The Saint Who Stole My Heart: A Regency Rogues Novel (10 page)

Dash handed the tankard over and returned the poker to the fireplace. “My father used to make this very posset for me when I was a child.”

“And for himself, my lord,” Bell replied fondly, sleep clearly having lowered his guard. He joined Dash at the table and began to beat the ingredients together with the spoon. When a foamy froth appeared at the top, he pulled the spoon from the tankard and gave it back to Dash.

Dash leaned against the table and took a sip, the
hot, creamy drink sliding easily down his throat. “Did he now?”

“Oh yes, many times,” the butler confirmed with a hint of a smile. “You were very much alike, you know. Always with too much on your minds to sleep.”

“Is that so?” Dash pressed. Talking about his father was strangely comforting after the long day he’d endured.

Bell carried the spoon to the scullery and returned. “Yes, my lord. You remind me very much of the late viscount.”

“Well, let us hope I can live up to the old man’s example,” Dash answered, his words surprising Bell—and himself.

Bell turned back to Dash. “My lord, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that you will. Nor was there in your father’s. He told me so himself.” The butler folded his hands together. “Now, if there’s nothing else, my lord, I’ll return to bed.”

“Of course, Bell. Good night,” Dash replied, watching the man’s retreating form until he disappeared.

He took another slow drink of the posset and inhaled the heady almond aroma. They’d never discussed such things, Dash and his father. It hadn’t occurred to Dash to do so, nor obviously to the late viscount.

So why did Bell’s words hold so much weight with him now? Why was Dash turning soft at precisely the moment that he needed to be strong?

He drained the tankard and set it in the sink, wiping away a trace of froth on his upper lip. He’d let the drink work its magic, claim a good night’s rest, and return to the Dash he knew and understood in the morning.

All would be right in the morning.

Elena lay in her bed, listening to the night noises floating up from the streets below. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the roll of carriage wheels did little to distract her from Lady Mowbray’s proposition. If Elena agreed to give herself over entirely to the marchioness and attend the selected events with “marked enthusiasm,” she would be allowed to accompany Lady Mowbray to the Halcyon Society. The group had been organized to rescue women from prostitution and was known for its progressive techniques, even to those as far afield as Dorset.

Elena had long dreamed of providing such a service to her community. And Lady Mowbray’s connections to the charity could make it all come true.

Despite her initial reservations, Elena had discovered she rather liked the marchioness. She was as demanding and, Elena felt sure, as difficult as any other woman of her rank. But she was kind, too, and in possession of a warm, sympathetic heart—very unlike her fellow matrons who had made Elena’s debut season so painful. No, she was no longer afraid of Lady Mowbray.

But the viscount?

The very thought of the man made Elena’s head buzz. She quickly jumped out of bed and donned a dove-gray linen wrapper over her plain night rail. She slid her bare feet into a pair of soft felt slippers and tipped a single candlestick into the remains of the fire, waiting until the
wick burned to life. She stared at the orange flame, watching it twist and sway against the enveloping darkness. It was mesmerizing, the flame’s rhythmic movements almost making her forget why she’d flown from her bed to begin with.

Almost.

An hour or two in the library would put her mind right.

Elena laid her palm against the door; its coldness on her skin broke the fire’s trance. She proceeded to make her way downstairs. Slowly. And with great difficulty.

Elena’s sense of direction could be called “limited.” She wasn’t bothered by her shortcoming—well, not severely so. But she was rather glad that she was alone.

“Drat,”
she grumbled as she traversed the west wing’s main hall.

This was hardly helping matters. At home in Verwood, Elena knew every shop and every street corner. At Harcourt House, she could find any room with her eyes closed.

But here? In London? Elena didn’t know up from down—both literally and figuratively.

Elena spied a portrait of three superior-looking spaniels that were poised on a puce cushion, looking, to her way of thinking, as though they were readying to relieve themselves. She’d passed that very same painting before—mere minutes before, unfortunately. Surely there could not be another portrait of spaniels in need of relief, could there?

No. No one would make the mistake of purchasing two such paintings. Not even the viscount.

Blast, why was the man plaguing her mind so?

Annoyed, she turned, holding the candle aloft and marching back down the hall. In Dorset, everything was in its place—including Elena. But here, in Carrington
House … Well, Elena didn’t even know how to finish the thought. What was she doing?

The stone floor, between the Persian runners that appeared intermittently, chilled Elena’s slipper-shod feet. She gritted her teeth and picked up the pace, quickly arriving at an impasse. She’d thought for sure that continuing on in a straight line would bring her to the staircase, but her path had ended abruptly with the unfortunate appearance of a wall directly in front of her.

Right or left? Elena could feel her heart begin to race. A lightness threatened to overtake her head, and her cheeks burned.

Two days in the capitol city and she’d been reduced to wandering the halls at night, thinking on a man, of all things. A man most assuredly her intellectual inferior. And yet, a man whose heart mysteriously spoke to hers.

This was madness.

Elena resolutely turned right and proceeded down the darkened hall, the sight of the staircase buoying her courage. She confidently descended the stairs, her head held high. Reaching the marble foyer she stopped for a moment, closed her eyes, and concentrated. At least she’d had the good sense to memorize which door led to the library. She opened her eyes, proceeded to the front door, then turned, as though she’d just arrived inside. She looked to the right, counting the rooms until she came to the third entryway.

She tightened the silk sash at her waist and strode toward the spot, careful to take note of the portraits on the walls so she could find her way back to the stairs once finished with her work.

No portraits of spaniels this time, only long-faced relatives and tasteful country scenes. At the end of the hall she spied a large portrait, the candlelight seemingly drawn toward it. Unable to resist, Elena passed the third door and continued down the hall.

Closer now, she held the candle aloft and examined the portrait. The subject was the viscount, standing next to a large bay horse. One hand rested gently on the beautiful bay’s neck while the other was held loosely near his waist.

Elena stood on tiptoe and moved closer, peering at his friendly smile. “You really must leave me be,” she paused, wondering just what one could expect from a portrait, then whispered, “please.”

“Why are you talking to the painting, Miss Barnes?”

The richly timbered voice caught Elena by surprise and she wheeled around, nearly igniting the viscount’s coat with her candle. “Don’t be absurd, my lord,” she replied with false confidence. “I was merely noting the fine brushwork—aloud, yes. But to myself.”

He reached out and gently caught her shoulders, steadying her. “Pity, that.”

“And why might that be?” Elena asked, trying to ignore the warmth and feel of his hands on her.

The viscount released her and stepped back, turning on his heels and walking a few paces to stand in front of a portrait just to the left of the library entrance. “Well, you see, I talk to the paintings and had rather hoped I wasn’t the only one.”

“Are you toying with me, my lord?” Elena asked warily, joining him.

The viscount held up the candelabra in his hand and it bathed the portrait in light, revealing a stunning young woman. “My mother, Miss Barnes. She was beautiful, wouldn’t you agree?”

She’d miscalculated the distance and now stood too close to him, the heady, masculine scent of sandalwood weakening her knees. Elena took two steps to the right, and then focused her attention on the portrait. “Oh,” she sighed. The viscountess was exquisite. She wore a luxurious ball gown from some thirty years past. A
glittering ruby necklace encircled her slim, ivory neck. And a playful smile artfully curved her lips. And her hair—the same spun gold as the viscount’s. “You are quite right, my lord. She is beautiful, indeed. Do you miss her?”

The viscount looked at her, confusion creasing his brow. “Didn’t you know? She died in childbirth. I never knew her.”

“But you failed to answer my question,” Elena countered without thought, regretting her words the moment they spilled from her lips.

He turned his gaze back to the portrait. “Because you already know the answer.”

“Please, forgive me,” Elena entreated, looking down at the floor. “Of course you miss her—the same as I miss mine.”

She looked up and found the viscount staring at her. A muscle flexed along his jawline, and his eyes searched hers. Tension stretched between them. “There is something about you, my lord. Something that makes me act …”

“Strangely?” he finished on her behalf. He swallowed hard before continuing. “Perhaps it’s that we share so much, Miss Barnes. A kinship, if you will,” he finished in an amiable tone.

Kinship
. Is that what he saw when he looked at her? A sister? Who was the foolish one now?

Elena examined her wrapper and night rail, embarrassment flooding her senses. “Precisely,” she managed to answer. “Now, I believe I’ll return to bed.”

“Allow me to escort you,” Lord Carrington insisted, placing his hand on the sensitive stretch of skin just beneath her elbow and guiding her down the hall. “Miss Barnes, I meant to ask you, why are you up at such a late hour?”

Elena yanked the two sides of her wrapper tightly together and reluctantly accompanied him. “I could not sleep.”

“Yet one more commonality between us,” he remarked, looking down at her and grinning. “And what kept you awake?”

“Flights of fancy, my lord,” Elena answered, tears forming just in the corners of her eyes. “Nothing more than flights of fancy.”

“My dear, did you sleep well?” Lady Mowbray ladled a second spoon of sugar into her tea and studied Elena.

Elena savored a forkful of bacon and looked across the breakfast table at the marchioness. Rowena had assured her that the dark smudges beneath her eyes were hardly noticeable. Clearly, Lady Mowbray thought otherwise.

“I’m afraid not,” she answered, smoothing her hair. “Due to the unfamiliar sounds of the city, no doubt. I’m certain I’ll grow used to such things soon enough.”

The viscount lifted his teacup and stared into it, as though searching for something.

“My lord, are you in need of tea, or have you taken to reading the leaves?”

“Neither,” Lord Carrington replied, examining the dregs at the bottom of the cup one last time before setting it carefully back on the table. “Simply thinking is all.”

Elena turned her attention to the coddled eggs on her plate. Simply thinking? Was he contemplating their conversation last night? Lord knew Elena had been—and still was, apparently.

“Hmm, now that I look at you more closely,” Lady Mowbray remarked, “you appear rather exhausted, as well. Odd that both of you would have difficulty sleeping,
and on the very same night,” she continued, stirring her tea while she looked first at the viscount, then Elena, a certain gleam in her eyes.

A gleam that unnerved Elena.

“Come now, Bessie,” the viscount said. He shrugged and returned his attention to his breakfast plate. “Nothing odd about it at all. A late evening spent at one’s club tends to drain a man.”

“Quite so,” she agreed. “As does wandering about in the dark—together.”

Elena dropped the forkful of eggs that she’d brought to her mouth and looked at the viscount expectantly.