The Love Affair of an English Lord (12 page)

“Lady Chloe,” he said, his dark eyes kindling, “I have always admired your family. May I offer my condolences on the death of young Lord Brandon. I was in Kathmandu when the savage ambush on his party occurred, but I pray you and your relations take solace in knowing that those responsible paid for their crime.”

Chloe stared back at him in numb silence. Her heart seemed to stop, and for an awful moment her throat felt so constricted she found it a struggle to speak. “I don't understand. You—you were in Nepal with Brandon?”

He appeared stricken. “My dear young lady, how bad of me to presume you knew. Your brother and my nephew Samuel served in the company's regiment under my command. I had warned them countless times of the dangers involved in patrolling the lonely native passes, but the brave young devils were intent on proving their prowess. While I was gone on business, they took it upon themselves to play heroics.”

“I didn't know,” she murmured. “I had no idea.” It was not comforting knowledge. In fact, it quite distressed her.

Sir Edgar led them into the screened entrance vestibule. As Chloe regained her composure, she noticed her aunt peering around the Doric columns as if expecting Viscount Stratfield to pop out and yell, “Surprise! It is me, the resident ghost!”

The funny thing was, Chloe could feel Stratfield's presence, too. As least she thought she did. Since he was not actually a spirit, she could not decide what it was she felt. The various emotional states he had incited in her were rather ambiguous and too embarrassing to examine. It was easier to assume she was frightened of him than to admit something more complex made her nerves tremble—something decadent and slightly delicious.

Yes, there
was
an overpowering sense of him in this house. In the dark oak paneling and in the musician's gallery above the dining hall. At any moment Chloe half expected to see his powerful figure appear dramatically on the black oak staircase, ordering everyone to—

“I've been here quite a few times before,” Uncle Humphrey whispered over her shoulder. “Stratfield invited me over to go shooting and play cards with his friends. He wasn't as bad as everyone wants to believe, Chloe. He was not the rake he's made out to be, either. All this talk of his ghost—”

“You don't believe any of it?” she whispered.

“Of course not. Why, I remember in the old days people used to whisper this house was haunted by one of the priests who'd gotten himself stuck in a priest hole and could not find his way out. If anyone is seducing women in their sleep, it's probably a randy old cleric's ghost.”

Chloe pivoted in the hall where they stood. “A priest hole?”

“Yes. You remember your history, Chloe. The viscount's family came from Roman Catholics. Religious persecution drove many to conceal their beliefs to this day.”

Chloe's blood began to tingle. “Was Stratfield a Catholic?”

“I do not think so. I could recall his mentioning his family history only once in passing.”

Chloe felt jolted by this discovery and did not know why. What did it matter if Dominic came from a long line of rebels? So did she, for that matter. But she liked knowing a little more about him.

They dined on herbed roast pheasant, potatoes in hot buttered parsley, and apple tarts smothered in clotted cream. A string quartet from the village played medieval melodies in the long gallery above. Sir Edgar could not have been a more attentive host. Yet Chloe's sense of discomfort persisted. Edgar was almost too polite, too at ease in Dominic's role. And Brandon had served under him. She wanted to ask more about her brother, but some instinct stopped her.

Her attention began to wander. Uncle Humphrey and Sir Edgar were speculating on the future of France's aristocracy. She pictured Dominic sitting at the other end of the massive table in evening dress. His masterful personality suited the dark elegance of the house.

She could imagine his holding a silver goblet in masculine fingers, that taunting smile on his face. She could almost feel his brooding gray eyes moving over her in that understated, insolent way he had. She took a deep sip of wine. Had he really dared to seduce her while she slept? As if taking Brandon's letter hadn't been impertinent enough.

The private fantasy, pretending Dominic was sitting here at this table, warmed Chloe's blood. She would dearly love to tell him one last time what a cheeky blackguard he was. Imagine his caressing her dreamy self as she was asleep. What gall, to take advantage of her, to make her respond to him like that. If—

“Are you all right, Lady Chloe?” Sir Edgar's lilting voice intruded on her inappropriate thoughts. “Your face looks flushed. Perhaps it is wrong of us to be discussing the guillotine regime at the table.”

Chloe found herself at a loss for words. Unfortunately, Aunt Gwendolyn filled in the awkward void by announcing, “Perhaps she is sharing my unease, Sir Edgar.”

“Unease?” Sir Edgar inquired, casting a curious look at Chloe.

“This house is haunted,” Aunt Gwendolyn announced, expelling a breath through her nose. “Do you not sense it?”

Sir Edgar looked a little embarrassed. “I cannot say that I have heard any clanking chains in the night or inhuman moaning. Perhaps you ladies need a bit of exercise to chase away these maudlin thoughts. A walk in the long gallery or conservatory while Sir Humphrey and I enjoy a brandy in the library might reassure you.”

“That is an excellent idea,” Aunt Gwendolyn said, and Chloe should have known from how quickly the woman leaped at the chance that she had an ulterior motive in mind. “Come, girls, let us stroll off the excesses of our excellent dinner.”

Sir Edgar rose to escort the three women to the door. But just as they were departing, he said, “One warning, dear ladies. While I do not believe you will encounter my nephew's maligned spirit, there is a remote possibility you will come across that dog of his.”

“His dog?” Pamela asked in surprise. “Whatever do you mean?”

He gave a quiet laugh. “That vexing hound he owned. For several weeks it has been tearing up the garden and running loose in the woods. I told the gamekeeper we should have it put down, but he balked until the wretched animal disappeared a day or so ago. I should hate to have it reappear to my guests.”

“I am not afraid of his lordship's dog,” Aunt Gwendolyn retorted. “The poor creature is probably bereft with grief. The viscount was an avid hunter and horseman,” she added with obvious approval. “No matter what has been said about him, he had a way with animals.”

“And women,” Pamela added in an undertone to Chloe.

Chloe bit her tongue to keep from revealing that she had a little personal experience on the subject herself. Fortunately, this time, Aunt Gwendolyn intervened to offer her own opinion, whispering, “You heard that, girls. The viscount's dog can perceive his master's presence. Animals sense these things, I tell you. That ghost must be laid to rest once and for all, even if I must take him on myself.”

That was too much for Chloe and Pamela. They burst into irreverent giggles as Gwendolyn herded them up the wide black oak staircase to the long gallery that overlooked the entrance vestibule. In past days families had taken light exercise and played games in the spacious walkway. Lovers had strolled hand in hand and kissed by moonlight in the alcoves.

Pamela went off into a fresh round of giggling as she examined the ancestral portraits on the wall. Chloe laughed, too, but she was secretly disappointed that she did not find a painting of Dominic to study.

It would have been safer to scold his portrait than to face him in the flesh again.

 

The sound of Chloe's lighthearted laughter penetrated the walls to the dark gloom where Dominic was hiding. He could feel her vibrant energy lifting his lonely melancholy. The lure of her voice tempted him to leave his prison to see her again. It tortured him to know she was here, in his own house, and he could not take her into his arms.

He wanted more than that, far more, if the truth be told. He wanted passionately to know Chloe Boscastle inside out, to win her admiration and prove himself a hero in her eyes. He wanted to come out of hiding and become a human being again.

He began to pace in the cramped airless space that served as his self-imposed cell. How unfair that he would meet her at the lowest ebb of his life. No doubt he had disgusted her. Even if he managed to have his revenge and emerge alive, he would never be allowed to court her. Her brothers would rightly label him a devil and eat him raw.

Should he survive.

He was willing to see his revenge through to the death. Nothing was going to interfere.

Her laughter echoed tauntingly down the gallery, and he gazed up through the crevice in the wall, aching to see her just one more time. He had tormented himself by reliving their kisses, their heated words, by conjuring up in vivid detail the scent and feel of her supple body. He could not believe she had come here to his house. So near and yet beyond his reach. As if by his desire he had drawn her to him.

And she was laughing. Dining at the table with his enemy. Dancing down the hallway where his murderer had walked. Charming the power-hungry man who could kill a human being as easily as he could a fly.

Dominic had not given her adequate warning.

She had no idea how deadly Sir Edgar could be.

 

“Mama, where on earth are you going?” Pamela asked in shock, racing to keep up with the petite woman's hurried pace.

“To his lordship's bedroom.”

Pamela glanced at Chloe in alarm. “What if Sir Edgar finds us and demands to know what we are doing?”

Aunt Gwendolyn remained oddly unruffled. “We insist that we heard a noise and wandered into the room by mistake.”

“Aunt Gwendolyn, really, isn't that the height of rudeness?” Chloe asked, deciding she had underestimated her aunt's determination. That Boscastle blood might be coming through, after all.

“The height of rudeness,” Aunt Gwendolyn retorted as she swept down the moonlit gallery, “is a ghost who is bent on ruining my daughter.”

Chloe hastened after her. There was no stopping a Boscastle on a mission, not even one whose strain had been diluted. Aunt Gwendolyn had brought along in her reticule a packet of salt, a Bible, a silver bell, and a silk pouch containing the powdered finger bone of a French saint. Or so Madame Dara had claimed when she'd sold Lady Dewhurst the crumbly granules that looked to Chloe suspiciously like oatmeal.

“Well, come along girls,” Aunt Gwendolyn whispered upon reaching the closed bedchamber door. “According to the parson's information, this is the room in which Lord Stratfield was murdered.”

“Perhaps we should do this in daylight,” Pamela said, paling at the mention of the ghastly murder.

“Nonsense,” her mother said. “A ghost does his mischief at night, and another opportunity for us to stop him may not come our way. We cannot count on my husband's conversational skills to keep Sir Edgar entertained much longer.”

Chloe hung back as Pamela opened the door to the darkened chamber. She had no desire to see the room where Dominic had been so brutally attacked, to imagine him shocked, frightened, in unspeakable agony. Having witnessed the pain he'd suffered from his wounds, she could not remain unmoved by visiting the scene of his intended death.

“Aren't you coming, Chloe?” Pamela whispered over her shoulder.

“I'll stand guard out here,” she whispered back. “But hurry, both of you.”

 

After a few moments Chloe found herself drawn to a painting on the wall at the other end of the long gallery. She knew at once that the dashing horseman depicted in a billowing wine cloak was Dominic. The gray eyes that gazed down at her from the portrait held the mocking glint she remembered. The artist had captured the potent energy and depth of Dominic's character.

Almost as if he were poised right in front of her.

“I ought to teach you a lesson,” she whispered.

She heard a noise. The faintest scratching, but from where? She followed the sound farther down the gallery to a large unused fireplace flanked by two Italian green marble columns.

“A mouse,” she said, peering a little disappointedly into the dusty void. “Probably only a mouse.”

She backed away from the fireplace to one of the tall canted windows overlooking the estate. Moonlight glimmered off the black surface of the lake. She did not see her ghost.

“Where are you, Dominic?” she asked in a barely audible voice, pressing her hand to the leaded glass.

“Closer than you think.”

She whirled around. A dark-cloaked figure moved toward her in a blur, and her heart leaped into her throat. Before she could speak, a black-gloved hand gently covered her mouth, and she was drawn off her feet into the dark yawning space beside the fireplace.

The column closed in a swirl of dust, and warm, stuffy darkness enveloped her. She felt herself dragged hard against Dominic's chest. His muscular thighs pressed her backward into an airless void. She could not see him at all, but she felt him all over her body. His arms protected her from dangers she could feel but not name. His lips brushed her cheek.

“Oh, my God, Dominic. You are mad—”

“Do not speak,” he whispered against her neck.

She opened her mouth to protest the fact that she was wedged between the unfinished wall and his iron-hard body. He pressed his gloved forefinger to her lips, silencing her unspoken complaint. Then his large hand curved tenderly around her jaw. Chloe shuddered, closing her eyes at the appalling thrill of being lovingly abused in his arms.

His hands, encased in cool black leather, moved down her shoulders, to her sides, cupping the cheeks of her bottom. The sensation was at once intimate and impersonal, an invasion that he committed as if he had the right. He had gained strength since the last time she had seen him, in perfect control of his body and fully aware of his power. She was aware of him, too, in the confined space. Aware that he was aroused, his hard male form assuming a dominant position. The darkness heightened her sense of vulnerability, his advantage. She could feel the coiled muscles of his chest, and lower, his thighs pressed to hers.