Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

Nicholas was the only son of the Marquess of Amberly, who, after her half brother Granville’s death, had inherited her home, Wallingham Hall, a few miles away. While she felt respect and mild affection for Amberly, who she’d met on a number of occasions, she was less sure of Nicholas; when, in February, he’d appeared unheralded to stay at Wallingham and had started asking questions about Granville’s habits and associates, she’d become suspicious. She had sound reasons for believing that anyone asking such questions bore careful watching, but Nicholas had left after five days, and she’d hoped that that would be the end of it.

Yesterday, Nicholas had returned, and spent all day visiting the various smugglers’ dens dotted along the coast. Tonight, he’d visited Polruan, and spent two hours at the tavern there. She’d spent the same two hours watching from a nearby stand of trees, taverns at night being one of the few places hereabouts she accepted were off-limits to her, at least when on her own.

Irritated and increasingly alarmed, she’d waited until Nicholas came out, alone, then followed him back through the night. Once she was sure he was heading back to Wallingham, she’d turned her mare north and ridden here, to her sanctuary.

During her long wait in the trees, she’d thought of a way to learn what Nicholas had been doing in the taverns he’d visited, but putting her plan into action would have to wait for tomorrow. As would racking her brains, yet again, to try and make sense of what she’d thus far learned, of her suspicions and what she feared they might mean, might reveal, might lead to.

Despite the urgency she felt over that last, the long day had drained her; she was so tired she could barely think. She’d get a good night’s sleep, then consider her best way forward tomorrow.

At the end of the gallery, she headed down the corridor; the bedchamber two from the end of the wing had been hers for the past decade, whenever she took it into her head to visit her godmother’s home. The room was always kept ready, the Abbey staff long used to her occasional, unheralded appearances; the fire would be laid, but not lit.

Glancing to her right, through the long, uncurtained windows that gave onto the rear courtyard with its fountain and well-tended beds, she decided she wouldn’t bother striking a flame. She was bone-weary. All she wanted was to peel off her breeches and boots, jacket and shirt, and tumble under the covers and sleep.

Exhaling, she turned to her bedchamber door and reached for the latch.

A large dense shadow swooped in on her left.

Panic leapt. She looked—

“ Ahhee!! —”

Recognition hit; she clapped a hand over her mouth to cut off her shriek, but he was faster. Her hand landed over his, pressing his hard palm to her lips.

For an instant, she stared into his eyes, dark and unreadable mere inches away. Acutely conscious of the heat of his skin against her lips.

Of him there , tall and broad-shouldered in the darkness beside her.

If time could stand still, in that instant, it did.

Then reality came crashing back.

Stiffening, she dropped her hand and stepped back.

Lowering his hand, he let her go, eyes narrowing as he searched her face.

She dragged in a breath, kept her eyes on his. Her heart was still hammering in her throat. “Damn you, Charles, what the devil do you mean by trying to scare me witless? ” The only way to deal with him was to seize the reins and keep them. “You could at least have spoken, or made some sound.”

One dark brow arched; his eyes lifted to her hat, then lazily traced downward, all the way to her boots. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

Beneath the layers of her drab disguise, a lick of heat touched her cold skin. His voice was as deep, as languidly dark as she remembered it, the seductive power simply there whether he intended it or not. Something inside her clenched; she ignored the sensation, tried to think.

The realization that he was the very last person she wished to be there—within ten miles or even more of there—slammed through her and shook her to her toes.

“Well, it is. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get some sleep.” Lifting the latch, she pushed open the door, went in, and shut it.

Tried to. The door stopped four inches short of the jamb.

She pushed, then sighed. Deeply. She dropped her forehead against the door. Compared to him, she was still a squib; her senses informed her he had only one palm against the door’s other side.

“All right!” Stepping away, she flung her hands in the air. “ Be difficult then.” She uttered the words through clenched teeth. Tired as she was, her hold on her temper was tenuous—that, she knew, was the very worst state to be in when forced to deal with Charles Maximillian Geoffre St. Austell.

Stalking across the room, she pulled off her hat, then sat on the side of the bed. From under lowered brows, she watched as he entered. Leaving the door ajar, he located her, then scanned the room.

He saw her brushes on the dresser, glanced at the armoire, noting the pair of half boots she’d left under it, then he looked at the bed, confirming it was made up. All in the time it took him to prowl, long-legged, arrogantly assured, to the armchair before the window. His gaze returning to her, he sat. Not that that word adequately described the motion; he was all fluid grace somehow arranging long, muscled limbs into an inherently masculine, innately elegant sprawl.

His black hair grew in heavy loose curls; presently neatly cropped, the thick locks framed his face. A harsh-featured, aristocratic face with dramatically arched black brows over large, deep-set eyes, strong, sculpted nose and jaw, and lips she didn’t need to dwell on.

For the space of ten heartbeats, his gaze rested on her; even through the dimness she could feel it. He’d always had better night vision than she; if she was to survive this interview with her secrets intact, she’d need every last ounce of her control.

Taking charge seemed wise.

“What are you doing home?” All her reasons for believing the Abbey empty, a safe haven, colored the words, transforming question into accusation.

“I live here, remember?” After an instant, he added, “Indeed, I now own the Abbey and all its lands.”

“Yes, but —” She wasn’t going to let him develop the theme of being her host, of being in any way responsible for her. “Marissa, Jacqueline, and Lydia, and Annabelle and Helen, went to London to help you find a wife. My stepmother—your godmother—and my sisters are there, too. They left here enthused, in full flight. There’s been talk of little else in the drawing rooms here and at Wallingham Hall since Waterloo. You’re supposed to be there, not here.” She paused, blinked, then asked, “Do they know you’re here?”

Knowing him, that was a pertinent question.

He didn’t frown, but she sensed his irritation, sensed, as he answered, that it wasn’t directed at her.

“They know I had to come down.”

Had to ? She fought to cover her dismay. “Why?”

Surely, surely it couldn’t be…?

Charles wished the light were better or the chair closer to the bed; he couldn’t see Penny’s eyes and her expressions—the real ones—were too fleeting to read in the dimness. He’d chosen the safe distance of the chair to avoid aggravating their mutually twitching nerves. That moment in the corridor had been bad enough; the urge to seize her, to have his hands on her again, had been so strong, so unexpectedly intense, it had taken every ounce of his will to resist.

He still felt off-balance, just a touch insane. He’d stay put and make do.