The Love Affair of an English Lord (10 page)

Besides, Devon might assume the worst. He might believe that Chloe had been compromised beyond repair. The dominant male in him would go after Dominic, and there would be the devil to pay all around. Chloe would be the eye in the center of another storm. No matter what decision she made, she would face controversy and censure.

She looked up. “I suppose you came here for more cash.”

He arched his brow. “Actually I came here because I was worried about you. Old Richard is generous enough, but I shan't be responsible for my sanity if I have to pot any more plants.”

“Why would you worry about me?”

“Just a sense, Chloe. Oh, all right. I know it sounds daft, but I had the silliest dream that you were in danger.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “You aren't, are you? I mean, you're not planning to elope with another cock-brained cavalry officer? Grayson and Heath would have my head if I let anything like that happen.”

Chloe felt a cold flush go through her. She'd never lied to Devon before. He had a sixth sense about some things, and deception did not come easily to her now. Now that Brandon was gone, Dev was the best friend she had. Even so, she wasn't quite ready to share her secret with him yet. She had to think it through herself first.

“I did meet a man, if you have to know.” She smiled up into his concerned, handsome face. “It's Justin Linton, and yes, he's thrown stones at my window and made up awful poetry in my honor. But he's good fun, Devon. I think the Old Ones might even approve.”

The Old Ones included their siblings Grayson, Heath, and Emma, who were not chronologically that much older but who, in the eyes of Chloe, Devon, and Brandon, had always been the family tyrants. Drake had fallen somewhere in between the label of tyrant and troublemaker.

“As long as
you
approve, Chloe,” Devon said gently, “then he cannot be all that bad, although I have to say I really took a dislike to that baron you kissed in the park.”

Chloe crossed her arms over her chest, the gesture instinctively self-protective. “Yes, well, I'm not liking him all that much myself right now. Look where that indiscretion led me.”

The rumble of voices from the stairwell outside her room distracted them. Devon stirred, giving his sister a kiss on the forehead before he stepped back toward the closet.

“All this cloak-and-dagger nonsense, Devon,” she whispered at his retreating figure. “I shall be glad when Grayson gives the word, and you are no longer afraid of the authorities.”

He grinned before disappearing from sight. “The authorities be damned. It's Aunt Gwendolyn I'm avoiding. The woman will lecture me to death if she gets a hold of me.”

Chapter 10

Dominic realized he had dropped the note the instant he reached the fern-shadowed escarpment that marked the boundary of the woods. He could not believe his own carelessness. It was a dangerous sign. He couldn't afford to go soft or grow reckless because a young woman had distracted him. He walked through the dark trees in disgruntled silence.

In fact, even as he approached the park behind his own house, he was thinking about Chloe when he should have been concentrating on not being seen. He had always been an intense, rather private man who did not particularly care for the entertainments common to his class, and he was not particularly proud of his past. Yes, he knew how to attract a woman. Unfortunately, he had not made the best of choices in Lady Turleigh. She had not waited until his body was cold to warm her bed with another man.

He could not forgive her. She was part of the life he wanted to forget.

He didn't care if he was unfair, or if she had been frightened. He did not care if his disgust with her was irrational. He could not blame her for looking after her own interests. But not with his cousin. It turned Dominic's stomach, and he was done with her. The last he'd heard, she had left the village; he did not care whether she returned.

Chloe Boscastle presented an entirely different problem. Infinitely more pleasant and perplexing. She had stirred not only his male hunger, but his more human needs for company and understanding, for intelligent conversation and stimulation. His blue-eyed lady provided for all his private wants in a very provocative package.

He frowned, remembering what little he knew of her family. Rumors had circulated in the ton that one of the Boscastle daughters—he assumed it was Chloe—had been alone with her father when he died. Royden Boscastle had been said to rule his family so tightly that his children were rebelling in public; perhaps something in this explained why the youngest daughter ran a little wild. Her father's succession of mistresses had probably not been of the nurturing nature to replace the mother Chloe had lost.

Of course he could only desire her from afar, thereby frustrating himself to death. With any luck their paths would not cross again. By the time Dominic completed his revenge, which might end up killing him yet, Lady Chloe would be married off and whisked out of temptation's reach. Fortunately for her.

He slipped quietly down the darkened hallway of the unused wing of Stratfield Hall, a living ghost who haunted his own house. Who would think to look for him in the secret passages of the very place where he had been murdered? He rather enjoyed the black irony of it, the village ascribing deliciously wicked deeds to him. In fact, the rumors of his ghostly misbehavior could fit in well with his plans.

If he did not ruin it all with his own stupidity.

He should not have left that blasted note behind. He knew full well when it must have slipped from his pocket. When luscious Chloe had been half undressing him, her capable white hands touching him in a way that had left him breathless with lust. How desperately he had wanted her to keep on exploring his body.

And now those ladylike hands were in possession of a note that might, or might not, depending on its contents, destroy everything he had plotted for. Would she show it to anyone?

Would she keep his secret?

Or would she toss out the paper, thinking it a piece of garbled nonsense? He wondered if the sister of Lieutenant Colonel Lord Heath Boscastle would recognize it for the cryptograph that it was. He wasn't exactly sure himself how important it might prove, or even who had written it for that matter. All he really knew was that it had been found sewn in Samuel's company jacket. His brother would not have gone to such lengths to hide it unless it meant something to him.

He slid his hand along the wall and pressed the lever concealed behind a rough stone alongside the fireplace. The dark passageway loomed before him, empty and uninviting. This was what he had become. A creature of the darkness who must scurry and hide while his enemy feasted at his table, made love to his mistress, planned to spend his fortune.

He stepped into the passageway, allowing his vision to adjust to the stale airless gloom. He reached into his waistband for his pistol, a precaution lest the dark provide any unpleasant surprises. He had become as skittish as a virgin since his “murder.” A gun gave him a measure of security.

His fingers curled not around the pistol's smooth ebony handle but the unbearable softness of a woman's chemise.

The undergarment had fallen out of the window as Dominic made his furtive escape. Not wishing to get his charming if unwilling hostess into trouble, he had stuffed the chemise into his waistband before leaving the grounds. God knew the woman would land in enough trouble on her own.

He examined the delicate fabric. A treasure to drag to his lair? He smiled a little. Not that he required anything to remind him of Chloe. His body provided a painful enough reminder of his desire for her.

It seemed he was not as dead as he had hoped.

He began to descend the impossibly cramped stone stairs that led into a tunnel beneath the house. There he had spent countless hours sitting in the candlelight, studying the cryptic message that was all he had left of his brother.

It
had
to be vital. Dominic was desperate to solve the code, having come up against a wall in his own inquiries.

It was Samuel's servant who had set off Dominic's suspicions, writing through other British soldiers to reveal that his master had been meeting men in secret in Nepal in the weeks preceding his death.

Hoping to learn more, Dominic had personally corresponded with the British resident of Nepal and later General Ochterlony. He had journeyed to London several times to meet the Board of Control, the company's court of directors, and those in contact with Lord Moira, the British commander in chief in India.

They could not help him beyond reading the official report: Chasing Gurkha warriors into the hills, his brother and Brandon Boscastle had been ambushed and then thrown into an inaccessible ravine, the prey of wild animals and the elements.

By this time a lurid possibility had entered Dominic's mind: his own uncle and Samuel's commanding officer had ordered the ambush in Nepal. Dominic did not know exactly when or how he had begun to suspect the truth. But he did remember that his late mother had never liked Edgar, and had warned her husband more than once that he could not be trusted.

The fact that Colonel Sir Edgar Williams had been in Kathmandu on official business at the time of the ambush did not prove his innocence. There were always renegade warriors for hire in that part of the world if a man offered enough money.

A noise from behind him drew Dominic out of his thoughts. A low whine that was not quite human. He reached for the pistol, then stopped.

The heavy object that butted up against his leg was not a threat. Nor was the cold nose that brushed his hand. He turned swiftly, dropping to his knees in grudging welcome. It was his favorite dog.

“Ares,” he said. The big hound sat before him in anticipation of a romp in the woods, his eyes glistening in the dark.

“You should not be here,” Dominic said roughly. “I cannot take care of you. There isn't room.”

Nor could he take the risk of returning the dog to the house just now, in the middle of the night. Sir Edgar liked to read into the late hours.

“Ares,” he said in vexation. “What am I to do with you?”

He straightened and turned back to the stairs. The dog shadowed him as if the matter were settled.

Dominic's mind had returned to a more perplexing problem. He needed that note back in his possession, no matter what risk he must take to retrieve it.

Even more dangerously, perhaps, he would need to visit Chloe Boscastle's room once again.

 

Less than forty minutes later he was standing in her bedchamber, the letter folded in his pocket. Chloe had slept through the swift theft. He studied her from the closet door, telling himself to escape while he could.

It was too tempting not to touch her. Dominic had promised himself that he would do no more than retrieve the letter and leave her room before she awakened. But once he looked at her, he was transfixed. He pushed away from the door.

Of course she was not arranged across the bed like a typical sleeping maiden. Instead, she sprawled out at an uncomfortable angle, her tousled black curls framing her scowling face. She had kicked one of her pillows to the floor, fighting someone, something in her sleep.

The bedcovers lay twisted around her sleek white legs. He drew a breath, moved by how vulnerable she appeared, not at peace with herself even in sleep. He was not sure how a man would subdue her restless spirit. Or if he should even want to. It might be better to enjoy it.

His gaze followed the line of her bent knee to the hollow between her legs. Her linen nightrail provided little protection from his hungry gaze.

He came closer to the bed. He could see the shadow of dark curls at the juncture of her thighs. His body clenched at the sight. He needed her so badly. He needed to bury his sex in all that warmth and softness.

He sat on the edge of the bed and listened to her steady breathing. What was she dreaming about? After a moment he ran his forefinger gently across her forehead as if to erase her scowl. She stirred, stretching toward him. He stared at her white throat, the bounty of her breasts, her body relaxed and artlessly inviting.

He traced his finger across her collarbone, teasing the dusky peaks of her breasts until they tightened. She was responding to his lightest touch. He felt a dangerous stab of desire deep in his belly. She didn't have to move a muscle to arouse him. He ached for her in every bone.

He leaned forward and rubbed his face against her neck. A mistake. The scent of her obliterated his restraint. She made a little sound in her throat, turning into him. He swallowed, struggling in a battle he had already lost.

He could not fight what he felt for her. She had invaded what was left of his heart, and his body craved her beyond what he could bear. His face darkened with a smile of self-mockery. The Ghost of Stratfield Hall was about to live up to his reputation.

Chapter 11

Chloe dreamed that night that a man was stroking her face with a feather-light touch. His caress made her shiver with longing, and he whispered her name. She moaned, fighting the power of his voice, fighting to stay asleep. His tapered fingers circled the curve of her shoulder, the swell of her breast, teasing her nipple through her nightrail.

Her body responded to her seductor with a surge of uncontrollable lust. Without the inhibitions of her waking self to interrupt, she arched shamelessly against him. She could not see his face in the darkness of the dream. She could only feel the heat and hunger in him.

She wanted to beg him for more. To ask him to touch her in other ways. Her dream self could not stop him anyway. She could only respond to the power he wielded, the needs he had awakened. Her senses answered his unspoken demands without hesitation.

“You have the body of a goddess, Chloe,” his faraway voice whispered against her neck. “I could worship you. I could show you pleasure you would never forget.”

Her dreamy intellect whispered he was right. When his hand drifted down her belly and nestled in the warm folds of her sex, she felt herself gripped by a desire so all-consuming she could have wept for it. Her body did weep; in the hollow of her thighs a moist heat seeped, flooding her with longing. A spiraling pleasure spread into the very depths of her. She needed release, a reprieve from the aching inside.

His elegant fingers had found the secret place where no one had ever touched her before. The steady stroking against her mons made her pulsate all the way to the soles of her feet. If not for the frail barrier of her nightdress, she would be completely exposed and open to him. It was the most erotic dream of her life. The blood in her veins thickened as he brought her to a powerful climax. Heat flooded her from head to toe, and her hips lifted; her heart raced as pleasure throbbed in her belly.

She trembled, helpless and yet enjoying every moment of it.
Dominic.
His dark image pervaded her dream. She stirred and tried to speak his name, to ask him why he had returned. She wanted to tell him that she had seen his uncle tonight at the play, and that she did not like the looks of him. She needed to warn Dominic, to hold him. She ached to feel his strength, to demand an explanation of why he had invaded her sleep.

A sensation of chilliness suddenly replaced the intimate warmth she had been savoring. She opened her eyes in reluctance and waited as the pulsations in her belly began to subside. A sensual lassitude throbbed in their aftermath to torment her.

Her dream had seemed so real, and yet she was alone, her body cooling and wide awake—had Devon left the door to the dressing closet open? Hadn't she made sure to shut it securely for the night?

She sat up and fought a shiver as she slipped off the bed.

“Who is it?” she whispered. “You devil, Dominic, is that you?”

No answer. A cursory search proved the dressing closet was empty, the window was closed, and the curtains were drawn. With a troubled frown she returned to her bed, pulling the pillow against her as if she willed the warmth to return to her body.

The note was gone. A single white rose occupied its place under the pillow. Its petals were lightly bruised and fragrant.

She stared down at the bed, her heart in her throat. It could not be. The outrageous fiend couldn't have returned to steal it while she slept. He could not possibly have been here, touching her.

“Oh,” she whispered, on fire again, though for a very different reason. “He wouldn't dare.”

He had. Frantic, she searched the room, the closet, the floor, still feeling as though she were in a dream.

“And the telescope is gone,” she muttered as she wrenched open the window to gaze out into the thin tangle of woods that separated the two houses. “I know you are out there somewhere, probably laughing at me, Stratfield, you—you ungrateful ghost. Is this the thanks I get for helping you?”

Feeling foolish, she backed toward the door to her room. And her dream? How much had been real and how much imagined? How much of her arousal could she attribute to his wickedness as opposed to her own hidden desires?

Well, here was another scandal in the making.

The Stratfield Ghost had struck again, and Lady Chloe Boscastle was his latest victim.

 

Dominic scratched the dog's ears, his low laugh of satisfaction echoing against the walls of the dark tunnel. “Well, that was a little close, but we've gotten our letter back. I won't be so careless again.”

If careless was even the word for it; obsessed seemed a more appropriate description of his behavior. Obsessed with revenge. Obsessed with regaining what was his.

Obsessed, all of a sudden, with a beautiful young woman, who with good reason, should want nothing to do with him. Why else had he knelt at her bedside and tormented himself with those stolen touches? What a stupid risk to take. But look at his hands. He was still shaking from touching her.

She could have awakened. She could have opened her eyes and screamed to bring the house down. Or, as he no doubt secretly wished, she could have submitted to all the things he wanted to do to her. She could, at least in his desperate fantasies, have asked him to give her everything he wanted to.

Clearly she was curious about sexual matters, and he would have loved to tutor her. But just as clearly she was not an empty-headed maiden unable to form an original thought.

She had hidden the note under her pillow. Had she guessed the significance? He doubted it. And yet he also doubted that she had kept the paper close to her as a sentimental memoir of their encounter.

His intellectual nature found her behavior rather intriguing. His body ached for her in a more straightforward fashion.

He lifted the brass telescope he had taken from her room to watch her window. He was rewarded several moments later when she appeared in her white muslin nightrail. Of course she could not see him, hidden like a fox in a ferny hole. She was probably cursing him to the heavens, but not, he hoped, in a too-loud voice.

“Did you like your rose?” he asked the distant image with a chuckle.

As if to answer him she flung a pale unidentifiable object out the window. He could only guess it was the flower he had calmly substituted for the coded letter.

He glanced around. A light had flickered in the window of his estate. In his own bedchamber window. He saw the silhouette of his uncle behind the curtains, a grim reminder that he could not afford to prowl outside Chloe's room like an animal in heat.

He lowered the telescope, his smile fading. “Well, good night again, Chloe,” he said in a wistful undertone. “I have some haunting to do . . . and you, my dear, you haunt me, too.”

 

Chloe lit a candle on the nightstand and got down on her hands and knees to reach under the bed. With relief she found her journal where she had hidden it beneath a broken floorboard.

She pulled the slim volume out and carried it back to her bed. On the last page was her most recent entry. An exact copy of the coded letter that Dominic had sneaked back into her room to collect.

Obviously it meant enough to him to take a chance retrieving it. She congratulated herself on having had the foresight to make her own copy. And on forcing her brother Heath to teach her a few tricks on the art of deciphering a code.

It was time to put her knowledge to work on what was perhaps Brandon's last message. She had not helped Dominic without expecting something in return.