Recklessly Yours (19 page)

He wondered if she had merely been in the library and had slipped out right before he stepped in from the terrace. But why the harried escape? Perhaps she had been elsewhere—say, in his father's office. But what could possibly hold her interest in all those volumes of horse statistics and estate records?

It occurred to him that this wasn't the first time he'd caught her skulking about, assuming, of course, that it
was
Miss Sutherland and not another guest sailing along the corridor ahead of him. Each soft footfall drew him on like a tender call to battle—a fragrant, beguiling but equally perplexing battle.

He started after her, but then another sound, a heavier footfall, stopped him cold. He pricked his ears as, up ahead, a hush blanketed even Miss Sutherland's taffeta crickets.

Her flight had been interrupted. Or perhaps it had never been a flight. Perhaps she hadn't detected Colin and had not been running away at all, but rather hurrying
to
something. Someone.

His insides ran cold—the murderous sort of cold that throughout history had prompted men to wrap their hands around other men's throats and squeeze and squeeze. He pivoted and without hesitation retreated the way he had come, back across the library and out to the terrace.

Who was it? he wondered bitterly. Bentley? Loathing congealed in his gut. Colin had left the other man in the ballroom, but that didn't mean the insufferable blighter hadn't made his way through the interior of the house to the appointed place. Bentley had been a guest here many, many times over the years, and he knew the layout nearly as well as Colin did. Yes, probably Bentley. He couldn't think of who else it might be.

Damn it.
Damn it.

 

Holly hurried around the corner, praying she might find the main corridor and cross back to the east wing before Lord Drayton—or whoever—found her. Footfalls in the darkness behind her brought her to a halt. When she stopped, the other tread stopped as well, nearly propelling her heart out of her chest.

She could just make out the closed doors on either side of her. Another corner loomed ahead of her. Behind her, the corridor lay empty. Where had the sound come from? She saw no one, detected no movement. But then it came again:
step, step
. . . followed by the light squeak of a floorboard beneath the runner.

Her heart now reaching into her throat, she gripped the closest doorknob and gave a twist, but just before she could push the door inward and dive inside, an arm slipped around her waist from behind.

A cry rose up inside her. She was roughly spun about, her breasts and belly crushed against a solid form. Arms closed around her, cutting off escape. A face, shadowed and indefinable, loomed above hers.

“Lord Drayton, please . . . I—I can explain. . . .”

A whisper fell against her cheek. “Not Lord Drayton, my dear.”

 

Colin lingered in the rectangle of light spilling from the ballroom doors. Damn, and damn again. He couldn't do it—couldn't stroll back inside, take up where he had left off with Lady Penelope, and lead the next waltz as if nothing were amiss.

He turned about, beginning to feel like a child's top, going round and round. She wouldn't thank him for interfering. She'd be mortified. But if nothing else, he owed it to Ivy to make sure her sister was safe, that she hadn't encouraged a situation that exceeded her expectations, not to mention her experience.

Feeling obligated to make sure Stuart Bentley or some other fop didn't at that very moment have her pinned against a wall, his hands tunneling beneath her skirts, Colin broke into a sprint.

 

Not Lord Drayton? The shock of the revelation slammed the breath from Holly's lungs. She struggled against the arms that held her, trying to claw her way free.

“Release me this instant!”

“No, my dear.” The sour taste of wine wafted beneath her nose. His face drew nearer and she tried to make out his features, but in the paltry light she could only see that he was older than the earl, heavy featured, his graying hair slicked back off a high forehead. He looked . . .

Like any number of men from the ball. Had this man seen her slip away from the crush unaccompanied, and believed she'd hurried to these quiet halls for a seductive adventure? Did he perceive her struggles as a game, a challenge?

He bent his head closer. Did he mean to kiss her? Revulsion rose in her throat. She wedged her arms between them and tried to shove away. The hands gripped her relentlessly while his slash of a mouth peeled open and hot laughter scalded her skin.

“Whatever you want, I have no interest. I demand you let me go this instant.”

His only response was his obscene laughter.

“Sir, you are in your cups.” She tugged for all she was worth. “Come morning you will regret your actions.”

“Shall I,
mon amie
?”

“Indeed, yes!” She lashed out with her hand, her palm striking the side of his head and not the cheek she had aimed for. But she was not Laurel Sutherland's sister for nothing, nor Aidan Phillips's sister-in-law, for that matter. They had taught her how to fight, to defend herself. If this man refused to behave like a gentleman, then it was time for her to stop behaving like a lady. She lifted her foot—

Her knee hit squarely in the man's groin. He let out a yelp, his arms loosening and opening a fraction of space between them. As he bent over, she seized the opportunity and swung her fists, jabbing at his throat, and something fleshier—his cheek this time? When he howled and lurched backward, she ran, blindly, having no notion in which direction she went. She only hoped she would end up at the library where she could escape to the terrace and the safety of the ballroom.

“Miss Sutherland, is that you?”

She collided with a torso—solid like the stranger's yet familiar, protective. Arms closed around her, wrapping her in safety. “Lord Drayton? Please let it be you this time.”

The bravado that had saved her from that drunkard's lascivious intentions now abandoned her in a torrent. Sobs choked her voice, strangling the syllables of his name. Until this moment, she had not realized how frightened she was. Who had accosted her? Could it have been Mr. Fenhurst, who had always been kind to her and her sisters? Or Lord Arnold, whose youthful wife proved he had a penchant for younger women? The man in the corridor had seemed larger and stronger than either of those two, but could her fear have magnified his size and strength?

She buried her face against Lord Drayton's shoulder.

“What is it? What happened?” The questions came sharply, penetrating her fear, demanding an answer. “And what did you mean, by ‘this time'?”

She pressed her cheek to his coat front. “There was a man. At first I thought he was you following me, but . . .” She raised her face, taking in the firm lines of his chin, his jaw, the stony contour of his cheek. “It wasn't you.”

“I did follow you, Miss Sutherland, but when I heard you stop in the corridor, I assumed—” He broke off. His hand cradled the back of her head, his fingers gently stroking her hair. The library door stood open beside them. Lord Drayton held her tightly, his lips tickling her ear as he made soothing sounds to calm her. She relished the reassurance of masculine superfine, and the muscle beneath, against her cheek.

“It was my own fault,” she said. “He must have seen me leave the ballroom and followed me. He must have assumed I went looking for . . . for . . .”

He framed her face in his hands and raised it from his chest until their gazes met. His voice, when he spoke, was as steely as a knife-edge. “What did he do?”

“He . . .” Now that she was safe, it all seemed a blur. He had seemed to materialize out of nowhere, from the shadows themselves.

An ill sensation rose, wrapped in layers of shame that forced her head down. There were reasons decent young women didn't wander alone through dark corridors. She drew a steadying breath. “He seized me and refused to let go.”

The earl's hands tightened until she could feel the calluses, acquired from years of riding, against her cheeks. “Did he take privileges with you?” When she didn't answer, he spoke more loudly, more fiercely. “Did he hurt you?”

“He didn't hurt me exactly. In fact, I may have injured him. I struck him and kicked him as hard as I could. Then I ran.”

She couldn't be quite certain, but she thought the corners of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile.

“Come.” His strong arm looped about her waist. As he walked her into the library, she didn't know if it was lingering fear and shock that made her knees wobble, or the intimacy of his hold. But if not for his steadying arm and the solidness of his side against her, she would have toppled. He brought her to the settee before the fireplace and gently handed her down onto the cushions. “Wait here.”

“Where are you—?”

But he had already gone, leaving her alone with nothing but the unsettling images of the last several minutes flashing through her mind. She couldn't stop herself from pondering what might have happened if she hadn't gotten away.

A nearby object gleamed in the moonlight coming from the window, and she jumped up from the sofa. Taking the iron fire poker from beside the hearth, she gripped it in both hands and sat back down. Her fright hardened to anger, and she scowled at the empty room, the open doorway.

“If you think I caused you pain earlier . . .” She tightened her grip on the poker. Let him try again, and see what she would do.

A sudden memory bristled the hair on her nape. Laurel had been attacked in Bath last year. Could this incident be related?

But this had been different from Laurel's attack. Her sister's assailant had pressed a knife to her throat. Laurel would surely have been killed if Aidan hadn't come along when he had.

She stiffened at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“I couldn't find a trace of anyone.”

She sprang to her feet and crossed the room to Lord Drayton. “I'm not making this up. He must have found his way back to the ballroom; he—”

The earl held up his hand. “I wasn't insinuating that he didn't exist. I was merely stating that he is no longer anywhere to be found. You may be right that he has returned to the ballroom. Or he might have left. The house is wide open tonight. Invitations to this ball went out to all the fine families in the area, so he could have been anyone. By God, I loathe the thought of either a guest or a neighbor behaving in such a despicable manner. If I ever get my hands on him . . .”

“He might not have realized what he was doing,” she said reasonably. “He was certainly drunk. He reeked of wine.” A shudder ran through her, and Lord Drayton came closer.

“You're shaking.” He took the poker and stood it against a table. Then he closed his hands around her upper arms and rubbed them up and down the bare skin above her evening gloves.

His touch spread fire through her, but he released her all too soon and returned her to the settee. He took a moment to light a lamp before going to the cabinet in the corner and pulling a stopper from a decanter. When he returned he crouched at her feet and pressed a cut crystal cordial glass into her hand. “It's sherry,” he said. “Drink.”

She tried to obey, but swallowing proved difficult with him kneeling in front of her, his chest grazing her knees. Her free hand disappeared beneath his very large, very warm palm. His fingers closed around hers, disconcerting and heavenly.

“Did you recognize anything about him?”

She tried to focus on his question, rather than on those calluses across the base of his fingers, or on how she might lean over and press her lips to the silky hair at the crown of his head. “It was too dark. I could make out only that he was older than . . . than you. Not quite elderly, I shouldn't think. Middle-aged.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Very little. He said . . . that he wasn't you.”

The earl responded with a curious lift of his eyebrow, making her regret the disclosure.
Don't ask. Please, don't ask.

He drew back a little. “Of all things, why would he declare that?”

“Because . . .” She sipped her sherry, wishing she could crawl into the glass and drown.

He grasped her wrist, and gently lowered her arm. “Why, Holly?”

The echo of her Christian name reverberated through her, then settled with a heated thrum deep in her belly. She had often heard him speak her sisters' names, Ivy and Willow, even Laurel. But never Holly. Never once had he looked at her and allowed his lips to form her name.

How sweetly it rolled off his tongue, making her pulse leap, her heart swell. His presence suddenly filled the room, her world, and each breath she drew came laden with his musky scent, fueling a sudden longing to toss her sherry aside and throw her arms around his neck.

“Holly?”

She shut her eyes, blocking out the tempting sight of him. “I told you, I thought he
was
you. I thought you had been following me, and when he caught me, I . . . cried out your name.” Good heavens, she kept digging herself in deeper. What questions would he ask now? What answers would he demand?

“I
was
following you,” he said quietly but harshly. His subdued fierceness quickened her pulse. He rose higher on his knees, his hands sliding along her thighs to settle at her waist. His palms cupped her hipbones, raising an ache between them that nearly made her cry out his name all over again. She shut her eyes.

He swore under his breath. “I heard you running down the hall, and I followed until I realized you weren't alone.”

Her eyes snapped open. “You heard him?”