Jacquie D'Alessandro (11 page)

“Yes!” said Spencer.

“No!” said Catherine at the same time. Mr. Stanton naked, wandering about in a sheet, robbed by armed ruffians,
naked
…Lord only knew what else he’d done, and she was quite certain she did not want to know. Yes, quite certain.

A nervous laugh escaped her, and she rose, signaling the end to their meal. “Perhaps another time. For now, I suggest we retire to the drawing room. Do you play cards, Mr. Stanton? Chess? Backgammon?”

“I enjoy all three, Lady Catherine. What would be your pleasure?”

To see you naked
. Catherine barely suppressed the horrified squeak that rose in her throat. Good God, where had
that
ridiculous thought come from? Of course she did not want to see him naked. The absurd, inappropriate notion was clearly just a consequence of his absurd, inappropriate story.
Yes, that’s all it was
.

Straightening her shoulders, she said, “Why don’t you and Spencer play while I enjoy my needlework by the fire?”

“Very well.” He turned to Spencer. “Backgammon?”

“My favorite,” Spencer said.

She led the way toward the drawing room and mentally congratulated herself on her excellent plan. She’d now have her needlework to concentrate on rather than her unsettlingly attractive guest.

An hour later, however, she realized that her plan was not so excellent after all. It was nearly impossible to fo
cus her attention on the intricate flower pattern of her hated embroidery when her gaze continually strayed in the most annoying manner across the room to the French windows, where Mr. Stanton and Spencer sat, the backgammon board resting on a cherrywood table between them. Damnation, when had she lost control over her own eyeballs? Even when she managed to stare at her work, she accomplished little, for her entire being was focused upon trying to hear snippets of their conversation—a conversation Spencer was clearly enjoying.

The deep rumble of Mr. Stanton’s laugh mingled with Spencer’s chuckle, and for the hundredth time, Catherine’s hands stilled, and she peeked at the pair from beneath her lashes. Spencer’s mouth was stretched in a boyish, ear-to-ear grin. Pure delight emanated from him, and the fact that no shadows lurked in his eyes squeezed her heart with maternal love.

Spencer laughed again, and she gave up all pretense of needlework. Setting her project aside, she leaned back against the soft brocade of her wing chair, and just indulged in watching her son enjoy himself. She loved to see him smile and laugh, and he did so far too seldom in her opinion. During the last year he’d taken to solitary walks, wandering the estate’s gardens and trails that led to the warm springs. While he basked in the freedom afforded by the vast grounds, she worried that he spent too much time alone in sad reflection. She gave him the privacy he needed, but made certain that they still spent time together every day—talking, reading, sharing stories, eating their favorite foods, enjoying the gardens and each other’s company.

Now, sitting across from Mr. Stanton, Spencer looked happy, carefree, and relaxed in a way she rarely witnessed when he was in the company of anyone besides his
familiar, immediate circle. Normally he was wary and withdrawn with strangers, fearing they would jeer at him or pity his condition. But clearly he harbored no such fear with Mr. Stanton.

Catherine’s gaze shifted to the man who’d invaded her thoughts far too often since last evening. His chin was propped upon his palm as he studied the backgammon board, while Spencer hooted with mock-diabolical laughter, predicting his defeat. It suddenly struck her how cozy and domestic this scene—indeed this entire evening—was, and acute yearning washed over her.

How many times during her marriage had she hopelessly wished to experience a pleasurable home-and-hearth scenario such as this? How many hours had she foolishly wasted inventing scenes in her mind, of her, Bertrand, and Spencer enjoying a meal, then father and son laughing over a game board, while she looked fondly on? More than she could count.

The fact that that vivid, longed-for image she’d held so dear to her heart had come to life before her eyes, prominently featuring Mr. Stanton, filled her with an aching sensation she could not name. He had not figured in the tableau she’d imagined. Yet even though his presence should have been all wrong, it somehow felt most disturbingly right.

She gave herself a mental shake. Good Lord, she was long past hoping for and wanting such a domestic scene. She and Spencer did not need anyone else in their lives. Still, looking at Spencer’s joyful expression, the animation with which he spoke to Mr. Stanton, filled her with a rush of gratitude toward her guest for the kindness he was extending toward her son. While Mr. Stanton possessed many qualities
she
found irksome, clearly Spencer enjoyed his company.

At that instant, Mr. Stanton turned, and their eyes met.
Heat sizzled through her, skittering jitters to her stomach, and her toes involuntarily curled inside her satin slippers. How did he manage to throw her so off-balance with a mere look? How was it that his presence in her home simultaneously comforted yet agitated her? And why, oh why, was she so intensely
aware
of him?

His lips curved upward in a slow smile, then he returned his attention to the backgammon board. She snapped her lips together, horrified to discover that they’d been slightly parted as she’d gawked at him. With grim determination she snatched up her embroidery and jabbed the needle into the material.

“He is annoying and presumptuous and really, not even all
that
attractive,” she muttered under her breath. “Why, I’ve known dozens of men far more handsome.”

Perhaps. But none of them weakened your limbs the way this man does
, her inner voice taunted.

She pressed her lips more firmly together. Fustian. If her limbs were weak, it was merely due to fatigue. She’d suffered an exhausting ordeal. ’Twas merely weariness playing with her body and emotions. After a good night’s sleep, everything would fall back into its proper place.

Stiffening her spine, she jabbed the needle through the linen once again. Very well, she found the man attractive. But only slightly, and in a strictly
physical
way. She certainly had no intention of acting upon these unsettling feelings. Therefore, her best recourse was to avoid him as much as possible—a challenge, as the entire purpose for him being there was to protect her should the need arise—but nothing said they had to be in the same
room
. And even if she found herself in the same room with him, nothing said she had to
converse
with him. Or
stand
near him. She could simply ignore him.

Relief swept through her. Avoid and ignore would be her strategy—surely easy enough tasks to accomplish.

Her inner voice chimed out something that sounded suspiciously like
in a pig’s eye
, but she managed, with a great deal of effort, to ignore it.

A
fter a fitful night, which she firmly attributed to her worries about the shooting, Catherine put her avoid-and-ignore strategy into immediate effect by taking an early, solitary breakfast in her bedchamber. She knew Spencer would not be about so early, and she had no intention of risking a cozy breakfast with only Mr. Stanton for company. After her meal, Catherine spent the remainder of the morning sitting at her desk, catching up on her correspondence. When she finished, she dressed carefully, re
lieved that the ache in her arm had faded so as to be barely noticeable. She spent extra time on her appearance, and told herself it was because she wished to appear presentable when she visited Genevieve this afternoon.

Deciding it was well past the time to check on Spencer, who surely would have arisen by now, and perform polite hostess duties toward Mr. Stanton, she headed downstairs, looking forward to a cup of tea.

When she entered the foyer, she was immediately greeted by Milton, who held out a silver salver bearing a sealed note.

“This just arrived from London, my lady.”

Catherine’s heart quickened as she recognized her father’s distinctive bold, cursive scrawl. Deciding the tea could wait, she took the note, nodded her thanks, then headed directly back to her bedchamber. The instant she closed the door behind her, she broke the seal and scanned the contents.

Catherine closed her eyes and blew out a sigh of heartfelt relief. It had been an accident. Thank God. She was not in danger. Nor was Spencer. Nor Genevieve. Charles Brightmore’s identity was safe. Yes, there was still that investigator Lord Markingworth and his friends had hired, but since the publisher of
A Ladies’ Guide
would never reveal her and Genevieve’s secret, the man would eventually have to admit defeat. The chances of his investigation leading him to Little Longstone were so minute as to be nonexistent.

She opened her eyes, smiled, and drew in what felt like her first easy breath since she’d secreted herself behind her father’s Oriental screen. Now her life could resume its tranquil course, without threat of danger. Without need of protection—

Without need of Mr. Stanton.

Her smile froze. She no longer required the protection and security his presence afforded. He could leave Little Longstone. Right away—although she supposed it would be insupportably rude to suggest he depart sooner than tomorrow morning. And since she rarely traveled to London, she need not worry about seeing him again in the near future.

Mr. Stanton’s imminent departure was good.
Very
good. No more necessity for avoid-and-ignore tactics. The man was a blight on her peaceful existence, and the sooner he
departed for London, the better. She was happy. Ecstatically so.

Her inner voice coughed to life to inform her she’d somehow managed to confuse “ecstatically happy” with “utterly miserable.”

Botheration, she needed to find a way to somehow muzzle that damnable voice.

“May I have a moment of your time, Mr. Stanton?”

Andrew paused at the top of the staircase. He gripped the mahogany banister and suppressed a sigh at the way his heart skipped a beat at the mere sound of her voice.

He’d spent the entire morning—not to mention a number of the predawn hours when sleep had eluded him—replaying the wonder of last evening in his mind. Sharing a meal and silly stories with her and Spencer, laughing together, enjoying after-dinner games—it was a cozy, domestic scenario he’d played out in his dreams more times than he could count. And the reality had exceeded all his imaginary expectations. By God, he couldn’t wait to repeat the experience tonight.

And every night, for the rest of their lives.

Had she noticed how well the three of them fit together? How very
right
last night had been? Well, if it had somehow escaped her notice, he certainly intended to remedy that tonight.

Turning, he watched her approach. An artful array of chestnut curls framed her face in a becoming style that made her golden brown eyes appear luminous. Her pale peach muslin gown highlighted her creamy skin. The gown and its neckline were properly modest, yet rather than inspiring propriety, Andrew’s imagination ran wild with what delights her demure clothing covered.

As she neared him, the subtle scent of flowers invaded his senses, and he tightened his grip on the banister to keep from reaching out to touch her.

“You may have as many moments as you wish, Lady Catherine.”

“Thank you. In the library?”

“Wherever you wish.”
Whenever you wish. However you wish. Whatever you wish.
He clenched his jaw to contain the words that threatened to break free of his heart. This was hardly the time or place to blurt out that he was madly in love with her, desired her to the point of pain, and wanted nothing more than to grant her every wish.

He followed her down the stairs and through the corridor, admiring the subtle hints of feminine curves revealed when she walked. His gaze wandered upward and fastened on her vulnerable, smooth nape, left bare by her upswept coiffure—bare except for a single curl that bisected her pale skin with a shiny chestnut spiral.

His fingers flexed, and he locked his elbows to keep from reaching out to glide his fingertip over that beguiling solitary curl. So intent was he on looking at the tendril, he didn’t notice that she’d paused in front of a closed door. Didn’t notice until he walked right into her.

She gasped and reached out, pressing her palms against the oak panel to maintain her balance and keep from plunging headlong into the door. His hands came forward and slipped around her waist.

For several stunning seconds neither moved. Andrew’s mind shouted at him to release her, to step back, but his hands and feet refused to obey the command. Instead, his eyes slid closed, and he absorbed the intense pleasure of her body pressing against his from chest to thigh. Her scent, that alluring essence of flowers, surrounded him like a seductive cloud. He had only to turn his head
slightly to press his lips to her fragrant skin that was so close…so tantalizingly close.

Before he could think, before any reason why he shouldn’t invaded his mind, he gave in to the overwhelming longing. His lips touched the ivory skin just behind her ear, gentle as a breathless whisper, so softly he wondered if she even realized what he’d done—and that it was done deliberately.

But he knew, and the effect upon him, the assault on his senses, was anything but soft. Desire—fierce, hot, and so long denied—slammed into him, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter in a vain attempt to curb the needs clawing at him.

Her utter stillness, the rigid set of her spine, roused his common sense. Summoning all his strength, he forced himself to slip his hands from her waist and step back. “I beg your pardon,” he said in an unsteady voice that sounded as if he’d swallowed gravel. “I was not watching where I was going.”

She said nothing for several seconds, then cleared her throat and lowered her hands from the door. “Apology accepted.”

He stilled at the slight quaver in her voice. Was the unsteadiness of her words the result of embarrassment or anger? Or was it possible that she’d been as affected by those few seconds as he? He silently willed her to turn around, so he could look at her face, read her eyes, to see if any hint of desire existed, but she did not oblige him. Instead, she opened the door and quickly headed toward the marble fireplace lining the far wall.

Andrew crossed the threshold, then closed the door behind him. The click reverberated in the heavy silence, a silence he was sorely tempted to break by pointing out that his begging her pardon had not been an
apology
. He
certainly wasn’t sorry he’d had the unexpected opportunity to touch her—although perhaps he should be. The exquisite feel of her was now embedded in his mind, and his body, his lips, still tingled from the impact.

He grimaced and shifted. Although it irked him that she continued to stare into the low-burning flames and ignore him, it was for the best. If she turned around right now, she would surely notice just how much their brief encounter had affected him.

“Would you mind if I have a drink?” he asked, hoping one of the group of crystal decanters set on the round, mahogany table next to the settee contained brandy.

She did not turn. “Please, help yourself.”

“Would you care to join me?”

She surprised him by saying, “Yes. A sherry, please.”

Andrew crossed to the decanters. He took his time pouring the two drinks, pulling in slow, deep breaths until he’d gained control of his emotions and body. He then walked to the fireplace, stopping a safe distance away from her.

“Your sherry, Lady Catherine.”

She finally turned to face him. Hectic color stained her cheeks, but whether the beguiling hue was due to embarrassment, the warmth of the fire, or desire, he couldn’t tell. She regarded him with a perfectly calm, cool expression that snaked irritation down his spine. Well, obviously it hadn’t been
desire.
Trying his best to match her unconcerned look, he handed her the crystal cordial glass.

“Thank you.” She took the glass, and he noted that she was very careful to not allow their fingers to touch. She shifted her gaze from him and sipped her drink. He followed suit, resisting the urge to toss back his potent brandy in one gulp.

After taking a second sip, she slipped a piece of ivory
vellum from the pocket in her skirts and held it out for him. “This arrived a short time ago from my father. The man responsible for the shooting has been apprehended.”

Andrew set down his drink, took the note, then quickly scanned the contents. Billy Robbins. His jaw tightened when he read the name of the man who’d injured Catherine. The man who could have so easily ended her life.
Be happy Newgate has you and not me, you bastard.

When he finished reading, he handed her back the note. “I’m relieved the scoundrel was caught. Thank goodness Mr. Carmichael was so observant.”

“Yes. We all owe him our thanks.” She tucked the note back in her pocket. “As this man’s capture means that there is no longer a threat of danger to me—”

“
No longer?
” Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “I was not aware there
was
a threat of danger to you. What are you talking about?”

A flicker of what looked like fear flashed in her eyes, but disappeared so quickly he couldn’t decide if it was real or imagined. She pressed her lips together for several seconds, then said, “I meant there is no longer a threat of danger to my
health
. I’m feeling very well, and Milton and my staff can fully see to my needs. Without any assistance.”

Understanding dawned, along with a healthy dose of annoyance, and, damn it, hurt. She wanted him to leave Little Longstone.

“I can arrange to have my carriage at your disposal tomorrow morning,” she continued. “While I appreciate your kindness and thank you for escorting me home, I wouldn’t want you to sacrifice any more of your valuable time away from your work in London.”

Before Andrew could think of a suitable reply—having wisely decided that
Hell no, I’m not leaving was
not
suitable
—a knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” Lady Catherine said.

The door opened, and Spencer shuffled into the room. His smile faded as his gaze bounced between his mother and Andrew. “Is something amiss, Mum?”

She appeared to square her shoulders, then offered Spencer a smile. “No, darling. Did you need to speak to me?”

Spencer looked clearly unconvinced. Instead of answering his mother’s question, he asked, “What were you just talking about?”

Lady Catherine set down her drink, then crossed the pale green Axminster rug to bestow a kiss upon Spencer’s cheek. “Transportation arrangements. Mr. Stanton will be leaving us tomorrow to return to London.”

“Leaving?
Tomorrow?
” There was no mistaking the boy’s dismay. He turned toward Andrew and gazed at him with eyes brimming with confusion and hurt. “But why? He only arrived yesterday.”

Lady Catherine said, “Mr. Stanton has many responsibilities in London, Spencer, even more with your uncle Philip unavailable. While he was kind enough to leave his work at the museum to escort me home, he must return to his duties.”

“But why must he leave so soon? We’ve only just started—” He clamped his lips together and shot Andrew an imploring look.

“Started what?” Lady Catherine asked.

“A surprise for you,” Andrew cut in. “Something Spencer and I discussed yesterday afternoon. I promised to lend my assistance.”

She raised her brows. “What sort of surprise?”

Pure chagrin washed over Spencer’s face. Before the boy could reply, Andrew again spoke up. “If we told you, it wouldn’t be any sort of surprise.” He shot Spencer a con
spiratorial wink. “I believe we need to fetch the dictionary for your mother, Spencer, so she can look up ‘
surprise
.’”

“I know you’re not normally fond of surprises, Mum,” Spencer said in a rush, “but you’ll like this one. You’ll be proud of me, I know, when we’re finished.”

“I’m already proud of you.”

“Then you’ll be more proud.”