All About Love (5 page)

“Good morning. Ladies.” The deep, reverberating words were accompanied by a graceful nod. Phyllida resisted the urge to frown. That direct “Good morning” had been for her; the “Ladies” and the nod had been for the others.

Wrapping her habitual calm, collected demeanor about her, she followed Gladys to the bed, ignoring the heat still lingering in the center of her palm. Just as she was going to ignore him. She was determined not to succumb to the foolish fascination that had overcome her last night.

“We’ve brought you some broth, which is just what you need to set you up again.” She let her glance slide over him, a confident smile on her lips; she made sure not to meet his eyes.

“Indeed?”

Sweetie and Gladys preened; a swift glance showed he was smiling at them. “Indeed,” she averred, with rather more steel. “How is your head?”

“Considerably improved.” He glanced at her. “Thanks to you.”

“Indeed, yes!” Sweetie twittered. “So very right of dear Phyllida to insist you be brought here. Why, you were quite out of your senses, dear.”

“So I understand. I do hope that, in my delirium, I said nothing to distress you.”

“Of course not, dear—do set your mind at ease on that score. Gladys here and I have
brothers
, so you may be sure you surprised us not at all. Now, let me help you . . .”

He struggled to sit up; Sweetie grasped his arm and tugged. Phyllida plumped his pillows, careful not to touch his shoulders. Once he was settled, Gladys deposited the tray on his knees.

“Thank you.”

The smile that went with that left both Gladys and Sweetie happily dazed; Phyllida mentally frowned. The man was past dangerous. His next words confirmed it.

“This is excellent broth. Did you make it?”

Gladys confessed; pink with pleasure, she excused herself to return to her duties, pausing at the last to assure him that, should he require anything further, he only had to ask.

Phyllida inwardly sniffed. She stepped back from the bed, biding her time, letting him eat. He did so smoothly, steadily—she could detect not the smallest tremor in his hands. Strong, long-fingered, inherently graceful, they plied the spoon and broke the bread.

“Good heavens!” Sweetie fluttered. “We forgot the butter. I’ll fetch some right away.” She rushed out the door.

Phyllida found herself staring at the closing door before she had time to protest. Being alone with a gentleman in his bedchamber was unquestionably improper. Still, what harm could befall her? He was more or less tied to the bed. And she was quite capable of keeping him in his place, disturbing blue gaze or no. There wasn’t a man in the district she couldn’t manage, and despite his elegant facade, he was just a man. Folding her arms, she faced the bed. “I daresay you have a number of questions—”

“Oh, I do.”

She inclined her head, avoiding his eyes. “I’ll attempt to answer them while you eat. You need to build your strength.” He nodded in acquiescence; she continued. “You are presently at the Grange, my father’s house. It lies south of the village. You were found at the Manor, which as you probably recall lies on the village’s north boundary.”

“That much I remember.”

“My father is Sir Jasper Tallent—”

“Is he the local magistrate?”

She frowned. “Yes.”

“Has he any idea who killed Horatio?”

Phyllida pressed her lips together, then relented. “No.”

“Do you?”

She’d looked at him before she’d thought; his gaze locked with hers. Phyllida looked into eyes diabolically blue, took in the hard lines of his face, the unwavering determination, the hard mask that concealed his intention not at all. “No.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then inclined his head. “Perhaps not.”

She almost sighed with relief.

He looked down at his soup. “You do, however, know something.”

His conviction rang absolute. Phyllida nearly threw her hands in the air—there was clearly no point in arguing. She gripped her elbows and looked past the bed at the window. After a moment, she said, “I daresay you’re ravenous, but at this stage, you would be unwise to bite off more than you can chew. Your constitution may be excellent, but the blow you suffered was severe—you’ll need time to recover full use of your faculties.”

From the corner of her eye she saw his lips twitch, felt his gaze drift assessingly over her. She mentally replayed her words and felt pleased with them. A subtle warning and a clear statement she would not bow to
force majeure
. With most men, just the question of what she really meant would be enough to keep them puzzled and no more threat to her.

“My faculties,” he murmured, “are returning in leaps and bounds.”

Suggestive and openly threatening, the shocking warmth in his voice slid over her skin, a wanton, explicit caress.

Without thought, she sucked in a breath and whirled to face him, as if he were a predator. She was suddenly sure he was. “You’ll need to be careful.”

She kept her expression blank, her tone direct.

He opened his eyes wide; innocence wasn’t what she saw in them. “Shouldn’t you check my wound?”

“Your wound needs nothing more than time to heal.” No power on earth would get her closer to the bed—closer to him. Phyllida frowned, and held tight to her role.
She
was in charge, not he. “Papa would like you to join us for afternoon tea, if you’re able.”

His smile made her nerves tingle. “I’m able.”

“Good.” She turned to the door. “I’ll have your bags brought up—as a precaution, we left them downstairs.”

“Precaution?”

“Why, yes.” Reaching the door, she looked back. “We kept your clothes from you in case you turned difficult over remaining abed.”

His lips curved; his eyes glinted. The combination looked positively wicked. “Lying abed is one of my favorite pastimes. However, if I’d wanted to get up, the mere absence of clothes wouldn’t have deterred me.” His gaze slid over her; his voice deepened. “Not in the least.”

Gripping the doorknob, Phyllida met his gaze blankly and prayed she wasn’t blushing. “I’ll let Papa know you’ll be joining us later. Your name?”

His untrustworthy smile deepened. “Lucifer.”

Phyllida stared at him; even with the width of the room separating them, all her instincts were screaming, warning her not to call his bluff. Any of his bluffs.

Some part of her knew he wasn’t the sort who bluffed.

It went seriously against her grain to let him trifle with her and escape retribution, but arguing would simply be playing into his hands. She forced herself to incline her head and evenly state, “Sweetie—Miss Sweet—will return shortly. She’ll take away your tray.”

On that note, she opened the door; with a regal nod, she left.

Later, after he’d bathed and dressed, Lucifer sat on the window seat in his bedchamber and looked north, over a dense wood. Through the shifting canopies he could occasionally glimpse the gray slate roof of the Manor.

Gaze fixed, he thought of Horatio, and of Martha, and of what he should do next, how best to move forward. Horatio’s death was an accepted fact in his mind, but the tale had only just begun.

It was quiet beyond the open window. The snoozy quality of a summer’s afternoon blanketed the village, yet somewhere in that peace a murderer waited, and watched and worried. Horatio’s death had not been neat. Not only had he, Lucifer, stumbled on the scene far too soon, but so, too, had Phyllida Tallent.

Lucifer pondered that last, and all that it might mean.

A knock interrupted his reverie. He faced the door, keen to see if intuition proved correct. “Come in.”

Phyllida entered; he smiled in private triumph. Retreating earlier and leaving the field to him must have been difficult; despite her wariness, he’d predicted she wouldn’t stay away. She glanced around the room, then discovered him. She hesitated, then, leaving the door wide, crossed toward him. Frowning, she studied his face, his eyes. He let her draw near before smoothly rising—no sudden movements.

Her lovely eyes widened. She immediately halted. “Ah . . .” From four feet away, she stared up at him, her expression a telltale blank. Her gaze drifted, passing over him, then she wrenched it back to his face. And caught him returning the favor. Her eyes snapped even as her expression smoothed to impassivity. “Are you sure you’ve recovered enough to join us downstairs?”

He continued to smile, relishing her resistance. “I’m quite recovered enough to brave a drawing room.” The frown in her eyes deepened; he added, “My head only aches—it no longer throbs.”

“Well . . .” She searched his eyes once more. “I’m afraid my aunt and cousins have arrived for the summer, and, of course, they’re agog to meet you. You must promise you won’t overtax yourself.”

Fussing was not something he readily endured, yet the idea that she’d elected herself his keeper, and was determined to do her duty despite the urgings of her common sense to keep a safer distance between them, was oddly satisfying. Oddly endearing. He smiled charmingly, too wise to smirk. “If I weaken and need support, you’ll be the first to know.”

She glared, but the concern in her dark eyes was very real. As was her suspicion.

“Very well.” She lifted her head. “And now, if you please, your real name?”

Lucifer looked down at her; he made no attempt to disguise the tenor of his smile. “I told you. Lucifer.”

She met his gaze directly. “No one is called Lucifer.”

“I am.” He stepped forward; she backed.

“That’s ludicrous. That cannot be your real name.”

He continued his advance; she continued to fall back.

“It’s the name I’m known by. There are many who would tell you it suits me.” He held her gaze and continued his prowling stroll. “If you ask anyone in the ton for Lucifer, they’ll instantly send you to me.”

Her eyes had grown wider—their expression informed him she’d never encountered a man such as he. She was both fascinated and defensive—and, he suspected, disapproving. Desire flared; he tamped it down, kept that truth from his eyes. That he delighted in transforming disapproving ladies into wanton houris was a truth she didn’t need to know.

He took the last step that backed her over the room’s threshold. Glancing about, she discovered herself in the corridor. She stiffened; the look she threw him as she stepped aside was distinctly irate. And not a little surprised. He hid a grin. It seemed likely that no one had ever managed her as he just had. He’d herded her out of the room—no hands, no voice—simply him. And there was hay yet to be made on this fine summer’s day.

Closing the door, he looked down at her. “You shouldn’t be alone with me. Especially not in a bedroom.”

She held his gaze; he struggled to keep his eyes on hers rather than focus on her swelling breasts, rising as she drew in a long, rigidly controlled breath. Lips compressed, she held it in, along with her temper.

Not at all innocently, he raised a brow at her.

Her eyes spat sparks. So fleeting was the sight, he could almost think he’d imagined it; his body’s reaction confirmed he hadn’t. In the next instant, her eyes once more dark pools of calm composure, her expression, as it so often was, deceptively serene, she inclined her head and turned down the corridor.

“Thank you for the warning.” Her words drifted back to him. “You may tell Papa your name directly. If you’ll follow me?” Head high, she moved toward the stairs.

Lucifer watched her hips sway, unconsciously seductive, the delectable hemispheres of her derriere and the graceful lines of her legs occasionally outlined by her gown. Lips lifting, he stepped out in her wake, very ready to oblige.

The room she led him to gave onto the back lawn and onto the terrace along the side of the house. The long windows were open, letting the balmy breeze bring the summer day inside. A family group was gathered about the tea trolley, stationed in front of a
chaise
. A middle-aged lady with a hard expression wielded the teapot; beside her, a dandy, her son by his features, lounged petulantly. On her other side, a younger gentleman slouched—another son, this one sulky. No wonder the lady looked so worn down.

Two other gentlemen stood beside the
chaise
. The younger, an insouciant male version of Phyllida, grinned engagingly. The older man, large and dressed in country tweeds, studied Lucifer from under shaggy brows.

Preceding Lucifer into the room, Phyllida waved to this gentleman. “Papa?”

Lucifer joined her as she halted before her father. She slanted him a glance. “Allow me to present . . .”

He smiled, then turned to her father and held out his hand. “Alasdair Cynster, sir. But most call me Lucifer.”

“Lucifer, heh?” Sir Jasper shook hands without any evidence of disquiet. “What names you youngsters do take. Now! How’re you feeling?”

“Much better, thanks to your daughter’s care.”

Sir Jasper smiled on Phyllida, who had turned to the tea trolley. “Aye, well, that was a nasty blow, no doubt of that. Now let me make you known to m’sister-in-law; then we’ll take our tea and you can tell me all you know about this distressing business.”

His sister-in-law, Lady Huddlesford, summoned a smile and held out her hand. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Cynster.”

Lucifer politely shook hands. Sir Jasper gestured to the dandy. “M’nephew, Percy Tallent.”

Percy, it transpired, was her ladyship’s son by her first marriage to Sir Jasper’s late brother. One minute of affected conversation and Lucifer had Percy pegged—he was on a repairing lease. Nothing else could account for his presence in rural Devon. His sullen half brother, Frederick Huddlesford, openly stared at Lucifer’s well-cut coat, hard pressed, it seemed, to marshal the words for even a simple greeting.

With a nod, Lucifer turned to the young man so like Phyllida, who promptly grinned and stuck out his hand. “Jonas. Phyllida’s little brother.”

Clasping the proffered hand, Lucifer smiled and raised his brows. Loose-limbed, with the same careless grace that characterized his sister, Jonas stood a good six inches taller than she. Lucifer glanced at her as she straightened from the tea trolley. For all his transparent, good-natured insousiance, Jonas didn’t appear younger than she.