than a burning urge to root out more gossip.”

  The faintest tinge of color touched Sara’s cheeks. “That may be true. All the same, we found Miss Taylor sitting at the writing table in her room, her cheeks damp and her eyes red from copious tears.”

  Ian squelched more guilt. Felicity’s crying couldn’t have been genuine. She must have heard Sara and Lady Brumley coming up the hall and produced crocodile tears to influence them. “The woman is easily wounded indeed if she dissolves into tears merely because a man kisses her.”

  Outrage shone in Sara’s face. She held his gaze, then made a sharp, deliberate slice through her sausage. His thighs tightened defensively.

  “It wasn’t just that,” she snapped, “as you well know. I heard the shameful way you implied that she’d encouraged your advances.”

  He refused to justify himself on that score. Sara didn’t know the whole of it, nor should she.

  “And you did something more than kiss her, I think.”

  If he had, he sure as hell would have remembered. “What the devil do you mean?”

  Sara threw down her fork and knife. “You know what I mean. Taking advantage; putting your hands where they don’t belong. That’s why she slapped you.”

  Ian glowered at her. “She told you I did that?”

  “She said you’d gone too far. And I saw the way you held her, remember? So I could easily believe you touched her in ways you shouldn’t.” Sara rose, working the napkin through her hands in agitation.

  He was by turns incensed and impressed. Felicity certainly knew how to turn a situation to her advantage. But he had the facts on his side. “Did she actually say that I took advantage of her, that I touched her in ways I shouldn’t?”

  Sara wandered to the sideboard and concentrated on arranging the covers on the dishes. “Not exactly. She was shocked to see us, so at first she didn’t want to talk at all. But I couldn’t leave her alone when she was so distraught. Besides, as her hostess, I felt it my duty to find out what you’d done to distress her. So I asked if…if you’d behaved in any way you shouldn’t have—other than kissing her, of course.”

  At his muttered curse, she added quickly, “I expected her to say no, you understand. But she burst out that she should have known better than to be alone with a man of your reputation, that she should have stopped you before you went too far.”

  Sara faced him and planted her hands on her hips. “Those were her very words—too far. She said that it pained her to tell me the true character of my friend, but that you were a scoundrel. She was most specific about that.”

  His short bark of laughter garnered him Sara’s most indignant stare. “I’m sure she was, though I seriously doubt it pained her to blacken my character to you. She probably delighted in your dismay over my behavior.’”

  “I’m not so disloyal to my friends as all that,” Sara protested with a sniff. “It’s not as if she invented a tale that I believed without question. Matters have been odd between you two from the moment she arrived. You must confess that your connection to her is curious. You admit going to her house, which we both know had nothing to do with her father’s death. As Emily pointed out to me, you hardly knew her father.”

  He groaned. He did not need Emily and Sara allied with Felicity against him. “Keeping aside my connection with Miss Taylor, you know very well I’d never force myself on a woman, no matter what my previous association with her, and especially not under your roof. We’ve been friends long enough for you to realize that.”

  Her lower lip trembled, but whether with agitation or anger, he couldn’t tell. “The Ian I knew when Jordan and I were children would never do such a thing, true.” A hint of sadness filled her voice. “But you aren’t the same as you were then. Ever since you returned from the Continent, you’ve been different—harder, cynical, more of a…a—”

  “Scoundrel?” he snapped.

  “I was going to say ‘enigma.’” Sara’s tone was quiet, thoughtful. “You left England without a word even to Jordan, estranging yourself from all of your family even though your uncle had just suffered the death of his wife. You didn’t return until your father died, and then you began seeking a wife in an utterly ruthless manner.”

  She paused as if waiting for an explanation, but he had none to give. There were some things he couldn’t discuss, even with his closest friends.

  Her lips tightened into a thin line. “And now you seem to feel no qualm about destroying the reputation of a respectable young lady like Miss Taylor—”

  “Enough about Miss Taylor!” He shot to his feet. “The woman can take care of herself, I assure you. And despite what she implied to you and that harpy Lady Brumley, she did not protest my kisses, nor was she ever in danger of being compromised by me!” Although the next time he saw her, she might well be. It was either compromise her or throttle her within an inch of her life. Both sounded equally appealing at the moment.

  “Are you saying she wanted your attentions?”

  He closed his fists on the back of the chair. “I’m saying she did not protest them.”

  “She slapped you, didn’t she?”

  With difficulty, he repressed a foul oath. “Sara, you must take my word for it that matters between Miss Taylor and me aren’t as they appear to be.”

  “Then what—”

  “I won’t discuss this with you any further. It’s private. So you might as well stay out of it.” He stalked off toward the entrance of the dining room.

  But her voice stopped him. “I can’t stay out of it. This is my house, and I won’t allow you to toy with a helpless young woman beneath my very nose.”

  He rounded on her in amazement. He’d never heard that note of steel in Sara’s tone directed toward him. Damn, Felicity had played her role most convincingly. “What exactly are you saying, Sara?”

  “I think perhaps you should stay at Jordan’s for the rest of your visit.”

  His gaze on her narrowed.

  Turning to pace the floor at the end of the table, she went on quickly, “I’ve already spoken to Emily, and she has agreed. The baby isn’t giving them any trouble, so she said they’d be delighted to have you. Of course, you may join us here for the other activities we’re planning, but at night—”

  “At night, you don’t want the cock sleeping in the henhouse,” he bit out.


  She colored. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

  Under other circumstances, he might have been insulted. But Sara was merely behaving as Felicity had intended. He couldn’t blame Sara for being taken in. Felicity could play righteous indignation very convincingly, and Sara was just the sort to believe in a martyred heroine.

  Well, Felicity’s martyrdom would come at a price, whether she knew it or not. Though he preferred to stay at Jordan’s anyway, he didn’t intend to let Felicity think for even one moment that she’d won.

  An idea had sprung into his mind that was sure to work on the imagination-plagued Felicity. “All right, I’ll move my things to Jordan’s.” He continued toward the door, then paused to cast Sara a cool smile. “Oh, and do pass on a message to Miss Taylor for me, will you?”

  Sara regarded him warily. “What?”

  “Tell her that even John Pilkington has his price.”

  “John Pilkington? Who is he? What on earth—”

  “Just tell her. She’ll know what it means.” Then, whistling to himself, he sauntered from the room.

  Chapter 8

  Novels are not as awful an influence upon young minds as some would have us believe. Can anyone deny the inspiration of Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe or the caution against pride that is the entire plot of Pride and Prejudice?

  LORD X, THE EVENING GAZETTE,

  DECEMBER 13, 1820

  Even John Pilkington has his price.

  With a frown, Felicity slapped The Mysteries of Udolpho down on her lap. Drat it, why must Ian’s insidious threats about Pilkington plague her even while she read a novel? At home with the boys underfoot, she seldom got to indulge her love of reading. Now she’d been given a few hours to herself, and he had to intrude.

  A chill hung in the air of the Worthings’ card room, made all the more harsh by the lack of a fire. Felicity tugged her heavy wool shawl more closely about the simple day dress she’d kept on instead of dressing for dinner. Sara had told her no one ever used this room, which is why she’d come here while the others were dining. She’d excused herself from attending the meal by telling Sara she was too embarrassed to face Lord St. Clair. The Blackmores had arrived, and Ian was with them for the first time in three days.

  But the truth was, she was a coward. The prospect of eating dinner across from a man determined to ruin her life—and invade even her thoughts—was unendurable. He would surely see how his parting words to Sara worried her. And how could she keep from blurting out some revealing statement?

  Worse, how in creation could she keep from remembering those kisses he’d given her? No, stolen from her. He’d stolen more than kisses—he’d stolen a long-ago dream of experiencing a man’s passion. Now that she’d seen how easily men could feign it, she could never trust a man’s kisses again. So dining with Ian tonight was unthinkable.

  Besides, she had another perfectly good reason for avoiding him. The man was clearly bent on revenge. Why else make that statement to Sara? And why else accompany the Blackmores to dinner at Worthing Manor tonight? He’d been noticeably absent when the Blackmores had come for luncheon the day after his conversation with Sara. Then he’d gone off to London on business the next day, prompting her to congratulate herself on being rid of him.

  But he was back, and now she was worried. Why had he gone to London in the midst of a country visit with close friends? What business could be so compelling? And why had he returned?

  She could guess some of the answers. It could concern her column. She’d sent it in an express to Mr. Pilkington Monday, so it had undoubtedly appeared in the Gazette while Ian was in town. If so, he must have seen it.

  Unless he’d prevented it from being published at all. She turned his words over again in her head. She could only assume he’d intended to bribe Mr. Pilkington into either censoring her words or refusing to publish them. The question was, what would Mr. Pilkington say to such a despicable offer?

  Surely he wouldn’t cut her off. Why, Mr. Pilkington always professed she was his best correspondent.

  Then again…even John Pilkington has his price.

  She lifted her eyes to the heavens. “Can’t you give me a hint?” she muttered at God. “Ian must have some plan in mind. Lord knows—I mean, You know—Ian has enough money to make Mr. Pilkington salivate. I hardly think my literary prowess would sway the publisher if St. Clair bombards him with gold.”

  “To whom are you speaking?” asked a familiar female voice from the doorway, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  The countess entered the room with the rest of the party behind her—Sara’s husband Gideon, both of the Blackmores, and worst of all, Ian. Only the Drydens were absent, and they’d probably already retired for the evening.

  Felicity sprang to her feet, her book sliding off her lap and onto the floor with a thud. “I wasn’t speaking to anyone!” Heat flooded her face. Oh, to be caught acting like a ninny in front of this crowd, especially him! How much had they heard? How much had he heard? “I-I mean, I have this bad habit of talking to…to myself sometimes when I’m distracted.”

  “Are we distracting you, Miss Taylor?” Ian asked as he sauntered past Sara. With a quick motion, he picked Felicity’s book up off the floor. When she reached for it, he ignored her outstretched hand and tucked the volume under his arm. “We didn’t mean to do so.” Amusement laced his voice. No doubt he’d guessed precisely why she’d not been at dinner.

  Guessed, and was pleased about it. Indeed, he looked abominably self-assured and handsome, with his tail coat of cobalt saxony fitting those broad shoulders to perfection, his pantaloon trousers of fine kerseymere hugging thighs too muscular for a nobleman, and his cravat tied simply, as if he had more important things to do than wait for a valet to engineer a complicated knot. Next to him and his finely dressed friends, she looked like the drabbest creature in the realm in her muslin day dress and old woolen shawl.

  “We’re so pleased to see you up and about,” Ian continued. “We thought you were ill. A headache. That’s what Sara told us.”

  “Yes, Miss Taylor had a most monstrous headache,” Sara hastened to say. “You should have seen her earlier. She nearly fainted while we were out walking.” Sara’s apologetic glance at Felicity held a wealth of meaning. I’m sorry I didn’t know you were here. I’m sorry I had to invent a headache to explain your absence at dinner.

  It touched Felicity, increasing her already enormous guilt over misleading the countess about what had happened the night of the ball. Felicity hadn’t meant to mislead her. When Sara and Lady Brumley had caught her at the writing table in her room penning her angry column, she’d tried to get rid of them.

  But it had been fruitless. Felicity should have known that the kindly countess wouldn’t let her tears go unremarked. And when in a burst of angry feeling, Felicity had said that Ian had done more than kiss her, Sara’s inordinate indignation had made Felicity realize how her words had been interpreted. But she hadn’t dared explain, not in front of Lady Brumley.

  Still, she hadn’t expected Sara to banish Ian from the house for it. Apparently Felicity had underestimated the countess’s fierce sense of protectiveness toward all unmarried women. After several discussions about reform and the community the Worthings were building on a remote island, Felicity knew the woman better, and now she understood precisely how Sara must have regarded Felicity’s claims about Ian. Which only tripled her guilt. And her reluctance to admit the truth to the woman.

  Well, at least she could support the countess’s story now. “I did have a headache. But after I slept a while, it abated, so I wandered downstairs to find a book to read and discovered this lovely little card room.”

  Emily, the other countess present, glanced at the barren fireplace, where servants now layered cords of wood with kindling. “You shouldn’t have sat here without a fire. You might catch a chill to add to that headache.”

  Belatedly remembering that Emily had a penchant for physic, Felicity murmured, “I didn�
��t want to trouble the servants. And I don’t take chill easily.”

  “All the same,” Sara said firmly, “we don’t wish to disturb your solitary pleasure. We’ll understand if you’d like to retire with your book now—”

  “Retire?” Ian interrupted in a crisp tone. “We’ve finally gained her company, and you’re banishing her to bed? That’s inhospitable of you, Sara.” He didn’t seem to notice Sara’s look of reproach. “Besides, I’m sure your guest won’t object to spending a few minutes with us. Will you, Miss Taylor?”

  Felicity met his gaze, her heart thumping faster at the challenge glowing in his devil’s eyes. He wanted her to stay, which should send her bolting from the room faster than a hare startled by a wolf. Because if she stayed, he would pounce.

  Yet if she fled, he’d run her to ground another way. At least here she had Sara on her side. “I’d love to stay, Lord St. Clair, especially now that I’m feeling better. Besides, you’ve taken my book prisoner, so I can’t very well leave, can I?”

  “Ah, yes, your book.” Ian held it at arms’ length and read the spine. “The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe. A novel—how interesting.” He smiled coolly at Felicity. “I must say I’m not surprised to discover that you like fiction.”

  Felicity crossed her arms over her chest. “Of course I like fiction. What else would I read when my head pains me? Dry works of science or business?”

  Ian shrugged. “At least they contain facts and the truth. These novels are some person’s invention, and how can reading false tales help anyone?”

  The man simply wouldn’t relent. Felicity snatched the book from him, heedless of his laughing gaze. “Fiction is truth, no matter what you say. Where do you think novelists get their material? From real life, not from some scientist’s speculations about what life might be. Novels can better prepare us for life’s difficulties than ancient history. Indeed, I encourage my brothers to read them whenever possible. They often provide a truer vision of society than all the supposed facts printed in other books.”