Miss Goldsleigh's Secret (11 page)

The marquess may have explained away her anger, but his well-chosen words did nothing to lessen her confusion. “Why did you kiss me that way?” Her hand crept up to her mouth and touched her swollen lips.

“You’re extremely kissable, Olivia.” He looked like he wanted to do it again if she’d let him. She wavered. Dignity be damned, she wanted that feeling back. He reached for her, and she inhaled in anticipation, but he only took the ends of the loose pink ribbon and tied them in a bow at her throat. “Go to bed, my sweet. Forget all the nonsense about the invoices and sleep.”

“Oh.” How dare she be disappointed? What did it say about her that she could fluctuate between mindless kisses to fury and then wanton frustration? Her time in London had changed her, and Olivia didn’t think it was for the better. She accepted her robe when he handed it to her, sliding her arms inside and securely tying the sash around her waist.

“I promise I’ll kiss you again tomorrow.” His voice was low and husky as she passed by him towards the door.

She ignored the thrill that ran straight down her spine and pooled between her legs. She was confident he didn’t notice the hitch in her step or the quick intake of breath as she marched out the door.

Not likely. I’ll be gone before you have another chance.

Chapter Sixteen

What a monumental, first-class idiot!

“Good morning to you, my lord.” Dalton’s valet set a tray with an urn of coffee on a marble table and opened the curtains farthest from the bed, letting in what London considered sunshine.

Dalton grunted. He had been awake for hours, if indeed he’d ever slept. His mind was occupied all night, circling around the scores of questions left to him when Miss Goldsleigh—Olivia—stormed off. She may not be willing to call him by his first name, but he’d damn well not run around calling her Miss anything after last night’s heated exchange.

Dalton groaned, folded away the blankets, and swung his feet to the floor. He stretched all six-plus feet of him, then took the dressing gown Marbry extended and covered his nakedness.

What the hell was wrong with him? Dalton liked to think he knew women better than most men did, what with him being surrounded by them all the time. How could he have said such a stupid, asinine thing as,
you owe me
? Even if he didn’t mean it the way it came out, he ought to know a woman would take it the wrong way. He hoped he’d apologized sufficiently, but one never knew. As much as he knew women, and genuinely liked many of them, he still thought they were mildly loony and certainly thought irrationally most of the time. He had ample evidence, not that any of them ever appreciated him pointing it out.

Dalton drank down half a cup of black coffee in one big swig, scalding his tongue in the process. The burn was somewhat of a relief after a night spent with an aching cock.

Whether or not she was a little balmy had nothing to do with how sorry he was that his ill-thought-out comment ended the whole thing. The whole thing, he snorted. He was a grown man, not some seventeen-year-old lusting after a maid, but you wouldn’t know it the way he’d been walking around with an oak tree in his pants for the last several days. Confound it, but everything about the chit distracted him. He thought the ride in the park had tried his self-control, but that was nothing compared to the waltz with the winsome beauty. She made him stupid.

Marbry bustled around his room, preparing the shaving instruments and laying out Henry’s clothes for the day, chattering away incessantly. Dalton ignored the man. It was either that or clout him over the head with the coffee urn.

And why in God’s name was it so important to him that she call him Henry? No one but his immediate family used his Christian name since he’d inherited the title at fifteen. Not even his previous fiancée had called him Henry. What was the sodding difference if Olivia did or not? Regardless, there it was. He’d been damn near desperate to hear his name uttered from her plump, rosy lips.

He wasn’t even sure exactly when trying to comfort her fears became a snogging session. It was almost a punishment how he relived each kiss, each caress, over and over as he lay in bed, woefully alone. He couldn’t help himself. That blasted nightgown, when she stood in front of the fire—sweet Jesus, very little was left to his imagination. She’d not had drawers on under that gown. That was a thought that niggled at his blood-starved brain all night long.

His hand never made it up her gown. In the light of morning, when he wasn’t so insane with lust, he realized that had been a good thing despite his need. The girl was under his protection, and that most certainly didn’t involve sneaky molestations in his study. It was all clear now, but in the heat of the moment, when he’d unbuttoned her bodice and exposed her breasts, he’d been delighted to find they were ever so slightly too large for her frame. It was somewhat of a shock to find a nice-sized handful on such a small woman.

For the love of all that’s holy, man, stop thinking about them.

Dalton submitted himself to a shave and got dressed, all the while listening to the inane ramblings of his valet. As annoying as lectures on superfine were the newest rages in hats were, they were still better than contemplating Olivia’s lips and breasts and the way her soft buttocks cradled his rock-hard…
Stop it.

He hadn’t received a satisfactory answer from Olivia about the stranger following her and, by extension, him. He was no less suspicious now than he’d been the previous evening, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. He expected a report back from his agent today, which he was certain would shed some light on this son-of-a-bitch cousin of hers. He couldn’t have Olivia looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life. She’d had enough terror in the last months for several lifetimes. He felt compelled to do what he could to protect her from more hardships and that meant putting an immediate stop to her cousin’s continuing torment.

Dalton stretched his neck, adjusted the cravat that was tied in some complicated knot his valet had learned from Brummell’s valet, and walked to the wide window that looked out over Cavendish Square and towards the park. The park traffic was picking up, with scores of ladies out to be seen by all the other ladies.
Let the morning gossip congress begin.
He was just happy to no longer be a part of the speculations bandied about. The weeks after his cancelled engagement could have been much worse, but for a man whose family had always stayed out of the rumor mill, even that much attention was unpleasant.

His sisters and Olivia strode across the walk to the open landau, arm in arm, and join the fray. An unconscious smile curled his lips. They didn’t take a maid with them, but his sisters knew everyone in the park, and the little gaggle of them would be fine together. Dalton let the sheer under drapery fall back, and out of the corner of his eye he spied a rough man fall into step behind the carriage. Whipping the sheer out of the way, he resurveyed the scene. The man stayed behind a good pace and too the right, but he still stuck out among the fashionably dressed crowd, and he was surely up to no good.

Dalton quit the room at a jog, leaving his astonished valet behind. He grabbed the first of the footmen he came upon.

“You’re Jones, right?” Dalton asked the young man. Dressed in his green and black livery, the footman was a formidable size, built like a wall. He was perfect.

“Yes, my lord,” the young man replied. “Brian Jones.”

Dalton nodded. “I need you to follow my sisters and Miss Goldsleigh. They’ve headed over to the park, and there is a very unsavory man following them. I believe he intends harm to Miss Goldsleigh, and I want you to see to it nothing happens.”

“Yes, my lord.” Jones rushed out the front door, eager to impress.

Siegfried, the giant butler, stood to the side, his German implacability only slightly ruffled by his employer’s command. Dalton signaled the butler to follow him, and they strode down the hall, only to be blocked by a long line of maids led by his aunt Evelyn, toting vases of flowers into the front parlor.

“What the hell is this?” he asked the butler.

Siegfried coughed. “Flower deliveries this morning, my lord.”

Aunt Evelyn stopped outside the parlor door and smiled smugly at Dalton. “She’s a success!”

“Who?” Dalton counted six maids streaming into the parlor, tulips, roses, and every other hothouse flower variety in London’s floral shops represented in their bouquets.

“Olivia, obviously.” Aunt Evelyn was near to bursting, pride evident in her voice. “I knew she would be.”

“All of these flowers are for Olivia?”

“Not all. Of course, Penelope and Cassandra have their own admirers as well, but this is the third delivery this morning. Unprecedented!” Aunt Evelyn glided into the parlor, directing the placement of vases and urns in what little open space remained. The room was filled to the rafters with flora. The smell was cloying.

“Ridiculous.” Dalton snorted and continued to lead Siegfried to his study. “Have there really never been three deliveries before?” he asked the butler as his feet fell on the thick Turkish carpet of his favorite room.

“No, my lord. There was a much-celebrated double delivery after the Harmon’s ball the evening of Penelope’s debut last year, but there have never been three deliveries before. Your sisters are giddy about it.”

“Yes, I’m sure they are sharing that little tidbit with every other girl in the park even as we speak.” Dalton made every attempt to make his voice sound bored and uninterested when he asked the next question. “What did Miss Olivia say about it?”

“I’m not sure she fully understands the magnitude of the event, my lord.” Siegfried ran his finger over the tallest shelf on the bookcase, which was easily eight feet off the ground, and frowned when his gloved finger came back covered with dust. Someone would pay for that, Dalton knew.

Dalton responded with a noncommittal hum. “About Miss Goldsleigh, it seems there are disreputable men lurking about. I have caught one of them following me, and he mentioned Miss Goldsleigh by name.”

“Indeed? Were you able to turn the man over to the watch, my lord?”

“Unfortunately not. He fled into the darkness. I saw another rather seedy character follow the ladies into the park this morning.”

Siegfried nodded. “That explains Jones’s quick jog to the park then.”

“They’ll be fine in the park with the rest of the
ton
and Jones keeping an eye on them, but that means there are still men staking out my house.”

“I shall post large footmen at each door.”

“And have several circle the grounds periodically to discourage any men from loitering outside the gates. I don’t like the idea of the house being watched.”

Siegfried nodded again. “Understandable.” He gave a short bow and went to issue orders, leaving Dalton in his study.

For the next hour he gave instructions to his man regarding the search for Cousin Reginald and what little they knew of the solicitor. Then he attempted to work on various other projects: an opinion against a motion in Parliament, and instructions to the freshly hired estate manager at his new property regarding his wishes on plantings and crop rotations based on the latest research. Keeping his mind on his work was not easy. It was boring stuff, and Olivia lurked in the background of his mind, a flaxen-haired fairy goddess with a sheer, gossamer gown. He yearned to sneak into the parlor and read the cards attached to the bouquets, but that was hardly the actions befitting a grown man who was not at all jealous or curious. What he needed was a coconspirator or two.

He found Warren with Helen and their new tutor in the garden.

“My lord.” The young, bespectacled teacher bowed his head when Dalton approached.

“Good morning,” Dalton said. “I need to borrow the children for a few minutes. Can they be spared?”

“Certainly.” The tutor collected his books.

“I’ll bring them back shortly,” Dalton promised over his shoulder as he ushered the children back into the house. He nodded at the burly footman posted at the garden door. Dalton explained what he wanted from the children in hushed voices. There was no point in letting the whole world know he was being nosy. That’s what it was, of course. He told himself he didn’t really care who sent which flowers or what sickening sentiments were scrawled on the cards. It didn’t even really matter how many of the cards were addressed to Olivia rather than his sisters.

Dalton stood in the hallway in front of the parlor door, positioned as a lookout. Warren and Helen, excited to be part of Dalton’s scheme, slunk into the room and were lost in a floral-scented sea.

“Read the cards addressed to Miss Goldsleigh,” Dalton instructed in a stage whisper.

“Here’s one for Cassie,” Helen called out from the general direction of the window seat.

“I don’t care about Cassie’s flowers,” Dalton hissed. “Just look for Miss Goldsleigh’s cards.”

“That’s cruel, Henry.” Helen’s voice sounded indignant on her sister’s behalf.

Dalton rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Here’s one,” Warren spoke up from behind the piano.

“Read the card,” Dalton instructed.

“Oh, it’s mushy.” The boy made a face. Dalton knew they would be. The boy’s voice continued, reading on in a loud whisper, “
She looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew.
Signed Mr. Geoffrey Blanding. Boy is he stupid. The card didn’t even come with roses.”

Dalton knew of Geoffrey Blanding. He was a complete dolt. Nothing to worry about there.

“Here’s another one,” Helen announced. “Oh, this one is pretty.
My bounty is deep as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.
Isn’t that romantic?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, he stole that from Romeo and Juliet.” Dalton turned fully into the room but stayed in the doorway. “Who’s it from?”

“The card says Lord Fountaine.”

“You’re kidding.” Lord Fountaine had two mistresses already. What was he thinking sending flowers and poetry to a young marriageable lady when he certainly didn’t have any intention of marrying? Dalton had half a mind to march over to White’s right now and give the bounder a smack upside the head.

“This one is from Pierre Moreau, but it’s written in French so I can’t read it.” Warren sounded disappointed.

“Does your sister read French?” Dalton asked.

“I think so.”

Dalton held out his hand. “Bring it here.” The flowers jostled as the boy moved through the forest. Moreau’s father was a French aristocrat, but his mother was the daughter of a Viscount. The family had relocated back to London from Paris once all the trouble started on the Continent. Moreau was admittedly good-looking, and despite the national derision of the French during the war, the Frenchman was still able to woo plenty of women with that cursed accent of his. Warren’s hand emerged from the foliage, and Dalton snatched up the card.

“
Chaque jour je t’aime, aujourd’huis plus qu’hier, et bien moins que demain.
Oh what hogwash is this?”

“I believe that note was not intended for you, Henry.” An icy voice filled his ears. Dalton spun around to find his mother, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at him from the hallway.

“Good morning, Mother.” Dalton hid the note behind his back and bent to kiss his mother. She waved him off.

“What’s going on here?” she asked.