Beware the fury of a patient man.
—Dryden
He was a young man with old eyes. Eyes which had seen trouble aplenty, and were looking for more, unless the innkeeper missed his guess. The gentleman had blown into the Hart and Hare with a raging thunderstorm at his heels, his coattails flying out behind him, the distant horizon boiling with black clouds as if he’d fled the very gates of hell. His mount had done nothing to soften the image. Big and black, with wicked white eyes, the beast had reared and wheeled about the yard, kicking up dust and gravel with every lightning bolt, until at last the man had soothed him, and passed the reins to a stable boy.
Now, long hours later, the wind was picking up, lashing rain across the door and sending the inn’s wooden placard swinging back and forth on rusty iron rings, the rhythmic screech of metal almost painful to the ear. Somewhere in the distance, a shutter began to thump. Another gust sent a sheet of rain spattering across the front windows and forced a damp breeze down the chimney. The sooty back draft roiled into the taproom, but the sullen gentleman sprawled by the hearth scarcely heeded it.
The innkeeper paused in his work, a careful polishing of a pewter pitcher. “A bloody wicked storm,” he mused, peering judiciously into the bottom. “Bad for the harvest, eh?”
But the gentleman did not seem predisposed to chat. Indeed, he scarcely lifted his eyes from his task, which appeared to be some strange, solitary card game.
Curious, the innkeeper leaned across the counter, careful of his left wrist, which was splinted and wrapped. The man by the hearth deftly reshuffled, then snapped his cards out across the scarred wooden table, dealing to his imaginary opponents with an expert’s hand. Vingt-et-un, was it? Over and over the man repeated the process, his movements methodical, his concentration absolute.
With an indolent grace which only the truly dissolute seem to possess, the man occupied the entire length of the settle, one shoulder wedged against the side, a booted leg propped casually up. His eyes, when they were not focused intently upon his table, were cold and narrow. His jaw was hard, shadowed with beard. His long, quick fingers flicked and fanned the pack of cards as adroitly as another man might draw a knife, handling them much like a weapon.
His type was not unknown to the innkeeper. Rowdy crowds of young bucks often cavorted through the village this time of year, migrating into the country for the hunting season, and stirring up all manner of trouble as they came. But this one looked different. More dangerous. More intent. And he was definitely not cavorting. Yes, a young man with old eyes. And he had come alone, arriving at the Hart and Hare to tersely bespeak a bath and a suite of rooms—the very last of their rooms—and had otherwise conversed with no one.
Within the hour, however, he’d stepped back down to demand supper and a bottle of brandy. And there he’d sat, from that hour to this, drinking and shuffling. Dealing and drinking. And occasionally lighting one of his malodorous brown cheroots. Now, with the evening coming nigh on eleven, and the other guests long since abed, the fellow showed signs of neither fatigue nor drunkenness. In fact, he showed no emotion whatsoever. It was just a little chilling.
Gently, the innkeeper cleared his throat. His broken wrist ached like the devil, and he wanted his bed. In response, the gentleman lifted his gaze from his task and shot the innkeeper an insolent, faintly inquisitive look. But at that very moment, the door burst open to admit a whirlwind of rain, lamplight, and green wool worsted. Both men turned their eyes at once toward the door.
“Good heavens!” said a soft, cultivated voice. “Will this infernal rain never cease?”
She was beautiful. Lifting his eyes from his cards, Grayston noticed that much at once. Despite her sodden bonnet, and the damp cloak which hung heavily from her shoulders, any man with two eyes could see that she was an incomparable. Wet tendrils of golden hair clung to her neck, and her stunning blue eyes suffered little from her obvious fatigue.
“Dear me!” she said, giving her umbrella a little shake. “I’m dripping on your floor.” Carefully, she set the umbrella to one side of the door.
Grayston watched as the innkeeper circled swiftly from behind the bar to take her carriage lantern. “Do have off that wet cloak, ma’am,” he soothed, urging her toward a table as far distant from Grayston as was possible. “Isn’t the weather frightful? I’m sorry to say the kitchen staff is long gone, but I could fix you a nice cup of tea and some toast.”
As he set her lamp down on the table, she lifted her bonnet to reveal a coiled rope of golden hair. “Just a couple of rooms, if you please,” she said, in a voice which was soft and throaty. “My servants are …”
But her words fell away, for she had seen, as had Grayston, that the innkeeper was shaking his head. “I’m dreadfully sorry, ma’am. We’ve just the five bedchambers above, and all of them bespoken.”
“Oh!” she said softly, dropping her gaze to the rough planked floor. “Oh, dear. The price one pays for taking a wrong turn! The village has another inn, perhaps?”
Again, the innkeeper shook his head. “Nary a thing between here and Brockhampton, ma’am.”
She lifted her chin, her visage wan in the lamplight, which shone up from the table. The unusual angle of the light, the shifting and flickering of the flame, cast exotic shadows over the delicate bones of her face. A face which reflected her growing alarm. “B-but my daughter,” she began unsteadily. “I left her asleep in the carriage.”
Clearly, the innkeeper shared her distress. “In what carriage, ma’am?”
“The one which we seem to have mired up beyond the village.” The lady bit her lip uncertainly. “My coachman and footman are working to free it, but it’s so late. We … we got lost.”
“Oh,” said the innkeeper again. “Oh, dear.”
Slowly, Grayston unfurled himself from the settle and moved from the shadows. “You may have my suite of rooms, ma’am, if it pleases you. I have a good-size bedchamber, and a smaller one adjoining. I’ll gather my things straightaway.”
Fleetingly, the innkeeper looked relieved. “But sir, where will you sleep?”
Grayston arched one brow and flung down his pack of cards. “Oh, I’ve never had much trouble finding a bed to sleep in,” he murmured dryly. “Perhaps you’ll be so good as to accommodate the lady’s servants in your stables?”
“Yes, yes, to be sure.” Suddenly, the innkeeper’s face brightened. “And I’ve an assembly room above, with a fire already laid in the hearth. If I gave you a few blankets—?”
“It will do,” he answered curtly.
The lady looked truly alarmed now. “Really, sir, I cannot put you out,” she said, stiffening slightly. “It would be unconscionable.”
For a long moment, Grayston studied her. Clearly, the lady had no wish to be beholden to him. No doubt he looked far too much the jaded rakehell for her taste. But beholden she would have to be, for he could plainly see there was nothing else for it. “I insist,” he said quietly. “Pray think of your child, ma’am. Where is she to sleep?”
The golden-haired lady sagged with fatigue at that, and then she nodded, pressing her fingertips into her left temple as if her head ached. At once, Grayston flipped up his coat collar and went to the peg by the door for his greatcoat. “Which way is your carriage, ma’am?” he demanded.
She lifted her brows in surprise. “East,” she responded, watching as he unfurled the coat over his shoulders. “Just a quarter-mile east on the Cheltenham Road.”
Grayston lifted his hat and slapped it on. “Then I shall beg the loan of your lantern to fetch the child,” he said, crossing toward the table to take it. “Your servants may follow once your carriage is free.”
But to his shock, when he touched the lantern’s handle, her hand came out to stay his. “I’m sure you mean to be kind,” she said firmly, her fingers cold through her kidskin glove. “But I shall return, with the innkeeper’s help. One can scarcely expect a child to go away with a man she does not know.”
Grayston studied her face for a moment. Was that true? He did not know. He knew nothing whatsoever of children. He had no notion what they thought about, what they were afraid of. Strange men? Dark, forbidding things? Some would say he was all of those. And the lady did not want him anyway. He should return to his fire and his brandy.
But he wouldn’t. This was a matter of honor, and he still possessed at least a shred. Moreover, Grayston was well accustomed to going where he was not wanted. Was that not the very thing which had brought him to this godforsaken place in such miserable weather? Good Lord, who could possibly wish to live in Gloucestershire—or anywhere else in England, come to that? Grayston longed for the sunshine of Italy, the warmth of Paris. Not this bloody incessant rain. Gotherington Abbey could not possibly be worth owning. But own it he did. At least for as long as it suited him to do so.
Ah, well. That was tomorrow’s trouble. Tonight’s was already before him. He looked again at the pretty blonde, a mere slip of a woman really, and decided he did not want her, either. But for the nonce, duty called. “We’ve neither of us much choice, ma’am,” he finally answered. The innkeeper has a broken wrist, and you cannot carry an umbrella, a lamp, and a child. Now you may return to your carriage with me, or you may stay here by the fire, as you please.”
A quarter-hour later, Elise, Lady Middleton, found herself trudging back uphill toward the tiny inn whose name she’d been unable to see through the downpour. Indeed, she scarcely knew where in England she was. They had crossed the River Windrush in the late afternoon, so they were probably well into Gloucestershire—probably within ten miles of Gotherington Abbey, drat it all. At least the coach had sustained no real damage. Another half-hour would see her servants warming themselves by the fire, and Henriette tucked safely into bed. Someone else’s bed, Elise remembered with a stab of guilt.
The tall man in front of her had set a steady pace both to and from her mired coach. Now, his impressive shoulders were bowed about Henriette, as if he hoped the wall of his chest might protect the child from the driving rain. He’d spoken no more than a dozen words since setting out at her side, and Elise could sense his frustration. She hastened her steps in an attempt to keep up, trying very hard to shelter them both beneath her broad, black umbrella.
The dampness squished between her toes now, and her hems were drenched in muddy water. He was soaked through, as well. Really, what had she been thinking to permit a perfect stranger to come out in such weather? At least Henriette had not fully awakened when the gentleman had reached into the carriage to scoop her into his arms. And he had been surprisingly gentle. When Elise had lifted the lantern to better light the interior, she had been touched to see him brush away a lock of Henriette’s hair with his long, ungloved hand. It had seemed an odd, uncharacteristic gesture. But really, what did she know of him?
Nothing. He was a total stranger, and seemed perfectly content to remain so. He’d not even bothered to introduce himself. But he was most certainly a gentleman, that much was plain from the expensive cut of his clothes and the arrogant set of his jaw. And so he had bestirred himself from the warmth of the hearth to do what any gentleman would do under such circumstances. But he did not like it. No, he did not.
It was a pity she’d set off from London alone. Why on earth had she not waited for her maid? But Elise had promised her sister-in-law Ophelia that she would arrive at the abbey before the other houseguests. Still, she’d never dreamed that they might take such a wrong turn. And it was all her fault. At that last, fateful signpost, her new coachman had peered down at her, his kindly face fraught with doubt. But foolishly, Elise had persisted. Had she not visited Ophelia and Maynard on countless occasions?
But never traveling directly from London, she belatedly realized. And never without Sir Henry to give the directions. It would have been wiser to have told the coachman to take the route he’d thought best. Now, between her foolishness and the infernal mud, they’d lost at least four hours. And because of that, she was about to put this man—this very dangerous-looking man—out of his bed.
They were walking now on the verge, which seemed marginally more solid than the road. Swathed in a blanket of cloying damp, the tiny village ahead was as still as death. But the man’s stride ate up the ground, his heavy boots sure and swift. They approached the narrow stone bridge which arched into the village proper, and this time, it seemed as if the water beneath rushed and tumbled even more treacherously than before. Fleetingly, Elise reached out for Henriette. At once, she felt the man’s gaze burn into her, his eyes narrow and suspicious in the dark. She shot a swift glance back up at him and forced herself onward. The water was safe, she reminded herself. Harmless.
But what of her escort? Really, she was not at all sure it had been wise to accept his offer. Had it not been for Henriette, she certainly would not have done so. At least Henriette was perfectly at ease. She had curled herself against her benefactor’s chest and was breathing deeply.
When they arrived at the inn, Elise snapped shut her umbrella and grasped the door handle, but halfway open, it slipped from her wet glove. Swiftly, the man thrust out an impossibly long leg and kicked it wide, shouldering his way through. The taproom was empty now, the fire banked for the night, and without any word to Elise, he strode past the hearth and up the narrow stairway to their left.
Still carrying her carriage lantern aloft, Elise followed him to the first-floor landing, where he turned right and strode to the end of the corridor. Tossing a glance over his shoulder, he spoke his first words since taking up Henriette. “The key is in my right coat pocket, ma’am, if you’d oblige,” he murmured.
Above the door, a wall sconce burned, its flame dancing in the updraft. Nervously, Elise stepped closer. It seemed a rather intimate thing to do, to put one’s hand into the pocket of a man one did not know. A man who, as she could now plainly see, was startlingly handsome. Rakishly handsome. But she did it, brushing back his greatcoat and fumbling about inside, enveloped by his masculine scent and warmth until she found it. With unsteady hands, she twisted back the lock, and stepped into a small parlor which smelled faintly of smoke and damp.
The inn was ancient, and the man quite tall, and so he was obliged to duck low beneath the lintel to enter the little parlor. Someone—the innkeeper, no doubt—had already cleared the man’s things from the parlor. Crooking one eyebrow, the man tilted his head toward one of two closed doors, and with his boots heavy on the floor behind her, Elise hastened forward to open it. This door connected the parlor to a tiny antechamber, barely big enough for its furnishings. She stepped back, waiting by the threshold as the man settled gracefully on the edge of the little truckle bed, and lowered Henriette onto the mattress.
She could not quite see over his shoulder, but oddly, it seemed as if he lingered just a moment longer than was necessary. And again, the hand came out, his long, elegant fingers brushing the hair back from her face, then drawing the cloak more snugly about her. “Sleep the sleep of the innocent, ma petite,” he murmured as she put down the lamp. Then he stood and turned to face her, his countenance just a little less wintry than it had been before.
Elise started to thank him, but he cut her off, stepping back into the parlor and pulling shut the door. “How old is she?” For the first time, his voice held a hint of emotion.
The man had drawn off his obviously expensive but hopelessly sodden hat, and now clutched it loosely by the brim. Though his voice had warmed, his demeanor had not. Why would he care about Henriette’s age? “Nine,” she finally answered. “She just turned nine.”
Fleetingly, his face gentled, the softness almost touching his eyes as they swept down Elise’s length. They were pale gray, she noticed; a silvery, mesmerizing color. “You are but a child yourself,” he said very quietly. “She cannot possibly be yours.”
Beyond the black, narrow window, Elise could still hear rain gurgling down the drainpipes, a hollow, lonely sound. She lifted her chin and stared back at him. “Henriette is mine in every way that matters,” she responded a little coolly. “She is my stepdaughter. We are quite devoted to one another.”
The man seemed to take no offense at her tone. “Well, she is deeply asleep,” he said, as if it were not obvious. “I cannot think it worth waking her simply to put on her nightdress.”
“No.” Nervously, Elise stepped toward the open door, half hoping that he would leave, but oddly, half hoping he would linger.
The man made no move to go. Instead, he stared at her with his pale gray eyes, as if reconsidering some discarded notion. She had the oddest sensation of swimming in deep, cold water; of having had the breath jolted from her chest.
“Come here,” he gruffly commanded.
Strangely, she went. He lifted away her damp cloak and bonnet and hung them on a hook near the hearth, which crackled with a low fire. “Sit down.” He spoke with authority, in a voice as mesmerizing as his eyes.
Again, Elise found herself obeying, settling into one of the rickety wooden chairs which flanked the fireside. The fire was blessedly warm. He shrugged out of his own coat, then sat down opposite her. He looked a little peculiar, for the chair had not been made for a man of his stature. His booted legs stretched almost to the hearthstone, and the wood creaked beneath his weight as he pulled the chair nearer. With a dispassionate touch, he took her hands into his lap and tugged off her sodden gloves.
At once, the silvery gaze flicked back up, and the man frowned as if she were a wayward child. “Good God, you really are half frozen,” he said, roughly chafing her hands between his own. “Why did you not halt when the storm began?”
“My family,” Elise managed to murmur as her wedding ring winked in the firelight. “They—they are expecting me.”
“Really?” He arched one eyebrow. “And why were you so frightened on the bridge?”
“Frightened?” she echoed. “Why, I—I wasn’t.”
Indeed, her instant of panic was almost forgotten. Instead, her mind was slowly turning blank at the fusion of warm sensations, and a feeling of languor was spreading through her belly. The glow of the small fire, the heat of his body, the friction of his skin over hers; all of it was soothing. Seductively soothing. Really, she should not be here. Or rather, he should not be here. But the room was his, was it not?
Perplexed by the situation, Elise dropped her gaze to his hands. What lovely hands they were. Thin and elegant, with very long, very supple fingers, they were exquisite, yet unmistakably masculine. And warm, too. She had not realized how chilled she’d become. Blood was rushing into her extremities now, weighing them down with a pleasant lethargy. It had been a long time, Elise realized, since anyone had touched her in a way which was meant to give such unselfish pleasure. In response, she let her eyes drop shut. Oh, yes. This was most assuredly pleasure. His touch felt almost magical. Comforting. And yet, there was an unmistakable element of sensuality in it. She forced her eyes open, forced herself to look at him.
The man had been watching her.
Elise felt her face grow warm. His gaze swept fully over her, and at last, some sort of emotion began to kindle in his glittering gray eyes. “What a queer sort of madness,” he murmured. “We are total strangers. We’ve just met, quite by chance, on a rain-swept night. I don’t even know your name—no, don’t tell me!—and so this moment seems oddly ethereal.”
“Ethereal?” asked Elise lightly, struggling for a return to normalcy. “What a charming and sentimental notion. I would not have guessed you the type.”
A strange half-smile played at his lips. “Charming and sentimental?” he echoed. “Ah, yes. That would be me.”
There was, she imagined, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. Perhaps it was that which tempted her to reach out and touch his coat sleeve. “You are kind, too,” she murmured, cutting her eyes away. “I cannot think how I will ever thank you. My goodness, you have given up your rooms to us.”
To her shock, he slipped one of his long, elegant fingers beneath her chin, gently tilting her face back toward the firelight. “You could kiss me,” he said simply.
At once, Elise jerked away. Still, his invitation had not alarmed her nearly as much as it should have. “I’m afraid you have misinterpreted my gratitude,” she managed.
But the man had risen to his feet, and was drawing her from her chair. Drawing her inexorably into the circle of his warmth. And she was not fighting it. “It is a cold, miserable night, my dear,” he said very softly. “We shall likely never see one another again. Do you not owe me some small gesture of thanks?”
“But I did thank—”
He caught her wrist in one hand, and jerked her gently against him. “Then do it again.”
At the first touch, his mouth was hot and intoxicating. Oh, Elise had been kissed before. Often, and with great affection, by her husband. And twice, with what she’d imagined was real passion, by Denys Roth, her latest suitor. But no one had ever kissed her like this. The man possessed her instantly, molding his lips over hers, spreading his long-fingered hands across her back, and drawing the very breath from her lungs. His mouth moved warmly over hers, his lips pliant, his breath sweet with brandy. And in the narrow little parlor, everything turned topsy-turvy.
Elise tried to make a sound of protest, but it never escaped her throat. Her knees went weak, but her palms went sliding up his back. She meant to pull away, but the scent of tobacco smoke and warm male drew her closer and closer still. Lord, he kissed with a mouth of molten sin, thrusting aside her every good intention as he thrust his tongue into her mouth. And Elise could not pretend for one instant that she was an unwilling participant.
Wildly, the room spun about them. Pure pleasure pooled in her belly and swam in her head. She moaned when his fingers slid deep into her hair, stilling her to his touch, drawing back her head until her neck arched. And when his mouth left hers and slid down the flesh of her throat, almost to her breast, she exhaled on a sigh.
Suddenly, he reached back with one long leg and gently pushed shut the door with his boot heel. Mild alarm shot through her. But oddly, she did not feel unsafe. No, that was half the problem. And the other half was his touch—those long, strong fingers were cupped about her right breast now, weighing it in his warm palm and melting her brain to mush.
He felt it, too. “Lord, you’ve a blazing fire underneath that ice,” he murmured against her skin. “Come, ice princess, keep me warm.”
She knew at once what he was suggesting. Heart pounding, Elise jerked her head away. “No,” she choked, her fingers clawing at his where they lay upon her breast. “Don’t! I c-can’t!”
In a flash, his hand turned, seizing hers and dragging it insistently to his mouth. Then, as his gaze held Elise’s, he captured her ring finger and drew it deep into the warmth of his mouth, sucking it until the pulsing rhythm sent a ribbon of heat spiraling into her loins.
Elise was unable to tear her eyes from his. “My God—” she gulped. “Wh-What are you doing?”
“Ummm … leading you into temptation?” he murmured. He let the finger slide from his mouth, then turned her hand to press his lips to the tender skin of her palm. “Just let me take you into that bedchamber, my lovely. I’ll lock the door behind us, and your husband need never know.” And before she could jerk back in outrage, he flicked his tongue against her palm, and deftly dropped her wedding ring into it, the gold still hot from his mouth.
Elise gasped at his wicked grin. “M-My husband is dead,” she choked in a hollow voice. “Else we—I—could never so much as kiss you!”
“Indeed?” With a rueful smile, he let her hand slide from his grasp. “In my experience, few women are hindered by such scruples.”
“Then you’ve had too much experience, sir,” she snapped, shoving her wedding ring awkwardly onto her finger. He was so brash, so utterly confident. And wickedly tempting. It was shameful. She went at once to the door, and somehow found the presence of mind to jerk it open.
With one slashing black eyebrow elegantly lifted, the man studied her for a moment. And then his too-handsome face fell with disappointment. “Ah, well,” he murmured. “If you mean to throw me out, show at least a shred of mercy and give back my coat and hat.”
Her hands shaking, Elise turned at once to seize them. She passed them to him, brushing her fingers against his, then jerking instinctively back. “Ah,” he said a little sadly. “You are truly resolved then?”
To her shock and shame, Elise found herself hesitating. She had been courted by a dozen men this season, and none of them had tempted her to so much as smile. But this man, with his silver eyes and sinful mouth, actually made her insides melt.
It was the anonymity of the thing, she swiftly decided. She was alone and lonely, stuck in an ordinary inn in some obscure village with a handsome rake whose name she did not know, and who she would never see again. A man who was obviously schooled in the art of pleasure. And sweet heaven, she was so miserably cold, both inside and out. To feel such a man against her body, to feel his hard weight force her down into the depths of a soft bed and … Well, what would that be like with him?
He sensed her hesitation. “I’ve not once left a lady disappointed,” he said, as if she were actually considering his offer.
Was she? No. Good heavens, no! But Elise still stood there trembling, apparently struck both dumb and witless. Slowly, his fingers slid past her chin and along the turn of her jaw, lightly cupping her face. “Faith, how a moment’s hesitation gives me hope,” he murmured, his heavy, somnolent eyelids almost dropping shut again.
Elise jerked back as if his hand had just burst into flames. Heaven help her, if he got one inch of her skin back inside his mouth, she’d never find the will to ask him to stop. His eyes flared open, the strange, seductive moment gone.
Elise retreated another step. “How perfectly ridiculous this is!” she said. “I don’t even know your name.” As if that made any difference!
The man gave a sweeping bow. “Easily rectified,” he answered, one hand still holding his wet garments, the other tucked elegantly behind his back. “Christian Villiers, the Marquis of Grayston, at your service.”
“Oh, my God!” gasped Elise. She slammed the door in his face.