Mad About the Earl (41 page)

And his eyes. They were a stunning golden-hazel with dark brown flecks, framed by thick, black lashes. Amber ringed with onyx.

Unsettling, almost feline, those eyes. She wondered if they glowed in the dark.

“Take off your wig,” he drawled.

The instruction was not quite a command, but it was not a request, either. More a suggestion with overtones of intimidation.

He knew she wasn’t a footman. The disguise was never meant to fool anyone except at a distance and in the dark of night. Besides, his manhandling had brought him into contact with the softer parts of her person. The notion sent a hot spear of …
something
through her body. She wouldn’t let him see it, however.

Forcing herself to give a casual shrug, Cecily lifted the perruque from her head and set it on a piecrust table nearby.

His brilliant gaze flicked over her.

She’d worn breeches enough times to feel neither shame nor embarrassment that he’d caught her in them. But somehow his impassive regard made her want to leap to the defensive, to justify her actions to him.

As the Duke of Montford’s ward, she’d long since mastered control over such inclinations. Instead, she forced herself to study the Duke of Ashcombe as dispassionately as he studied her.

He was far younger than she’d supposed when she’d seen him at a distance. The harshness of his features, his arrogant air of authority, and the deference more senior members of the ton paid him had deceived her.

She resented that illusion, as if it had been a deliberate ruse on his part. Older gentlemen were so much easier to handle.

The silence lengthened between them until it became an object with her not to be the first to break it. She let her gaze wander around the room, over bookshelves and tables, globes and maps. As if she’d appraised him, found him tedious, and now looked for some other source of amusement.

“Your accomplice betrayed you,” he said at last.

“I’d rather gathered that at the start of our acquaintance.” She tried to make her tone cordial but it came out with something of a snap. Now that her initial fear had abated, chagrin at her failure took its place.

Though perhaps she’d not failed entirely. She turned a speculative gaze to Ashcombe. Might she discover what she wished to know from him? If she was clever about it, then perhaps …

Drawing herself up, she donned her most regal air and waved a careless hand. “But I am keeping you from your guests, Your Grace. Do go ahead. I shall find my own way out.”

*   *   *

Rand, Duke of Ashcombe, nearly laughed aloud at this summary dismissal. Who the devil did the chit think she was? She couldn’t be more than twenty, but she waved him away with the careless aplomb of a dowager duchess.

“My guests go on most happily without me,” he said, leaning one shoulder against the door. “Besides, you interest me far more than a meeting of the Promethean Club.”

“I’m so happy to provide you with entertainment,” she quipped.

Better and better.

He allowed his gaze to drift over his captive’s person, lingering at the lush bosom that jutted unmistakably from her blue velvet coat, pausing again at the womanly flare of hips that made her knee-breeches tauten a shade too much across her thighs. He imagined her bottom would be as round and female as the rest of her and experienced a sharp tug of curiosity on that account.

It really was a very poor disguise.

He regarded her face. Wide brown eyes with a slight tilt at the corners, a sweet, pert little nose, and the rosiest bud of a mouth he’d ever seen. Her lips reminded him of the dimpled lushness of a cherry when the stalk is plucked. Ripe and sweet, begging him to bite.

“What is your name?” he said.

She watched him for a few moments; it occurred to him that she scrutinized him quite as critically as he examined her. A new experience. A not altogether comfortable one.

Breaking off her inspection, she wandered over to a set of globes that stood by the desk. Tracing the arcing frame of the celestial globe beside her with a fingertip, she said, “If I tell you who I am, will you let me go?”

“I’m more likely to convey you home to your papa so he can beat you,” said Rand.

“But I don’t have a papa,” she said on a note of false mournfulness. “I am quite alone in the world, you see.”

Quite alone.
He suppressed a pang of predatory opportunism that was entirely out of character for him.

Ah, but she was lying, of course. And even if she wasn’t … He’d never been the sort of evil lecher who took advantage of helpless, friendless maidens. He’d never ruined a woman in his life.

But he wanted her. And what the Duke of Ashcombe wanted, he would have.

One way or another.

“If you won’t give me your name, at least give me your direction and I’ll take you home.” He did not intend to take her anywhere, at least not before they became rather better acquainted. “You’ll not walk the London streets alone at this hour.”

“If I tell you,” she said, “will
you
tell
me
something in return?”

Her effrontery knew no bounds, it seemed. She didn’t even seem to register that he had her at his mercy. That he had not even asked her what she was doing stealing into his house.

Rand angled his head and said in a soft, menacing voice, “I don’t think you’re in a position to bargain with me.”

He wished she’d take down her hair. It looked dark and rich as mahogany, thick and soft and luxuriant. The kind of hair a man dreamed about trailing over his naked body, following the path of those cherry-sweet lips …

But she’d scraped her shining tresses back from her face and twisted and pinned them in a fat knot at the crown of her head. Little curling tendrils had fallen free, however, gleaming darkly against the pale, delicate skin at her forehead and temples. He wanted to reach out and twist one of those mad little springs around his finger.

Seeming oblivious to the intensity of his regard, she strolled toward him. “Well, that depends. If you were an ordinary man, perhaps I wouldn’t dare. But you, my lord duke, suffer from the eternal ennui of the pampered aristocrat. You’re intelligent enough to perceive that I am no common housebreaker.
I,
in fact, am a novelty.”

“You, in fact, are a criminal,” he corrected.

“But you are curious about me,” she murmured, staring up at him with those big, pansy-brown eyes. “Admit it.”

She was wrong. His interests were wide-ranging and intensive. He was never bored. But … he failed to remember a time when he’d felt so
enlivened
by a woman’s presence. Furthermore, his curiosity about her nearly consumed him.

He could have her hanged twice over for attempting to bribe his servant and breaking into his house. Quite apart from that, he had her here, alone, in circumstances that were entirely to his advantage. Who was this girl that she wasn’t even slightly afraid?

“You are very sure of yourself,” he commented.

She spread her hands. “Why go through all of this if you intend to hand me over to the law? Why not simply order one of your minions to deal with me? You do have minions, don’t you, Your Grace? You look like the sort of man who has minions.”

He favored her with an unpleasant smile. “Perhaps I merely seek to toy with my prey before I devour it—or in this case, hand it over to the law.”

She shook her head decisively. “No, I don’t believe that. You are intrigued.”

“I am,” he admitted. “Most intrigued. But you do yourself an injustice if you think it is your novelty that excites my interest.”

He stepped closer to her and had the satisfaction of hearing her breathing hitch. One side of his mouth curled upward. He let his gaze sweep down her curvaceous little body in a manner calculated to intimidate and confuse a virginal, gently bred female. Or excite an experienced one.

She gave a sudden gurgle of laughter, startling him so much that his gaze shot back to her face.

“Oh, dear,” she said, her brown eyes dancing with mirth. Her teeth were very white, framed by those deep red lips. “Pray, do not
smolder
at me so! You will set me off into whoops.”

Disconcerted in spite of himself, he said, “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you needn’t do that,” she replied generously. “Though it
is
quite improper for you to stare at me in that odious way, of course.”

Now the predator in him awoke, stretched, unsheathed its claws. “My attentions would not be welcome to you?” he murmured. Reaching out, he stroked one fingertip down her cheek. “Somehow, I don’t believe that.”

Her skin was satin-soft, and he let his fingertip linger at the hinge of her jaw.

Something in her eyes gave him pause. For a strange, heart-stopping moment, time seemed to hold its breath …

As if something snapped inside her, his fair intruder blinked and shook her head slightly. Then she put up her hand to lightly bat his away. “
I
am not one of your high-fliers, Your Grace. Keep your hands to yourself.”

Already, he missed the satin warmth of her skin. A singular and unprecedented need filled him. He folded his fingers into a fist to stop himself giving in to it.

Most men in his position wouldn’t hesitate. She was dressed scandalously in a footman’s garb. She was alone, unchaperoned in his house at night. Entirely at his mercy. He affected her on a visceral level. Though she did her best to conceal it, he knew the signs. He could easily give in to his inclinations and make his best effort to seduce her.

What stopped him? Not her clipped aristocratic accent nor her air of gentility. She might speak like a duchess, but he’d known—and enjoyed—duchesses who had the morals and inclinations of alley cats.

No, there was some quality about this girl, some innate core of resilience, of feminine strength, that intrigued him. He responded to it in a way that ranged beyond his physical reaction to her, even as it seemed to heighten his desire.

And for some strange reason, it held her inviolate. At least for tonight.

“Why are you here?” he murmured. And why hadn’t he asked that question sooner?

He could almost see the cogs whirring in her brain as she decided how much information to give him. “I wasn’t burgling the place, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I think you came to find out about the Promethean Club,” he said. “Unless you have designs on me,” he amended, giving her a flashing grin. “In which case, I’d be most happy to oblige.”

She gazed at him wonderingly. “Do you know, you are quite the most conceited man I’ve ever met? And that’s saying something when you consider my family.”

“Ah. Yes. Your family,” he said. “And who might they be? I thought you were all alone in the world.”

Challenge sparked in her eye. “No, you didn’t, and my family is every bit as powerful as yours, so I think you should let me go now.”

Was it his imagination, or did he detect a slight squaring of her shoulders, a renewed courage when she mentioned her family? She was proud of her origins, then.

“You interest me exceedingly,” he said, mentally sorting through any dukes he knew with daughters around Cecily’s age. He couldn’t immediately think of any. “And will you not tell me who this so-powerful family of yours is? I shall discover the answer whether you do or not, you know.”

She looked for an instant as if she was debating whether to trust him. Then her chin lifted. “I daresay you will. My name is Lady Cecily Westruther.”

Well, now. This was a surprise. And she was correct. The Westruthers were every bit as old and powerful as his family. But surely she was one of the Duke of Montford’s wards. Why, then…?

His stomach clenched. Suddenly it all made sense.

Slowly, he said, “I knew your brother.” He blew a long, unsteady breath. “He was brilliant. Some called him a genius.”

“He would have scoffed at that notion,” said Lady Cecily. Her voice was steady, her eyes dry. Only the convulsive movement of her throat betrayed any hint of grief.

“Yes,” said Ashcombe. “He could never be satisfied with the boundaries of his knowledge. There was always more to discover.”

Her expression held a mixture of pride, sadness, and a hint of surprise.

“He belonged to the Promethean Club, didn’t he?” she said. “He was here, in this house, the night he died.”

Where was she heading with this? “He attended a meeting here, yes. But those footpads set upon him quite a distance from this house.” Gentling his tone, he added, “I am sorry. More sorry than I can express. But it was a senseless, random killing. Nothing at all to do with his activities here.”

His assurance didn’t seem to make an impression on her. What did she know to the contrary? Or think she knew?

She licked her lips. “Your Grace, you must tell me everything you can about this club.”

Deliberately, Rand said, “I am surprised that your brother should have mentioned the Prometheans to you.”

“He didn’t. I found his diary a few weeks ago, and I—I read it.” She colored faintly, as if the admission embarrassed her.