Nearly a Lady (43 page)

“Good Lord,” she gasped and stumbled back in retreat. “
What
do you think . . . ?”

Mr. Brice held a finger up to his lips, and she had no choice but to obediently snap her mouth shut. The unknown guest was approaching the door. She could hear his footsteps . . . or were they hers? She couldn’t make out a click of a heel, and there was an odd rhythm to the gait, as if the person was shuffling down the hall.

The noise paused outside the door.

She watched in mounting horror as Mr. Brice slowly extended his arm and took hold of the door handle. Surely he wasn’t going to try to turn the key in the lock.
Surely
he wasn’t stupid enough to open the door.

He wasn’t. He kept perfectly still, his hand wrapped around the handle as if he meant to physically keep it from turning if necessary—which wouldn’t seem
at all
suspicious to someone on the other side—until their uninvited guest resumed his leisurely stroll.

She let out a long, shaky sigh . . . then froze when the shuffling stopped and a loud creak issued from an old wooden bench not five yards down the hall.

He was stopping to rest. Who the devil actually used those benches to rest? An elderly guest, she realized, or a maid or footman neglecting their duties. It could be Mrs. Cress’s mastiff, Otis, for all she knew. The dog was always climbing on the furniture.

Adelaide bit her lip and clenched and unclenched her hands. What was she supposed to do now? She couldn’t be seen leaving a dark room without causing raised brows . . . But Mr. Brice could. Gentleman could get away with all sorts of suspicious behavior.

She waved her hand about to catch his attention, then pointed a finger at the door and mouthed the word “go” as clearly as possible.

Apparently, she wasn’t clear enough. He gave a slow shake of his head.

She pressed her lips together in frustration and jabbed her finger more emphatically.

He shook his head again.

He lifted a finger and pointed behind her. “
Go
.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw doors leading onto the terrace. The
dark
terrace that led down to the
dark
garden. The ballroom and lighted side of the terrace and garden were on the other side of the house.

She turned back with a scowl and shook her head.

He nodded.

She had the most ridiculous urge to shake her fist at him.

She fought it back. The silent battle of wills was getting them nowhere, and the longer they remained in the room, the greater the chance of discovery. With no other option left, she gave him a final resentful glare, then spun about and headed for the terrace doors.

The soft pad of his footsteps trailed behind her. Damn it all, he was following her. She would be in the garden, at night, with a complete stranger.

Without another thought, she grabbed a sturdy brass candlestick from the mantel. Instantly, he was beside her, his large hand covering hers on the candlestick. The scent of him filled her senses—the hint of soap on his skin, the light touch of starch on his clothes. His breath was warm and soft in her ear as he bent his head to whisper.

“It’s the poker you want.” His hand slid over hers until he grasped the top of the candlestick. He drew it away from her slowly and replaced it on the mantel without moving his mouth from her ear. “Longer reach.”

She heard the edge of amusement in his voice and could have cheerfully murdered him in that moment. At the very least, she would have liked to snatch the weapon back and take aim at his head. But ever the practical woman, she took the poker instead, slipping out the doors and into the garden.

Mr. Brice fell into step beside her. “There’s a rarely used door around the back of the house. It opens to a short hall and stairwell that will lead you back upstairs.”

“I know that.” Her sister, Isobel, had an insatiable curiosity. She’d explored every inch of the house on their first day and given a detailed accounting of the building that evening. Adelaide made a mental note to apologize for the lecture she’d delivered to Isobel on the perils of snooping.

“Why are you following me?” she demanded.

“What sort of gentleman would allow a lady to traverse a dark garden alone?”

“The gentlemanly sort.” Her eyes scanned the grounds for other guests, but their side of the garden was as still and silent as a tomb. “Why on earth did you come into the room? You should have remained in the hall.”

“
I
should have? Why not you?”

“Because . . . you opened the door. I assumed—”

“That I opened it for you? There’s a fine bit of arrogance.”

She tried to remember if he had motioned her inside the room or not and was forced to admit he hadn’t. “Nevertheless, you should have remained outside once I had gone in.”

“You were not the only person hoping to avoid a particular guest,” he reminded her.

How was it she could be walking in a dark garden while carrying a fire poker and fearing for her future—all because of the man beside her—and still feel as if she needed to apologize for the circumstances?

She was not apologizing. Probably. She would reconsider the matter when she was safely back inside. For now, she needed to concentrate on the best route through the garden.

The single path before her split into three. The one to the right went to the front of the house. The path to the left led to the back, but it wound about the flower beds close to the house. It was visible to anyone who happened to look outside. The path in the center led deeper into the garden where they would be shielded from view by a hedgerow. She could make her way to the back of the house from that path, but she hesitated at the thought of going farther into the darkness with a near stranger for company.

“If I wanted to hurt you,” Mr. Brice said conversationally, apparently aware of her line of thought, “I’d not have troubled to introduce myself first. Nor suggested a better choice of weapon.”

Adelaide had to admit that he made a sound point. But, all the same, she readjusted her grip on the poker before setting off down the middle path.