An Invitation to Sin (8 page)

“After all these years? And …”

“Yes?”

Anna looked down. “I feel horribly selfish, but how can you tell the world about the door without involving me?”

She looked up to see him smile quite gently. “I’ll find a way. You must trust me.”

And she did. Yet again, relief was tinged with a little disappointment. She trusted him with her reputation, but she feared she could also trust him with her virtue. He wasn’t going to seduce her, after all.

Oh, dear, she was a perilously wicked creature!

“Anna?”

She started at his use of her name.

“Anna, tell me about the book.”

And so she did, not making a great deal of it because it was quite a silly story. She told how Count Nacre had trapped poor Dulcinea on the very eve of her wedding to Roland, and hidden her in the deserted tower of his castle, where he intended to ruin her, thus forcing her to marry him instead.

“And each night he would come to her, intending”—she was blushing again—“intending the worst. But something would always happen to disturb them.” She found the courage to look at him. “It is a little like Scherazade, my lord, except that stupid Dulcinea does
nothing
to change her fate. She just faints and weeps.”

His lips twitched. “Unlike you.”

Anna’s face was heating again. “I did. Weep.”

“True, and most disconcerting it was, child. But you also smashed me on the head with a heavy glass. I’m sure Dul-cinea could have done the same.”

“Yes, she could. If I ’d been her I would have waited by the door and hit him with a poker as he came in. In fact, I saw nothing in the book to suggest that Dulcinea couldn’t have opened the door from her own side any time she wanted. But you see, she was afraid of the rats.”

He laughed out loud. “Oh, the scorn! Are you not afraid of rats, Anna?”

Something in his manner was causing a new kind of heat, a warmth that came from his relaxed manner and smiling eyes, from his admiration. “I don’t like them, my lord, but if it were rats or Count Nacre, I ’d chance the rats.”

“I’m sure you would. And so the fainting maiden waits patiently for Roland to arrive on his white charger and throw her over his saddlebow.”

“Hardly at the top of a tower, my lord.”

“True. So what did happen?”

Anna settled to telling the story. “Roland confronts Count Nacre in his hall, where they engage mightily with their swords. The contest is equal …”

“How old is Count Nacre?”

“Oh, quite old. At least forty.”

“Ancient,” he remarked dryly. “But then the contest is unlikely to be equal. He probably has the gout.”

“The count is a mighty warrior, my lord, champion of the king. May I continue?”

“I do beg your pardon,” he said unrepentantly. “So they engage mightily with their swords. Do they batter themselves to simultaneous exhaustion?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not? Ah, she frowns at me …”

Anna was indeed frowning, though she was hard-pressed not to giggle. “Because, my lord, the count suddenly comes to a realization of his own wickedness and throws himself upon Roland’s sword.”

He blinked. “How very disconcerting.”

“Hush, my lord!” She bit her lip and pushed gamely on. “Roland races up the tower to Dulcinea …”

“Despite his wounds?”

“Heroes are
never
wounded. Or not seriously.”

“Then they are hardly very heroic, are they?”

“Have you ever been wounded?” The words popped out before she could control them, fracturing the lighthearted atmosphere. Her eyes fixed on his scar.

“I’m no hero, Anna.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Villains get wounded, too. Proceed with your story or I’ll show you my other wounds, which would move this meeting out of the field of honor, Miss Featherstone.”

Anna was crushingly aware of having been relegated to formality, and swallowed a hint of tears. “Where was I, my lord?”

“Your hero was racing up the tower steps despite his many wounds, and muscles that burned and ached from the mighty battle.”

“So he enters Dulcinea’s chamber, causing her to swoon.”

“Twit. You would have tended his wounds, wouldn’t you?”

“My lord, he
wasn’t
wounded!”

“How could she tell? He was doubtless covered by the evil count’s blood.”

Anna paused. “That’s true, isn’t it? I didn’t say it was a
good
story, my lord.”

“Just as well. So, what next? I suppose he has to carry her down the winding stairs. Tricky, that, I should think.”

“Doubtless, especially as an earthquake starts just then …”

“An
earthquake?
The very earth protesting at the count’s demise? Then he must be the hero, and Roland, vile Roland, a wastrel and a murderer.”

“Nonsense. Roland is the very epitome of a hero. But the stones do begin to tumble around them, and the steps crumble beneath their feet …”

“Whereupon, he slaps her awake and makes her use her feet as they race to safety?”

“Of course not! In fact, she does come out of her swoon …”

“Thank heavens …”

“… But by then they have rats swarming around them, which sends her off again. Please, my lord, don’t make me laugh or I will never finish!”

“There’s more?” he asked, straight-faced, but with eyes full of hilarity. He looked exactly like the portrait.

With difficulty, Anna gathered her wits. “It can hardly end then!”

“I don’t see why not. They can be entombed together as an eternal monument to folly.”

“They manage to survive. Just as they emerge, the tower crumbles, leaving only a heap of stones …”

“And a lot of homeless rats.”

“I don’t think that was mentioned,” she said severely. “The king then arrives …”

“George III?” he queried in astonishment.

“No! King Rudolph of … Oh, I’ve forgotten the country. It’s all made up.”

He raised one brow. “You astonish me, Miss Feather-stone.”

A giggle escaped, but Anna struggled on. “The king has found out that Count Nacre is plotting treason and has come to execute him …”

“How very unlawful. Due process, my dear.”

“… But now he makes Roland Count of Nacre …”

“Whereupon Dulcinea breaks off the match because she refuses to live in a rat-infested castle.”

“The
castle
wasn’t rat-infested, my lord!”

“It will be now the rats don’t have their cozy tower to live in. Where do you think all those rats went?”

Anna succumbed to laughter. “Oh dear! It is all … all so silly, isn’t it?”

He leaned over and passed her a handkerchief. “Very. Are you truly addicted to these novels, Anna?”

Anna controlled her laughter and wiped her eyes. “Most of them are not as bad as that. Even Mrs. Jamison’s earlier ones were much better, though her heroines did tend to swoon at the drop of a pin.”

“From the little I know of her, Lady Delabury was of much the same temperament.”

Anna made a business of drying her cheeks, considering yet another statement that indicated that the earl and Lady Delabury had not been intimate. Then why on earth had the woman committed suicide in this very room?

He leaned back, sober again and thoughtful, and echoed her thought. “I see nothing in that silly story to explain why the author decided to commit suicide, or why she chose to do so in this room.”

“Perhaps because she’d written such a terrible novel?” Anna clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, how uncharitable!”

He focused his serious features and amused eyes on her. “Quite. And Margaret Delabury thought every word she wrote absolutely perfect. She had just married Delabury, an excellent catch for her, and the poor man was besotted. She had everything.”

He lapsed into thought, and Anna chanced a question. “What was in the note she left, my lord?”

“Some stuff about despair because she could not hold her husband’s affection.”

“He was unfaithful?” Anna asked, knowing she was turning pink at discussing such matters with a gentleman.

“Most unlikely. As I said, he was besotted. One reason I left the country was because fool Delabury was convinced I was his wife’s lover and murderer. Having failed to get me sent to trial, he was intent on calling me out.”

“Oh, my.”

“I did hope that by now he’d found a new bride and no longer felt so keenly on the subject. I have just heard that he is on his way to town with dueling on his mind.”

“Oh, dear!”

“Quite. Which is why I want to solve this mystery.”

“I wish I could help. Truly. But I think I’ve told you all I know.”

He rose to his feet. “I think so, too.” He was suddenly standing quite close to her. “I have enjoyed this, though.”

She looked up at him, delight at their shared amusement still fizzing in her. She had never known an instant bond such as this. “So have I, my lord,” she admitted shyly.

For a moment she thought he had something important to say, but then he turned sharply away. “Would you permit me to glance into your room, Miss Featherstone?”

Anna swallowed her disappointment. “By all means, my lord. I’ve wandered all over your house, so it seems only fair that you should see a little of mine.”

As they went through the door, he said, “It is not at all the same. You should not invite men into your bedroom.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “For fear that the very sight of my virginal couch will turn them into ravening beasts?”

“Something like that,” he said vaguely, but he was staring around the room. “Good God. The solution is obvious. The woman was mad.”

“A convenient assessment, my lord, but hard to prove.”

“This room is proof.” He poked a finger into the grinning mouth of a gargoyle. “I suppose one could keep small coins and buttons in places like that.”

Anna giggled, but placed her fingers over her lips. “Hush, my lord. I’m not at all sure your voice cannot be heard in other rooms!”

“And that would set the cat among the pigeons, wouldn’t it?” he said softly. He turned to look at her. “Farewell, Anna.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “No more secret meetings?”

“No more secret meetings. It would be very foolish.”

“No one need know …”

“Except us.”

Anna gripped her hands tight together. “I … I like you, my lord.”

There was the merest twitch of his lips, but his eyes looked rather sad. “I like you, too, Anna Featherstone.”

“Well,” said Anna, after swallowing a lump in her throat. “I suppose if you marry Maria, we will meet occasionally.”

“I have no intention of marrying your sister. I’ve only been paying court to her to get access to Maggie.”

“Oh. And that was just because you wanted to know about the secret door.”

“Exactly.”

It was all rather deflating, but that magical time of intimacy and laughter could not be entirely dispelled. Anna gathered her courage and looked up at him. “If you were feeling grateful for my help, you might perhaps … might kiss me once, my lord, with kindness, before you go.”

“Kindness? Was I not kind the other night?”

“It was hard for me to tell. I was very frightened.”

“It may be hard for you to tell now. Why aren’t you frightened?”

Anna considered it. “I trust you.”

“If I were truly kind and trustworthy, Anna, I would leave.” But he held out a hand.

Breath catching in her throat, Anna placed her hand in his, touching him for the first time in weeks. His hand was firm, warm, smooth … All in all, it would be extraordinary if it were anything else, and yet it seemed remarkable to her.

He drew her into his arms and inside she melted into a blend of sadness and wonder.

“It is so unfair,” she said.

He tilted her chin. “What is?”

“That this is wrong.”

She could not read his expression at all. “You do at least know that it is wrong?”

“To be kissing a man in my bedroom? And such a man? I ’d have to be perfectly fluff-witted not to.”

“And fluff-witted is the last description I would put to Anna Featherstone. Too clever by half …”

He kissed her simply on the lips. She was about to protest that the kiss was too brief when he returned to deepen it, teasing her mouth open and bringing the pleasure that had heated her dreams.

When he started to draw away from her, she tightened her arms around him. “Oysters,” she said.

“What?”

“Kissing is like oysters. A bit unpleasant at first, but quite delicious when one is accustomed.”

He laughed then, struggling to be quiet. He rested his head against hers, his shaking running through into her.

She moved her head so her lips found his and swallowed his laughter so that it changed into something else, something even better than before. Her body became involved in the kiss, moving against him as her hands explored—

He pulled away.

When she resisted, he used force.

Anna was abruptly mortified by her behavior, but at least he was none too calm either.

Then his expression became kind, and he brushed some hair from her face. “I do wish you weren’t sixteen, Anna Featherstone.” With that, he slipped back through the doors.

“I will get older,” she whispered, but it was to a closed panel.

Anna undressed, aching with needs she had never imagined but understood perfectly well. He was right, though. The world would be shocked by such a match, and an eligible earl couldn’t be expected to wait years until she was older, and “out.” He would marry someone else, and Anna’s heart would break. But at least it wouldn’t be Maria.

That was cold comfort. Anna sniffed a few tears as she changed into her nightgown and climbed into her chilly, virginal couch.

In the next days, Anna could only be glad that her parents and sister were busily engaged in the height of the Season, for it was beyond her to behave entirely in her normal, prosaic manner.

She was foolishly, idiotically in love. Daydreams filled her head, wild sensations flooded her body, and she could hardly think of anything but the Earl of Carne. She attempted drawings of him, and wrote his name endlessly on pieces of paper—which were hard to dispose of in warm weather when there were no fires except in the kitchen.