A Man Of Many Talents (7 page)

“There. You have seen me to the steps. I assure you that I can find my way to my room,” she said in her severest voice. Given his perverse bent since his arrival here, her tone only titillated him further.

“I have no doubt of it,” Christian answered, enjoying the flicker of relief in her eyes, especially considering what he planned to say next. “But I will accompany you nonetheless.”

She looked nonplussed, opening her mouth as if to speak,
and Christian decided that her li
ps were very tempting when they weren’t pursed tightly in disapproval. He would have liked to keep them open, and at that moment fate stepped in and gave him the opportunity. Before she could protest, thunder crashed loudly outside, followed by a great lashing of rain and a gust of wind that rattled the windows and sent a draft swirling around the lantern, fortuitously extinguishing it. As Christian’s own lamp was shuttered, they were plunged into complete and utter darkness.

For once, Miss Parkinson seemed to lose her aplomb. She made a sound rather like a squeak, so Christian set down his lantern and reached for her, his hands closing about her shoulders. They were soft and supple beneath his fingers, the material of her robe worn and smooth. Lilacs, faint yet poignant, invaded his senses, and he pulled her closer. A bolt of light
ning illuminated her face, wide-
eyed and gasping as he gazed down at her.

And then he kissed her.

It was certainly not his usual encounter, staged in the black bleakness at the bottom of Sibel Hall’s main stair, nor his usual partner, for Miss Parkinson was no experienced widow or mistress. And yet, for some reason, perhaps his heightened senses, energy surged through him as though diverted from the lightning outside. He felt a certain power in his own attraction to her, to be sure, but that was not all of it. In truth, he couldn’t explain it, and couldn’t be bothered to. He was too busy enjoying it.

Her lips were lush and sweet, the swift intake of her breath an invitation to explore the richness of her mouth. Heady. Exciting. They fit together perfectly, as if he had been searching for her all of his life, and want flowed through him like life’s blood, urging him to
press her tightly to him, to carr
y her up to his bed, to claim her as his own. This night. Every night.
Always.

Unfortunately his partner didn’t seem to feel the same way. Christian gradually realized that she was pushing at
him, not in a manner designed to get them closer but to move them apart. He was so startled that it took a while for his brain to process that astonishing development: he was kissing a woman who didn’t want to be kissed, at least not by him.

Since such a thing had never happened to him in his lifetime (hell, he was accounted quite a catch and a good lover as well), again he hesitated. Rather desperately, he suspected that if he just kept kissing her, she would come around. Eventually. It was only after she practically unmanned him that he realized his actions could be construed as forcing himself upon her. In the meantime, her knee came into contact with his groin, causing him to groan aloud and release her.

In the darkness he could hear her rapid breaths above his own ragged grunts, and for a long moment they remained thus, only a hairbreadth apart yet as distant as the moon. As Christian grappled for some thought beyond his uncommonly fierce desire, some explanation for such unfathomable behavior, the Governess finally spoke.

“I realize that professional seducers of your ilk feel the need to practice their wiles on any female in the vicinity, but I thought we had an agreement to avoid this
…
type of thing. In fact, I believe that you were the one who made it quite clear upon our acquaintance that ours was to be strictly a business arrangement. Indeed, you demanded that I avoid any situation that could be misconstrued. I might not be your social equal, my lord, but I feel I am entitled to the same courtesy.”

Christian nearly recoiled at her biting tone. She hadn’t kicked him that hard, but he was beginning to ache. And not just in the groin area. When had he failed so miserably with a woman? Hell, when had he ever failed at all? And then, as if to add insult to injury, she spoke again.

“Believe me, I have been prey to your sort before, the idle, rich young gentlemen of the
ton
who make a jest or game out of trying to ruin the governess or the companion
or any other poor female struggling to make a living who chances to fall into their orbit. Perhaps I was powerless before, but I will not stand for such abhorrent behavior in my own household.”

Christian flinched, her accusations paining him far worse than any blow. And then, as the gist of her words sank into his muddled mind, Christian stared at her in horror. Was she truly a governess?

“You’re a
governess
?” he croaked.

“A companion,” she corrected.

Christian gaped, dumbfounded, as he realized that he knew nothing at all about this woman who so intrigued him—and so aroused him. She was a gentlewoman, he was sure of that, but beyond her birth and her straitened circumstances, he knew little enough, and that discovery made him feel even more uncomfortable.

“How? When? Where?” Christian asked, seized by sudden trepidation. Had he met her before? Treated her cavalierly in some long-forgotten encounter? That would explain her scorn. He shifted uneasily. How many dowdy, unassuming figures had he greeted in passing over the years without a thought to their difficult existence?

In response, his hostess drew herself up stiffly. “After the death of my parents, I took a position with Lady Holland, whom I served until just recently, when I learned of my inheritance.”

Lady Holland? Christian couldn’t place the name, so it was with some measure of relief that he dismissed the possibility of a previous meeting with Miss Parkinson. He could not so easily dismiss his new knowledge of her life, however. Although Christian initially had believed her to be a dependent, the confirmation disturbed him, as did the discovery of her vulnerability. It was one thing to imagine the imperious Governess slapping the wrists of her young charges, quite another to picture her fending off the importunities of full-grown males.

The idea enraged Christian, and the blood that had been
heating his cheeks began to pump through his body, fast and furious. “Who? Who dared touch you?”

“It was nothing, I assure you, and that is how I view it,” she answered, dismissing him as easily as she had his kiss.

“Who? Name them, and I shall see they never bother another defenseless female!” Christian said, seized by a sudden wild need for revenge upon the nameless, faceless males who had dared touch this woman. He took a step forward, only to note the soft tread of her slippers as she moved up the stair into the blackness.

For a long moment Christian thought she wasn’t going to answer him, and then it came to him, that voice, positively dripping with contempt, floating from somewhere above him. “Why, Lord Moreland, the most
recent miscreant was… you!”
Then he heard her continue lightly up the steps, obviously unafraid of the darkness.

Or of him.

5

C
hristian slept late,
having spent an unusually restless night. He never wasted a lot of time pondering things, especially his actions. He usually did what he liked within reason, while adhering to the prescribed codes of honor and civility that were his birthright. But something had gone wrong last night, and it left a sour taste in his mouth.

It was not the remnants of the kiss, for that lingered beneath the bitterness like a sip of heaven. In fact, despite his best efforts, Christian couldn’t rid himself of that tantalizing memory. It had been a long time since he’d been so affected by a simple kiss. Oh, who was he fooling? He lifted a hand to rub his face. Hell, he’d
never
been so affected.

Impossible, he told himself. There could never have been such heat between an experienced man like himself and
…
Miss Parkinson. He must have imagined it all, his fierce response merely a product of the darkness and the storm and the tension between them, a desperate diversion from the
gloom that was Sibel Hall. Or was it? He stalked across the room and shouted for Hobbins.

Normally, such thoughts wouldn’t give him a moment’s pause, let alone cost him a night’s sleep. He would simply seek out the lady and prove to himself whether he’d been drunk—perhaps on too much ghostly atmosphere—or dreaming. But in this case there was little chance of a return engagement. For once in his life, he couldn’t proceed as he wished. And because of what? A misstep on his part? Miss Parkinson’s overreaction?

Splashing some cold water on his face, Christian snapped the towel and jerked on fresh linen, his even temper upended by a surge of frustration, a heady mix combined with his underlying guilt and outrage. Only the entrance of Hobbins, wearing his usual stoic expression, stopped Christian from swearing aloud.

“Difficult night, my lord?” the valet asked, after Christian ruined his second neckcloth.

“No,” Christian lied. “And what does it matter how the damned thing is tied? It’s not as though anyone will notice in this dismal place.”

“One has a responsibility to one’s appearance,” Hobbins pointed out, as he presented a third strip of linen.

Christian frowned but took it, drawing a deep breath as he once again attempted a fashionable knot.

“If I may say so, you seem extraordinarily tense this morning,” Hobbins commented, obviously having observed his employer’s ill temper.

Christian sighed. He knew the old retainer would not be satisfied until he gave some sort of explanation, and an unsatisfied valet made for chilly relations. “For your information, Hobbins, I find this task extremely onerous,” Christian said, willing to admit that much. After all, it was the truth. As far as it went.

“The ghost, or at least someone, finally decided to make himself heard last night, but I couldn’t even reach him, let alone discover who or what was behind his antics.” He
slanted a glance at Hobbins. “I don’t suppose you found the missing keys?”

“No, my lord,” Hobbins answered without hesitation.

Had the valet even looked? Christian had no idea, but he knew better than to get the old fellow’s back up by asking him.

“I presume the
antics
occurred behind the locked doors?” Hobbins said.

Christian nodded. “Or least
below
them. The noises we heard were definitely coming from beneath the great hall, but there doesn’t appear to be any other entrance to the old cellars.”

“
We
, my lord?” At Hobbins’s dry tone, Christian hesitated, his fingers halting their movements before he recovered himself and finished the knot as casually as possible. It was not his usual skillful design, but it would have to do. And, in the end, what was the difference? There was no one here of note to see him except Miss Parkinson, and she had made her feelings quite clear.

“Miss Parkinson,” Christian muttered, half in bitter recognition of his thoughts and half in answer to Hobbins’s query. “She came down to investigate my footsteps.”

“A redoubtable female,” Hobbins remarked.

“An idiot, more likely,” Christian retorted. “She’s lucky I wasn’t some housebreaker intent upon the silver. Or her virtue.” The minute the words were out of his mouth he flinched, for they were much too close to the truth for comfort. He paused, struck by a sudden doubt, and slanted a glance at his valet.

“Hobbins, do you think I’m conceited?” he asked.

“Certainly not, my lord!” Hobbins answered, suitably affronted by the very suggestion.

Christian was slightly mollified. He had never thought so either. After a lifetime of being pursued, however, he found the notion that a woman might actually refuse him rather startling—and mystifying. It seemed to him that from the moment he had assumed the title, barely out of his boyhood, the female population had been enamored of him. Too enamored, he thought sometimes. It was one thing to enjoy a choice of will
ing partners, quite another to b
e the object of marital traps and scheming mamas.

Although Christian had always complained about such treatment, now he wondered if it might be preferable to rejection. The novelty of the sensation did nothing to diminish its impact, and just the thought of his ignominious defeat kept his mood sour. He shrugged, trying to shake it off, but it clung, intensified by her implication that he was no better than some randy old lecher attacking the household help.

“Surely Miss Parkinson did not accuse you of being conceited?” Hobbins asked.

“I stole a kiss, that’s all,” Christian muttered, once again engaged in a dialogue with himself as well as his valet. As far as he was concerned, Miss Parkinson was making entirely too much of it. Unfortunately, it seemed as though he was making too much of it as well, for the memory of that little encounter remained incredibly powerful. The body that had been pressed to his oh so briefly was more luscious than he had imagined, and her mouth—Christian set his teeth, knowing that it was better not to think about her lips. He had a feeling that that brief taste would haunt him far more thoroughly than any specter.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, my lord, Miss Parkinson is not your usual sort,” Hobbins said.

“How well I know it!” Christian said.

“What I mean, my lord, is that she seems to be a genteel young woman, despite her circumstances, and might not be accustomed to the flirtatious behavior of the
ton,”
Hobbins clarified delicately, using a polite euphemism for the sort of dallying that was rampant among the social elite.

“Well, she needn’t act as though I were forcing myself upon her! I’ll be damned if I’m going to apologize for one little kiss.” The more Christian thought about it, the more annoyed he became, and the prospect of facing his hostess did nothing to ease his temper.

As he stalked across the room, he decided it would be
best to dismiss the entire episode and get on with the task of ridding the house of the alleged specter. Then, when he returned home, he might just have to break the
other
leg of a certain interfering earl, who was responsible for his grandson’s sudden dose of humility.

As he stalked toward the door, a gust of wind from the open window sent a burst of moisture his way and set his teeth on edge. He swung toward his valet in exasperation. “And why does it always have to be raining here?”

Hobbins, stoic as ever, refrained from replying to that question. “Breakfast time has long passed, but I managed to retain some items on the sideboard for your repast,” he said, dismissing Christian and his ill mood with the ease of long service.

T
he dining room
was deserted, much to Christian’s relief. Yet the very notion that he should be relieved to escape some woman’s censure annoyed him further. Though he was not about to hide himself away just to avoid her, he could not ignore the fact that his hostess had always looked at him with some semblance of disapproval. Now that she seemingly had a reason, he could just imagine the reception he would get. Christian scowled as he put the little remaining meat upon his plate, along with some stone-cold toast. He had never let anyone else’s judgment, true or false, affect him before, so why did he care what the Governess thought, especially when she seemed to prefer the negative view?

Perhaps he ought to give her something to be really angry about, Christian thought with a sudden grin. While he ate, he conjured up several delightful plans, ranging from simply tossing Miss Parkinson over his shoulder to finding the key to her room and using it. That would give her plenty to squawk about, he decided. Then, just as he was trying to imagine what he would do there, the object of his musings came into the room. He could tell because the temperature dropped several degrees. Well, that, and the whiff of lilacs.

Christian didn’t even turn around. “You need not fear any further lapses on my part,” he said, determined to get the business over with as quickly as possible. “You were perfectly right. I don’t know what came over me.” In truth, he was not lying. Why this composed, dowdy sort should be the one to stir his dormant passions, he still had no idea.

Perhaps it was her very unavailability. After all, his ancestors weren’t remembered for stealing off with tave
rn
wenches. It was the forbidden ones who aroused their lust, the very women who had become his ancestresses, Christian thought.

These days, he was expected to tryst with the ladies of the demimonde or bored widows of the
ton
and to marry one of the young ladies of nobility who were foisted each year upon the marriage market. Gentlemen did not give their attentions to those under their protection, menials and employees, and most especially not to decent, penniless women of good background. Such females were not for marrying or dallying. So, naturally, his piratical nature made him want one of them.

“Well?” he asked into the silence. Had his hostess no comment? No lecture to give him? With a sigh, Christian turned around to face not just Miss Parkinson, who had flushed a lovely shade of rose, but her cousin Mercia as well.

“Oh, my lord, we are so excited that you have finally made contact!” the older woman trilled.

Christian blinked. Was she talking about what he was thinking about? No wonder the Governess was blushing.

“With the specter,” his hostess said hastily. “Cousin Mercia is glad to hear that Sir Boundefort is stirring.”

“We have set the colonel to watch, but so far he has heard nothing. Perhaps the storm roused our ancestor,” Mercia suggested. “Or perhaps ou
r ancestor roused the storm.
Emery claims it was
a manifestation of his anger.”

“Whose, Emery’s or the phantom’s?” Christian asked.

For a moment, the older lady eyed him blankly, then she giggled. “Oh, my lord, you are too clever.”

“Isn’t he, though?” the Governess asked in a dry tone that put a decidedly different meaning to her words. Indeed, she was wearing her disapproving expression, and Christian was tempted to stick his tongue out at her
…
or in her
…
He rose abruptly.

“Are you going back to the great hall to coax him forth?” Mercia asked breathlessly.

“I’ll do my best,” Christian drawled. “But you go on ahead. I want to speak to my, uh, your cousin for a moment,” he added with a grim smile.

Nodding, the little woman left the room, leaving him alone with his hostess, who looked anything but pleased by the prospect. Christian could only stare in amazement at her unhappy visage. Why, of all the women in the world, did this one so affect him?

“I can’t think of a thing we have to discuss privately,” Miss Parkinson said, tilting her nose into the air as if he even smelled bad. Christian took a deep breath just to prove to himself that he didn’t.

“Can’t you?” he asked, stepping forward and grinning wickedly at his
nemesis, er…
hostess. She held her ground, brave, foolish creature that she was, but Christian could see the hesitation in her eyes. She wanted to flee. Good. At least he had some power over her.

“How about the little fact that you seem to have announced to the
world at large our rendezvous…”
Christian paused, enjoying the shocked look that crossed her face.

“…
with Sir Boundefort?”

To her credit, the Governess recovered herself quickly, her expression changing from outrage to rather annoyed inquiry. “And why shouldn’t I speak of what happened last night? I thought that was the reason you were here, to banish the ghost?”

Ignoring her little dig, Christian leaned against the door
jamb and crossed his arms over his chest. “And just suppose this spectral fellow is really made out of flesh and blood?”

“Isn’t that for you to find out?” she asked, arching her dark brows just a little.

“Well, it would be a bit easier if we were more circumspect with our knowledge, using whatever information we come across to our own advantage,” Christian replied. He didn’t necessarily suspect any of the cousins of knocking about down below. Indeed, he couldn’t imagine the colonel or the scholar or the little old lady skulking in the cellars making odd noises, but just in case one of them, most likely Emery, was behind it, any element of surprise was gone.