The Love Affair of an English Lord (5 page)

His own tempestuous affairs and conquests seemed to belong to another life. Revenge alone had fed him recently. He had thought little about romance and sexual pleasure in the past few weeks.

The reminder of such sweet pursuits came back to him in a rush. Oh, yes, he was indeed alive, perhaps glad for now to be free of the perils and poignancy of a love affair. Under different circumstances, in fact, he might have even enjoyed bringing this young lady to his bed.

But not now. She was as white as chalk, probably terrified of what he intended to do to her, understandably so. There was nothing he could say to reassure her. In the past few weeks Dominic had realized he was capable of acts that previously would have disgusted him. He hoped to God he would not end up hurting her. It was certain that his involvement in her life would not be an enhancement. Not since the gentleman he had once been was gone.

He had no idea himself what he was going to do. He was a man the world believed safely buried in a grave. Perhaps his “murder” had been the death of his conscience, too.

“Where were you tonight?” he asked quietly, curiosity getting the better of him. Warmth and feminine wiles had always intrigued him. “Or is that a secret, too?” he inquired dryly.

 

Chloe blinked, convinced she was at the whimsical mercy of a certified lunatic. Blast her cousin anyway for dragging out that corset and putting all kinds of sordid notions in this man's head.

He claimed he had been chased here.
Here?
Into her bedroom, of all places. Did he expect her to believe him? He was wounded, but still fast and strong. Stronger than she was. Still, could she make it to the door and down the stairs before him? If she bolted up, threw a pillow in his face, kicked that trunk into his path, well, perhaps. It had worked once when Heath was chasing her after she had stolen one of his coded messages to pay him back for teasing her.

Except that the wretched door to the hall, warped at the hinges, always took at least three good tugs to work free. Dominic would catch her before she could escape, and she would have angered him, not a good risk to take.

His voice jolted her back to reality. “I asked you a question.”

“What?” she whispered, stalling for time, hoping that someone in the house would sense her danger, her desperation.
Please let Pamela sneak back up to help me unpack. . . .

“I asked where you went tonight.”

A fresh wave of fear washed over her. Why did he care about her personal life? She suspected he was unbalanced, definitely dangerous. “It was—”

What did he want her to say? The wrong answer could set him off into a rage. Should she admit she attended a local dance? Dull enough in reality, but it might sound a little frivolous and was likely to make him think of romance. Heaven forbid that she put any ideas of that nature into his mind. Let him think her shy and boring, not the wild hellion who worried her family to death.

“I attended a musicale with my aunt and uncle.” There. A half truth might satisfy him. He needn't know she'd been flirting her heart out with Lord St. John.

He snorted in derision. She noticed that he had a beautifully molded mouth, despite his insulting expression as he drawled, “How utterly thrilling. A Chistlebury musicale. And you lived through it.” To her mortification, he picked up the corset and dangled it between them. “What, may I inquire, was the point in wearing this?”

She drew back, refusing to follow his thoughts. “You said you were chased here?”

“That's what I said.”

He was examining the undergarment in thoughtful amusement, almost as if he were picturing her in it.

She moistened her lower lip. Was he going to insist she put the corset on for him? “Do the people who chased you know you're hiding in my room?”

“No.” He glanced up, gazing into her apprehensive blue eyes as he added, softly, “And you aren't going to tell anyone, are you?”

The tension strained her nerves; if he asked her to perform some lurid act, she decided she would rather jump out the window herself. Dealing with five boisterous brothers hadn't exactly left her defenseless. “Why would I tell anyone?” Her voice rose in tart indignation; it wasn't in Chloe's nature to submit to anything without a fuss, another family trait that frequently got her into trouble. “Why should I mind having a man break into my room and bully me about with brute force?”

His thick black eyebrows lifted at her outburst. He cleared his throat. “Would you mind keeping your voice down? I have only done what was necessary. Be forewarned—as I will continue to do so.”

“But . . . what do you want from me?”

“I used to own this house, this land,” he mused. “Your uncle bought it from me. Are you aware of that?”

“I suppose he told me. I don't remember.”

“You do know who I am?” he asked her, more a statement than a question.

Chloe watched him remove his pistol from his waistband and place it beside him on the bed. “The Stratfield Ghost,” she said without thinking. She glanced up into his dark sardonic face. “Lord Stratfield, I mean.”

“Ah.” His gray eyes glittered with irony. “The legend grows. Tell me—gossip reaches me slowly at the grave—am I still up to my nocturnal mischief?”

Chloe actually blushed, remembering the carnal sins her aunt and practically every person in the parish had accused him of committing as a ghost. She had half wished only an hour ago that he would commit those sins upon her romance-starved self. “Shall we just say that you are believed to enjoy an active afterlife?”

He gave her a mordant smile. “If only it were true.”

There was silence. Chloe dared another glance at the pistol that sat between them. Sounds drifted from below, the gate creaking open, a horse whickering. Then a man's voice drifted from the driveway, a hard knock at the door . . .

He'd heard it, too. His gaze shot back up to Chloe's, openly hostile, suspicious. “Rather late for a caller, isn't it?”

She could only nod, praying for rescue. Yes, it was late, but if Stratfield had been spotted climbing into her room by an alert servant, then at any moment her uncle would come crashing through the door and she would be—

“Ruined,” she thought aloud. “Oh, you
stupid
man. Do you realize what will happen to my name if you're found in here? Do you realize what my brothers will do to both of us? I'm supposed to be behaving myself in Chistlebury.”

He grabbed his gun and slid off the bed, flinching in pain. “At the moment your reputation is the least of my concerns.”

“Well, thank you so very—”

She gasped as he swayed against her, and lifted her arms automatically to steady him. The instinct came before she could suppress it. She might have done better to let him collapse. The physical contact, the shock of his hard body against hers again filled her with more confusion than she could handle. What in the name of heaven was she to do with him?

“You need a physician, Lord Stratfield.”

His muscular weight unbalanced her, forcing them back in a clumsy embrace against the bedpost. He muttered, “Considering the circumstances, I think you should call me Dominic.”

“I should call you the Devil, sir.”

He glanced at the door, his eyes darkening. Survival had obviously sharpened his animal instincts. “Someone is coming. Hide me.”

“I will not.”

The pistol pressed into the tender flesh of her shoulder. “I would not enjoy having to shoot the person unfortunate enough to interrupt our ‘friendship.'”

“You couldn't,” she whispered in dread.

“Believe me,” he said, his eyes cold. “I could. If I am not dead in actual fact, the civilized part of me most certainly is.”

She wrenched her arms away from him, her mouth as dry as dust. She could believe him. The lean, unshaven face that stared back at her bore no traces of the elegant nobleman whom she had imagined to be Sir Galahad. An edge of elemental danger had replaced the aloof sophistication that had defined Dominic Breckland, and the transformation made her wonder.

Had he known on the day they met that his life was threatened? Had she walked into more than a mud puddle on that afternoon? Remembering his rudeness, his strange remarks, it began to make sense.

Someone had made a brutal attempt to kill him. She could not blame him for seeking revenge. But not here, not using her as a vessel for his vengeance. And the worst part was that her brothers would never believe she hadn't brought this on herself.

The knock at her bedroom door ended her reverie. She did not know whether to feel relieved or frightened by the hesitant grumble of her uncle's voice. She would not wish the gentle old dear harmed for anything; she did not deem it wise to test Dominic's assertion that he could be driven to desperate acts.

“My uncle,” she said in a terse undertone.

He clenched his jaw. “Get rid of him.”

“How?”

“I don't care.”

“Go back into the closet,” she said reluctantly. “He won't come into my room.”

He looked around, appraising, clearly not trusting her. “I'll be listening, and watching you.”

“I'm aware of that,” she bit back.

He tossed her corset onto the bed. “I'll stop at nothing to finish this.”

She met his gaze, his cold determination sending a shard of ice down her back. A man with nothing to lose.

Chapter 4

Chloe watched Dominic's shadow shrink back against the wall as she hurried to the door to answer her uncle. Her intruder himself might not be in view, but she felt the dark threat of his presence as surely as if he were breathing down her neck. His menacing promise echoed in her memory.
Would
he harm her or her uncle? Best not to test his capacity for violence.

Her uncle glanced up anxiously as she opened the door a crack. With any luck his intuition would warn him something was very wrong. He would sense her fear and quickly send for help.

“Chloe,” he said without preamble, “I would not have disturbed you, but we have a problem on our hands that cannot wait until morning.”

She pressed her damp palm against the door, praying he would notice the panic in her eyes. She could only hope that the Stratfield “Ghost” had been sighted near the house. Perhaps her aunt would stage an evacuation for propriety's sake. Heaven knew the woman would fly into the boughs if she guessed the wicked wraith was hiding in her niece's bedroom. She almost smiled at the thought of Gwendolyn taking on the surly ghost.

Her uncle hesitated, his gray-haired head downbent. “May I come in?”

The shadow on the wall wavered, ominous in its silence. Chloe imagined that steel-muscled body imprisoning her again, squeezing the breath from her body like a bellows. Surely he had not always behaved in such a barbaric manner.

“No.” She shook her head, her voice catching. How tempting it was to blurt out the truth. How dangerous for them both. “I—I'm not decent, Uncle Humphrey.”

“Oh, my goodness,” he said in embarrassment. “Oh, dear. Well, it is bedtime, and I would not have intruded, but that was the magistrate banging like a blacksmith at the door. It seems a carriage was held up on Cooper's Bridge only an hour ago. This time the highwayman took only the lady's gloves and garters.”

For a moment Chloe forgot her own horrifying situation, following his line of thought. “You don't believe it was Devon—”

“Yes, I do.” He began to pace the worn carpet in the hall, glancing down the darkened stairwell as he spoke. “He showed me a sketch, Chloe, the very image of your wretched brother. It seems he's done it again, committed another crime while your bedeviled brother Grayson has barely cleared the smoke away from the first.”

Chloe suppressed a sigh; she knew exactly when her eldest brother Grayson had moved from the league of devils into one of its victims. When he'd met his match in her lovely sister-in-law, Jane. Well, perhaps at a later time Chloe would deal better with the anger and disappointment over Devon's behavior, if indeed this recent misdeed could be laid at his door. Perhaps she would understand what demons were driving him to irrational acts. But for now, wasn't it enough to have a rogue taking refuge in her room? Devon would just have to take care of this himself. Chloe had her own personal dilemma to manage.

“Does Aunt Gwendolyn know?” she asked on impulse.

“Good gracious, no,” Humphrey replied. “I am afraid to tell her, but—” He stopped pacing, pivoted slowly, and attempted to peer over her shoulder. “I thought perhaps Devon might have come to you? You see, Chloe, I am aware he visits from time to time. No, dear, don't look so distressed. I would never tell your aunt or the authorities. This shall be our secret.”

Another secret. Just what Chloe needed to burden her conscience a little more, to complicate her life.

“Our secret?” Stratfield's shadow had moved again on the wall. Not enough to give him away. Only a menacing reminder to Chloe that he was listening to every word, that she could not so much as exhale without his awareness of it. “What secret, Uncle Humphrey?” she asked blankly.

“Our secret about Devon.” He gave her an odd look. “I'm not upset at you, Chloe. It's natural to protect your brother. But you must warn him the house could well be under scrutiny. Chistlebury is a far cry from London—”

“You certainly do not need to tell me that.”

Her uncle frowned at her. “The authorities here never have enough to occupy their hours. The silly boy is liable to get shot before anyone realizes he is a young lord in search of idle mischief. Gloves and garters, Chloe. Ah, well. At least no one was hurt this time.”

She leaned her forehead on the door. The suspense of knowing Stratfield was waiting for her made it impossible to concentrate on the conversation. Surely he did not mean to spend the night in her room. “Devon is not here.”

“I say, is there something wrong with you, Chloe? Your color looks rather off. You aren't taking sick again, are you?”

The closet door gave a distinct creak. Couldn't her uncle hear it? Could he not guess by the panic in her eyes that a man was holding a pistol at her back?

“It must have been that talk in the carriage,” she said in an undertone.

“Talk? In the carriage? You mean about the cat dragging a mouse to the parson's chair? I never took you for a squeamish miss.”

She resisted the urge to grab him by the lapels of his dressing robe and shake him into understanding.

“Not the cat,” she said in a low, precise voice.

“Then—ah, yes.” He raised his heavy white eyebrows in disapproval. “That ghost nonsense again. Poor Stratfield. You women are showing no respect for the dead.”

Chloe's head began to throb. “Respect?” Her uncle harbored sympathy for a man who was holding her hostage under his very nose?

“Look how pale you've gone, Chloe. Are you afraid of ghosts? If so, I assure you that Stratfield's shade is not about to seduce anyone in this household.” He chuckled at the thought. “Why would he sneak about doing in death what he could have done in life? With a snap of his fingers that poor man could have had his pick of our silly Chistlebury ladies. Excluding you and my Pamela, of course.”

Spots of light danced before Chloe's eyes. Never mind seduction. Would Stratfield really go so far as to shoot them? If she squeezed through the door and bolted, she might make it down the stairs to hide.

But then Uncle Humphrey would be left standing in the hall, not understanding the danger on the other side of the door. He might try to defend himself against Stratfield.

“It's Devon who should concern us,” he added in a somber voice. “Go to bed. We shall have to come up with a plan in the morning to straighten out the young rakehell.”

“In the morning,” she repeated numbly as he hurried off, his spry figure disappearing down the stairs. Would she even be alive in the morning to hold a conversation? Would she be disgraced by the ghostly Galahad?

She stared after her uncle, torn between a wild terror and self-survival. This was her last chance. No one would venture up to her room again tonight, believing her safe in bed.

Tell him the Stratfield Ghost is holding you hostage. Tell him before it's too late. . . .

“Uncle Humphrey,” she called out, “please come—”

Her uncle did not hear her. She realized her cry for help had failed even before she could finish calling to him.

She did not see Dominic spring forward; a flash of motion in her cheval glass was her only warning. The next thing she knew, his heavy weight was pinning her to the door. The impact would have echoed through the house with a telling bang had the wood not been warped.

Caught between the door and Dominic, Chloe found it impossible to move. She could feel the coiled energy in his iron-hard body, and hoped he would not lose control. As for her, she had no choice but to stand perfectly still and pray she would stop shaking. He wasn't exactly hurting her, but the weakness that rushed through her, the heat of his body felt like an attack of sorts. She was embarrassingly aware of how male he was.

If she hadn't experienced the gentle devastation of his kiss that day in the rain, she would have felt differently. Would have been more afraid of him. Perhaps she had imagined his tenderness toward her. Even the memory of it made her dizzy. The sensual power he had wielded had been all too real.

“Is it really necessary to handle me in such a dramatic manner?” she demanded in a burst of anger.

He stared down at her with considerably more self-composure than he had shown before. “As long as you disobey me, I'm afraid it is.”

She tensed at the faint pressure in her midsection and looked slowly down in dread. It took her a few moments to realize that the sharp object poking her in the ribs was not a gun, but a pen. Her own
favorite
pen! The nerve of him to take her prisoner with a pen. She snatched it from his hand.

“What were you doing in my desk?” she asked indignantly.

He drew away from the door, pulling her firmly by her forearms into the center of the room. His gaze never leaving her face, he reached behind him to calmly throw the bolt. “I was looking for writing materials.”

She stared at him in stark disbelief. Somewhere in her closet he must have found a comb to attend his thick black hair, and a clean bandage to cover—

“Is that my pink Honiton lace petticoat you're using on your wound?” she asked in a scandalized voice.

He gave her a wry smile. “I apologize, but I really had little choice. It was that or another one of your intriguing corsets.” His gaze swept up and down her curvaceous form in amusement. “I didn't think I'd fit.”

His audacity stole her breath.

She noticed that his gun had disappeared. At least she could not see it on him, and she supposed she could take a measure of comfort in that. But helping himself to her pen and petticoats. What would he demand of her next?

He circled her. The dark was kind to him. Playing dead had not diminished his personal magnetism in the least. Aside from the wadded pink lace beneath his blood-stained shirt, he could almost pass for a gentleman.

“Writing materials,” she said. Her brain was beginning to function again, coming to a rather nasty conclusion. “For a ransom note?”

“A what?” he asked, as if he couldn't believe his ears.

She cleared her throat. “A ransom note.”

He stopped directly behind her. He was rubbing absentmindedly at the pink lace stuffed under his shirt, and Chloe remembered how that petticoat had always given her an itchy rash on her behind. She could only hope he suffered as much.

“And pray what would I write a ransom note for?” he inquired, his head bent close to hers.

The dark, her state of undress, imparted an intimacy too distracting to ignore. She could feel her “ghost” smirking over her shoulder. Playing with her, he was, in a very ungentlemanly way.

She straightened her spine and said, “You are aware that my brother is the Marquess of Sedgecroft, a man whose wealth is common knowledge. It is logical to assume he would pay well for his sister's safe deliverance.”

He stepped away, kicking the stool out from the dressing table. Contemplating her rigid form, he swung his tall body around and sat to regard her. His heavily lashed gray eyes moved over her like mist.

“
Is
it logical?” he asked in a low voice that seemed to verge on laughter.

She glanced down in disdain at his shadowed form. “Despite your evil intentions, you ought to be warned that there is a good chance my brother would instruct you to keep me.”

“To keep you?” he repeated. “Now why on earth would the marquess do such a thing? Why would a brother not want a sister who gets herself in trouble every time he turns around?”

Chloe frowned. If she managed to survive this ordeal with Stratfield, she was going to make Grayson very sorry for sending her to Chistlebury. “It is true that I have not pleased my brother lately,” she said reluctantly.

His eyes gleamed in the darkness. “So I understand.”

She glared down at him. He sat astride the stool like a prince who enjoyed torturing his subjects. To think she had actually wished that day in the rain that he would ravish her. Chloe cringed at the foolishness of that fantasy. “What do you mean?” she asked in hesitation.

“I know why you were banished to our humble village, darling.”

He knew? He couldn't possibly. Grayson and Heath had treated her social disgrace as if it were a War Office secret. Which was quite silly, actually, considering that half of London knew. And this man did not seem the sort who read the scandal sheets, but, still, he
could
have found out.

She dredged up the standard defense. “I was sent to the country to improve my stamina. I—I have a weak chest.”

He arched his brow, looking her up and down in a leisurely fashion that brought a hot blush to the surface of her skin. “I do not detect a deficiency in that area of your anatomy, nor in any other part of you for that matter. You look in remarkable good health from where I'm sitting.”

“Do I indeed?”

“Indeed,” he said heartily, then added as a titillating afterthought, “of course, it is dark, and that robe conceals more than it reveals. I suppose I could light a candle and give you a more thorough inspection. Never let it be said I am one to form a hasty opinion.”