The Scandals Of An Innocent Page 20

  “Then it is a good job that I have more sense than you,” Lydia said, pushing him away, albeit reluctantly. “Now listen, Tom-” She paused, losing the thread of her thoughts as he started to nibble at the soft skin of her neck, using his teeth and lips and tongue to raise the goose bumps on her skin. “Stop!” she said. “I need to think and you are distracting me!”

  “Good,” Tom said, pulling the ribbon that held her cloak in place and unraveling it slowly.

  “Be serious,” Lydia said weakly. “Do you think that these murders or attempted murders are all the work of one man?”

  “They must be,” Tom said, raising his head for a second. “I refuse to believe that there is more than one dangerous criminal on the loose in Fortune’s Folly.” He pushed her cloak aside and started to nuzzle at the neckline of her gown, his tongue dipping wickedly into the cleft between her breasts.

  “Who,” Lydia said, determinedly ignoring him even as her heart pounded like a drum, “is the least likely person to be that criminal?”

  “Hmm…my brother, Monty? Your parents?” Tom really did not sound as though he cared. He popped Lydia’s breast out of the rounded neckline of the gown with shocking suddenness and bent to suckle it.

  “Tom!” Lydia remembered at the last moment that she was supposed to keep quiet, and her keening cry came out as a ragged whisper instead. His mouth at her breast evoked all the welter of emotion and need she had ever felt for him, dangerous feelings she had thought were buried forever.

  “I am five months pregnant,” she protested, even as she arched to his touch.

  Tom’s free hand curved over the swelling of her belly. “That just excites me the more,” he said.

  “That cannot possibly be true,” Lydia said. She had hated the sight of her thickening body because it had seemed to mock her stupidity in giving herself to Tom in the first place.

  “It is true.” Tom released her breast and kissed her with all the simmering passion she remembered. “It makes you very, very desirable, Lyddy.”

  When they broke apart Lydia was breathing fast, and she felt as though her entire body was lit as bright as the candle flame. She looked at Tom and his eyes were dark with all the secrets and wickedness and excitement that she remembered.

  “Could we…” she began hesitantly, and saw him smile.

  “If you want to.”

  “Oh, I do.” Suddenly she was feverish with need. “Only, it will not hurt the baby?”

  “No,” Tom said. “We will be very gentle and very careful…”

  “Oh, yes,” Lydia said, settling down into his arms with a sigh.

  ALICE SAT IN FRONT of the mirror in her bedroom, brushing her hair very slowly. The fire was banked down in the grate ready for the night, and the candle stood on her nightstand ready to light her bedtime reading. The house was creaking and settling softly down to sleep.

  Alice was thinking about Lydia. She had caught her friend creeping into the house very late, shaking the snow from her cloak and easing herself out of her sodden boots. Lydia had looked radiant, glowing and vibrant, as pretty as Alice had ever seen her. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks rosy. Alice had known at once that Lydia must have been with Tom Fortune.

  Alice sighed now as she viewed her reflection in the glass. Lydia’s situation worried her very much indeed, for her friend had looked so happy and Alice simply could not bear to think that she might get hurt again. They had had no chance to speak, for Miles had come down the stairs just after Lydia had come in, and the smile had immediately drained from Lydia’s face leaving her looking pale and terrified. She had thrown Alice a pleading look, had muttered a good-night to Miles and had run away up to her room. Alice had picked up Lydia’s cloak and taken it off to the kitchens to dry out, and now she felt guilty and with her loyalties painfully torn.

  The hand holding the brush stilled and came to rest on the dressing tabletop. Alice sat still. What was she to do? She cared deeply what happened to Lydia but she was so afraid that Tom would betray her friend yet again. And she wanted to confide in Miles-she wanted to trust him with a strength of feeling that surprised her-and yet, she could not do so if that would cause more misery and pain for Lydia.

  She got to her feet. Laura Anstruther was coming to visit in the morning. She was Lydia’s cousin by marriage as well as Miles’s cousin. Perhaps she might be the very person to bridge the gap between them all and persuade Lydia to talk. And in the meantime, Alice thought, the best thing that she could do would be to get a good night’s sleep. Her injured arm still ached abominably and she felt tired to her bones. In the end she had given in to Miles’s demands that he be permitted to stay at Spring House. Her mother had wanted it and Alice had felt too tired to continue objecting. So now Miles was sharing her roof, occupying a room across the landing from her, and she felt oddly on edge at the thought even though the house was full of other people, as well.

  Perhaps it had been Miles’s parting words to her in the parlor earlier that had been the problem. You know what happens when you deny yourself something that you want very badly…You just want it all the more…

  She knew that he had been speaking for himself. Unfortunately his words applied to her, too. She did want him, too much to be comfortable in such proximity to him. But she could not surrender to him whilst he still refused her a free choice in her future. No matter how difficult the denial, she was determined not to give in.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Alice called, thinking that Marigold had come to bring her a cup of hot milk.

  The door opened and Miles walked in. He stopped when he saw her and his gaze went from the corn-colored hair loose about her shoulders to her bare feet, where they peeped from beneath the hem of her nightgown. Alice was suddenly acutely aware that she was naked beneath her night rail and robe and that Miles was still fully dressed. For some reason it felt doubly disturbing that he had all his clothes on whilst she lacked most of hers.

  She could feel the pink color stinging her face. Sometimes it was a terrible curse to be so fair and blush so easily. “Lord Vickery!” Her voice was not quite steady. “I thought you were my maid. What on earth are you doing here?”

  Miles’s gaze came up to meet hers. “I have come to search your room and make sure that you are safe for the night,” he said.

  “To search my room?” Alice felt appalled. “Surely you do not suspect anyone of breaking in and concealing themselves in here?”

  “I don’t know until I check,” Miles said. He moved across to the window, looking behind the long curtains. His gaze seemed to rest on the bed for a long time, contemplating its rumpled sheets and invitingly tumbled pillows. Alice’s breath hitched as he looked back at her.

  “A somewhat inflammatory choice of reading for bedtime, Miss Lister,” Miles said, gesturing to the copy of Tom Jones that was on the nightstand.

  Alice raised her chin. “It is a classic novel,” she said.

  “I do not dispute it,” Miles agreed, “but I suspect it will cause you a restless night.”

  Alice doubted that a mere book could disturb her as much as Miles was doing now. He had moved across to the big rosewood wardrobe and opened the door. Alice’s breath caught again. She had not imagined that he would be searching through her clothes. This felt far too intimate, though why it should disquiet her she was not sure, since he had eased her out of that very underwear only a fortnight back, so there really was no cause for false modesty. His hands moved amongst the linen and lawn of her underclothes, tanned against the pristine whiteness. It made Alice shiver as though he was touching her skin.

  “There, uh, there does not appear to be anyone in here,” Miles said. His tone was a little rough. His gaze, dark and intense, tangled with hers. He shut the wardrobe door carefully.

  “Well, um, thank you,” Alice said, feeling absurdly self-conscious. She wondered a little despairingly whether Miles’s presence in the house would always make her this uncomfortable. She would have to
hope that they would find the criminal soon or she might just combust.

  Miles paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Do you think that Miss Cole was with Tom Fortune tonight?” he asked suddenly, over his shoulder.

  Alice jumped, taken by surprise. She realized that he had sprung the question on her deliberately, knowing she would have no time to dissemble.

  “Yes, I think that she was,” she said evenly.

  “She did not say anything to you?”

  “No, she did not,” Alice said.

  Miles nodded slowly. He turned fully to face her, leaning back against the door panels. “Do you think she will speak to Laura tomorrow?”

  “I doubt it,” Alice said. “I know that Mrs. Anstruther is her cousin but-” she shrugged helplessly “-her feelings for Tom are too strong to betray him.”

  “Why do you think that she trusts him?” Miles asked.

  Their eyes met and held. “Because she loves him,” Alice said. She sighed. “For no better reason than that.”

  “Do you think her instinct to trust him is correct?” Miles said.

  “I doubt it,” Alice said. “Tom is a scoundrel, and love is more likely to distort one’s good sense than to reinforce it.”

  Miles smiled slightly. “You sound almost as cynical as me, Miss Lister,” he said. “Lock the door behind me,” he added, checking that there was a key, “and do not open it until your maid knocks in the morning. Ask her to call out to identify herself first. I will be in the room across the landing-should you need me.”

  He went out and Alice turned the key in the lock with fingers that shook a little. She got into bed and lay there for a moment before blowing out the candle. Tom Jones would have to wait for another night. She was already quite sufficiently disturbed as it was.

  Perhaps it was the relentless ache in her arm, or the fear that someone might indeed attempt to break into her room, or more likely the disquieting thought of Miles Vickery across the corridor, barely feet away from her, but Alice did not sleep well that night. Miles’s face seemed obstinately to appear in her broken dreams. His dark hazel eyes invaded her most private thoughts. Even after he had left her bedchamber his presence seemed to dominate the room, as though she could not escape him. She could hear the echo of his question about Lydia in her dreams and her answer: She trusts him because she loves him…

  She woke shivering whilst it was still dark and burrowed under the blankets as much for comfort as warmth. Love made one do such foolish things, such as entrusting oneself to a man who might be a dangerous criminal, or indeed to one who was an accredited rake who could never be faithful or trustworthy or any of the things that a sensible woman would wish for in a husband. She opened her eyes and stared at the shadowy canopy of her bed. She could not be falling in love with Miles Vickery all over again, not when she could see so clearly his faults and imperfections now, not when she was supposed to have learned from her bitter lesson of the previous year. She was far too levelheaded for that, too practical, too wise. She knew that she was suffering from a bad case of thwarted lust-the sort of thing that ladies pretended never to experience, let alone speak about-but that was merely a physical problem. Anything deeper and more profound was out of the question.

  She rolled over and buried her head under the pillow. She had forced Miles to honesty, and now she knew she was being most dreadfully dishonest herself. She threw the pillow aside and gave a long sigh.

  She was starting to love Miles all over again, against her will, perhaps against all sense but with a helpless inevitability that she was not sure she even wanted to fight. The tenderness she had sometimes glimpsed in him and his determination to hold her safe had completely undermined her resistance even though she knew he was acting as much out of self-interest as concern for her. Now, more strongly than ever, she sensed the complex and damaged reality under Miles’s cynical outward shell, and she wanted to reach him. She was a fool. There was no doubt about it. She, who prided herself on her practicality, was behaving like a silly little scatterbrain, just like Lydia. Her mind told her she was making a mistake but her heart was not listening.

  A sound out on the landing caught her attention. Thinking of Lydia made her wonder whether her friend could be so imprudent as to creep out before dawn to risk another hour in her lover’s arms. Alice slid softly from the bed and padded over to the door. She remembered Miles’s strictures about not opening it until Marigold called her in the morning, but then she heard another soft sound and she turned the key and opened the door a crack.

  There was a single lamp burning down the hall and by its light Alice could see that Miles was sleeping on a pallet outside her door. Her heart gave a huge leap of shock and something else. She stared down at him, absolutely rooted to the spot. In sleep he looked relaxed and the hard lines and planes of his face were softened. His dark eyelashes rested against the curve of his cheek. A day’s stubble already darkened his jaw and Alice suddenly felt a huge, near-ungovernable urge to fall to her knees beside him and run her fingers along his cheek to feel that skin rough beneath her hands.

  She must have made some noise, or perhaps a tiny movement, because the next moment she found herself flat on her back on the pallet with Miles’s body on top of hers, pinning her down. He was breathing fast, and there was a hard, dangerous light in his eyes. Alice was so shocked that for a second she could not move and barely remembered to breathe. Then she tried to struggle but it was as humiliating as when he had caught her outside the gown shop; he was too strong and she could barely do more than wriggle beneath him, a maneuver that did not seem to do anything to ease the situation, for something even more dangerous flared in his eyes. Her hands came up against his chest and it was then that she realized he was naked, or at least partially so. The skin beneath her palms was warm, hard and smooth. Alice swallowed, her throat suddenly feeling as parched as a dry riverbed.

  “You are lying outside my bedroom door and you aren’t wearing any clothes!” she blurted out, realizing a second too late that she had spoken her thoughts aloud. She saw Miles’s smile, and then he rolled off her and sat up.

  “I still have my breeches on,” he said mockingly. His tone changed. “Don’t ever do that again, Miss Lister. I could have hurt you.”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Alice protested. “I thought I heard a sound-”

  “And so you came to investigate even though I had expressly told you not to do so?”

  Alice sighed. “It was wrong of me,” she conceded.

  “It was.” Miles still sounded furious.

  Alice sighed again and struggled to her knees, abruptly aware that her nightgown was bunched up and revealed the backs of her thighs. She grabbed the gown and dragged it down, and in the same moment she saw Miles’s gaze slide over her naked skin, and then his eyes widened and darkened with an equal mixture of shock and something Alice immediately identified as lust.

  “What,” he said, “is that?” His voice was rough and just the tone of it sent flickers of erotic sensation through her body.

  “Wh…what?” Alice asked, dragging the lawn and lace as far down as she could and gripping it tightly about her ankles.

  Oh Lord, he had seen. And she could never, ever explain…

  In a panic now, she tried to scramble to her feet and back away from him, but Miles put out one lazy hand, grabbed her about the ankle and she tumbled back down onto the pallet with a little shriek.

  “Shh.” Miles put a hand over her lips. “You’ll wake everyone.”

  Before Alice could protest he scooped her up in his arms, strode through the door of her bedroom and deposited her on the bed. She sprawled there, out of breath and indignant, her nightgown riding up again, her face bright pink.

  “Lord Vickery, what are you doing?” Her words came out as a strangled croak. Her body was one huge, burning blush of combined mortification and utter desire.

  She tried to crawl away from him up the bed, but once again Miles was too quick for her, his hand clamping abo
ut her bare ankle again and holding her still.

  “You will tell me,” he said softly, “what it was that I saw just now-or I will take a look for myself. Well?”

  Alice clutched the nightgown tighter about her legs. “I-it…” It is just more proof, if that were needed, that I am not a lady…

  Miles’s bright hazel gaze pinned her against the pillows. “I thought that I knew all your secrets now, Alice, but it seems not.” His glance traveled over her slowly, from flushed face and tumbled hair to bare feet. “You do realize that when we are wed,” he said, “if not before, I will see you-all of you-without your nightgown?”

  Alice made another choked little noise. She did not think she could feel any hotter without burning up. “Then you will just have to wait, won’t you?” she whispered.

  “Unfortunately, I am of an impatient disposition,” Miles said. “Forgive me, but I am about to behave most improperly.”

  He caught both her ankles and tossed her over onto her stomach. Alice lay sprawling, tangled in her hair and the blankets, the breath knocked from her, the shock pounding through her. It was so sudden that for a moment she lay still, completely stunned, and then she felt one of Miles’s hands easing the nightgown up the backs of her bare thighs. She struggled to raise her head and tried to whip herself over, but Miles’s free hand was in the small of her back, holding her still, pressed down on the bed.

  “No,” he said. “Don’t move.”

  “Miles,” Alice wailed.

  “Darling Alice,” Miles said, the intimacy of his tone making her completely weak, “I have to see.”

  Alice made a sound that was mingled appeal and surrender. She turned her head away, allowing her hair to fall forward to cloak her face. She felt hot and hopelessly aroused and at the same time breathless with nerves. Since her formal betrothal to Miles she had managed to ignore the little pinpricks of anxiety that had reminded her that she was a former servant girl and as such no suitable wife for a marquis. She had told herself she was good enough for anyone and she had almost believed it. But here was proof that she was utterly unsuitable, for what other marchioness in the entire country would have a tattoo? She could imagine the Duchess of Cole’s horrified tones if ever she heard this scandalous piece of news: “My dear Miss Lister, only circus freaks and sailors have tattoos…”