The Dangerous Lord (22 page)

“Well then,” she said, “I must put the boys to bed now, so Mrs. Box will show you out. It was a lovely day, but I'm sure you're eager to be off.”

“Not at all. I'll wait for you downstairs.”

A look of panic crossed her face. “There's no need. It will take some time for me to settle the boys in. They must have their faces washed, and—”

“I'll tend to all that.” Mrs. Box bustled toward the other beds with great efficiency. “You go on downstairs with his lordship. After all he done for you and the boys today, the least you can offer him is a bit of that good claret before he goes out in the cold.” She winked at him again. “Now wouldn't that be nice, Lord St. Clair?”

He smiled. “Oh, yes. Claret would be perfect.” Claret and Felicity. Not as good a combination as brandy and Felicity, but it would do for a start. Later, they could have brandy…and in the morning, breakfast. He doubted that Mrs. Box intended
that
outcome, but he found it more appealing by the minute.

“I'll see if we have any claret,” Felicity said noncommittally, avoiding his gaze.

When they reached the hall and she'd closed the door to the nursery, he launched into a conversation meant to forestall any attempts to rush him out the door. “This is a beautiful house. Did your father design it?”

“Yes.” She offered nothing else, hurrying to the stairs.

He followed her. “I thought as much. That same griffin design is on the knocker at Worthing Manor. Your father must have liked griffins.”

“Yes.” Again, she said nothing more, but lifted her skirts and descended the steps at an astonishing pace.

Catching up to her, he clasped her arm to halt her. “Felicity, we need to talk.”

“No, you must go. You must—”

Whatever protest she was about to make was cut off when a child's high-pitched scream rent the night.

“T
h-the monster h-had three heads,” William was sobbing into Mrs. Box's shoulder when Felicity and Ian hurried into the room, “and a b-big red arm. It was ch-chopping like an ax and…and…” His face crumpled as he broke into a low wail.

The mournful sound pierced Felicity to the heart. “Oh, my sweet darling,” she cried, rushing to his bed. She waved Mrs. Box away and in seconds was cradling the boy against her breast. “It's all right—Lissy's here now to take care of you. The monster can't hurt you.”

“Poor dear,” Mrs. Box clucked. “Had a nightmare, he did.”

“Yes.” Harsh, accusing words rose to Felicity's lips as she sought Ian in the dim room, but they remained unsaid when she saw him standing woodenly inside the door, his hands shoved in his pockets. Every line of his dusky fea
tures bore the marks of guilt. He met her gaze with eyes so remorseful, she couldn't be angry.

Besides, she was as much to blame as he, for allowing him to influence her decision. At least he hadn't known what could happen. She had no such excuse.

“I-It was gonna ch-chop me up,” William whispered. “It was comin' to—”

“Shh, sweet boy, you must forget all about it. It was only a dream.” Felicity rocked the child in her arms as she crooned in his ear. “It's all right. I'll protect you.”

She felt Ian's eyes on her, reminding her that he'd wanted to speak to her privately. Not tonight, she thought, not when her emotions were so easily affected. She cast Mrs. Box a wan smile. “I've got William now. I know you have much to do, so you may go on and show Lord St. Clair out.”

Mrs. Box nodded and headed for the door.

“No-o-o!” William wailed, pushing away from Felicity to waggle an arm at the door.

“You want Mrs. Box to stay?” Felicity asked.

“I-I want L-Lord St. Clair,” William stammered.

Felicity groaned. The man had captivated her fatherless brothers as easily as he'd captivated her. “Come here, Ian,” she said resignedly, no longer worrying if anyone heard her use his Christian name.

Looking obviously perturbed, Ian glanced over to where the other boys were settling down beneath covers tucked up to their tiny chins. Then he walked toward her. “I don't know what to do,” he admitted as he reached the bed.

“Sit down.” Felicity nodded to indicate the other side of the feather mattress. “Just hold his hand.”

“I'll be leavin' now—” Mrs. Box began, and before Felicity could protest, had deserted her.

With an odd quiver in her belly, Felicity watched the door close behind the housekeeper. The dim lighting and confined space lent an intimacy to the nursery she'd never
noticed. Having Ian help her with William was cozy and oddly satisfying.

Ian, however, seemed uncomfortable. Clasping William's pale hand in his own dark one, he stared at it as if it were a padlock to which he'd lost the key. “I'm here, William,” he said, surprising her with the gentleness of his voice.

A shudder went through William's small frame. He lifted his tear-streaked face to Ian. “It was a monster.”

“I know, but it's gone now.”

“It wasn't real,” Felicity added, annoyed that Ian spoke as if the creature existed.

“It
was
real!” William protested with a pout. He fixed his gaze on Ian. “And…and it'll come back to h-hurt me.”

Shooting her a warning glance, Ian said, “No, it won't. We scared it off for good, Mrs. Box and your sister and I.”

“Yes, but it'll come back,” the boy persisted. “It wants to ch-chop me up. Like it chopped up all those people in the Separate Room.”

Amber candlelight caught Ian's stricken expression. He ruffled William's hair. “I tell you what. I'll stay here for a while, and if the monster comes back, I'll tell it not to bother you anymore. I'll be very firm.”

The boy's face brightened. “You…you mean, like you told that nasty driver not to bother Lissy? And he listened and went away?”

“Yes,” Ian said solemnly. “Exactly like that.”

“You promise to stay until he comes? You promise?”

“I swear it,” Ian said with a fierceness that warmed Felicity's heart.

She held her breath while William screwed up his little face in thought. Then, tugging Ian's hand into his arms, he clutched it against his chest and sank back against the pillow. “All right. The monster'll listen to you. You're big, and you can beat him up.”

She watched in bewilderment, then envy as William closed his eyes, Ian's hand held tightly to his heart like a
precious toy. Within moments, she could hear the blessed sound of even breathing and see his features relax into sleep.

Tears stung her eyes. How many times had she assured him it was only a dream, yet been unable to calm his fears, having to wait until he exhausted himself with crying before leaving him? But Ian came in here with his commanding presence and calm assurances, and William felt safe.

She'd known the boys missed Papa, known that they often ran to Joseph for attention because the footman was the only man in the household. Until now she hadn't realized the full extent of their longing for a man's special strength. Her poor, fatherless tin soldiers. She wiped away tears, but more filled her eyes, coursing down her cheeks to drip off her chin and onto the wrinkled sheets.

“I'm sorry,” rumbled a voice from the other side of the bed. “I am so sorry, Felicity. You were right, and I was wrong. I should never have taken them into that damned room.” Her throat tightened when she saw him brush the hair back from William's forehead in a paternal gesture.

“It's not that. This probably sounds foolish, but you made him feel better when I couldn't. I guess I'm a bit…jealous.”

“You've no reason. It's my fault he suffered in the first place. I ought to be shot.”

Strong words indeed, coming from a man who generally hid his emotions. Her heart twisted when she saw the pain harshening his already rough features.

She tried to tease him out of his somber mood. “Shot? Oh, no, much too tame.” She glanced at the other boys, who were thankfully already asleep, then added, “The punishment should fit the crime. Beheading, that's what you need. Then we could add your head to those stakes in Madame Tussaud's exhibit.”

His gaze shot to hers, mirthless and even more wounded.

“I'm joking, Ian. You mustn't blame yourself. You couldn't know how he'd react.”

“But you did.”

“I've lived with him all his life.” She kept her tone light. “Besides, you probably never had nightmares yourself and had no idea what could bring them on. I imagine you were like Georgie, able to sleep easily after the most frightening adventures. William has an active imagination, I'm afraid.” She gave a shaky laugh. “He tries to be as tough as Georgie, but never quite succeeds.”

Ian said nothing for several moments, fixing his gaze on William's chest, which now rose and fell in perfectly contented sleep. Then a world-weary look flitted across Ian's face. “I never had childhood adventures, frightening or not. So I never had nightmares.”

Felicity caught her breath. Eager to seize the rare moment, she exclaimed, “No adventures! Every boy has adventures. Surely you must have run wild in the woods, or sneaked away to a bear-baiting, or
something
.”

“No.” He took a great, shuddering breath. “I was a very…dutiful son. I was never allowed to be anything else. Father believed that heirs should be prepared for their responsibilities at a young age, which meant not indulging them in frivolities. So there were no wild escapades in the forest. My mornings and evenings were spent with a tutor and my afternoons with my father, who took me over the estate and made me memorize all the tenants' names and how everything worked.”

What a dreadful way to spend one's childhood. She'd never considered that aspect of being a great lord, but with extensive property probably came extensive duties. “Is that why all the lords run so wild when they come to London? Because their fathers are such hard taskmasters?”

“Not from what Jordan has told me. My father was unique. I suppose I should be grateful for it, since his ‘prep
aration' has been useful in my management of Chesterley. But once in a while…” He trailed off.

“Once in a while, you would have enjoyed an outing or two.”

He managed a smile. “I sound like a spoiled child.”

“Or a man who never got to be any kind of child at all.”

His gaze shot to hers and held. For that brief moment, she read so much yearning in him that she marveled she hadn't seen it before. Then he flattened his expression and glanced away. “It proved advantageous. It enabled me to endure…later happenings more easily.”

“What about your mother?” Felicity asked softly. “Did she agree with your father's philosophy?”

He was silent so long she began to think he might not answer. Then he sighed. “Who knows? She never said. She feared crossing him. They married because Father needed her fortune to pay off my grandfather's debts. It was arranged between him and her family in Spain. She was terrified of Father and let him rule her life—and mine—until the day she died.”

A lump formed in her throat at the thought of Ian as a child, being fed the gruel of duty with little love to sweeten it. “When did she die? How did she die?”

“Why so many questions?” he countered with an arched eyebrow. “More grist for your mill?”

She ignored the barb. “No, indeed. I'm very particular about my grist these days. I've sworn off the St. Clair family entirely. You see, the head of the family is an arrogant wretch who causes trouble for me whenever I write about him.”

“See that you remember that,” he warned, but he was smiling now.

“So? Will you tell me about your mother's death?”

He shrugged. “It's no great secret. An epidemic of smallpox hit a neighboring town when I was seventeen. Father didn't believe in inoculations—he thought they would
cause the disease rather than prevent it—but I'd heard of Jenner's vaccine at school, so I consulted our local physician. On his advice, I went behind Father's back to have everyone on the estate inoculated.”

She couldn't think of a single one of the seventeen-year-old lords she'd known who might take such an initiative. How amazing that Ian had. No doubt he'd saved hundreds of lives with his action.

“Unfortunately, Mother refused to go against Father's wishes as usual. She died of the disease.” He looked up from the bed, his eyes glittering like shattered onyx in the dim candlelight. “And he blamed me, the stubborn old goat. He said I'd brought smallpox to the estate with the inoculations.”

“How unfair!” Her heart lurched at the thought of a young Ian forced to shoulder the blame for his mother's death.

He shrugged. “Father had firm ideas about right and wrong, and I'd committed one of his cardinal sins by acting without his consent. He never forgave me for it.”

“Is that why you fled to the Continent?” she whispered unthinkingly. “To escape your father and his unfairness?”

It was as if a curtain dropped over his face. “Something like that.” Before she could comment, he glanced down at her brother, and said curtly, “Do you think it's safe to leave William now?”

Her breath grew leaden in her chest. She should have known Ian wouldn't answer
that
question. Even after all the time they'd spent together, he didn't trust her.

“Felicity?” he prodded. “Will the boy be all right alone?”

She straightened her shoulders with a sigh. “Yes, I think so. He never has more than one nightmare.”

He released William's hand and stood. “Then we might as well have that claret.”

Claret? She could hardly think about claret right now. All she could think of was the poor boy Ian had been and
the tormented man he'd become, the one who wouldn't speak of his past even to his friends. Now she could see why he might have turned to his aunt in his loneliness. Why he might have been driven to do the unthinkable.

No, she mustn't think of that, or plague herself again with questions. Yet as she rose and followed Ian to the door, uneasiness built in her chest. He still wanted to talk to her alone.

Yesterday, she might have been foolish enough to believe she could resist his advances. After today she knew better—where Ian was concerned, she had the fortitude of a hare. And his revelations had softened her toward him most dangerously.

When they moved into the hall barely lit by its one candle, she realized she needed the candelabra that she'd forgotten in the nursery. “Wait,” she began, turning back toward the door.

He caught her around the waist and drew her into his arms. “I've been wanting to do this all day.” Then his mouth took hers in a searing kiss that stole her breath and severely battered her will.

She wound her arms about his neck. If she hadn't secretly awaited this all day herself, she might be able to resist him. But it was impossible now. She'd lain awake too many nights remembering their caresses. Too many times she'd watched him dance with another and dreamed it was her instead.

Their kiss was everything she'd remembered and more. Warm breaths melting into one…the rasp of his whiskers against her cheeks…the familiar but faint scent of tobacco clinging to his hair.

After he had her limp in the knees—and everywhere else—he drew back to smile down at her. “This is better than claret, don't you think?”