by Julia Quinn
But she was beyond words. Her heart was racing, her knees shaking, and some dim part of her knew that if she said the words, there could be no turning back. So she took the coward’s way out, and arched her neck for another kiss, silently inviting him to continue his sensual exploration.
His mouth moved to the line of her jaw, then teased her ear, then moved to the tender skin of her neck, and all the while his hands were moving. One slid down to the curve of her buttocks, cupping it with exquisite tenderness as he gently pressed her hips against his arousal. And the other was moving up, over her rib cage, toward…
Elizabeth stopped breathing. Every nerve in her body was quivering with anticipation, aching with a clawing need she had never even imagined existed.
When his hand closed over her breast, it didn’t matter that there were two layers of fabric between her skin and his. She felt burned, branded, and she knew that no matter what happened, part of her soul would belong to this man forever.
James was murmuring things, words of love and need, but she comprehended nothing other than the stark desire in his voice. And then she felt herself slowly falling. His hand at her back supported her, but she was descending to the soft carpet of the library floor.
He moaned something—it sounded like her name—and it was more of a plea than anything else. And then she was on her back, and he was covering her. The weight of him was thrilling, his heat breathtaking. But then he arched his hips forward and she felt the true extent of his desire for her, and her sensual trance was broken.
“James, no,” she whispered. “I can’t.” If she didn’t stop this now, it wouldn’t stop. She didn’t know how she knew this, but it was as true as her name.
His lips stilled, but his breathing was ragged, and he didn’t move off of her.
“James, I can’t. I wish—” She caught herself at the last second. God above, had she nearly told him that she wished she could? Elizabeth colored with shame. What sort of woman was she? This man was not her husband and he never would be.
“Just one moment,” he said hoarsely. “I need a moment.”
They both waited while his breathing steadied. After a few seconds, he lifted himself to his feet and, always the gentleman (even under the most trying of circumstances), held out his hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said, allowing him to help her up, “but if I’m to marry—my husband will expect—”
“Don’t say it,” he snarled. “Don’t say a damned word.” He let her hand drop and turned forcefully away. Christ. He’d had her on the floor. He’d been within an inch of making love to her, of taking her innocence forever. He’d known it was wrong, known it was beyond wrong, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d always prided himself on being able to control his passions, but now—
Now it was different.
“James?” Her voice came from behind him, soft and hesitant.
He said nothing, not trusting himself to speak. He felt her indecision; even though his back was to her, he could feel her trying to decide whether or not to say anything further.
But God help him, if she mentioned the word “husband” one more time…
“I hope you’re not angry with me,” she said with quiet dignity. “But if I must marry a man for his money, the least I can do in return is come to him as an innocent.” A short burst of laughter welled in her throat; it was a bitter sound. “It makes all this a bit less sordid, don’t you think?”
His voice was low and as steady as he could make it when he said, “I will find you a husband.”
“Maybe that isn’t the best idea. You—”
He whirled around and snapped, “I said I’d find you a damned husband!”
Elizabeth took a few steps backward to the door. Her mother had always said that there was no reasoning with a man in a temper, and come to think of it, she rather thought Mrs. Seeton had written the very same thing. “I’ll just speak with you later on the subject,” she said quietly.
He let out a long, shaky exhale. “Please accept my apologies. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “Truly. Although perhaps we ought to cancel our lessons for the day, considering…”
He shot her a glance when she let her words trail off. “Considering what?”
Blast the man, he was going to make her say it. Her cheeks turned warm as she replied, “Considering that I’ve done all the kissing that could possibly be appropriate prior to marriage.” When he didn’t make a comment, she muttered, “Probably more.”
He gave her a curt nod. “Have you the list of guests arriving tomorrow?”
She blinked, startled by the sudden change of subject. “Lady Danbury has it. I could bring it to you later in the afternoon.”
“I’ll get it myself.”
His tone didn’t invite further comment, so she left the room.
James had spent the entire morning scowling. He’d scowled at the servants, he’d scowled at Malcolm, he even scowled at the damned newspaper.
His normally easy stride was punctuated by stamps and tromps, and when he returned to Danbury House after a couple of hours in the fields, his boots made enough noise to wake the dead.
What he really needed was his aunt’s bloody cane. It was childish of him, he knew, but there was something rather satisfying about taking out his frustration on the floor. But stamping his feet just wasn’t enough. With the cane, he could pound a damned hole through the floor.
He barreled through the great hall, his ears unwillingly pricking up as he passed the slightly open door to the drawing room. Was Elizabeth in there? And what was she thinking as he stamped by? She had to know that he was there. She’d have to be stone cold deaf to miss the noise he was making.
But instead of Elizabeth’s musical lilt of a voice, he heard his aunt’s froggy boom. “James!”
James let out a nearly silent groan. If his aunt was calling him James, it meant that Elizabeth was not with her. And if Elizabeth was not with her, it meant that Agatha wanted to Speak With Him. Which never boded well.
He took a couple of steps backward and poked his head into the doorway. “Yes?”
“I need to speak with you.”
How he managed not to groan he never knew. “Yes, I imagined as much.”
She thumped her cane. “You needn’t sound as if you’re on your way to an execution.”
“That depends on whose execution we’re talking about,” he muttered.
“Eh? What’d you say?” Thump thump thump.
He entered the room, his eyes doing a quick scan for Elizabeth. She wasn’t there, but Malcolm was, and the cat quickly hopped off the windowsill and trotted to his side.
“I said,” James lied, “that I want one of those canes.”
Agatha’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with your legs?”
“Nothing. I just want to make some noise.”
“Couldn’t just slam a door?”
“I’ve been outside,” he said in a bland voice.
She chuckled. “Bad mood, eh?”
“The worst.”
“Care to share why?”
“Not if you had a gun pointed at my heart.”
That caused her to raise her brows. “You should know better than to raise my curiosity like that, James.”
He smiled at her humorlessly and sat down in a chair opposite her. Malcolm followed and settled at his feet. “Did you need something, Agatha?” James asked.
“The pleasure of your company isn’t enough?”
He wasn’t in the mood to play games, so he stood back up. “If that’s all, then I’ll be going. I have duties I must carry out as your erstwhile estate manager.”
“Sit!”
He sat. He always obeyed his aunt when she used that tone of voice. Some habits were very hard to break.
Agatha cleared her throat—never a good sign. James resigned himself to a long lecture.
“My companion has been acting very oddly of late,” she said.
“
Oh?”
She tapped the pads of her fingertips together. “Yes, quite unlike herself. Have you noticed?”
There was no way he was explaining the events of the past few days to his aunt. No way in hell. “I cannot say that I know Miss Hotchkiss very well,” he replied, “so I cannot offer an opinion.”
“Really?” she asked, her tone suspiciously casual. “I had thought the two of you had developed a friendship of sorts.”
“We have. Of sorts. She’s a most amiable young lady.” The tips of his ears started to feel hot. If the blush spread to his cheeks, he decided, he’d have to leave the country. He hadn’t blushed in a decade.
But then again, he hadn’t been interrogated by his aunt in nearly that long.
“However,” he continued, shaking his head slightly so that his hair would cover his ears, “it has been only a few days. Certainly not long enough to make a judgment on her behavior.”
“Hmmph.” There was an interminable moment of silence, and then Agatha’s expression made an abrupt change and she asked, “How is your investigation proceeding?”
James blinked only once. He was well used to his aunt’s sudden changes of subject. “It’s not,” he said bluntly. “There’s little I can do until the blackmailer makes another demand. I’ve already spoken to you about your servants, and you assure me that they are all either too loyal or too illiterate to have hatched this scheme.”
Her icy blue eyes narrowed. “You don’t still hold Miss Hotchkiss in question, do you?”
“You will be happy to learn that I have eliminated her as a suspect.”
“What else have you done?”
“Nothing,” James admitted. “There is nothing to do. As I said, I’m afraid the next move is the blackmailer’s.”
Lady Danbury tapped the ends of her fingers together. “So what you’re telling me is that you’re forced to remain here at Danbury House until the blackmailer makes another demand?”
James nodded.
“I see.” She settled deeper into her chair. “Then it seems all you can do is stay busy as my estate manager so no one guesses your true identity.”
“Agatha,” he said in a forbidding voice, “you didn’t lure me here just to get an estate manager for free?” At her offended look, he added, “I know how tightfisted you can be.”
“I cannot believe you would think that of me,” she sniffed.
“That and more, dear aunt.”
She smiled too sweetly. “It is always nice to have one’s intelligence respected.”
“Your cunning is one thing I would never underestimate.”
She laughed. “Ah, I raised you well, James. I do love you.”
He sighed as he rose to his feet again. She was a crafty old thing, and she had no compunction about meddling in his life and occasionally turning it into a living hell, but he did love her. “I’ll return to my duties, then. We wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’m an incompetent estate manager.”
She shot him a look. Agatha never did appreciate sarcasm from persons other than herself.
James said, “You’ll have to alert me if you receive another note from the blackmailer.”
“The instant I get it,” she assured him.
He paused at the door. “I understand you’re having a gathering tomorrow?”
“Yes, a small garden party, why?” But before he could answer, she said, “Oh, of course. You don’t want to be recognized. Here, let me get you the guest list.” She pointed across the room. “Fetch me that box of papers on the desk.”
James did as she bid.
“Good thing I made you change your name, eh? Wouldn’t do for one of the servants to mention Mr. Sidwell.”
James nodded as his aunt rifled through her papers. He was generally known as Riverdale, and had been since he’d ascended to the title at age twenty, but his family name was common enough knowledge.
Agatha let out an “Aha!” and pulled out a sheet of cream-colored paper. Before she handed it over, she scanned it, murmuring, “Oh dear. I can’t imagine you don’t know at least one of these people.”
James read over the names, allowing his aunt to believe that his interest in the list lay with his desire to keep his identity a secret. The truth, however, was that he wanted to see the pool of men from whom he was supposed to choose a bloody husband for Elizabeth.
Sir Bertram Fellport. Drunk.
Lord Binsby. Inveterate gambler.
Daniel, Lord Harmon. Married.
Sir Christopher Gatcombe. Married.
Dr. Robert Gifford. Married.
Mr. William Dunford. Too rakish.
Captain Cynric Andrien. Too military.
“This won’t do,” James growled, just barely resisting the urge to crumple the paper into a pathetic little ball.
“Is there a problem?” Agatha inquired.
He looked up in surprise. He’d completely forgotten that Agatha was in the room. “Do you mind if I make a copy of this?”
“I can’t see why you would want to.”
“Just for my records,” he improvised. “It is very important to keep accurate records.” In actuality, James was of the belief that the less put into writing, the better. There was nothing like written documents to incriminate a person.
Agatha shrugged and held out a piece of paper. “You’ll find a quill and ink in the desk near the window.”
A minute later, James had neatly copied the guest list and was waiting for the ink to dry. He walked back to his aunt, saying, “There is always the possibility that the blackmailer is among your guests.”
“I find that highly doubtful, but you are the expert.”
That caused him to raise his brows in amazement. “You’re actually deferring to my judgment on a matter? Will wonders never cease.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, m’boy.” Agatha craned her neck to look at the paper in his hands. “Why did you leave off the women’s names?”
More improvisation. “They are less likely as suspects.”
“Hogwash. You yourself spent the first few days panting after Miss Hotchkiss, thinking—”
“I was not panting after her!”
“I was speaking metaphorically, of course. I merely intended to point out that you did originally suspect Miss Hotchkiss, so I do not understand why you should now eliminate all other women as suspects.”
“I’ll get to them once I go through the men,” James muttered irritably. No one had the ability to corner him like his aunt. “I really need to get back to work.”
“Go, go.” Agatha waved her hand in the air dismissively. “Although it’s a shock to see the Marquis of Riverdale tending to menial labor with such diligence.”
James just shook his head.
“Besides, Elizabeth is due back any moment now. I’m sure she will be better company than you have been.”
“No doubt.”
“Go.”
He went. In all truth, he didn’t much relish the thought of running into Elizabeth just then, anyway. He wanted time to go over the list first, to prepare his arguments concerning the unsuitability of most—that is, of all—the men.
And that was going to take a bit of work, since two of them were men James had always called friends.
Elizabeth was walking home later that afternoon when she bumped into James, who was leaving his little cottage. She had been tempted to take an alternative route to the main drive but had dismissed that as cowardly. She always walked past the estate manager’s cottage when she walked home, and she wasn’t going to go out of her way on the off chance that James might be at home instead of in the fields or visiting a tenant, or doing one of the thousand duties he was contracted to perform.
And then there he was, opening the front door of his cottage, just as she walked on by.
Elizabeth made a mental note never again to depend upon luck.
“Elizabeth,” he practically barked. “I’ve been looking for you.”
She took one look at his thundercl
oud expression and decided that now was an excellent time to develop a life-or-death emergency at home. “I’d love to chat,” she said, trying to breeze past him, “but Lucas is ill, and Jane—”
“He didn’t look ill yesterday.”
She tried to smile sweetly, but it was a difficult maneuver while her teeth were gritted together. “Children can fall ill so quickly. If you’ll excuse me.”
He grabbed her arm. “If he were truly ill, then you would not have come to work today.”
Oh, blast. He had her there. “I didn’t say he was desperately ill,” she ground out, “but I’d like to tend to him, and—”
“If he isn’t desperately ill, then surely you can spare two minutes for me.” And then, before she had a chance even to yelp, he’d grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her into his cottage.
“Mr. Siddons!” she shrieked.
He kicked the door shut. “I thought we’d gotten past ‘Mr. Siddons.’”
“We’ve regressed,” she hissed. “Let me out.”
“Stop acting like I’m about to ravish you.”
She glared at him. “I don’t see why that seems such an impossibility.”
“Good God,” he said, raking his hand through his hair. “When did you develop these termagant tendencies?”
“When you forced me into your cottage!”
“I certainly wouldn’t have done so if you hadn’t started lying about your brother.”
Her mouth fell open, and she let out a little huff of outrage. “How dare you accuse me of lying!”
“Aren’t you?”
“Well, yes,” she admitted testily, “but that is only because you are a rude, arrogant boor who refuses to accept no for an answer.”
“Refusing to accept the negative usually guarantees a positive result,” he replied, his voice so condescending that Elizabeth had to grab on to her skirt just to keep from smacking him.
Her voice and her eyes pure ice, she said, “It appears my only escape is allowing you to speak your piece. What was it you desired to say?”
He shook a piece of paper in front of her. “I obtained this from Lady Danbury.”
“Your notice of termination, I hope,” she muttered.
He let that one pass. “It’s Lady Danbury’s guest list. And I regret to inform you that none of these gentlemen is acceptable.”