The Love Affair of an English Lord (2 page)

She caught her reflection in the hall-stand looking glass and tried to see herself as Justin would have done tonight. True, he had danced with her twice, but she couldn't help feeling that his attention might have strayed to another young woman whose hair was lighter than Chloe's, whose voice was a little sweeter, whose manner was more demure.

She frowned at herself. Could that be her fatal flaw? Her inability to be . . . demure like other young ladies? Sadly enough, this seemed to be a family trait, and Chloe wasn't sure she would change it even if she could. She supposed she ought to pretend to be demure to seem more appealing, her sister Emma had always advised this, but deep in her heart she really wished to be loved at her absolute worst.

“And her screams summoned her poor father, who broke a toe trying to rescue her,” Aunt Gwendolyn finished, pausing to take a breath from her recitation. “Beryl fainted seven times before she could admit what the ghost had done to her.”

Chloe spun from the mirror, her attention captured. “How do you know the woman wasn't dreaming? And did her father actually
see
the ghost?”

Aunt Gwendolyn stared at her with gentle scorn. “Her lips were tingling, Chloe, from the phantasmal kisses. And no, of course Beryl's father didn't
see
the ghost. I imagine he was in too much pain from his toe to care if he had.”

“Well, what did the ghost do to her?”

“A decent woman could not repeat his wickedness, Chloe.”

Chloe smiled as she handed her scented gloves to the maid. “That's the trouble with this village. Your lives are so lacking in true drama that you make up ghosts seducing women in their sleep. If any of you had any courage, the tiniest bit of daring in you at all, you would have a genuine affair, and—”

“That will be quite enough of
that,
Chloe,” her aunt said, her kindly face gone quite pink. “I believe it was your daring nature that got you into trouble in the first place and is exactly why your understandably beleaguered brothers have sent you here to—”

“Perish of boredom, all my mental faculties shriveled up from lack of stimulation,” Chloe said with a good-natured sigh. “Well, it appears to be working. Yesterday I caught myself talking to the ducks in the pond. My only hope for salvation is to be found dead in bed myself, ravished, if I have any luck, by the Stratfield Ghost.”

Her aunt gave a loud groan of chagrin, which prompted Uncle Humphrey to absentmindedly pat her hand while pretending to frown in disapproval at Chloe. The truth, as her uncle had admitted in private to Chloe, was that he adored her outspoken views and had not enjoyed anyone's company so much in ages. He claimed that Chloe had done wonders to draw his daughter Pamela out of her lonely shell. He appreciated, or so he said, the unpredictability Chloe had brought to their home. And Chloe actually laughed at his jokes, Lord bless her. Her dear uncle was a staunch ally.

“Perhaps you ought to go to bed, Chloe,” Aunt Gwendolyn said in a tremulous voice. “Delia can bring up a pot of chocolate if you wish.”

Chloe headed for the stairs, bearing herself like a heroine in a Greek tragedy. “I don't suppose I could have a pot of sherry instead?”

Pamela hobbled after her, speaking in an excited whisper. “I'm dying to have another peek inside the two trunks that came for you today. I've never seen so much silk and lace in all my life.”

“Oh.” Chloe paused to glance up the stairwell. “Not that I'm liable to need them in Chistlebury, but I'm glad that my undergarments bring you some measure of enjoyment. Between my drawers and your ghost, this should be a year of scandals for your village.”

They continued up the creaking oak stairs in companionable silence until Pamela, apparently inspired to wickedness by her cousin's influence, said, “Plenty of women are praying for that ghost, I reckon. Praying that they're the one he visits tonight and has his otherworldly way with.”

“His otherworldly way?” Chloe burst into deep laughter at that and veered down the narrow hall to her room. “Heavens, what a thought.”

For Chloe's part she did not believe in ghosts. At least she hadn't until last week when, from her bedroom window, she had spotted a lone masculine figure standing on the outskirts of the empty Stratfield mansion in the dead of night.

Was it Stratfield's restless spirit or his human male cousin who had inherited the estate? Strangely the apparition had made her feel more sad than frightened. He had a melancholy air, this spirit, if that's what he was. The viscount had been dead just over a fortnight. Chloe's only experience with the man, unsettling enough, had been during her first days here in Sussex.

She had gotten caught in a downpour on her way back from the apothecary's on an errand for her aunt. The footman who'd accompanied her had run home to fetch her an umbrella.

Stratfield had come thundering across the field on his stallion like Sir Galahad going to battle. Reared in a family of males who excelled in athletics, and a competent horsewoman herself, Chloe had been nonetheless so impressed by the sight that she had stepped up to her ankles in a mud puddle to get a better look at this masculine vision. Unfortunately she did not seem to make a similar impression on him.

Before she could even shake out her cloak, he wheeled his horse to circle her in patent disapproval, his gray eyes as dark and hard as pewter. Chloe found herself at an uncharacteristic loss for words. From all appearances, he was not as easily impressed.

The steady patter of rain formed a veil between them, creating an illusion of a man who was not entirely part of the world.

All the interesting angles and planes of his strong face had arranged into an amused smirk as he surveyed her sodden state. Not perfectly handsome, but compelling. Probably the most unforgettable face Chloe had ever seen, with a clefted chin and those dark slashing eyebrows drawn into an unfriendly scowl.

“Well, get on.” He'd extended his leather-gloved hand, not asking, ordering. Not exactly rude but no one's knight in shining armor either. Chloe had the impression that he was paying her only perfunctory attention, that she'd interrupted him in the middle of some important mission, and that he didn't appreciate the interference.

She glanced down at her mucky half boots in distaste, wistfully remembering all the routs and soirées she had left behind in London.

“Hurry up,” he added, wiping his hand across his wet cheek.

“But I don't know—”

“Get on, young lady, before we are both soaked to the skin. This is the country, not the court.”

Chloe bristled, but the half smile lurking in his eyes took some of the sting out of his command. Having been raised with five roguish brothers had obliterated her most tender sensibilities. Frogs, spit, unsavory jokes. Chloe and her older sister, Emma, had been inoculated against easy insult at an early age.

Still, one should maintain a certain decorum, rain or not, even if one happened to be a young marquess's daughter who was tottering on the thin line of social disgrace. Besides, this Sir Galahad was so full of himself, he could use a little reminder of what constituted good manners.

“At least introduce yourself, sir,” she said, the rain cooling the inexplicable heat that rose to her cheeks.

He leaned across the pommel, his lips tightening in a smile. “I am the owner of the property into which you are sinking. Trespassing. In a thunderstorm. In a pretty silk dress. Now that that's out of the way, are you getting on or not?”

“Well, how can I refuse?” she muttered.

That said, she still hesitated, taking a closer look at his face through the curtain of cold raindrops. Preoccupied, self-possessed, with short black hair slicked back on his scalp and his gunmetal-gray eyes regarding her with a detached mockery that appeared to be degenerating into impatience. She glanced toward the stone hedge that enclosed the field. Her footman was nowhere in sight.

“Yes or no?” he asked briskly.

“Yes, but give me a chance—”

To shake the mud off her boots, which evidently didn't bother him; with one hand he pulled her up behind him, onto his well-trained mount. Chloe's senses registered the scent of Galahad's wet woolen greatcoat, an appealing whiff of woodsy cologne, the intrusive warmth of his elbow joint beneath her breast. She also noticed the way his body stiffened, then leaned back into her with a casual arrogance that made her heart pound. All put together, he was a rather overpowering example of masculinity. She had to restrain the urge to huddle against his hard, muscular body.

She stared at the back of his head in a rather hopeful trepidation. Had she made another of her countless mistakes? Her impulsive tendencies were what had gotten her exiled to this uneventful social oasis in the first place. But Galahad
was
a neighbor. A noble one if she recalled her aunt's passing mention of the man.

Or had it been a warning? Chloe had heard his name even before she had been sent to Sussex. Dominic's younger brother Samuel had died last year alongside Chloe's brother Brandon in the service of the East India Company, which they had joined in search of adventure and the prizes promised them on recruiting posters.

Instead, they had been killed by Gurkha rebels on a scouting mission in Nepal. She remembered her two older brothers speaking of Viscount Stratfield with an admiration rarely displayed toward men of their own class. Apparently the viscount had been instrumental in arranging the memorial service for the two young friends.

In any event Chloe was not at all concerned that her rescuer would do anything so outrageous as to ravish her on his horse, or to abduct her into slavery—until he took off at a gallop in the opposite direction of the familiar bridle path.

“I say . . .” she began to protest before the breath whooshed out of her lungs.

The woods sped past her vision in a gray-brown blur. The horse kicked up tufts of wet turf and sent them flying into the rain. Over a soggy meadow and down a dark humid tunnel of wet honeysuckle that slapped them as they thundered by. She could make neither heads nor tails of their surroundings, but this route did not look anything like the walk home.

She wrapped her arms around Galahad's waist and raised her voice to a shout, her body jostled against his. She felt the muscles in his torso tighten. Did she imagine that he liked her clinging to him for dear life? “Excuse me? I do believe you are headed the wrong way!”

He grunted, or made some such dismissive gutteral sound that indicated she was a feather-brained female for daring to question his sense of direction. Chloe's head began to swim with visions of being abducted by this dark, brooding stranger. Of being dragged down into the bowels of some hidden castle and kept a prisoner of his perverse demands.

Would he keep her naked on his bed, covering her with tender cruelty at night in Russian lynx pelts after he had left her fainting from his ravishment? Would he entice her back to consciousness with pearls and sweetmeats and potent brandy? Or, judging by his hell-bent speed on horseback, would they both be thrown to their deaths before any perversity could be undertaken?

Chloe was contemplating the latter unpleasant possibility when, after flying through a tangled hazel grove, they emerged miraculously onto a clear field.

She stared across the dreary landscape, her heart thumping in her throat. “My house,” she said in surprise.

“Imagine that,” he drawled, and turned his head slightly to look down at her in a way that let her know he wasn't so preoccupied with his own affairs as to be unaware of how tightly she was clinging to him.

The brown and white half-timbered farmhouse, known by the pretentious name of Dewhurst Manor, withstood the steady rain as it had for two centuries. Chloe imagined she could see her aunt peering through the lace curtains, wondering what had happened to her restless niece. She would probably be soundly scolded for accepting a ride from a neighbor rather than traipsing up to her knees in mud. The poor footman would be dealt a boxed ear.

“You might have told me you were taking a detour,” she said under her breath as she unwrapped her arms from the strong male body she had been blatantly using as an umbrella.

He did not turn his head again. She sensed the mockery of his smile as he said, “I see no reason to explain the obvious.”

“Of course not,” she muttered. An explanation would have involved polite conversation. What a crabby man. She was embarrassed that the possibility of abduction had ever entered her mind. He probably didn't have a castle anyway. At least not in Chistlebury. Perhaps he lived in a cave. He was more dragon than knight. She supposed it was too much to hope he would escort her all the way home, although on second thought, her appearing on the doorstep with Galahad in tow would probably send her aunt into a swoon.

“Well,” she said, covering her irritation with a polite smile, “it was very decent of you to take time from your”—From his what? she wondered. From thundering about like an ancient seigneur in search of storm-caught maidens?—“from your duties to rescue me.”

He dismounted in silence and helped her down from the horse, lifting her with no apparent effort. The brush against his broad-shouldered body brought another sensation of warmth to Chloe's rain-chilled skin. He had a strong physique, and his touch was surprisingly gentle despite the impatience she sensed in him.

Clearly, although his mind was a hundred miles away, he was still male enough to acknowledge the differences in their sex. He dealt her an infuriatingly dismissive look. “In future, I would advise you not to wander onto my property.”

“I hardly did so on purpose,” Chloe retorted. “You see, I've just arrived from London—”

“So I've heard.”

She stepped away as he turned his lean figure back to the horse. “About me?” she asked in astonishment. Under ordinary circumstances Chloe might have been a little flattered that a man she had never met had taken pains to investigate her.