The Love Affair of an English Lord (7 page)

“What a preposterous fool.”

Chloe swung around to regard him. “I should have given him the chance to rescue me. I—”

She realized all of a sudden that he was no longer listening to her. He was staring out the window at his estate with an intensity that filled her with apprehension. He looked determined, dangerous again.

“What is it?” she whispered. “Do you see the man who followed you here?”

“Don't worry. I lost him in the woods.”

“Don't worry?”

Dominic glanced at her, momentarily distracted by her undeniable appeal to the senses. Little surprise that other men stole kisses from her ripe mouth and prowled beneath her bedroom window. Those deep blue eyes definitely put wayward ideas in a male's mind. In fact, he thought it highly likely she would be swooning in the mist with her admirer at this very moment if not for him.

“My gamekeeper assumed I was a poacher,” he said, returning to her question, “and chased me off the estate.”

“Why didn't you reveal your identity?”

He smiled. “Because I
am
a poacher, in the process of laying a trap for my murderer. Finley, for all his cleverness, did not recognize me.”

“Considering the way you look,” Chloe remarked with a grimace, “I'm not surprised.”

“Yes, well, we can't all wear decadent corsets and beautify country musicales with our presence, can we?”

Chloe stared past him to the massive outline of his Elizabethan house. He claimed to be well informed. Had he heard the talk that his mistress had been a frequent visitor there in the days following his funeral? It was assumed in polite company that the woman had been advising Dominic's cousin Edgar on her lover's personal affairs. But naturally, in private, people believed the worst.

Especially when the lady had been seen visiting the estate late at night.

“Does Lady Turleigh know you're still alive?” she asked without looking at him.

“No.” There was a resigned tone to his voice that discouraged further inquiry.

“It seems cruel,” she said, “not telling the woman who loves you that you aren't dead.”

The look on his face as he turned to her gave her pause. Yes, she had hoped for a reaction, a clue to his feelings, but not the sudden vulnerability she saw, the raw anguish of a man who had been stripped emotionally to the bone.

“Love,” he said in a light tone that belied his expression, “is a ghastly emotion, overrated by poets and idiots who live with their heads in the clouds.”

“It's a good thing that everyone doesn't share your cynical views,” Chloe said after a moment's hesitation.

“Most people have not had the misfortune to be murdered in their beds.”

“That is true,” she conceded, “but your friend wasn't at fault for that, was she?”

Again his silence revealed more than words, perhaps even more than Chloe wished to know. Had the fair Lady Turleigh been involved in his murder attempt? No. The thought of a well-bred woman lying in bed while her lover was stabbed to death was so appalling that Chloe preferred to believe his reaction was only a symptom of his cynical nature.

“Your brother fought with my brother Brandon,” she said, in a deliberate attempt to change the subject. “Heath said that you had been investigating the attack on their party in Nepal.”

Dominic's face darkened at the reference. “Yes,” he said tersely.

“Well, what did you learn about them?” she demanded.

“Probably little more than you already know,” he answered evasively.

Chloe examined his profile with curiosity. She had always wondered if there could be more to Brandon's death than the reported Gurkha rebel attack on his party. She had suspected that her brothers had been hiding the truth from her. Yet as a young woman in a family of men who restricted her every move, she could hardly sail off to Nepal to investigate.

“You know something,” she said softly. Which was half a guess on her part and half intuition; Dominic's shuttered features told her nothing one way or the other.

“What I know,” he said, moving from the window to kneel down on the floor, “is that I have told you quite enough for one evening.”

“Tell me, and I might gladly help you.”

“There's nothing to tell,” he said curtly.

There was, and her instincts knew it. For that knowledge alone she would cooperate. Brandon had been more than a brother. He had been her best friend.

But this man was clearly not in a frame of mind to trust anyone, and Chloe might even have felt sorry for him had he not taken over her life in such an abominable manner. For example, the way he was rifling through her trunk again, diving into her most personal underclothes with no propriety whatsoever.

“What do you think you are doing now?”

“Looking for a dressing robe that has a little more substance. Your state of undress is a distraction I do not feel strong enough at this moment to ignore.”

Chloe paused. She might find the underlying sentiment behind that statement very interesting if she actually stopped to ponder it. He found her attractive. Yet obviously he was not going to allow that to interfere with what he needed to do.

“What's wrong with the robe I'm wearing? It's less than a month old.”

He glanced up in exasperation. “Be thankful for the mist tonight. If your idiot admirer had gotten a good look at you, he'd be climbing that tree in a trice. I'd have to take care of him, too, and
not
as nicely as I am dealing with you, either.”

“Nicely? I should certainly hate to be in your company when you consider yourself in a bad temper.” She knelt beside him to rescue a favorite fan from his hands. “Anyway, if you hadn't been leering over my shoulder, I might have had the presence of mind to be properly dressed.”

“Would you have gone down to meet him if I weren't here to leer over you? No. There's no need to answer. Your brothers undoubtedly were justified in exiling you.”

She gripped the fan in a death vise. “I was sent to the country for the health of my lungs. I am prone to coughing ailments.”

“You were caught kissing. A baron, wasn't it?”

Chloe felt suddenly stripped of all her defenses, laid bare before a man it would be impossible to mislead. “I have no idea where you come by this information.”

“Suffice it to say that I have.”

Chapter 6

Dominic closed the lid of the trunk. He suppressed a feverish shiver; he suspected there was an infection poisoning his body. He needed Chloe's cooperation for a short time, it was true. He required her discretion if his plans were to succeed, and had he been given his pick of partners in revenge, this rule-breaking exile would not have been his first choice.

Was she even capable of discretion?

Could he trust her at all?

It had been a mistake to mention her brother earlier. She had latched onto his suspicions all too quickly for him to be able to deceive her. Yes, Dominic had evidence that Brandon and his own younger brother had been the victims of a heartless plot. No, he did not accept the Honourable East India Company's tidy version of the attack by Gurkha rebels. Could he prove his suspicion? Not quite yet.

Damnation, what
was
he to do with her?

He rose slowly to his feet, aware that she was watching him warily, as one would a wounded animal. He did not blame her. In the past month he had become more beast than man, behaving on sheer instinct. He took hold of her hands and felt her eyes lift to his. Her fingers were so much smaller than his own, yet warm and strong as she resisted his touch.

“Look at me.” The protector he had once been would have cherished her innocent fire. The devil he had become wanted to stoke her flames until she burned. “Can I trust you?” he asked, his fingers tightening as if to counteract the tension he felt in her hands.

“I don't know.”

It was an honest answer, one that filled him with regret. If he could not depend on her, then all he hoped for would turn to ashes. He would have to find a way to ensure her cooperation until the time came for him to reveal his killer. He might have to take her into hiding until this was finished. Not a pleasant prospect at all, for either of them.

“Can I not win your friendship?” he asked solemnly.

She was cool, this blue-eyed Boscastle in her butterfly robe. “Breaking into my room, tossing me on the bed, and blackmailing me is hardly a prelude to friendship.”

“Think of it as one neighbor helping another.”

“I want you to tell me what you have learned about Brandon.”

He wavered. To reveal what he'd learned might be the undoing of all his plotting. It would also involve her in more danger than she deserved. “Not yet. Don't tempt me to reveal facts that might destroy my chance to avenge him.”

She nodded, apparently understanding more than he had wanted her to. “You've said enough for me to know I want to help you.”

“The only way to help me is to do as I ask.”

“How do I know
I
can trust you?”

“I'm not sure you can,” he said. He bent his head toward hers, studying her face in the dark. “No wonder,” he murmured.

“No wonder?” she whispered, as if she sensed where his thoughts were leading.

“No wonder that your baron risked so much to kiss you in the park. I have not forgotten the day we met.”

He saw the flicker of response in her eyes, and that was all the permission he needed.

His lips skimmed the rim of her ear as his arms closed around her waist. He waited for a reaction. Instead, she went still. The scent of woman stole through his defenses. A month ago his life had taken a hideous turn. Someone close to him had betrayed him. Destroyed his ability to trust. And now he faced an entanglement with the sister of a nobleman he respected, a young lady headed for heartbreak if ever he had met one.

God forbid that he contribute to her self-destruction. But how could it prove otherwise? Chloe stirred in him the ashes of hope if not innocence; her vitality and idealism were traits he once might have shared. He tasted on her lips the poignant qualities of life that he had lost forever. Did she believe in love? In happily ever after? How many stolen kisses and sweet lies whispered in the dark, how many midnight trysts would it take to unmask her illusions?

It was not his place to destroy the dreams society encouraged. Nor did he desire to. Perhaps she would prove more fortunate than he had been. Perhaps her family's famous charm would protect her.

“You're kissing me again,” she whispered.

“Yes. I can't help myself.” He felt a shiver ripple through her.

“I thought you were going to kill me.”

“It doesn't look like it, does it?” he murmured against her mouth.

“I knew you would not . . . could not hurt me.”

“I wish I could hold myself in such high esteem.”

She pressed her hands against his chest, not struggling, not acquiescing either. His mind registered a shock of pleasure, pain, but even then he desired her above all else. Her warmth, the subtle fragrance of soap on her skin. He ached to draw her essence into his bones. She was a balm, a refuge, more than mere sexual enticement. Soft and comforting in a world of darkness and betrayals. She reminded him of how his life had been, how he wanted it to be again.

He deepened the kiss, robbing her of any chance to resist, of breath. This definitely was not her first romantic interlude, but she was no courtesan either, and he might have been chasing one of the butterflies on her robe for all the hope of a future between them. Yet her body felt so warm and yielding, so lush and inviting, that Dominic craved closer contact. He wanted to peel off her clothes and draw her pink flesh against him. He wanted to beg her to be his, to ease his needs.

It was almost too much for him. His starved senses could not ward off the attack. He hadn't allowed himself to feel anything but unadulterated hatred for almost a month. The silky robe she wore accentuated her breasts and bottom in such a provocative way that her sensual appeal alone could have brought him back from the dead.

From the corner of his eye he noticed a blur of movement outside. It might have been a shadow, a cat on the limb of the tree, anything. But he wasn't about to take any chances. He caught her by her elbows and pulled her straight down on the floor, imprisoning her between his legs.

Chloe jerked her head back in alarm. “What are you doing now?” she demanded.

“The window. I didn't want anyone to see us.”

She shifted, drawing her robe together where it had opened to reveal the pearlescent skin of her inner thigh. The muscles in his groin tightened with unbearable tension. She fit so snugly between his legs that he had to draw several breaths to subdue his arousal. He had not touched a woman in weeks, and this one stirred a sexual hunger in him he wasn't sure he could handle.

He didn't know what to make of her, or himself for that matter. He wasn't about to admit that kissing her had left him as hot and explosive as a sex-starved adolescent. But, damnit, she was right. His entire body felt sick and weak. In the past few days he'd been pushing himself to the limit, not sleeping at night so he could watch what happened at his house.

If Chloe Boscastle was as clever as she was attractive, he might have escaped one hazard only to find himself in a worse predicament.

 

Chloe was afraid to move, not certain herself what had happened or how to react. If he had kissed her to prove how inexperienced she was, he'd get no argument from her on that point. Her lips tingled from the forbidden friction of his, and she wasn't sure why she felt less frightened than before. There was an inexplicable air of intimacy between her and this man. She decided it had more to do with being an unwilling conspirator in his plans for revenge than with romance. How could she hate someone who wanted to avenge Brandon's death?

Captor and captive in a dressing closet strewn with her own undergarments. Only a Boscastle could find herself in this situation. Of course it was appalling that she had allowed him to kiss her again, but deep down inside she still thought of him as the man who had rescued her in the rain.

It would be dangerous to underestimate him, or his effect on her. Sir Galahad, or an embittered ghost? Chloe could not decide if it even mattered. Either identity threatened her.

The unyielding planes of his face did nothing to steady her nerves. The hard determination had settled back over his features even if his eyes smoldered like coals as he settled her back down on the floor in a pile of muslin petticoats.

Petticoats! It took them both several awkward moments to achieve a semblance of sanity. To pretend they might be sitting as normal as you please in a drawing room instead of cramped together on a closet floor. Chloe tugged the dressing robe around her shivery body, clearing her throat to ask again, “What are we supposed to do now?”

He leaned his good shoulder back against the trunk and stared up at the window. “I'm not entirely sure.” He gave a start as he felt her kneeling over him, her delicate fingers on his chest. “Hey, what do you think you're doing?”

“How dare you ask me such a question,” she said mildly. “Especially after the way you've behaved.”

He sat forward with a curse as she finished unbuttoning his shirt to press her fingers lightly against the mangle of inflamed flesh. “That happens to hurt, in case you hadn't guessed. Besides, I don't recall giving you permission to undress me.”

“I never gave you permission to break into my room or to kiss me either, but that didn't seem to deter you.”

She grimaced, biting the inside of her cheek as she began gingerly to peel off his makeshift bandage and the petticoat fell away from his torso. The vicious stab wounds inflicted on his upper chest and left shoulder should have killed him. His attacker had clearly gone for the heart.

Whom had he hurt to provoke an act of such violent hatred? No small wonder that he'd vowed to find the person who had done this.

“Not a pretty sight, is it?” he asked her.

“The surgeon who attended you did an excellent job of those stitches,” she said tactfully, thinking it was a miracle that he had even survived. “I doubt, however, that he would appreciate your ruining his handiwork with all your activity.”

“It took hours.”

“I still think you need a proper physician. That wound is becoming infected. Look at these red puffy streaks.”

“No. No physician.”

“What am I supposed to do if you die on me?” she asked in exasperation.

“Throw me out the window for all I care. If I'm dead it won't matter.”

“Did it occur to you what would become of me if it is discovered that I am hiding a dead body in my room?”

“Or that you had kissed that dead body? But let us keep that our graveside secret.”

“Don't you dare make fun of me, Stratfield. I shall be married off in a trice to some toothless old country squire if I get into any more trouble this summer.”

“A fate worse than death. Lady Chloe Boscastle sentenced to the bucolic life. Think of all the crows and cows you can charm.”

“I think I am beginning to understand why someone wanted you dead,” she said darkly.

“Seriously, my dear, isn't it rather late to be worrying about the small matter of your reputation? I had nothing to do with your exile, after all.”

Chloe took a breath to control her temper. “If you're caught in this room, my next exile will be to Tasmania.”

“Lady Chloe with all those nasty convicts? Dear me, we can't let that happen to her.”

“Is a convict any worse than a corpse?”

“I suppose it depends on the corpse.” He paused, struggling, Chloe suspected, to hide how uncomfortable he had become. “Do I take your concern to mean you are really going to reform?”

She met his challenging gaze. “Yes. I am reforming, if you don't ruin everything.”

He crossed his right arm behind his neck, cursing aloud at the agony the casual movement caused. “I'm curious. How did I compare to your lover in the park?”

Chloe could not miss the catch of pain in his voice. Like it or not, the man needed medical help, and for the life of her she had no idea how to bring a doctor up here in secret.

“I don't know how you compare,” she said. “It's none of your business.”

His grin was positively diabolical for a man in so much pain. “It can't have been much of a kiss. I can only assume mine was better.”

There wasn't any comparison in Chloe's mind. Baron Brentford's kiss had been uncontrolled and ill timed, nothing that sent sparkling heat through a young woman's body. Nothing that burnished her from inside out like French champagne, even though at the time it had seemed like the most daring risk in the world.

And she'd gotten caught in the act. How would her long-suffering siblings react if they could see her now?

She came to her feet, feeling safer with distance between them. She noticed that he made no attempt to stop her. Was the pain weakening him? Was this entire frivolous conversation designed to distract him from his discomfort? Chloe had to wonder.

“Your kiss,” she said softly, staring down at him as one might a wild animal whose nature was unknown, “was much, much worse. Horrid even.”