Her Officer and Gentleman (11 page)

“Let me explain what bothers me thus far,” she said smoothly. “First, you are sending out the unmistakable message you are pursuing me.”

He moved forward ever so slightly. She had the lushest lips. Plump and pink and turned up ever so slightly at the corners, even when she was in repose. “Go on.”

“Second, you are not interested in me in a romantic fashion. You, my lord, are not that sort.”

Her hair, too, was such a sensual shade. He
smiled, remembering the feel of it beneath his fingertips. “Elizabeth, I find you attractive. I will not deny that.”

“Yes, but I am an unattached, marriageable female. Under other circumstances, you would run from an acquaintance with me.”

Damn, but she had measured him well. Still, it would not do to encourage her. “Perhaps.” His gaze drifted over her. “Perhaps not.”

“And third,” she replied in a firm voice, “You don’t seem all that interested in my dowry, either.”

“You are right. I have my own funds, my love. I have no need of yours.” He shrugged. “My father did me the favor of dying without legitimate issue. My brother and I benefited greatly from it.”

Her brows drew down. “Without legitimate issue? But your brother inherited the title, did he not?”

“Yes. And I inherited the title of viscount, but only because my father forged a church registry saying he’d married Mother years ago.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Forged? Are you joking with me, Westerville?”

“Would I joke about being illegitimate?” He shook his head. “I am a bastard, though a wealthy, titled one. My father, the late Earl of Rochester, attempted to legitimize me, poorly done as it was. All the world knows. Not that it matters.”

“I cannot believe you would so freely admit to such. Surely there are other relatives who might come forward if what you say is true. Relatives who might want both the title and the fortune.”

“They’d have to battle their way through a swarm of trustees, many of whom wear very large buttons, have exaggerated shirt points, and possess far too many little yappy dogs.” Christian feigned a shiver. “Personally, I would rather eat raw snails.”

Her lips quivered. “A swarm of Bartholomew Babies, I take it?”

“Complete fribbles, the lot of them.” He returned her smile. “My father did not care if he was a good father, but he was bound and determined to always be first in fashion.”

“That’s a pity.”

Christian shrugged. “When he needed a group of trustworthy advisers to administer his estate and assist his lost sons, who other than the very men who’d critiqued his cravat for years on end?”

She tilted her head to one side, her gaze thoughtful. “You sound a bit bitter.”

“Me? Bitter?” Christian waved a hand. “Rochester’s obsession with fashion was more important than his responsibility as a parent. With that, I have no problem; what little I know of him, I don’t believe he would have been very good at it, anyway. But that he allowed my mother to die in a prison, falsely accused—” Christian snapped his lips closed. “I find it difficult to either forget or forgive that.”

“So would I.”

“Lest you think my father completely worthless, let me state that his stewardship was unparalleled. Under his touch, the estates flourished in a way few other men could have done.”

“My grandfather is the same way.”

Christian gave a mirthless smile. “And there ends their similarities; they are both good stewards. I have been going through the estate records left by my father; it astounds me the amount of time he put forth to bring the family fortune to what it is.”

“You sound as if you admire him a little.”

“That would be too kind of a word. Let us just say that I respect his ability to get things done. There is much to be learned from a man’s successes, no matter who he is.”

“This is all very interesting, Westerville,” Beth said, sending him a surprisingly level look. “But that is neither here nor there. What is it you
really
want from me? What is it about Grandfather that interests you so?”

Christian’s gaze touched the curve of Beth’s lashes and the proud line of her cheek, the delicately audacious chin, to the swell of her breasts beneath her gown. In all his years of riding the High Toby and trysting with the women whose jewels he stole, he had never met a woman like this.

She was neither jaded nor spoiled, but simply herself. There was a freshness about this woman, the feeling of a bed newly made with just-washed sheets still warm from the iron. It was the feeling of coming home and leaving for some great adventure, combined into one.

He reached up and cupped her cheek, sliding his thumb over her warm skin. “I will admit to one thing and one thing only, and that is that you are beautiful.”

Her fingers closed over his wrist, halting his wandering hand just short of her hair. “And you, Westerville, are not answering my question.”

Christian almost allowed his frustration to show. He could not answer her question without giving himself away, and his avoidance of it only made her wonder all the more.

It was a damnable quandary, one to which he had no easy answer. So, left with no choice, he did the only thing he could do—he kissed her.

B
eth didn’t have time to think. The kiss was so unexpected that she was responding before she even realized it. She couldn’t help herself. She was instantly enveloped in him—in the feel of Westerville’s hands as they slipped about her and pulled her to him, the heat of his body pressed to hers,
the taste of him as he parted her lips with an insistent urging. Shivers wracked her head to toe.

The kiss deepened as his hands roamed over her back, pulling her closer, molding her to him. Something stirred inside her as she arched against him, her arms tightening about his neck.

Sensations rippled through Beth in a tangle of unthinking passion. Her body craved this, yearned for it, begged for it.

He turned slightly, pressing her against the exhibit case, the frame cool against her back, even through her pelisse. Beth was barely aware of that fact, scarcely felt his hands as he slid them down her sides, to her hips. Warmth radiated from each place he touched, and her knees felt oddly weak.

Good God, he was kissing her.
He was kissing her.

Reason returned with a rush. This was not the way she’d planned this meeting to go. She placed her hands on Westerville’s chest and broke the kiss instantly, turning to one side, her breath rushing past her lips.

She could not believe she’d allowed the kiss to happen. She pressed her hands to her eyes, her entire body trembling. It was madness. A rich, raucous riotous sort of madness, the type of which Beth had never before experienced. Standing there in the circle of Westerville’s arms, struggling to catch her breath, her lips still moist and tingling from his kisses, she felt…wonderful. Absolutely and inexplicably wonderful.

Christian looked down at Beth’s bent head. It had taken every ounce of his strength to break the delicious kiss. His hands remained where they
were, simply because he could not move away. She was as intoxicating and succulent as a freshly picked berry, the oddest mixture of innocence and sensuality he had ever met. Despite his intentions otherwise, he had to admit that he was honestly attracted to her. And not because of the opportunity to discover the truth about the man responsible for his mother’s wrongful imprisonment. No, it was more than that. Elizabeth was beautiful, unconsciously sensual, intelligent, and oh-so-willing to control every situation, which made him more and more determined to remain in charge himself—he could not easily walk away from such a tempting combination.

Right now, his hands still on her waist, she was achingly near. Yet he did not pull her closer. She stood, head bent, hands over her eyes as if she were trying to eradicate the last few minutes. He could feel the tremble of her body beneath his fingertips, see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She struggled with as many emotions as he.

The thought pleased him. She was not immune to him, at least. In fact, judging by her passionate response to his kiss, she was as affected by him as he was by her. He waited for her to move, to say something, but she did nothing but keep her eyes covered. But…His smile slipped. Good God, she wasn’t crying, was she?

Never, of all the kisses he’d given and received, had any of them ended in tears. But then he’d never had anything to do with a woman who was so obviously an innocent. He bent a little, trying to see behind her hands, but couldn’t.

Bloody hell, he hadn’t wished to upset her. All he’d really wanted to do was keep her from asking questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

This would not do. Not at all. A voice sounded in the hallway, a man intoning a lecture on the intricacies of ancient Etruscan art.

Christian cursed silently. He steeled himself and lifted a hand to Elizabeth’s chin, then raised her face to his. She dropped her hands to her sides and met his gaze.

She wasn’t crying. She was, in fact, smiling. A soft, tremulous smile that not only sent a flood of relief through him, but made him pull her a bit closer.

But this was not to be for the fair Lady Elizabeth. She immediately stepped out of his embrace. “No,” she said in a rather breathless voice. “Don’t!”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, fighting the urge to reach for her once more. “You needn’t worry. I am not a man to force myself upon a woman, no matter how beautiful she may be.”

“I didn’t think you were,” she said. “I am not maligning your character, but questioning my own judgment. None of this should have happened. I should not have met you this morning, I just thought—” She shook her head. “I was wrong.”

“Didn’t you enjoy the kiss?”

Her gaze flew to his. “Yes. I did. However, that doesn’t mean it was the right thing to do.” A resolute look entered her eyes, her smile grew a touch more fixed. “We should not be alone again.”

“Never?”

“Never,” she said, that damnable half smile on
her lips, her eyes shining with an odd determination.

Christian began to feel the slightest bit uneasy. “Elizabeth, I did not wish to upset you. I find you attractive and I—”

She held up a hand. “We’ve played enough games today, don’t you think? Thank you for your invitation to visit the museum. I shall never think of Etruscan art in quite the same way.”

He had to smile a little at that even though he had the oddest feeling that he’d just lost something. Something infinitely valuable. “Elizabeth, we should talk—”

“I really must go.”

He took a step forward. “Surely you can stay another ten minutes. We have yet to enjoy the Roman friezes.”

The faint smile on her lips never changed, though her cheeks bloomed with fresh color. “Enjoyment is not the question.” She tightened her reticule where it swung from her wrist. “I asked you about your interest in my grandfather and you answered with a kiss, which was highly inappropriate.”

“It was just an impulse. I could not help myself.”

“I don’t believe you. That kiss was nothing more than an attempt to avoid my question. It proved I was correct in my suspicions.” Her clear brown gaze found his. “You have an interest in my grandfather that I must assume to be against his well-being. Otherwise, had you a benign reason, you would have explained yourself and been done with it.”

Christian’s hands curled into fists. Damn it! This was not the way this meeting was to have gone. “I am only seeking the truth.”

“About?” She waited, brows lifted.

Christian forced a smile, struggling with a very real impulse to just tell her. But he couldn’t just blurt out that he suspected her grandfather of dire actions that had led to Mother’s death. It was becoming painfully clear that she held her grandfather in considerable esteem. And if that was so, she would take any information he might let slip and run straight to Massingale House, throw the bolt, and tell her grandfather everything.

Christian was not willing to lose the element of surprise; it was one of his few weapons.

Her gaze narrowed. “I want the truth, Westerville. Our attraction is not all there is to your pursuit and I know it.”

“You enjoyed our kiss.”

“I did.” She pulled on her gloves, carefully adjusting each finger so that they fit perfectly. “Which is why I shall take care never to see you alone again. Ever.”

“Elizabeth, there is no—”

“Good day, Lord Westerville. It is obvious you will not confess your intentions. I wish things had ended differently, but they have not. Just rest assured of this—I shall discover what you are about and I will do what I can to stop you.”

Christian scowled, all of his earlier pleasure gone. “Are you threatening me?”

“Oh no, my lord. That is no threat, but a promise.” With those clipped words, that damnable
smile still perfectly poised on her lips, she turned on her heel and walked out the door.

Christian started after her, but loud booming voices in the corridor just outside the doorway halted him cold.

Blast it all to hell, this had not gone the way he’d wished it. Not at all. He turned back into the display room, slumped against the wall, and raked a hand through his hair. She was the key to the Massingale estate, and in one short interview she had all but called his hand.

What was he going to do now?

The door to the Rochester London House opened as Christian walked up the front steps.

“There you are, my lord,” Reeves said, taking Christian’s coat and handing it to a hovering footman, “When you didn’t return last night, we began to wonder if you’d forgotten the way home. I was just about to dispatch a search party.”

“If you ever send one, please arm them with a bottle of my best brandy,” Christian said, walking to the library. “It is the only way I would allow them to persuade me to come home.”

“I shall remember that,” Reeves replied evenly, following Christian into the library. “Master William arrived.”

Christian stopped. “Where is he?”

“In the kitchen, eating his weight in cabbage soup. He rode all night, but refuses to sleep. I suggested a change of clothing might not be amiss, but he won’t do a thing until he has spoken to you.”

“Send him to me.”

“I already took that liberty, my lord.”

The door opened and a footman entered with a tray. “Ah!” Reeves said with evident pleasure. “Your tea.”

“I didn’t ask for tea.”

The butler took the tray and shooed the man from the room, then set the tray beside Christian. “I know you did not ask for tea, my lord, but I thought it might revive you after such a long evening. Seducing innocent virgins is such a tiring venture.”

Christian lifted a brow. “Are we back to that?”

“Am I mistaken? Or did you not meet with Lady Elizabeth?”

“Perhaps.”

“I see. I shall assume that you behaved as a proper gentleman should.”

Christian glared at the butler. “I don’t like tea.”

Reeves paused in pouring a cup. “No tea, my lord?”

“No.”

“A pity. I’d hoped it might wake you a bit. Master William seemed quite full of news and you will need to be at your sharpest.” Reeves held out the steaming cup.

Reluctantly, Christian took the tea and, after sniffing it suspiciously, took a small sip. He grimaced. “Is there sugar?”

“Of course, my lord.”

Christian placed the cup back on the table. “Three teaspoons.”

Reeves paused.

Christian did not give the butler time to speak. “Yes, damn it! I said three.”

“In one cup?”

“Either you put the sugar in my tea, or I will not drink it.”

With a vaguely dissatisfied air, Reeves added sugar to the cup.

“That was but two. Add another.”

Reeves sighed, but complied. “A man given to excesses, aren’t you, my lord?”

“Whenever I can, Reeves. Whenever I can.” Christian took another cautious sip. It was much better this time, robust and sweet and almost good.

A light knock sounded and a footman opened the door to announce Willie’s arrival. The Scotsman appeared, a huge, lumbering figure wrapped in a long black coat and wearing thick black leather boots. His red hair was pulled back and braided, his face covered with a few days’ growth of beard. He appeared tired, but elated.

Christian’s hopes flickered.

Willie lifted a foot to step onto the carpet.

“Halt!” Reeves commanded.

Willie put his mud-spattered boot back down and glared at the butler. “What’re ye wanting now, ye old nabler?”

Reeves took a small towel from the tea tray and crossed to where Willie stood. Reeves laid the towel on the carpet, one step inside the room. “Pray stand here, Master William. And do not move from that spot.”

“I am not going to stand on no tea towel!”

“Then you may tell the housekeeper why all of the carpets must be cleaned again. She will have an apoplexy.”

The Scotsman scowled, but there was no denying the mud on his feet. He stepped onto the small towel with the most obvious reluctance.

His huge feet touched each side of the tiny cloth, and it appeared for a moment that balancing in such a small area might cause him a problem. But by the judicious effects of crossing his arms over his huge barrel chest and rocking back on his heels, he managed to remain on the towel. “’Tis like visitin’ me grandmither,” the Scotsman growled. “She’s forever placin’ blankets over the chairs so no one will mar them ’til it looks as if she lives in a ghostie house.”

Christian lifted a brow. “What did you find? Did you locate the bishop?”

Willie’s face cleared, a glow shining in his blue eyes. “I have a letter from him.”

Christian leaned forward.

“Aye. I didna get to speak to him meself as he was ill as a jackrabbit’s hind leg. He’s not expected to live the week. I had to give his daughter the questions ye wished to ask. She says he answered them all here.” Willie pulled open his leather vest and pulled a small packet from an inner pocket.

Reeves took the letter and brought it to Christian.

Christian looked at the neatly pressed sheet of paper, the edges crisply folded. Here it was. The answer to his questions.

With hands that shook slightly, he opened the letter.

Christian looked at Reeves. “What are the colors of the Massingale crest?”

Reeves pursed his lips. “I believe it is purple and cream, although…” He frowned. “There might be some gold, as well.”

“Aye,” Willie agreed. “I’ve followed that carriage oft enough to know.”

Christian nodded and returned to the letter.