The Smuggler Wore Silk (4 page)

“I must go,” Grace said. “Please excuse me.”

“Please tell me that you will be attending the ball, Miss Hannah.”

Thwack!
Thwack!
The riding crop’s rhythm increased and the sound sharpened. Grace could feel her uncle’s cold brown eyes boring into her. She forced herself to keep her gaze on the earl.

“No, I’m sorry. I can’t attend.”

“But you must, fair lady. The ball would be nothing without your enchanting presence.”

“I—”

“She cannot, Langford,” Lord Cannon interjected.

“Please say you will,” the earl cajoled, ignoring Lord Cannon. “Or I shall not attend myself. And as you said, the guest of honor must attend.”

“Er. Well.” Her fingers twisted the invitation of their own accord. She couldn’t possibly attend. She hadn’t attended any social function in nearly seven years. Not since the fiasco she’d caused. Uncle would be furious.

Then the earl smiled and oh, it was full of temptation. All caution died in the light of that smile.

“Yes, my lord.”

Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack!

“Wonderful, Miss Hannah!” The earl reached for her hand again. “You must save me the first dance.”

His fingers were long, the pads interestingly callused. He rubbed his thumb against her palm, tickling the sensitive skin. The movement was so intimate, so shocking, she struggled to hold back the gasp.

His eyes gleamed. He
knew
what his touch had done to her. The delighted quirk of his lips proved it.

“Of course, my lord. I would be pleased to dance with you.” Flustered, the words tumbled out of her. “If you will excuse me?”

“Grace has urgent duties she must attend to,” her uncle said. His eyes snapped with fury as looked at her. “Please excuse her.”

“Of course. Miss Hannah, the pleasure has been mine. I look forward to our dance.” The earl squeezed her fingers before letting her hand slide away. “Lord Cannon, I would be happy to further our acquaintance.”

As Grace quit the room, she heard her uncle say, “A brandy, then.”

What had she gotten herself into?

She strode to her sitting room and shut the door carefully behind her. Sighing, Grace paced to the escritoire. She propped the wrinkled invitation against a stack of ledgers and stared at it.

Withdrawing her acceptance would be wiser than attending. She wouldn’t embarrass her uncle, nor would she make a fool of herself. She wouldn’t have to struggle to find the appropriate pleasantries for the neighbors. Nor would she see Michael—her former betrothed—and his gorgeous wife, who would certainly attend.

Closing her eyes, Grace breathed slowly in and out to calm her pounding heart. If she went, she would have to be on the dance floor, with the earl, in front of everyone. Naturally, her conversation would be stilted, her comments gauche. She’d trip over her own feet or trod on the earl’s toes, and every one of the guests would observe her clumsiness.

A low groan sounded in the room and Grace’s eyes popped open. Looking around, she saw she was alone. The groan had been hers. Of course.

Voices carried down the hall. She heard the earl murmur something unintelligible at this distance. Her uncle responded and she heard a distinct “good-bye.” Then footsteps pounded down the hall, rhythmic, sharp, and growing louder every moment. She held her breath and prepared for the storm.

The door flew open, hinges squeaking in protest. Lord Cannon rounded on her. His skin was mottled and purple right up to the crown of his head. “What are you about?” he roared. “You don’t belong at Lady Hammond’s ball!”

“I know, Uncle.” Grace gripped her fingers together and looked at the crumpled invitation propped on her desk. “But you heard the earl. He wouldn’t attend if I didn’t—”

“He doesn’t know who you are, so he doesn’t know better. But
you
do.”

“I couldn’t refuse.” Of course she could have. She hadn’t wanted to.

“He was
flirting
with you. It cannot be tolerated.” His riding crop flicked through the air. “This will be your first assembly since Michael Wargell jilted you. You’ll likely meet his wife. Don’t embarrass me.”

“No, Uncle. I won’t.” What would she say to the Wargells? To anyone?

“And for God’s sake,
don’t
make a fool of yourself with the earl!” Lord Cannon stalked out, his stride matching the furious rhythm of the riding crop.

She knew most of the gentry, visited their homes with various poultices and tonics and advice. But she didn’t
socialize
with them. Certainly not since Michael had left her two steps from the altar. She simply didn’t belong.

Unfortunately, she had foolishly agreed to attend and, worse, promised her first dance.

The image of the Earl of Langford’s laughing eyes bloomed in her mind, and with it, all the promise of excitement and the social suicide of breaking her promise of the first dance. No, she would have to attend.

Before she had time to think, she opened a small drawer. One by one she retrieved a quill, paper and an inkwell, before scratching her reply to the invitation.

Lord Thaddeus Cannon and Miss Grace Hannah gratefully accept your invitation.

She blotted the response, sealed it and strode into the hall. On a delicate wooden table near the door lay two letters, waiting to be mailed. She set her reply onto the table for a footman to deliver to Lady Hammond, but her hand refused to drop away. It hovered above the response, fingers poised to pluck it off the table and shove it into her apron pocket.

No. Her hand flew back, leaving the crisp cream stationery in the salver. She’d made a promise, so she would attend and pretend she knew what she was doing.

Heaven help her.

She fingered her apron as she continued to stare at the dried ink and rounded letters of her response. Edginess crept in, sending a rush of nervous energy through her. She needed to move. To breathe.

“I
’M GOING TO
walk from here,” Julian called to the coachman, pounding a fist lightly on the ceiling of the carriage. The brilliant sky—so much larger here than in London—had sent out fluffy white clouds to tempt and tease him into the fields.

“Are you sure, milord? It’s nearly two miles to Thistledown,” the coachman called back.

“Yes.” Julian jumped from the carriage and waved the vehicle away before turning to the vista that rolled out before him. Field melded with field, creating a patchwork of green and gold bordered by dry stone fences or hedgerows.

If his memory was correct, some of the land before him belonged to other landowners in the area, but he was certain the farther fields were part of his own estate. He wondered where his own borders were. He had never wanted to know before. He didn’t want to know now, either, particularly. He would be returning to London as soon as the traitor was flushed out.

He stepped from the dirt lane and onto the springy turf. Breathing deep, he took in the tangy scent of grass and damp earth. He tramped through a field, then another, listening only to the drone of bees and bleating of sheep.

Much of the terrain had changed in the past quarter century. Flashes of memory accompanied particular views, but they were so brief he only retained impressions. Then he recognized a large oak, its branches spreading over a stone fence swathed in blooming pink clematis and dark green moss.

He’d sat in the dappled sunlight on this fence as a child. Nostalgia rose in him, a bittersweet pang that burned his throat and caught him by surprise. He settled beneath the oak, leaning against the rough stones. The ground was dry but soft, the earth warm from the summer heat. Around him, flowers rioted over the wall, their sweet scent filling the air.

Fingering the delicate blossoms, Julian contemplated his strategy. He’d thought of simply forcing information from Grace Hannah. If she were innocent, however, it would do her a disservice. If she was
involved and fled because of the pressure he put on her, it might also alert the traitor in London. Similarly, he couldn’t directly demand an answer from her. She could inform the traitor, who could go to ground indefinitely. That was something he could not tolerate.

He needed to determine what avenue he could explore. There were numerous smugglers in the area who might have information, but penetrating their ranks without some leverage or an idea of who might be involved would be a futile exercise or, once again, alert the traitor. But it was a risk he’d have to take.

He would pursue Miss Hannah. It would be no hardship to further that acquaintance. A light flirtation, a hint of courtship. Perhaps something more carnal, though he’d never been one to take flirtation too far in his work. To use a woman’s body, to use his own that way—even for the good of the country—would make him no better than his father.

The sound of hooves thudding against earth interrupted his solitude. Julian turned to see the oncoming rider. His lips curved when he realized it was the subject of his thoughts, fast approaching on her magnificent stallion.

“Why, Miss Hannah,” he murmured to himself as he watched the pair race over the ground. “Whatever are you doing riding astride?”

Not only was she riding astride, she was galloping across the field as though all the demons of hell chased her. Her skirts billowed and whipped behind her. Surely the rules of propriety weren’t so
lax in the country that a lady’s ankles and calves were a common sight? She wore no hat and the sun glinted on her hair.

Julian
knew
there was more beneath the serene mask she hid behind. No one could take such a tumultuous, reckless ride and throw propriety to the wind without passion. Julian admired the melding of woman and horse, their lean bodies moving as one as they approached a low hedgerow. Together, they seemed to gather their energy before soaring gracefully over the earth and shrubs.

Their unity spoke of an affinity that surpassed mere horsemanship or even innate skill. Horse and rider shared a bond, some understanding or connection. He continued to study Miss Hannah as her words about the magnificent stallion at their first meeting echoed through his memory.
Demon has the speed and stamina for racing, but not the temperament, poor fellow. He has trouble following directions.

Horse and rider were now close to the wide oak he sat under. Miss Hannah showed little sign of slowing. She may not see him and take the stone fence as a jump. If so, he would lose an opportunity that might lead him to the traitor.

With a quick push, Julian drew himself up to standing and raised a hand in greeting. He knew the moment she noticed him. Her face tensed with surprise. She leaned forward in the saddle, as though to urge the stallion on past man and tree. Then her shoulders slumped and she turned the stallion toward him. Julian could all but hear her resigned sigh. Propriety won out. This time. If he was any judge of character, it didn’t win every time.

That would be his advantage.

She slowed, drew close. He could see her repositioning her leg, sliding it from the stirrup, around the old-fashioned high pommel and to the other side. Amused, he watched her spread her skirt to cover the saddle, as though she thought the lack of sidesaddle would go unnoticed.

“Good afternoon, my lord.” Breathless from the ride, her words came out between light gasps. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat and loose tendrils of hair trailed around her face. He found her mussed appearance even more tempting than the mask that begged to be stripped away.

“Good afternoon, Miss Hannah. I must be favored by the gods to be given the gift of your beauty twice in one day. Out for a ride in the warm summer air before it fades to autumn?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the sky.

“Indeed. Demon needed a good run.” She patted the stallion’s neck.

The horse, too, panted from the gallop, but his sounds weren’t nearly as interesting as the little pants coming from Miss Hannah. Her breasts rose and fell in the most delightful manner with each inhalation. The action combined with her mussed appearance brought all sorts of erotic images to mind, most particularly of the serene Miss Hannah rising above him, her white-blond hair spilling over her shoulders and breasts.

He couldn’t stop the wicked smile.

__________

G
RACE DREW IN
a deep breath to slow her ragged gasps. She tried to smooth her skirts over the saddle once more before abandoning the effort. He would know she wasn’t on a sidesaddle. By attempting to hide it she’d probably drawn more attention to the fact.

Worse, she was certain she looked disheveled, windblown and, given her fair skin, flushed from the heat. Her fingers ached to dive into her hair and tuck the loose ends back in place, but the action would emphasize the disordered mass.

The earl, of course, looked both handsome and relaxed, leaning against the old stone fence as though he were in no more an unusual place than his own drawing room. Jacketed arms were crossed over his chest and booted feet were crossed at the ankles. The wind ruffled the hair around his lean face, highlighting the seductive smile.

She cast around her mind for polite conversation. “Are you enjoying your afternoon, my lord?”

“Very much. I have been reacquainting myself with Thistledown’s lands, as I did with the inhabitants of Beer this morning,” the earl said. He looked into the distance as he spoke, as though seeing something in his memory. “I’d forgotten how close Thistledown is to the sea. Do you ever get to the seaside, Miss Hannah?”

“Often,” she replied. Unease rippled up her spine as his eyes met hers, intense and focused. His tongue might be gilded, but his watchful eyes gave him away. He was seeking information. But what, and why? “The sea is only a few miles from here.”

“Not everyone enjoys the water. Do you?”

“I do.”

“I imagine the smugglers do as well.”

“Smugglers, my lord?” Grace struggled to keep her face expressionless as her heart thumped. “I imagine they must enjoy the water, given their profession, but I wouldn’t know for certain.”
Except that she knew nearly every smuggler from Seaton to Sidmouth
.

“I’ve heard the coast is rife with smugglers,” the earl continued easily. “I’d be most disappointed if it isn’t true. I had hoped for some excitement down here in the country.”

“Looking to join the smugglers, my lord?”

“Would that thrill you? Would you find me dashing and dangerous and attractive?” The melodramatic tone of his question made her smile.

“I’d certainly keep the information in mind,” she answered tartly. “If the customs officers appear at my door I can turn you in for the reward money.” Even as the words left her lips, she wished she could take them back.

The earl didn’t seem to mind her wayward tongue. “You wound me, fair lady.” With overdramatic flair, he placed his free hand over his heart.

She nearly snorted, but managed to keep her features bland. “Hopefully it’s not too deep a wound, as I’ve nothing to stanch it.”

He laughed, long and loud, letting his head fall back. The sound filled her, sending warmth all the way down to her toes.

Demon pranced to the side, reminding Grace of her precarious position on his back. She easily brought him under control again. When she looked up, the earl was watching her intently, his gaze full of admiration.

“Demon truly is a magnificent animal,” the earl said. “In fact, I expect he could outrun the customs officers.”

“Are you thinking of taking him out on loan when you join the smugglers?”

“I would, but I’d lose my dashing reputation among the ladies if I’m riding one of their horses. I’m certain the famous smuggler Jack Blackbourn would never borrow a horse from a lady.”

“Jack would borrow anything if it meant escape, including his wife’s petticoats,” she said wryly. “Escape
is
escape, after all.”

“A smuggler must be prepared for every eventuality and use what comes to hand.” He propped one booted foot on the stone fence and rested his arms on his knee.

“It sounds as though you have given this a great deal of thought.”

“I
have
been looking to take on a career.” He tapped a finger against pursed lips, appearing deep in thought.

“The Wandering Earl isn’t a career?”

“A gentleman must have some excitement in his life. Smuggling would be just the thing, don’t you think?” He plucked a pink clematis from the blooms trailing across the stone wall. Stepping forward, he offered it to her. “As I asked before, would that thrill you?”

This time there was no melodramatic hand over his heart or laugh in his voice. Instead, he purred the words, his tone silky and low. The sound slid along her senses, soft and seductive, even as the petals of the clematis slid along her skin as she accepted his offering.

“I doubt it would thrill me, my lord. Smugglers are plentiful along the coastline and I’m certain I’ve met a few already.” The flower fluttered in the breeze as she tucked it into the bodice of her simple gown.

“Ah, but I would be a different sort of smuggler,” he answered, raising a hand and settling it on Demon’s neck. The horse’s hide rippled beneath the earl’s hand as though the animal luxuriated in the man’s touch. “I would no longer be the Wandering Earl. I’d be the Smuggling Earl. The wild rake that took on the high seas, outrunning the customs officers and Boney’s ships.”

Grace watched the long, strong fingers caressing Demon’s dark hide. Fascinated, she continued to stare as his fingers moved down the horse’s neck and came to rest inches from the saddle. Inches from her.

She cleared her throat. “I doubt anyone could compete with Jack Blackbourn.”

“A challenge?” He raised his brows and sent her a slow, considering smile. “Perhaps I should join and see if I can’t be more exciting than the famous Blackbourn. Perhaps I will be able to turn your head. Perhaps I’ll sweep you away to sea and prove just how exciting I could be.”

His tone continued in that silky purr that shivered up her spine. She knew now the tales of the Wandering Earl were true. A man who looked like that, spoke like that, had certainly captivated dozens of women. He apparently wanted to add her to his list of accomplishments.

Despite knowing of his skill with women and his reputation, she still found herself drawn to him. She angled her head, pursed her lips. “Are you certain I haven’t been swept away to sea already, my lord? Perhaps I’ve had my fill of excitement.”

“Not the type of excitement I could show you.” His honeyed words swirled about her, seducing her.

“I’m certain I don’t need your particular sort of excitement.” The words sounded more confident than she felt. Inside, deep inside, she felt warm and taut and urgent.

“No? After witnessing your reckless ride, I’m not so certain.” His hand slid once more across Demon’s broad shoulder. Only a breath away from her thigh. “Let me escort you back to Cannon Manor.”

The sensuous caress of his voice sent a shudder through her.
Yes.
Her body all but screamed it. Every inch of her seemed enlivened so that even the air gliding over her skin inflamed.

She needed to ride once more, to relieve the energy pent up within her. Frantic for some release from the spell woven around her, she glanced around for the earl’s horse.

“Your mount, my lord?”

“I don’t have one, Miss Hannah. I’m on foot. But you wouldn’t leave me stranded here, would you?”

Her hands tightened on the reins. “I might.”

“Forcing me to walk all the way back to Thistledown in this stifling heat? What if I were to overheat? Go into convulsions or the vapors?” A melodramatic hand wiped imaginary sweat from his brow and Grace couldn’t stop the little smile that pulled at her lips.

“For an aspiring smuggler you’re not very hardy, my lord.”

“Again you wound me, fair lady! Striking at the heart of my manhood!”

This time she laughed, unable to keep the sound at bay when he clutched at his heart.

“You must rescue me, Miss Hannah. Carry me to the safety of Thistledown where my wounds may be ministered to.” His dramatic expression turned wily. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid of my sort of excitement?”