More Than a Stranger: A Sealed With a Kiss Novel (11 page)

Memories of that night almost a year ago wrapped around him like a cold blanket, pushing away the heat of the bath water: the smugness he felt at outsmarting the French bastards; the smell of the salty sea air as it whistled by in cold blasts; the crack of gunfire and the shouts of men as they tried to escape the Crown’s best agents. By the end of the night, twelve had been captured, two had escaped, and one was dead.

It was to be his finest hour. He should have walked away a hero. Instead, he’d been forced to defend himself when Jean Luc Renault had aimed his pistol at Benedict’s head. In that moment, Jean Luc had paid the ultimate price, Pierre Renault had escaped into the night, and Benedict had lost much of his credibility for having lost both his targets. He always knew Pierre would come after him; he just never imaged how clever the man would be when he did.

Benedict squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could go back somehow and change what happened. The problem was how far would he have to go back? A week? A month? To the day he had eagerly accepted his first mission?

Growling, Benedict pressed his lips together and slipped beneath the water. He welcomed the scorching heat, the burning sensation on his skin, and the unpleasant prickle of hot liquid against his eyelids. It was but an echo of the betrayal that burned hotly in his gut not four days earlier, when he had arrived at the mist-shrouded manor house on the dunes of Folkestone.

When his lungs burned as achingly as his skin, he emerged from the water, gasping for air. He would make his decision, but not tonight. He simply couldn’t trust himself to weigh the consequences clearly yet. And with a lifetime to live with the consequences, it little mattered if he decided now or a few days from now. In the meantime, he could have precious few days to soak up all the things he never had in life: a loving family and a few peaceful days in the country.

And a beautiful woman who stole his breath away.

* * *

“There is something you’re not telling me.”

Richard looked up from his deck of cards and grinned. “Bit, there are many things I’m not telling you. It is my duty to protect you from at least some of the wicked things I do.”

Evie rolled her eyes and pushed away from the door frame of the billiards room. He could be so obtuse when he put his mind to it. The faint scent of cigars still hung in the air, even though it had been hours since the men had enjoyed a friendly game after dinner. Only a few candles remained lit, most of them situated around Richard’s game of solitaire.

His coat and cravat were nowhere to be seen, and his sleeves were bunched at his elbows. It was a good thing his valet, Bradford, had stayed behind in London. The man was notoriously fussy about the state of Richard’s clothing.

She joined him on the sofa, tucking her bare feet up under the hem of her night rail and pulling a pillow into her lap. “I was thinking of something much more immediate than your late-night trysts. There is something odd about Mr. Benedict, and I want to know what it is.”

Their guest had been much more responsive to her at dinner, but she still sensed a sort of reluctance about him. More important, she still could not recall a single mention of the man in all her correspondence and conversations with her brother. If she knew the names of even his friends’ horses, shouldn’t she recall hearing mention of a James Benedict?

“My, how very flattering you are. Truly, the only thing odd about Benedict is that he didn’t seem to mind my sisters converging on him like a flock of seagulls on a crust of bread. Could it be that your interest in Benedict has nothing to do with how odd he may seem, and everything to do with the lovey-dovey expression in your eyes when you watched him at dinner?”

Evie gasped, hesitating only half a second before lobbing the pillow in her lap at her brother’s head. “I did no such thing! Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m not being absurd in the least, Bit. A blind man couldn’t have missed the interest in your eyes.”

Heat flamed up Evie’s cheeks. Surely she had not been so obvious. If anyone else had seen what Richard claimed to have seen . . . “Any interest I have in Benedict is entirely platonic, I assure you. If that. I mean, I am merely curious about his—and your—sudden appearance.”

This was not going well at all. He nodded with patent disbelief, and she glared at him in return. “Now, stop trying to fluster me. Be serious, and tell me more about your friend and why he accompanied you here.”

Richard sighed and flopped back onto the cushions. “Nothing much to tell. An old acquaintance from school.”

“So you’ve said. But that doesn’t tell me anything about him. You said he was from Bath, but I thought you didn’t have any friends from there.”

“He is from Bath, but as he stated, he rarely, if ever, returns there. Besides, Benedict is not the type to attend the parties I so enjoy frequenting.”

Exactly.
“Yes, I gathered that. I’m curious if you have anything in common. He is nothing like your normal group of friends.”

“What is life without variety?” he asked with a flip of his hand.

She nearly growled at him. “Stop being so blasted evasive.”

“As soon as you stop being so blasted nosy. You are seeing mysteries where none exist. Now, enough about Benedict. What do you care about it, anyway? You have a huge opportunity before you, and you are squandering it. Why haven’t you spoken with Mama yet?”

He was right, of course. She hugged her knees to her chest and sighed. “After calling our guest a nitwit at dinner?” She cringed just thinking about it. “I need at least another day to try to redeem myself.”

“Or you might be stalling without even realizing it. Could it be because you may be giving the idea of love another chance?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Don’t say that,” she replied, much more vehemently than she’d intended. He reared back in surprise, and she closed her eyes and took a breath. “Forgive me. But I’ll not marry. It’s just not for me.” Although her brother might not have known it, she had decided many years ago never to risk her heart in a love match. She would never recover if she cared for a man, only to have him turn his back on her again. Men were fickle beasts—she knew that all too well.

She offered him a conciliatory smile. “It’s late, I’m tired, and I think it is past my bedtime.” She stood and stretched. “Are you coming up?”

He shook his head. “I’m still on city hours. Sleep well, Bit, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

She gave him a quick hug before heading for the stairs. She was halfway up when she realized someone else was coming down. She glanced up and stilled.

Benedict.

He slowed, offering a tentative smile. He somehow looked more elegant in his simple white shirt and buff breeches than he had in his evening wear earlier. She forced herself to focus on his dark eyes and not the triangle of skin exposed by his open collar.

“Good evening, Evie.” In the quiet of the darkened stairway, his low voice slid over her like rough silk.

He descended the last few steps separating them until he was one step below her, bringing him nearly to eye level. Several tendrils of his damp hair had fallen across his forehead, and she had the sudden, ridiculous urge to brush them away with the tips of her fingers. Would his hair feel as silky as it looked?

“Hello, Mr. . . . Hello, Benedict.” She spoke softly, not wanting to break the stillness of the moment. The spicy scent of sandalwood teased her senses, and she drew a long, slow breath through her nose. Swallowing, she asked, “Are you looking for something?”

He nodded, not breaking eye contact. “I thought Richard might still be awake. Neither one of us is accustomed to country hours yet. I’m surprised you are still up.” It was the first time he had truly held her gaze, and she relished the dark, almost secretive quality of his eyes.

Though he said nothing improper, she tugged her wrapper more securely in place. There was something wicked about standing alone with a man without the benefit of unmentionables. Heat stole up her neck at the thought. Thank goodness for the dim lighting—it would not do for him to have any idea where her thoughts had meandered.

“I’m on my way up now. It’s been quite an exciting day, after all.”

“Yes, quite. I won’t keep you then, my lady. It was . . . an experience meeting you.” Though he didn’t quite smile, his dimple belied his amusement.

He didn’t move right away, but when she didn’t say anything, he started to turn. Almost without thought, she touched a hand to his sleeve. He froze, his gaze flying up to meet hers. Heavens, what was it about him that made her heart race? Swallowing, she removed her hand. “Please, let me just say again how sorry I am for calling you a nitwit. I still can’t believe I did that.”

A slow smile lit his face, and he leaned forward conspiratorially. “A lady is entitled to her opinion.”

Evie blinked. Their conversation in the garden came rushing back to her, and she bit back a smile. “I guess I rather made your point, didn’t I?” A wisp of delight intertwined with the embarrassment ticking her belly. He remembered her words. It was rather nice to know their conversation had resonated with him.

“The thought occurred to me. Still, no harm done. Please, don’t think of it again.”

“Are you certain?”

“A man can stand to be put in his place from time to time. I don’t think I have nearly enough people in my life who feel comfortable insulting me.”

“Just imagine the kind of insults I could give you after we’ve known each other more than a day.”

Instead of offering the smile she expected, Benedict’s expression seemed to tighten, and he took a step back. “Indeed. Well, please don’t let me keep you any longer. I bid you good night, my lady.”

Just like that, he turned and headed down the stairs, leaving nothing but the faint scent of his cologne and the unmistakable impression of a man escaping.

Was it something she had said? She straightened her spine and started up the stairs. Tomorrow, she was going to learn more about the enigmatic Mr. Benedict. She was going to get some answers if it killed her.

* * *

He was an idiot. And she smelled like lemons.

He hadn’t expected it, but really it complemented her perfectly. None of those fussy, floral scents would have been right for her. Thank God she broke the spell of the moment by mentioning how long they had known each other. If she only knew.

He found Richard in the billiards room, staring at a stack of cards on the small sofa table. He looked up warily, but he grinned when he saw Benedict. “I thought you might be Evie, returned to pester me some more.” He motioned to the chair across from him, and Benedict took a seat. “I was right about her wanting to pin me down.”

Benedict really didn’t like the sound of that. “Oh?”

“Yes, and she had a few questions about you, my friend.”

She wouldn’t be his Evie if she didn’t. “It’s to be expected, I suppose.”

“Yes, well, I thought perhaps you would like to get out of the house tomorrow—away from the constant scrutiny of my sisters. What do you think?”

Benedict suppressed the no that instantly came to his lips. No, he didn’t want to get away from the house—or its occupants. Of course, he could never say as much to Richard. The man would
not
appreciate the thought that Benedict might be leading his sister on. It was for the best, anyhow. The less time he spent with Evie, the less likely she would discover he was Hastings; ergo less of a chance of causing her pain—or being subject to her wrath. “That sounds like a fine idea. Where shall we go?”

Richard grinned and picked up the cards, expertly shuffling them without ever looking down. “The place I have in mind the girls would never dream of accompanying us. It’s perfect!”

Chapter Eight

Very well, so you have me there. I admit it. I would never betray you. Not to your grandmother, nor to anyone else, though you are a cur to call my bluff. And I confess it is not because you hold the trump card. It’s because I rather like being able to say whatever I please to at least one person in this world. There really are no secrets between us, are there?

—From Evie to Hastings

F
ishing.

Curled on the plush window seat near midnight the following day, Evie shook her head as she looked past the fogged glass at the darkness beyond. Whoever wanted to go fishing in the dreary weather they had endured today? As if on cue, a gust of wind rattled the window, spattering a few errant drops of rain against the glass.

Richard had whisked Benedict away shortly after breakfast, and they had not returned until dark. Drenched and exhausted, both men had chosen to have a tray in their rooms for dinner, and she was rather inexplicably out of sorts about the whole thing.

Whether it was his sudden appearance, the fact that he was something of a mystery to her, or just that when he looked at her, she felt something . . . different, she simply couldn’t deny that she wanted to see him again. She had been anxiously looking forward to speaking with Benedict again ever since it had occurred to her that, thanks to the impending hunt her father was planning, she had the perfect opportunity to spend some time with him. The stables were her domain; she was exactly the right person to help Benedict pick out an appropriate mount for the hunt, and she had planned to take full advantage of her position.

It was perfect.

And now, even though she would have to wait until morning to instigate her plan, she was entirely too restless to get any sleep just yet. She sighed and got to her feet. Perhaps a chapter or two of reading would help her to relax. Shrugging into her dressing gown, she lifted the candleholder from the table next to the door and headed downstairs to the library.