by Lynsay Sands
“I suppose it will not hurt to untie you. There is nowhere for you to run, anyway. My servants are quite loyal to me.” Moving around the side of the bed, Lord Ramsey dropped onto his haunches beside her and waited for her to turn so that he could reach her hands. When she hesitated, remaining positioned the way she was, the bed hiding her sheer gown, a crooked smile quirked his lips. “Suddenly shy? Is that not a bit like stirring the pot after the stew is burnt?”
Maggie felt her face flush but held her pose. He may well have seen all while she was unconscious in the carriage, but she was not offering any exhibitions now. Appearing to realize that, Lord Ramsey shifted to kneel closer to her and reached for her hands. Biting her lip, Maggie tried to ignore the way his shoulder and hip rubbed against hers as he worked on her bonds, and the musky scent of him as it wafted up to her nose. He smelled of fine brandy and expensive cigars—a scent she had always found pleasantly drifting around her father and brother when they had just returned from the clubs. She idly wondered if that had been where he was before kidnapping her.
“There we are,” he said. “Now your ankles.” He turned slightly, shifting back a bit so that she could turn and slide her legs out for him, but Maggie remained as she was, unwilling to risk giving him an indecent view.
“I-I can manage those, I think,” she murmured huskily, avoiding his gaze. She sensed his hesitation, but after a moment he stood and moved away.
“Ring the bell by the bed when you wake, and a maid shall bring you something more comfortable to wear.” The bedroom door closed behind him on Lord Ramsey’s last word, and Maggie slowly relaxed, realizing only then how tense she had been. His close proximity had caused her to tighten up like a snail retreating into its shell.
Shaking her head at her behavior, she shifted her position and reached for her ankles, untying them much slower than he had done. But then, her hands were somewhat numb from their confinement, and they gave her some trouble with the task.
Sighing in relief as the rope finally fell away, Maggie rose carefully and perched on the edge of the bed, then took stock of her prison. While the exterior of this estate had appeared stark and imposing, there was nothing of that inside. This bedroom was a cheerful light blue, its furnishings and coverings all nearly new, and expensive. Hardly reflective of its owner at all.
Grimacing to herself at the thought, Maggie glanced toward the door, briefly considering trying to leave, but just as quickly changed her mind. She could already hear the house stirring. There would be servants everywhere in no time. Besides, she had no way to return to town, or really even any idea which way London was from here. Nay, there was little sense in rushing off into the wilds of the country, especially dressed as she was.
Then, too, it didn’t appear as if she were under any real threat here. If anything, it sounded as if Lord Ramsey were seriously trying to live up to his promise to her brother to keep her from harm. And apparently he felt her escapades under the name of G. W. Clark were too risky. Which they were, she had to admit. In fact, the whole situation had grown more and more precarious of late, for her readers were demanding more and more titillating articles. That was the reason she had risked entering the brothel—something she never would have considered ere circumstances had become so desperate, even with the heavy veil she had worn to hide her face.
Where was that veil now? Probably still sitting on the settee in Madame Dubarry’s private drawing room. Maggie had taken it off after interviewing the last of Agatha’s girls so that she and the madam might relax over tea. Both of them had quite forgotten it in the rush to Maisey’s room. Which, in itself, showed the dangers of rushing about without planning. Nay, Maggie was best off sticking it out until she could convince Lord Ramsey to return her to her home, or think of a safe way to escape there on her own.
No doubt Lord Ramsey would offer her some sort of agreement when they met for their discussion later—a position as nanny to his children or some such thing. Yes, he looked the sort to be married with children. He was certainly old enough. Of course, she would have to refuse. Even if she dismissed the ignominy of being known to work for a living, no position as governess could pay as much as the Daily Express. No, when Lord Ramsey made the offer, she would be forced to regretfully refuse—then somehow had to convince him to return her to town.
Having settled the matter in her mind, Maggie stood and removed her cape and mask. She would have liked to remove her gown as well; it was terribly itchy. She didn’t know if it was the material or a lack of cleanliness on Maisey’s part, but the garment was insufferable. Unfortunately she had nothing to change into at the moment, and as indecent as the gown was, it was unthinkable to sleep in the nude.
Making a face, she crawled under the covers and settled herself in the center of the bed, unsurprised as she was overtaken by a yawn. Now that she believed she wasn’t in any real danger, exhaustion was beginning to set in. This had been an incredibly eventful night, what with one thing after another. All she really wanted to do was rest.
Stifling yet another yawn, she glanced toward the bedroom door and frowned. It was all well and good that Lord Ramsey claimed a desire to honor her brother’s last wishes, but really, she realized, she had no guarantee that such was the case. Actually, she had no guarantee he was even who he claimed. It was rather trusting of her to take the man’s word for it like that. Naive and stupid, even.
“Oh, bother!” she muttered. Pushing the covers aside, she crawled out of bed once more.
“Here you are, milord.”
James turned from a contemplation of the fire in his library hearth and smiled a vague thank-you at an unusually rumpled Webster. His butler at Ramsey came forward with a tray bearing warmed milk with whiskey—James’s own personal remedy for an inability to sleep. It was something James had not thought he would need as he rode here; he had nearly fallen asleep several times on the hard bench during the journey. Crowch, his driver, had actually nudged him a time or two to wake him before he could tumble right off.
But that had been before he had carried Margaret Wentworth to the blue room and dropped her on the bed. That was before he had seen her in the candlelight, on her knees, her golden hair tumbled about her heartshaped face, her soft green eyes glinting out from behind that damned red mask that lent such a seductive air of mystery to her and seemed to emphasize how sweet and soft were her lips. All that had been enough to give a man ideas. It had put images in his head: images of Margaret kneeling at his feet, her cape open to reveal all that blasted gown she wore revealed . . . her hands untied, reaching for the waist of his trousers, her glossy lips twisting as she pulled those trousers slowly down and . . .
Dear God! What was the matter with him? James gave his head a shake, relieved when the erotic imaginings dissolved. He could hardly believe he had been standing there fantasizing such things about a woman he was supposed to be helping. Hell, he could hardly believe he had been fantasizing at all. He just wasn’t the sort to waste time on carnal pursuits. He prided himself on being a more intellectual sort. Oh, he had kept a mistress or two through the years, but it had always been more as a physical outlet—a sort of exercise, if you will—rather than from any real passion. In fact, James had always regarded the task as not dissimilar to boxing: Good for keeping the heart fit and the body in shape and a skill every man should have. And as with boxing, he had always considered the movements rather mechanical. In boxing it was jab, feint, uppercut as opposed to kiss, strip, fondle, and so on. Both were a step-by-step process leading to the final round and the ringing of the bell . . . so to speak.
Gerald and Robert had once claimed he was a bloodless sod when he’d revealed that philosophy. They had discussed many things while seated around the fire at night, and the subject of mistresses had invariably come up. Neither of his friends had understood, but James simply was not hampered by the carnal nature most men seemed led by. Or so he had thought. Yet here he was, lusting after the woman presently installed in a room upstairs, his menta
l processes as muddled as those of any brainless dog after a bitch in heat.
“Parliament canceled?”
James gave up berating himself as the last two words of Webster’s question broke through his thoughts. Frowning, he glanced at his servant. “What was that?”
“I said you have quite taken us by surprise with this visit, milord. I did not expect you until the day after next at the least, after Parliament met. Was the meeting canceled?”
James stared blankly at the man for a moment, his brain slow to digest what he was saying, and slower still to accept that he had been so stupid. “Damn,” he breathed at last, hardly able to believe that he had forgotten. He had long been a member of the House of Lords, and had made a concerted effort to attend each meeting. He had missed one or two, of course—illness, emergencies, life itself sometimes intervened—but just now there was a matter of some importance on the table and he really had wanted to be there. How could he have forgotten? Dear Lord, he had made a muff up this time.
Cursing, he set his untouched glass of warm milk and whiskey down with a clink and rose from his seat. “Tell Crowch to harness fresh horses to the carriage. We must head back at once. Then come to my room. I have to change, and I will give you instructions regarding Lady Wentworth while I do. Damn!” he added again.
“Lady Wentworth?” his butler asked in confusion as he followed James out of the library.
“She is in the blue room. A . . . guest. You are to be sure she remains one while I am gone.”
Chapter Three
Sighing, Maggie shifted in her seat and again glanced toward the door. It was past the supper hour. She had awoken around noon to find a new gown lying at the foot of the bed in which she had slept so poorly.
Her lack of rest was no fault of the bed’s—it had been as comfortable as a mattress of clouds, which was the only reason she had eventually fallen asleep at all. Nay, her inability to sleep had been due purely to her anxiety and nerves about her host’s intentions. He claimed to be Lord Ramsey, and that his intentions were to aid her, but . . . Well, how could she be sure he was who he claimed? Or if his intentions were pure? After all, he had kidnapped her.
She plucked fretfully at the soft skirt of the light blue gown she wore and grimaced. Despite Lord Ramsey’s telling her to ring the bell when she awoke so that appropriate clothing could be brought to her, Maggie had not had to do so. She had risen to find this gown across the foot of the bed. Someone must have slipped in while she slept. But who? Had it been the man calling himself her brother’s friend or one of his servants?
One of his servants, she decided. Delivering gowns didn’t seem a likely task for a lord. Besides, the idea of Ramsey slipping into the room while she slept was completely unnerving.
Maggie had checked the door this morning before she’d tried to sleep, only to find that there was no way to lock it. She had made a halfhearted attempt to barricade the portal with the chair she now sat in—the only one in the room—but its back was too short to be jammed under the doorknob. It was also too light to be any sort of bar to the door’s opening. Every piece of furniture in the room had proven to be similarly too small or too large and heavy to be used in such a manner. Maggie had been forced to resign herself to the fact that there was no way to prevent anyone from entering. Which was why she’d had such trouble sleeping, despite her exhaustion. Her unconsciousness during the journey here had not, apparently, been restful. She was as weary when she awoke at noon as if she had never slept, and she’d spent the better part of this afternoon nodding in this chair, waiting to be retrieved.
It was evening and she was still waiting. Was Lord Ramsey never going to come? She shook her head and almost managed a smile. First she had been trying to find a way to barricade the door against his entry, and now she was impatient for the rascal to come around. Nonsensical, she supposed, but the waiting in itself was driving her mad. Besides, she was growing quite hungry. Nay, she corrected herself, she had awakened hungry; she was growing famished.
Her stomach rumbled as if in agreement, and Maggie suddenly thrust herself to her feet. Enough was enough! She could bear the waiting no longer. If the rude man had no intention of coming for her, she would go and confront him.
“He’s probably a madman,” she muttered under her breath as she crossed the room to the door. “Ready for Bedlam.”
Such thoughts, she decided as she found herself standing before the bedroom door but hesitating to open it, were definitely not reassuring. She had just managed to shore her sagging courage and reach for the knob when a tap from the other side made her pull back with a squeak of dismay. Heart racing and mouth dry, she stared at the blank surface of the door with apprehension until a second tap came; then she swallowed and called out in a voice so high and squeaky that she hardly recognized it as her own, “Yes?”
Maggie scooted back several steps as the doorknob turned and the door swung inward. Her alarm eased somewhat, however, when a petite young maid stepped in.
“Oh, ye’re up.” The girl beamed approvingly. “I said to Cook as how I thought ye’d be, but he was sure his work’d been for naught and the meal he’d prepared would go to waste.”
When Maggie merely stared at her, concern clouded the girl’s eyes and she tilted her head. “Are you feeling all right, m’lady? Lord Ramsey said as how ye were exhausted from the journey ’ere and might sleep the day away, but ye’re looking a bit peaked, too. Ye’re not coming down with the ague, are ye?”
Maggie managed to relax somewhat, and even felt a smile spread her lips slightly in answer. “Nay. I am fine, thank you.”
The girl brightened at once, again beaming at Maggie. “Good. Then I am Annie. I’m to be your maid while ye’re with us. Anything ye need, ye just ask me.”
“Very well. Thank you, Annie,” Maggie said after the girl paused expectantly.
Nodding, the girl smiled wider. “Shall I show you down to supper?”
“I . . . Yes, thank you,” Maggie agreed, then straightened her shoulders as she followed the maid out of the room. Annie led her along the hall, then down the stairs to the main floor. Maggie spent most of the trip distracted by her first real tour of the house in which she was imprisoned. It had been dark and gloomy this morning when they had arrived. Aside from that, her undignified position—hanging down her captor’s back—had not given her much opportunity to look around. She did so now curiously.
Much to her interest, it seemed villains did not live in villainous abodes. Ramsey’s home was lovely. His maid led Maggie down a hallway of soothing grays with furnishings that were expensive and round-edged. The soft color scheme continued down the stairs to the entryway where it became more muted with dark blue. Annie then showed her through another hall of neutral colors and into a large chamber with a long, covered table—the dining room.
Lord Ramsey was conspicuous in his absence. Maggie felt her body relax slightly as she realized it, and thus took the time to appreciate the decor. The walls were painted a warm blue that could only encourage dallying over a meal. In the center of the room was a huge dining table covered with a pristine white cloth that barely allowed legs of a dark rich mahogany—matching the wood of the chairs surrounding it—to peek out from beneath. A sideboard of the same dark wood stood along the wall.
Maggie allowed herself to be seated, her gaze slow to move to the table itself. The maid had nearly left the room before Maggie took in the fact that hers was the only setting. “But . . .” she began, and Annie paused, peering back questioningly. Swallowing, Maggie managed a smile as she asked, “Is Lord Ramsey not to join me?”
The maid’s eyes widened. “Nay, mum. He had to return to town. He left shortly after arriving and said—Oh!” She patted her skirts as if looking for something, then muttered fretfully, “He left a letter for ye. I was to give it to ye as soon as milady awoke. Now where did I—Oh, yes! Won’t be a moment.”
Whirling away, the girl fled the room, leaving Maggie to consider her words. Lord Ramsey
wasn’t here. He had returned to town. What did that mean? Well, she supposed that made it obvious he hadn’t brought her here with the intention of ravishing her. Not that I imagined for a moment that he did, she assured herself. Though she did find herself feeling a touch deflated. There she had been hiding in her room all this time to avoid confronting a man who hadn’t even been here. She sat up in her chair as the ramifications of that fact occurred to her. He wasn’t here. Her captor wasn’t around. There was no one to keep her here!
The thought brought her lunging excitedly to her feet, but before she could move away from the table, Annie came bustling back into the room with a self-satisfied smile on her face.
“Here it is.” She presented a sealed message to Maggie in triumph.
Maggie hesitated, then accepted the note. She sank reluctantly back into her seat. Breaking the seal, she unfolded the missive and read, her consternation growing with every word.
Lady Wentworth—
My apologies, but I have to return to town to attend some business that could not be put off. Please consider yourself my guest for the next little while. Do not bother the servants with requests to aid you in returning to London. You will find no quarter there. It would do you well to take this time to reconsider your previous choice of career. You shall need a new one, and we shall be discussing possible alternatives upon my return.
—Lord Ramsey
“Arrogant ass.”
“What?”
The maid’s gasp drew Maggie’s attention to the fact that she had just muttered the irrepressible thought aloud. Her mouth tightening, she forced a smile. “Just a glass,” she lied blithely. “One glass of wine is all I shall have with dinner, I think.”