George lifted the panel and pushed it aside, leaving a gaping dark hole. He held out a hand to Anthea. “Ladies first.”
She was not entirely sure that the dark cavern, presumably full of dust and cobwebs and nasty crawling creatures of every kind, was more appealing than their imminent arrest by the Bow Street Runners. But the last thing she wanted was to behave like a frightened ninny in front of George.
She took his hand and let him help her up onto the chair beside him.
She had never been so close to him before. Her eyes were level with his chin, her body pressed dangerously close to his. In fact, as she fought for her balance, her arms flung around his chest of their own accord and she clung to him.
He was not as soft as she’d expected. It was nothing like embracing one of her sisters. George was lean, hard in places that women were soft, and full of taut strength that tore the breath from her as he seized her by the waist and lifted her above his head.
Anthea was hardly able to register the flash of George’s blue eyes passing close to her own before her head plunged upwards into the darkness.
“Take hold of something and pull yourself in,” George commanded. Anthea scrabbled around, forgetting her squeamishness, and clutched at a wooden beam. Her legs kicked against the air uselessly until George caught her slippered feet and pushed her upwards. She rolled across a dusty floor, her dress snagging on splinters.
George’s hands appeared at the edge of the opening. Anthea crawled forwards to lend him a hand, but he had heaved his chest onto the boards before she reached him. His arms flexed, and in a moment he was standing in the attic room and pulling the trapdoor into place again.
They were thrust into near darkness. Enough moonlight filtered in from the sash window for Anthea to make out piles of forgotten boxes and a few hanging spiderwebs, ghostly white in the gloom.
George blew a spiderweb out of the way, went to the window, and lifted it up.
“What are you doing?”
He turned, giving a low chuckle. “You don’t want to stay in here with the spiders, do you? Not on a starry night like this.”
He pushed the window up, fixed it in place, and ducked under it, setting his foot on the parapet that ran along the edge of the roof. Anthea followed, sucking in a breath as the night air hit her. Her foot groped for the safety of the flat edge until George took her arm and eased her out gently.
The shouts and noise from below had faded. A brisk wind was blowing, with hardly anything to inhibit it save the chimney pots of the surrounding houses. The sense of echoing space beneath her filled her stomach with a strange, hollow feeling.
George linked his arm through Anthea’s and guided her past the window to the sloping part of the roof. He sat down against it, legs crossed casually and feet braced against the parapet.
“Quite comfortable, really.” He patted the roof tiles beside him. Anthea leaned back, trying not to imagine the splattering sound her body would make if her foot slipped and sent her hurtling down to the cobbles below.
There were constables in the street beneath them. Their lanterns cast golden halos out into the night.
“I suspect that several of Lord Wetherton’s guests are about to have an extremely uncomfortable evening,” said George, sounding rather cheerful about it.
“I f-feel sorry for them.” Anthea’s borrowed black dress was woefully thin, and the night air was cold. At the sound of her chattering teeth, George’s warm arm fell about her shoulders, heavy, strong, and comforting. She began to forget how high up they were.
“Don’t feel too bad. Most of the gentlemen downstairs can afford to weasel their way out of any scandal.”
“And those who can’t?”
“They shouldn’t have been playing, anyway. The stakes were too high.”
Anthea watched one of the constable’s lanterns move slowly to the end of the street, jerking back and forth every now and again as though its bearer were struggling with an unwilling companion. “I heard Lord Wetherton threatening a man before he left. It was the son of some lord or another. Wetherton was using his gambling debts to blackmail his father into voting the way Wetherton wanted.”
George gave a low whistle. “That’s one way to garner support in the House of Lords. I’d lay money that these fellows being inconvenienced by the constables tonight will be forced to vote Wetherton’s way to avoid a scandal.”
Anthea gave him a little nudge. “You were lucky that I rescued you, then.”
“That you rescued me?” George flexed his arms and brushed a little of the attic dust from his sleeve. “I rather thought it was the other way around.” He grinned, his teeth flashing in the darkness. “You need not worry about me, Anthea. I can take care of myself, and you into the bargain.”
“If you imagine I need taking care of, you are quite mistaken. I can handle myself. And Wetherton, too, for that matter. I’ll see that his wicked schemes are brought to light.”
“Is that so?” He turned so that his elbow was cocked on the sloping rooftop, supporting his head. His other hand landed lightly on her waist. “I quite believe that you are capable of bringing him to justice if you choose. But you must not do anything rash, Anthea. Wetherton is not worth risking your reputation over.” His fingers wound their way into the ribbons in her hair, carefully untying the mask. As it fell, exposing her face to the stars and the cool night air, he leaned forward and planted a kiss on her forehead. Anthea’s eyes fell closed, just for a moment, to better feel the warmth of his lips.
“I cannot sit back and do nothing while villains like him drag men into iniquity,” she murmured, the proximity of George’s body lulling the resolution from her.
She had never been so alone with a man before. Never done anything that felt as dangerous as letting George press his lips to her skin. The disguise, the rooftop, the risk of ruination – they did not compare to the thrill of that.
She wondered if he was thrilled, too. The way he spoke, a low, intimate burr deepening his voice, almost implied it. But his words were disappointingly respectable.
“There are proper ways of bringing men like Wetherton to justice. None of them involve young women disguising themselves as servants and opening themselves up to scandal.”
She glared up at him. “I don’t appreciate being told what to do.”
“I care about you too much not to try it.” George’s hand rose from her waist to caress her cheek. “Anthea, how would I have felt if you had been discovered here, flinging yourself into danger on my account?”
“What makes you think I came here on your account?”
“The fact that you care for me, too.” George’s hand cupped the back of her head, and his face dipped close to hers. “I am sure of it.”
She did not have it in her to deny it any longer. She wanted to kiss him, too, so much that her whole body tingled with anticipation.
When George’s lips first brushed hers, they were so soft and gentle that she almost thought she had imagined it. She had spent more time than she liked to admit daydreaming about her first kiss with George, after all.
Then a low groan sounded in his throat and his arms caught her up, pressing her tight against him. His mouth spoke to hers in a language Anthea had never dreamed existed. His lips, his tongue, his hot breath, the rich masculine scent of him, all were a physical uproar that demanded to be experienced, to be felt as deeply as she could feel.
It was no longer imaginary. It was real. And it was more wonderful than she had imagined.
Her last thought before the kiss overwhelmed her was the hope that it was enough to make George forget that she had not agreed to what he asked of her.
Wetherton would be brought down by her hand. She was determined to do it.
George need never find out.
10
What Anthea really needed after a night of nearly ruined disguises, Bow Street Runners, attempted seduction by a wicked lord and several midnight kisses on a rooftop with a decidedly more desirable o
ne, was to sleep until long past noon.
Unfortunately, a girl blessed with three sisters was never permitted to sleep late without a good reason. And, since she could not possibly tell them what she had done the night before, no reason could be given to Edith and Isobel as they bounded into Anthea’s room with a tray of breakfast they had made up themselves.
“Wake up, sleepyhead!” Edith threw herself onto Anthea’s bed with a bounce, nearly sending the cup of coffee flying from the tray she carried. Isobel kissed Anthea’s forehead, which had wrinkled into a despairing frown, and went to pull open the curtains.
“Are you unwell?” she asked, as Anthea groaned and pulled the covers over her head.
“She’s not ill, she’s lazy!” Edith yanked the covers back down. “Drink your coffee, Anthea, that will help. Had you forgotten we are all to visit Bartholomew Fair today? I wonder how you can stay in bed with such excitement before us!”
Anthea pushed herself upright and leaned forwards as Isobel solicitously arranged the cushions behind her so that she could sit up comfortably. “I slept very poorly last night,” she said. She supposed she ought to be grateful that she had managed to creep back into the house without anybody noticing. But with only three hours of sleep behind her, gratitude was in short supply.
“What kept you up?” asked Isobel, dabbing with her handkerchief at the coffee Edith had splashed on the bedcovers. “Have you been worrying about something?”
“It’s not Lord Streatham, is it?” asked Edith. She caught Isobel’s eye, and both girls grinned. “I mean, darling George!”
“George is nobody’s darling,” said Anthea airily. She took the coffee from the breakfast tray before Edith could do further damage. The memory of last night’s kisses burned hotter in her lips than the drink. “I simply didn’t sleep well. I don’t think I will come to the fair today, Edith. I will be too tired to enjoy it.”
And she had a column to write.
Edith bit her lip. “Isobel is right. You must be sick. Have you forgotten how to have fun?”
“The most fun I can imagine today is to be left alone with my books.”
Edith’s protests were cut off by a rhythmic rapping at the door. There could be only one owner of such a dynamic knock.
“Come in, Aunt Ursula!” the girls chimed together.
Aunt Ursula shuffled through the door in her dressing gown and slippers. “Anthea! Still abed!” She rattled her cane on the bedposts. “In my day, young ladies were up with the dawn.”
Anthea stifled a yawn. “I only wish I could be as virtuous as you were in your youth, Auntie.” Though, judging by some of her stories, virtue had never been the young Ursula’s chief concern.
“I’ll have none of your impudence!” Aunt Ursula grinned her gap-toothed grin. “Now, Edith, Isobel, off with both of you. I have important business to discuss with Anthea that cannot wait.”
Edith clasped her hands to her chest. “You are writing us out of your will! I knew it!”
“Dreadful creature! I’ll outlive the lot of you!” Aunt Ursula shepherded them out with her cane. “Out, I say! Out, out, out!”
When they were gone, Ursula sank onto the chair at Anthea’s dressing table with a sigh. “That’s better! Goodness, but you girls run me ragged. Now, where was I?”
“You said you had important business to discuss with me, Auntie.”
“Yes, of course!” Aunt Ursula leaned forwards on her cane, her wiry eyebrows waggling. “Our little scheme has borne fruit!” She dug around in the bag she kept on a strap around her shoulder and produced the diamond brooch, slightly marred by the bits of old fluff it had gathered in its travels. She blew on it to clean it and held it out for Anthea’s inspection.
“It’s real!” she crowed. “The red thread was gone! Our thief has been tricked.”
“That’s wonderful!” Anthea took the brooch and held it up to the light, watching the rainbow colours sparkle within the diamonds. “I am so pleased we got it back for you! But if only we had managed to catch the thief in the act. It is most distressing to think there is someone so wicked in our own home.”
“Ha! As for that, I have an interesting story to tell.” Aunt Ursula took back the brooch and stuffed in into her overflowing bag. “I have been to the jeweller’s this morning, while you were still snoring. I wanted to check that this was really my diamond brooch. And you will never guess what he said!”
“I won’t even try to guess,” said Anthea. “I know you want to tell me!”
“Apparently, a gentleman came to his shop yesterday evening. It would have been shortly after I discovered that the real brooch had been returned. The jeweller told me this gentleman was trying to sell a brooch that was identical to this one in every aspect – except for the fact that it was made of glass! The gentleman was extremely put out, he said. Quite disappointed.”
“A gentleman?” Anthea was baffled. “Surely no gentleman has access to your bedroom? Could it have been one of the footmen?”
“Not if what the jeweller said was true. Our footmen are all lovely strong fellows, and this was a young man with a round belly and poor manners.”
“How bizarre!” The Balfours did not employ any servants fitting that description. Anthea wondered whether George would be able to shed some light on the mystery. He had hinted that he had some idea as to the thief’s identity. Though after the naïve way he had blundered straight into Wetherton’s den of blackmail the night before, she was beginning to doubt that his insights would be of much use. George was many admirable things, but a cunning detective was not one of them.
“I have found new hiding places for all my precious things,” said Aunt Ursula. “So you may be assured that no one will steal from me again!”
Anthea had a feeling that she might spend the next few months extracting strings of pearls from chimneys and discovering ruby hairpins sticking out of the sofa cushions. “Very wise, Auntie,” she said, and took another sip of her coffee.
There was much consternation in the Balfour household when Anthea cried off the trip to the fair. Daisy and Selina vied with each other for the right to stay behind and nurse her back to health. It took a good deal of persuasion to get them all out of the front door and the house as empty as it ever could be, with such a number of servants bustling about inside.
Anthea waved to her departing siblings from the drawing room window one last time and then sank onto the chair at the writing desk with a sigh. Her mind was afire with the story for her new column. If she had spent any longer feigning just the right amount of illness to her sisters while the inkpot and pen lay waiting, she might have screamed.
Peace and quiet was just what she needed. As she put her disgust for Lord Wetherton into words, she even forgot that she had not slept. Aunt Ursula’s antics, George’s warning, Wetherton’s threats all fell away before the onslaught of her task.
She was blowing on the ink to dry it, satisfied at last, when the butler announced a visitor she had inwardly been expecting.
“Lord Streatham, my lady. Are you at home to visitors?”
Anthea ought not to have received him without a chaperone, of course. But nor should she have disguised herself as a serving maid or let George kiss her beneath the stars.
“I am always at home to Lord Streatham,” she said, leaving her column on the desk and arranging herself on the sofa in an attitude of quiet repose.
The first thing George did when he came in was rake his eyes from her hair to her toes with undisguised approval. The second thing was to scan the room for a chaperone. The third thing was to raise a single eyebrow, a slow grin of anticipation lifting the corner of his mouth, and the fourth was to catch her by the hands, lift her from her seat, plant his lips on hers and kiss her until fireworks exploded in her stomach.
“I half-hoped I’d find you still abed, tucked beneath the sheets in a satin nightgown,” he said, caressing her cheek. “I’d happily have fought your brother for the privilege of visiting you there.”
<
br /> “How impudent to assume I’d receive you.”
“I’m sure I could persuade you somehow.” He leaned in and, instead of kissing her lips, tilted her chin up and trailed a line of slow kisses down her neck. Anthea gasped and pushed him away.
“Don’t you like it?”
“I don’t know.” Her hand was pressed to her neck as though she could squeeze away the delicious tingling she still felt there. “I liked it too much, I think.” She frowned at him, suddenly feeling intensely exposed. “Are you – are you trying to seduce me?”
He laughed, but, when she did not join in, his face turned serious. “You want to know my intentions.”
Anthea sat back on the sofa, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. She was not cold. She felt vulnerable. It was a new sensation, and one she did not enjoy. “I don’t mean to offend you, but it seems perfectly possible that you are the sort of man who has kissed an awful lot of women.”
George pressed his lips together as though he were hiding a smile. “I may have kissed a few. Does that concern you?”
“That depends on whether I am simply another of your many…” She waved her hands vaguely. “Your many conquests.”
Now he was smiling openly. She had not intended to amuse him, but he was the sort of man who found amusement everywhere.
“You see,” she continued, desperately trying to find a way to make him understand how serious she was, “I am not the sort of person who is kissed often. Or, until last night… ever.” She dug her fingernails into her arms, willing some steel into her backbone. The idea that any gentleman should reduce her to a quivering jelly was simply unconscionable. She was Anthea Balfour, was she not? Fearless columnist, outspoken conversationalist, altogether much too much for any society gentleman to handle.
But when that gentleman was George, all her usual assumptions flew out of the window.
George knelt before her and gently took her hands. “I am honoured to be the first man you thought worthy of a kiss.”
She could not meet his eyes. “All the stories they tell little girls end with kisses. Kissing is supposed to be the happy ending. The thing that solves everybody’s problems. But now that it has happened to me, I feel… I feel…” She raised her eyes, finding him watching her with calm patience. “Afraid,” she concluded, half-whispering it. She had never in her life admitted to being afraid before.
The Last Earl Standing Page 8