Waltz With a Stranger (30 page)

Upstairs, she dismissed Suzanne as soon as her hair was plaited for the night. Too restless and unsettled to retire yet, she decided to go in search of a book. Something peaceful and soothing, or else so gripping that she wouldn’t mind losing sleep over it. Pulling on her dressing gown, she did up all the fastenings, secured the sash about her waist, and ventured downstairs.

Nearing the doorway of the library, she glimpsed the glow of a lighted lamp within. Someone else was also wakeful tonight, she thought as she peered into the room.

Trevenan sat at his desk. He’d loosened his waistcoat and dispensed with his jacket altogether, and the linen of his shirt gleamed with a ghostly whiteness in the lamplight. Beneath a shock of disordered dark hair—had he been running his fingers through it?—his expression was abstracted, almost brooding; slightly to Aurelia’s alarm, he cradled a glass of brandy in one hand.

Hesitantly, she called to him from the threshold. “Trevenan?”

He looked up. “Miss Aurelia. Shouldn’t you be abed by now?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she explained, coming further into the room and trying not to feel self-conscious about being in her nightclothes. At least she was decently covered, and, in his current state of dishevelment, Trevenan was in no position to cast stones. “I wondered if a book might calm me. Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

He glanced at his lone lamp, then toward the fireplace where the evening’s blaze had subsided to glowing embers. “I find it helps me to think.”

“Does
that
help you to think as well?” Aurelia gestured toward the glass in his hand.

“Sometimes.” His mouth formed a faint, sardonic smile. “Or better still, it helps me not to think at all.”

“That I can believe,” she retorted, a note of censure creeping into her voice.

He raised his brows, swirled about the contents of his glass with an almost provocative air; she’d never seen him in such a mood. “You have something against spirits, then?”

Aurelia met his gaze squarely. “No, merely the misuse of them. Consider Lady Durward’s behavior tonight. Surely you noticed how much wine she drank at dinner?”

He exhaled, setting down his glass. “Point taken. But one brandy, after a long, trying evening, is not going to turn me into a toper or a raging boor,” he added with some irritation.

“No, of course not,” she said at once, trying to sound placatory. “And it
has
been a long, trying evening. But Lady Durward’s been dealt with; she can’t do any more damage tonight.”

Something—some shadow—flickered in his eyes, and she frowned. “But there’s something else wrong, isn’t there? Not just your odious cousin making a scene.” She took a step toward the desk and caught sight of several papers lying off to one side; enlightenment dawned horribly. “Another letter?”

From the way his brows lanced together, she suspected that he was cursing himself for not putting the pages away before she came in. “It would appear so.” His voice was curt; after a moment, he added, more normally, “The second was delivered two days ago to our banker, Samuel Curnow, in Truro. It contains the same accusations as the first,
and
names Harry and Robin Pendarvis as possible suspects, instead of simply hinting at their involvement.”

Aurelia fretted her lower lip as she absorbed the implications. “Was Sir Harry able to convince your banker that the letter was libelous?”

Trevenan sighed. “Curnow is willing to give Harry the benefit of the doubt. Robin Pendarvis, however, remains an unknown quantity.”

“And you?” she asked. “I trust Mr. Curnow sees no reason to doubt your innocence.”

“No, fortunately. He has discounted the slanders against myself and Harry.” He glanced down at the letters again, pulled them toward him with obvious reluctance. “All’s well and good—until the next one arrives. And there
will
be a next one.”

“Yes, very likely,” Aurelia conceded with a sigh of her own.

He smiled wryly. “I see you don’t dismiss the possibility.”

She shrugged. “What good would that do? Ignoring an unpleasant reality doesn’t make it go away. I could wish the writer of this poison would tire of his nasty scheme or meet with an unfortunate accident himself, but that won’t stop the letters from coming.”

“No.” He looked down at the letters, his expression darkening. “I go over these again and again, trying to find some clue, some trick of phrasing that might help me discover who could possibly hate us this much.” He reached for his glass, took another lengthy swallow.

“Why not put it away for now and come back to it with fresh eyes tomorrow?” Aurelia suggested. “You won’t accomplish anything but a headache sitting here brooding and drinking brandy in the dark.”

He slanted an unreadable glance at her over his glass. “Sensible Aurelia.”

It sounded almost like a gibe. Flushing, she said a bit stiffly, “I try to be.”

“And bossy Aurelia too. I hadn’t expected that of you. Your sister, perhaps, but not you.”

“Perhaps I have hidden depths,” she retorted, matching him stare for stare. “You didn’t think Amy always called the tune, did you? You’d be sadly mistaken in that case.”

Trevenan sighed, shutting both letters away in their drawer. “I suspect I’ve been mistaken about a great many things lately.”

“Including not taking Amy into your confidence?”

His brows drew together, a dark slash of annoyance. “This again?”

There was a hint of temper in his voice as well as his eyes, but Aurelia wasn’t about to let it intimidate her. “Yes, this again. I can’t understand why you haven’t told her the whole of what you’re facing.”

“Perhaps because one Newbold sister plaguing me about this is more than enough!”

The words stung like a slap; she could almost feel the color leaving her face. Her own fault for prying, she supposed. Summoning what dignity she could, she drew herself up to her full height and strove for enough cool composure to mask the hurt. “I see.” To her relief, her voice emerged without a quaver. “My apologies, Lord Trevenan, for intruding upon your private affairs. I wish you good night.”

She turned to go, trying to carry herself with the poise expected of an American princess.

“Aurelia!” Trevenan surged to his feet and closed the distance between them in a few short strides. “Forgive me,” he said with what appeared to be genuine contrition. “That
was
boorish. I spoke in haste—or perhaps it was the brandy speaking.” He reached for her hand, then paused, with his own hand hovering between them.

Aurelia eyed his hand warily, as if it might bite. “Maybe you and the brandy should say good night as well, before you both say something else that you’ll regret in the morning.”

She spoke tartly, keeping her defenses well up, but she could already feel herself starting to soften. Only a saint could remain tranquil and unaffected by all that he was facing, and Trevenan was no saint—just a good man beset by problems not of his making. Little wonder, then, that he was impatient and short-tempered now. And she
had
been awfully persistent about him telling Amy, she acknowledged with a pang of guilt.

“I already regret what I’ve said,” Trevenan assured her. “And no doubt you’re right about the brandy. I’ll stop at once.”

Aurelia swallowed. “I do not mean to—to plague you. About Amy or the brandy. It’s just that you don’t seem the sort, to seek comfort in a bottle.”

“I’m not, usually. Call it a momentary lapse, born of circumstance. And as for plaguing me…” He shook his head, offered her a tentative smile. “I have far more cause to thank you than to criticize you. So thank you I will—your loyalty and discretion are deeply appreciated.”

“They are no trouble to give, in your case.” Aurelia hesitated, then resumed with greater urgency, “Trevenan…James.” His name felt strangely right on her tongue; she rushed on rather than let herself think
how
right. “You are not alone. You have family and friends—and a fiancée, who all care for you. Let them in, give them a chance to help you with this.”

After a moment, he nodded. “I
will
tell Amy. You are right; this concerns her too.”

“Good.” Aurelia smiled at him. “You won’t regret it. Amy’s the most loyal person I know. She never stops fighting for the people she cares for.”

He looked at her without speaking, his dark eyes intent on her face. Looked so long, in fact, that Aurelia began to feel self-conscious again. Lowering her gaze, she glimpsed the triangle of bare skin exposed by his open shirt collar, and below that, the outlines of a lean, hard torso, just visible beneath smooth linen. Heat flooded through her at the sight, and she inwardly cursed herself for being so susceptible to his physical presence. Still. Always. Just as she’d been a few days ago, in the folly.

Pushing the thought away, she made herself look up again, only to find him still gazing at her. Self-consciousness quickly yielded to concern. “Trevenan—are you all right?”

He started, visibly coming back to himself. “I’m fine.” He paused to clear his throat. “Perhaps—more affected by the brandy than I thought.”

“Do you need someone to help you upstairs?” she asked at once.

His brows quirked up. “Good Lord, no.” He sounded almost amused now. “I’m not in that bad a case. But I’ll say good night now and leave you to your search for bedtime reading. I’d avoid the Gothic romances, if I were you,” he added. “They’ll give you nightmares.”

Aurelia smiled at that, as he’d no doubt expected her to, but she couldn’t help eying him with solicitude. “Good night, Trevenan. Pleasant dreams.”

He nodded. “And to you as well, my dear.”

He strode from the library, leaving Aurelia to stare after him in bemusement. Shaking her head, she turned to face the room again. He’d left his coat behind, thrown over the back of a chair. Idly, she fingered the heavy black broadcloth. It held none of his warmth, not after all this time, but she found herself wondering if it retained any of his scent the way his riding coat had, in the folly. The memory brought a scalding rush of blood to her cheeks, and she snatched her hand back from the coat as if it had been woven of nettles rather than wool.

A
book
, Aurelia reminded herself. She had come downstairs for a book. With grim determination, she began her search, even as she suspected that sleep might be a lost cause tonight, whatever title she chose.

***

James stood at his chamber window, staring out at the night sky. Black on black, a nearly moonless night—and all too appropriate to his mood. He’d locked the letters away downstairs, but their poisonous accusations still gnawed at him.

Spite and malice, from a coward’s pen. Did this faceless stranger, this invisible enemy who employed such vicious slanders, have any idea just how much James
hadn’t
wanted the earldom? God, if he could undo whatever had happened to Gerald that night…

The back of his neck prickled, as if in warning; he turned at once from the window and caught his breath.

His love stood on the threshold, smiling, gazing at him with the tender sympathy he cherished in her. Unbound, her hair spilled over her shoulders like a flood of molten gold, gleaming against the chaste white of her nightgown.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he told her, but she only glided forward, soft-footed as a shadow, to slip her arms about his neck.

“My dear,” James began, then all reason fled as she leaned into him, the soft curves of her body warm and yielding against his own. The scent of her filled his nostrils, made all his senses swim, and sent heat coiling through his lower belly. With a groan, he surrendered to the longing that consumed him, wrapping his arms about her and lifting her off her feet.

Together they sank onto the bed, which received their combined weight without even a creak of springs. She lay beneath him, eyes shining, lips parted for his kiss. The thin muslin of her nightgown fell away beneath his touch like a discarded skin. Marveling, James skimmed his fingers over the plush softness of her lips, the warm satin of her skin, even the line of her scar. Her scar…

He jerked awake, breathless, perspiring—and alone. His bedclothes were a tangle about his body. He fought his way free of them and stumbled toward the window. Opening the casement as far as it would go, he leaned on the sill and let the night air cool his heated face, while he breathed deeply, in and out. His heart pounded in his chest, a hammer raining blows on an anvil, and his loins still ached with arousal.

A dream, nothing more. But a dream so vivid, so
real
, he could scarce believe it hadn’t happened—not even when he looked back at the empty bed.

The bed…fresh linens had been put on it just today, he remembered. Linens fragrant with orris—and lavender, the scent
she
loved so much. The scent of lavender, weaving through his dreams like a silken ribbon, or a strain of music impossible to forget. And scents could be powerfully evocative things. Perhaps if the linens had smelled of roses and jasmine, he would have dreamed of Amy instead.

He grimaced, recognizing that the argument carried more hope than conviction. It hadn’t been Amy beside him that day in the folly, when his body had first betrayed him—though at least he’d managed to conceal it. It hadn’t been Amy he’d wanted to kiss as though his next breath depended on it. High time he stopped pretending, if only to himself. He stared at the bed a moment longer, still seeing
her
there in his mind’s eye, and then looked away.
Shun
the
demon
brandy,
he thought with black humor, remembering her earlier remonstrations to him in the library. Except that he suspected the brandy had had little to do with what had just occurred.

Leaving the window, he dropped onto a chair and leaned his forehead against his braced hands. Two women he cared for, one to whom he had actively pledged his word. But it was the other who haunted his dreams, however determined he was to keep her at arm’s length during his waking hours. How the devil was he supposed to do that now?