A Night Like This (18 page)

“No.”

His hands stiled.
No, she didn’t understand? No, not now?
Or
no, not—

“I can’t,” she whispered, and she tugged at the sheet in a desperate attempt to cover herself.

Dear God, not
that
no.

“I’m sorry,” she said with an agonized gasp. “I’m so sorry. Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” With frenetic motions she lurched from the bed, trying to pull the sheet along with her. But Daniel was still pinning it down, and she stumbled, then found herself jerked backward toward the bed. still, she held on, tugging and puling and over and over again saying, “I’m sorry.”

Daniel just tried to breathe, great big gulps of air that he prayed would ease what was now a painful erection. He was so far gone he couldn’t even think straight, let alone put together a sentence.

“I shouldn’t have,” she said, still trying to cover herself with the damned bedsheet. She couldn’t get away from the side of the bed, not if she wanted to keep herself covered. He could reach out for her; his arms were long enough. He could wrap his hands around her shoulders and pull her back, tempt her back into his arms. He could make her writhe and squirm with pleasure until she couldn’t remember her own name. He knew how to do it.

And yet he didn’t move. He was a bloody stupid statue, up there on the four-poster bed, on his knees with his hands clutching at the fastening of his breeches.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, for what had to be the fiftieth time. “I’m sorry, I just . . . I can’t. It’s the only thing I have. Do you understand? It’s the only thing I have.”

Her virginity.

He hadn’t even given it a thought. What kind of man was he? “I’m sorry,” he said, and then he almost laughed at the absurdity of it. It was a symphony of apologies, uncomfortable and utterly discordant.

“No, no,” she returned, her head still shaking back and forth, “I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have let you, and I shouldn’t have let myself. I know better.
I know
better
.”

So did he.

With a muttered curse he got down from the bed, forgetting that he’d been pinning her in place with the sheet. She went stumbling and twirling, tripping over her own feet until she landed in a nearby wingback chair, wrapped up like a clumsy Roman, toga askew.

It would have been funny if he hadn’t been so bloody close to exploding.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“Stop
saying
that,” he practicaly begged her. His voice was laced with exasperation—no, make that desperation—and she must have heard it, too, for she clamped her mouth shut, swalowing nervously as she watched him pull on his shirt.

“I have to leave for London, anyway,” he said, not that
that
would have stopped him if she hadn’t done so.

She nodded.

“We will discuss this later,” he said firmly. He had no idea what he’d say, but they
would
talk about it. Just not right now, with the entire house waking up around him.

The entire house. Good God, he realy
had
lost his head. In his determination to show Anne honor and respect the night before, he’d ordered the maids to put her in the finest guest bedroom, on the same hall as the rest of the family. Anyone could have walked through the door. His
mother
could have seen them. Or worse, one of his young cousins. He couldn’t imagine what they would have thought he was doing. At least his mother would have known he wasn’t kiling the governess.

Anne nodded again, but she wasn’t quite looking at him. Some little part of him thought this was curious, but then some other, larger part of him promptly forgot about it. He was far too concerned with the painful results of unfulfiled desire to think about the fact that she wouldn’t look him in the eye when she nodded.

“I will call upon you when you arrive in town,” he said.

She said something in return, so softly that he couldn’t make out the words.

“What was that?”

“I said—” She cleared her throat. Then she did it again. “I said that I don’t think that’s wise.” He looked at her. Hard. “Would you have me pretend to visit my cousins again?”

“No. I— I would—” She turned away, but he saw her eyes flash with anguish, and maybe anger, and then, finaly, resignation. When she looked back up, she met his gaze directly, but the spark in her expression, the one that so often drew him to her . . . It seemed to have gone out.

“I would prefer,” she said, her voice so carefuly even it was almost a monotone, “that you not call at al.” He crossed his arms. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

He fought for a moment—against himself. Finaly he asked, somewhat beligerently, “Because of this?” His eyes fell to her shoulder, where the sheet had slipped, revealing a tiny patch of skin, rosy pink and supple in the morning light. It was barely an inch square, but in that moment he wanted it so badly he could barely speak.

He wanted
her
.

She looked at him, at his eyes, so firmly fixed to one spot, then down at her bare shoulder. With a little gasp she yanked the sheet back up.

“I—” She swalowed, perhaps summoning her courage, then continued. “I would not lie to you and say that I did not want this.”

“Me,” he cut in peevishly. “You wanted
me
.”

She closed her eyes. “Yes,” she finaly said, “I wanted you.”

Part of him wanted to interrupt again, to remind her that she still wanted him, that it wasn’t and would never be in the past.

“But I can’t have you,” she said quietly, “and because of that,
you
can’t have
me
.” And then, to his complete astonishment, he asked, “What if I married you?”

A
nne stared at him in shock. Then she stared at him in horror, because he looked just as surprised as she felt, and she was fairly certain that if he could have taken back the words, he would have done.

With haste.

With haste.

But his question—she couldn’t possibly think of it as a proposal—hung in the air, and they both stared at each other, unmoving, until finaly her feet seemed to recognize that this was not a laughing matter, and she leapt up, skittering backward until she had managed to put the wingback chair between them.

“You can’t,” she blurted out.

Which seemed to rouse that masculine don’t-you-tel-
me
-what-to-do reaction. “Why not?” he demanded.

“You just can’t,” she shot back, tugging at the sheet, which had snagged on the corner of the chair. “You should know that. For heaven’s sake, you’re an earl.

You can’t marry a nobody.” Especialy not a nobody with a falsified name.

“I can marry anyone I damn well please.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Now he looked like a three-year-old who’d had his toy snatched away. Didn’t he understand that she couldn’t
do
this? He might delude himself, but she would never be so naïve. Especialy after her conversation with Lady Pleinsworth the night before.

“You’re being foolish,” she told him, yanking at the damned sheet again. Dear God, was it too much just to want to be
free
? “And impractical. And furthermore, you don’t even want to marry me, you just want to get me into your bed.”

He drew back, visibly angered by her statement. But he did not contradict.

She let out an impatient breath. She hadn’t meant to insult him, and he should have realized that. “I do not think that you meant to seduce and abandon,” she said, because no matter how furious he made her, she could not bear his believing that she thought him a scoundrel. “I know that sort of man, and you are not he. But you hardly intended to propose marriage, and I certainly will not hold you to it.”

His eyes narrowed, but not before she saw them glint dangerously. “When did you come to know my mind better than I do?”

“When you stopped
thinking
.” She puled at the sheet again, this time with such violence that the chair lurched forward and nearly toppled. And Anne very nearly found herself naked. “Aaargh!” she let out, so frustrated she wanted to punch something. Looking up, she saw Daniel standing there, just watching her, and she nearly screamed, she was so bloody
angry
. At him, at George Chervil, at the damned damned sheet that kept tangling her legs. “Will you just go?” she snapped.

“Now, before someone comes in.”

He smiled then, but it wasn’t anything like the smiles she knew of him. It was cold, and it was mocking, and the sight of it on his face tore through her heart. “What would happen then?” he murmured. “You, dressed in nothing but a sheet. Me, rather rumpled.”

“No one would insist upon marriage,” she snapped. “That much I can tell you. You’d go back to your merry life, and I would be cast out without a reference.” He stared at her sourly. “I suppose you’re going to say that that was my plan all along. To bankrupt you until you had no choice but to become my mistress.”

“No,” she said curtly, because she could not lie to him, not about this. And then, in a softer voice, she added, “I would never think that of you.” He fell silent, his eyes watching her intently. He was hurting, she could see that. He hadn’t proposed marriage, not realy, but still she’d somehow managed to reject him. And she
hated
that he was in pain. She hated the look on his face, and she hated the stiff way his arms were held at his sides, and most of all she hated that nothing was ever going to be the same. They would not talk. They would not laugh.

They would not kiss.

Why
had she stopped him? She’d been in his arms, skin to skin, and she’d wanted him. She’d wanted him with a fire she’d never dreamed possible. She’d wanted to take him into her, and she’d wanted to love him with her body as she already loved him with her heart.

She loved him.

Dear God.

“Anne?”

She didn’t respond.

Daniel’s brow knit with concern. “Anne, are you all right? You’ve gone pale.”

She wasn’t all right. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be all right again.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Anne . . .” Now he looked worried, and he was walking toward her, and if he touched her, if he so much as reached for her, she’d lose her resolve.

“No,” she practicaly barked, hating the way her voice came from deep in her throat. It hurt. The word hurt. It hurt her neck, and it hurt her ears, and it hurt him, too.

But she had to do it.

“Please don’t,” she said. “I need you to leave me alone. This. . . . This . . .” She fought for a word; she couldn’t bear to call it a thing. “This
feeling
between us

. . .” she finaly settled upon. “Nothing can come of it. You must realize that. And if you care for me at al, you will leave.” But he did not move.

“You will leave now,” she practicaly cried, and she sounded like a wounded animal. Which was what she was, she supposed.

For several seconds more he stood frozen, and then finaly, in a voice as low as it was determined, he said, “I am leaving, but not for any of the reasons you request. I am going to London to settle the issue with Ramsgate, and then—and
then
,” he said with greater force, “we will talk.” Silently, she shook her head. She could not do this again. It was too painful to listen to him spin stories about happy endings that would never be hers.

He strode to the door. “We will talk,” he said again.

It wasn’t until after he’d left that Anne whispered, “No. We won’t.”

One week later

S
he was back.

S
he was back.

Daniel had heard it from his sister, who had heard it from his mother, who had heard it directly from his aunt.

A more efficient chain of communication he could not imagine.

He hadn’t realy expected the Pleinsworths to remain at Whipple Hill for quite so long after he left. Or perhaps more to the point, he hadn’t given any thought to the matter, not until several days had passed and they’d still remained in the country.

But as it turned out, it was probably for the best that they (and by they, he realy meant Anne) had stayed out of town. It had been a busy week—busy and frustrating, and the knowledge of Miss Wynter’s presence within walking distance would have been a distraction he could not afford.

He had talked to Hugh. Again. And Hugh had talked to his father. Again. And when Hugh had returned, reporting back to Daniel that he still did not think that his father had been involved in the recent attacks, Daniel had flown off the handle. Hugh had done what Daniel should have insisted upon weeks earlier.

He took him to speak with Lord Ramsgate directly.

And now Daniel was at a complete loss, because he, too, did not think that Lord Ramsgate had tried to kill him. Maybe he was a fool, maybe he just wanted to believe that this horrific chapter of his life was finaly over, but the fury just hadn’t been in Ramsgate’s eyes. Not like the last time they’d met, right after Hugh had been shot.

Plus there was the new development of Hugh’s threatened suicide. Daniel was not sure if his friend was briliant or mad, but either way, when he reiterated his vow to kill himself if anything untoward happened to Daniel, it had been chiling. Lord Ramsgate was visibly shaken, even though it was hardly the first time he’d heard his son make the threat. Even Daniel had felt il, being witness to such an unholy promise.

And he believed him. The look in Hugh’s eyes . . . The icy, almost expressionless way he’d delivered the statement . . . It was terrifying.

All this meant that when Lord Ramsgate had practicaly spat at Daniel, vowing that he would do him no harm, Daniel believed him.

That had been two days earlier, two days during which Daniel had had little to do but think. About who else might wish to see him dead. About what Anne could possibly have meant when she’d said that she couldn’t be responsible for him. About the secrets she was hiding, and why she’d said he didn’t have all the information.

What in bloody hell had she meant by that?

Could the attack have been directed toward
her
? It wasn’t inconceivable that someone might have realized she’d be riding home in his curricle. They’d certainly been inside the inn long enough for someone to sabotage the harness.

He thought back to the day she’d run into Hoby’s, wild-eyed and terrified. She’d said there was someone she did not wish to see.

Who?

And didn’t she realize that he could help her? He might be recently returned from exile, but he had position, and with that came power, certainly enough to keep her safe. Yes, he had been on the run for three years, but he’d been up against the Marquess of Ramsgate.

Daniel was the Earl of Winstead; there were only so many men who outranked him. A handful of dukes, a few more marquesses, and the royals. Surely Anne had not managed to make an enemy among that exalted population.

But when he had marched up the steps of Pleinsworth House to demand an interview, he had been informed that she was not at home.

And when he had repeated the request the folowing morning, he was met with the same answer.

Now, several hours later, he was back, and this time his aunt came in person to deliver the refusal.

“You must leave that poor girl alone,” she said sharply.

Daniel was not in the mood to be lectured by his aunt Charlotte, so he cut straight to the point. “I need to speak with her.”

“Wel, she is not here.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Aunt, I know she’s—”

“I fuly admit that she was upstairs when you caled this morning,” Lady Pleinsworth cut in. “Fortunately, Miss Wynter has the sense to cut off this flirtation, even if you do not. But she is not here now.”

“Aunt Charlotte . . .” he warned.

“She’s not!” Her chin lifted ever so slightly in the air. “It is her afternoon free. She always goes out on her afternoon free.”

“Always?”

“As far as I know.” His aunt flicked her hand impatiently through the air. “She has errands, and . . . And whatever it is she does.”
Whatever it is she does.
What a statement.

“Very wel,” Daniel said in a curt voice. “I shal wait for her.”

“Oh, no, you won’t.”

“You’re going to bar me from your sitting room,” he said, giving her a look of mild disbelief.

She crossed her arms. “If I must.”

He crossed his. “I am your nephew.”

“And amazingly enough, the connection does not seem to have imbued you with common sense.” He stared at her.

“That was an insult,” she mentioned, “in case you’re having difficulty sorting it out.” Good God.

“If you have any care for Miss Wynter,” Lady Pleinsworth continued imperiously, “you will leave her in peace. She is a sensible lady, and I keep her in my employ because I am fuly certain that it is you who have pursued her and not the other way around.”

“Did you talk with her about me?” Daniel demanded. “Did you threaten her?”

“Of course not,” his aunt snapped, but she looked away for a split second, and Daniel knew she was lying. “As if I would threaten her,” she continued in a huff.

“And furthermore,
she’s
not the one who needs a talking to. She knows how the world works, even if you do not. What happened at Whipple Hill can be overlooked—”

“
What happened
?” Daniel echoed, panic rising within him as he wondered to what, precisely, his aunt was referring. Had someone found out about his visit to Anne’s bedroom? No, that was impossible. Anne would have been thrown out of the house if that had been the case.

“Your time spent alone with her,” Lady Pleinsworth clarified. “Don’t think I was unaware. As much as I would like to believe that you have suddenly taken an interest in Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances, any fool could see that you’ve been panting after Miss Wynter like a puppy dog.”

“Another insult, I assume,” he bit off.

She pursed her lips but otherwise ignored his comment. “I do not want to have to let her go,” she said, “but if you pursue the connection, I will have no choice.

And you can be sure that no family of good standing would hire a governess who consorts with an earl.” And you can be sure that no family of good standing would hire a governess who consorts with an earl.”

“
Consorts
?” he repeated, his voice somewhere between disbelief and disgust. “Don’t insult her with such a word.” His aunt drew back and regarded him with mild pity. “It is not
I
who insults her. In fact, I applaud Miss Wynter for possessing good judgment where you do not. I was warned not to hire such an attractive young woman as a governess, but despite her looks she is extremely inteligent. And the girls quite adore her. Would you have me discriminate against her for her beauty?”

“No,” he bit off, ready to climb the wals with frustration. “And what the devil has that to do with anything? I just want to speak with her.” His voice rose at the end, coming dangerously close to a roar.

Lady Pleinsworth leveled a long stare at his face. “No,” she said.

Daniel practicaly bit his tongue to keep from snapping at her. The only way his aunt was going to let him see Anne was if he told her that he suspected that
she
had been the target of the attack at Whipple Hil. But anything that hinted at a scandalous past would have her fired immediately, and he would not be the cause of her loss of employment.

Finaly, his patience worn down to a threadbare string, he let out a between-the-teeth exhale and said, “I need to speak with her once. One time only. It may be in your sitting room with the door ajar, but I would insist upon privacy.”

His aunt regarded him suspiciously. “Once?”

“Once.” It was not strictly true; he wished for a great deal more than that, but that was all he was going to request.

“I shal think about it,” she sniffed.

“Aunt Charlotte!”

“Oh, very wel, just once, and only because I wish to believe that your mother raised a son who has some sense of right and wrong.”

“Oh, for the love of—”

“Don’t blaspheme in front of me,” she warned, “and make me reconsider my judgment.”

Daniel clamped his mouth shut, gritting his teeth so hard he fuly expected to taste powder.

“You may call upon her tomorrow,” Lady Pleinsworth granted. “At eleven in the morning. The girls plan to go shopping with Sarah and Honoria. I would prefer not to have them in the house while you are . . .” She appeared not to know how to describe it, instead flicking her hand distastefuly in the air.

He nodded, then bowed, then left.

But like his aunt, he did not see Anne, watching them from a crack in the door to the next room, listening to every word they said.

A
nne waited until Daniel stormed out of the house, then looked down at the letter in her hands. Lady Pleinsworth hadn’t been lying; she
had
gone out to run her errands. But she’d returned through the back door, as was her usual practice when she did not have the girls with her. She’d been on her way up to her room when she realized that Daniel was in the front hal. She shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but she could not help herself. It wasn’t so much what he said; she just wanted to hear his voice.

It would be the last time she would hear it.

The letter was from her sister Charlotte, and it was a bit out of date, as it had been sitting at the receiving house where Anne preferred to pick up her mail since well before she had left for Whipple Hil. The receiving house she
hadn’t
gone to that day she’d run into the bootmaker’s shop in a panic. If she’d had this letter before she’d thought she’d seen George Chervil, she wouldn’t have been frightened.

She’d have been terrified.

According to Charlotte, he’d come by the house again, this time when Mr. and Mrs. Shawcross were out. He’d first tried to cajole her into revealing Anne’s whereabouts, then he’d ranted and screamed until the servants had come in, worried for Charlotte’s safety. He’d left then, but not until he had revealed that he knew Anne was working as a governess for an aristocratic family, and that this being springtime, she was likely in London. Charlotte did not think he knew which family Anne was working for; else why would he have expended so much energy trying to get the answer from her? still, she was worried, and she begged Anne to take caution.

Anne crumpled the letter in her hands, then eyed the tidy fire burning in the grate. She always burned Charlotte’s letters after she received them. It was painful every time; these wispy slips of paper were her only link to her old life, and more than once she had sat at her small writing table, blinking back tears as she traced the familiar loops of Charlotte’s script with her index finger. But Anne had no ilusions that she enjoyed perfect privacy as a servant, and she had no idea how she might explain them if they were ever discovered. This time, however, she happily threw the paper into the fire.

Wel, not happily. She wasn’t sure she would do anything happily, ever again. But she enjoyed destroying it, however grim and furious that joy might be.

She shut her eyes, keeping them tightly closed against her tears. She was almost certainly going to have to leave the Pleinsworths. And she was bloody angry about it. This was the best position she’d ever had. She was not trapped on an island with an aging old lady, caught in a endless circle of endless boredom. She was not bolting her door at night against a crude old man who seemed to think
he
should be educating
her
while his children slept. She liked living with the Pleinsworths.

It was the closest she’d ever felt to home, since . . . since . . .

Since she’d had a home.

She forced herself to breathe, then roughly wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. But then, just as she was about to head into the main hall and up the stairs, a knock sounded at the door. It was probably Daniel; he must have forgot something.

She darted back into the sitting room, puling the door almost shut. She ought to close it completely, she knew that, but this might very well be her last glimpse of him. With her eye to the crack, she watched as the butler went to answer the knock. But as Granby swung the door open, she saw not Daniel but a man she’d never seen before.

He was a rather ordinary-looking felow, dressed in clothing that marked him as someone who worked for a living. Not a laborer; he was too clean and tidy for that. But there was something rough about him, and when he spoke, his accent held the harsh cadence of East London.

“Deliveries are in the rear,” Granby said immediately.

“I’m not here to make a delivery,” the man said with a nod. His accent might be coarse but his manners were polite, and the butler did not close the door on his face.

“What, then, is your business?”

“I’m looking for a woman who might live here. Miss Annelise Shawcross.”

Anne stopped breathing.

“There is no one here by that name,” Granby said crisply. “If you will excuse me—”

“She might call herself something else,” the man cut in. “I’m not sure what name she’s using, but she has dark hair, blue eyes, and I’m told she is quite beautiful.” He shrugged. “I’ve never seen her myself. She could be working as a servant. But she’s gentry, make no mistake of it.” He shrugged. “I’ve never seen her myself. She could be working as a servant. But she’s gentry, make no mistake of it.” Anne’s body tensed for flight. There was no way Granby would not recognize her from that description.

But Granby said, “That does not sound like anyone in this household. Good day, sir.”

The man’s face tightened with determination, and he shoved his foot in the door before Granby could close it. “If you change your mind, sir,” he said, holding something forth, “here is my card.”