No ones bride scandal sh.., p.3
No One's Bride (Scandal Sheet Survivors Book 4), page 3
Daventry came to stand beside his wife. “Well, you’ve not murdered each other. That’s a good sign. Though you both appear deflated.”
Sebastian had no choice but to repeat the damn story again. “I can understand a private collector paying over the odds, but I’d like to know who gifted the copy to Miss MacTavish.”
Daventry shrugged. “In the scheme of problems, it’s hardly important. There’ll be other copies for sale.”
No, winning the auction was not as important as catching thieves and murderers, but when a man felt like he’d failed his kin, he’d shed blood to restore the balance.
Miss MacTavish understood. “Unless ye’ve walked in a person’s shoes, ye cannae judge what’s important, sir.”
Daventry held up his hands in mock surrender. “Has the wind changed? It almost sounds like you’re defending Denton.”
Everyone knew Sebastian riled her temper.
That he made a habit of sounding like an arrogant arse.
Miss MacTavish’s assessing gaze drifted over Sebastian’s face. Like the natural world, her intelligent green eyes reflected an independent spirit. “Let’s just say I understand his reason for wanting the book.”
Sebastian forced a smile. He should not have mentioned his brother. “Come tomorrow, I expect we’ll be snapping and snarling at each other like frustrated terriers.”
Anger was his permanent companion.
Like a comfortable coat, he felt naked and cold without it.
Indeed, the need to leave the auction house and put some distance between himself and the Scotswoman led him to bring the conversation to a swift end.
“Well, I have a pressing appointment across town and shall leave you to deal with matters here.” Perhaps he would visit Lissette, though the thought left him equally flaccid. Indeed, it was time to sever all ties.
“Once I’ve discovered the identity of the mystery bidder, I shall contact ye about making the exchange. Assuming ye’re willing to trade the lady’s diary.”
“I’ll give the matter some thought,” he said, aware the Daventrys were watching them with curious fascination. “And we can discuss it on Friday when we attend Lady Winfield’s ball.”
She merely nodded, yet he wanted her to berate him. To strip the shirt from his back and whip him with her sharp tongue.
Bantering with Miss MacTavish helped to chase away the ghosts.
These polite exchanges left him unsettled.
So unsettled, unease slithered across his shoulders as he left the auction house and stepped out on Broad Street. He stood still for a moment, settling into his armour. This damn restlessness had nothing to do with losing the book and everything to do with a comment made by Miss MacTavish.
I’d need a passionate man, and you give me cold shivers.
He should be relieved she had no romantic interest in him.
And he was. The thought of bedding the termagant was preposterous.
Still, masculine pride left him desperate to prove a point.
It’s the grimoire! his inner voice warned.
Since seeing the ancient spell book, his world had shifted. Miss MacTavish had shown her caring side, and there’d been that strange energy buzzing between them. A sensual hum in the air.
Hellfire!
He had offered her a grovelling apology for his rudeness.
Was that not evidence the stars were misaligned?
Thank heavens the grimoire remained in the casket, destined for some other crazed fool. Thank heavens he’d never have to gaze upon the book again, else he might be compelled to show the lady he could rouse more than cold shivers.
“A little dog would be the perfect companion.” In the candlelit bedchamber, Lissette sat at her dressing table, brushing out her golden hair, staring at Sebastian through the looking glass. “Something small, like a pug or a fluffy white Pomeranian.”
Doubtless the animal would yap endlessly.
Much like its mistress.
Lissette’s lips made a perfect pout, and her tone turned childlike. “I would be his mama and buy him a pretty cradle with silk hangings so he might sleep next to the bed.”
On the scale of boring conversations, this one topped the list, along with talk of Miss Turford’s bunion and the maid’s hacking cough.
“I failed to purchase More’s Utopia at auction today,” he said before his voice seized from lack of use. He omitted to mention he’d been cheated out of winning the rare tome.
“Never mind. There’ll be other paintings.”
“It’s not a painting. It’s a book about a fictional society.”
Miss MacTavish would press him for a detailed explanation before questioning his ideas. Lissette said, “Perhaps it’s a good thing. It sounds rather dull.”
Not as dull as watching this woman admire her reflection.
Fully clothed, he sat on the end of the bed, wondering what Lissette would look like with her hair scraped back in a severe knot and minus the rouge. Then he pictured Miss MacTavish sitting there, her red hair like a wild burst of flames, her eyes bright, wearing that sheer silk negligee, not a tartan day dress.
For the first time since walking through Lissette’s door, he felt a warm stirring in his loins. A flicker of desire for a woman who’d give him fifty lashes with her tongue if she knew his current train of thought.
Damnation!
That blasted spell book had wrought havoc with his senses.
He was having visions, conjuring imagined scenarios.
Is this what happened to Michael? Like an addict in an opium den, had he lost all grasp of reality? Had he thrown himself overboard, and that’s why there was no body to bury?
For fear of contamination, we had to have a sea burial.
“Are you not undressing?” Lissette shot him a questioning glance through the looking glass.
When had she ever stared deeply into his eyes?
As many times as she lost her temper. Not once.
“I came merely to talk.” Perhaps Miss MacTavish was right, and talking made kissing better.
Her nose wrinkled. “Talk? Whatever for?”
He laughed to himself, all illusions slipping away to reveal the bare bones of this meaningless relationship. As if to prove he was wasting his time here, Miss MacTavish’s bewitching words drifted into his mind again.
If it means that much to you, you may have the book.
Without doubt, it was the kindest thing anyone had said to him.
He was at a loss to know why she cared.
Maybe she didn’t care and merely viewed it as an opportunity to own the Tudor diary. Either way, their verbal tussles hardened his cock more than anything that happened beneath Lissette’s bedsheets.
Sebastian stood and straightened his coat.
“You’re not leaving?” Lissette’s voice grated like grinding metal. “You’ve been here half an hour, and it’s only ten o’clock.”
He shrugged. “There’s no easy way to say this. We’re unsuited, and we’ve both grown tired of using each other.” And he would not bed one woman while thinking about another. Not that he wanted to think about frolicking with Miss MacTavish. “You need someone who visits more frequently.”
And he needed to find a different pursuit.
A new venture to occupy his time.
One that did not involve annoying women.
“Yes.” Lissette’s sad sigh sounded hollow. “Often, you’re like an empty shell. It’s like you’re lost in the wilderness far from home.”
Unable to argue, he took a few seconds to study Lissette’s silky skin and pouting lips, yet it did nothing to spark a fire in his blood.
“I need someone who’s excited to see me,” said the woman who had no interest in talking. “Not someone who mopes like they’re at a funeral. You’re miserable most of the time.”
Perhaps because he spent sleepless nights consumed with morbid thoughts. Because his life was one long funeral while he waited in limbo for a body that had never arrived.
He closed the gap between them, placed his hand on Lissette’s shoulder and met her gaze through the looking glass. “You deserve better.”
Lissette patted his hand as if keen to be rid of him. “And you need to find a way to enjoy life instead of being constantly in the doldrums. When did you last laugh at something amusing?”
The answer came amid a vision of wild green eyes and fiery locks. One involving Miss MacTavish threatening to turn Sir Henry into a filthy hog. Only last week, Sebastian’s reserve had crumbled when she accused him of padding the shoulders of his frock coat to look more manly. Though that had been more a snort than a chuckle.
He bid Lissette farewell, left the house and marched along King Street to where his coachman had parked the carriage.
Jenkins appeared shocked to see him and was likely annoyed he would miss his nap. “Where to, milord?”
Sebastian glanced at his palm. Touching Lissette was akin to touching cold marble. He’d not felt the sudden surge of excitement. Had not experienced the warm tingling racing up his arm. There had been no need to prolong the time spent in her company. No regrets about leaving, only relief.
“Home.” Sebastian hesitated. “But take a detour via Pall Mall.” Miss MacTavish lived a stone’s throw from King Street. “Drive slowly and stop near Schomberg House. I mean to ensure all is well at the MacTavish household.”
He should be relieved he had ended things with Lissette. So why was every muscle tense? Why was his withered heart gripped by a strange foreboding? Why was he keen to sit alone in a dark carriage, hoping to glimpse the most annoying woman in London?
Chapter Three
“I’ll need you to sign the note, miss. To confirm you’ve received the casket.” The young man from Chadwick’s handed the ebony box to Monroe, Ailsa’s butler, and scrubbed his hand over his unkempt side whiskers. “If it weren’t so cold, you might want to open it and check the contents. Make sure there’s no damage done.”
What could happen to a book in transit?
“That willnae be necessary.” It was ten o’clock, and he seemed in a hurry. Having grown tired of waiting, she had instructed Monroe to lock the doors and go to bed. Stifling a yawn, she signed the note and gave the delivery man a crown for his trouble. “Best be on yer way before the fog settles.”
He doffed his hat. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
As he left, something made Ailsa poke her head around the jamb and glance out onto the dimly lit street. Through the haze of white mist, she expected to see a cart, the Chadwick name emblazoned on the side. But the fellow climbed into a waiting hackney, and the vehicle charged off into the night.
There should be nothing odd about that, yet receiving the stranger’s gift had the hairs on her nape prickling to attention.
“Place it on my father’s desk.” Ailsa motioned to the study. “Then ye may lock the doors and retire for the evening. And take a dram of brandy. There’s a chill in the air tonight, and I dinnae want yer bad chest getting worse.”
Monroe carried the small box as if it were filled with lead. He shuffled his feet, the walk to the study leaving him breathless.
“Ye’ll stay in bed tomorrow.”
“Ma’am, I cannot—”
“’Tis an order, nae a request.”
Gratitude filled the man’s tired eyes. He left the box in the middle of the uncluttered desk, bowed and plodded away to lock the front door.
Amid the dark confines of the masculine room, Ailsa stared at the package, unsure why her heart pounded loud like a death knell. All she need do was lift the lid and examine the old volume. Perhaps when her father wrote to confirm he was the mystery bidder she would not feel so ill at ease.
“Good night, ma’am.” Monroe coughed as he passed the door.
“Good night.”
Don’t leave me alone.
The words shot into her mind. A warning from somewhere deep in her soul, though there was nothing to fear from an old book. Perhaps Thomas More’s aggrieved spirit clung to the pages. Maybe the ghost of the man who’d lost his head haunted those who owned a copy.
“Och, now ye’re being ridiculous,” she said aloud before leaving the room and closing the door.
A frisson of fear in her chest made her turn the key in the lock and take it with her upstairs. A story in last week’s Times, mentioned thieves scouting auctions with the intention of stealing valuable antiquities.
Once in her chamber, she warmed her hands on the dying embers, then rang for her maid. Ivy helped her undress, but it was late, and the girl had been awake since dawn.
“Get to bed. I can plait my own hair, and I mean to read for a while.” Only half an hour ago, Ailsa had struggled to keep her eyes open. Now, a sickening sensation in her gut said she wouldn’t sleep a wink.
Ivy curtsied. “Very well, ma’am. Will you be staying with the St Clairs tomorrow? I don’t mean to pry or speak out of turn. Your father would be angry if he knew you were here alone.”
She wasn’t alone. She had the servants for company.
But Ivy was right. Having vowed to spend time with her friends, she should stay with Helen. But Lord Denton was a regular caller at his sister’s abode. And the St Clairs were so in love, it might persuade the most determined spinster to marry.
“Aye, I shall stay with Mrs St Clair tomorrow night.”
Ivy’s smile spoke of relief. No maid wanted to lie to their employer, and Scots were known for their fiery tempers.
It took Ailsa half an hour to comb all the knots from her hair. By the time she’d finished, tears trickled down her cheeks. Perhaps cutting it to her shoulders would help to tame the unruly locks. Overcome with an odd urge to do something drastic, she rooted around in the drawer, found the scissors and contemplated snipping off a strand.
But the rattle of a doorknob downstairs stole her attention.
It was probably Monroe raiding the brandy decanter.
Since taking delivery of the book, a knot of unease had tightened in her belly. A chill had penetrated her bones. Perhaps Monroe was abed, and the odd fellow in the hackney had returned to prowl through the house and steal the antiquity.
Was that why he had asked for the master?
Why he called so late and peered over her shoulder?
Ailsa gripped the scissors and crept towards the bedchamber door. Ivy had left it ajar, so she pricked her ears, praying Monroe would cough to settle her fears.
The confident clip of footsteps in the hall spoke of a fit and healthy man, not an ageing butler struggling to breathe.
’Tis just a footman, Ailsa told herself.
Still, she daren’t call out.
The rickety board at the bottom of the stairs creaked, and a masculine voice whispered a curse. The servants knew not to step on it until Mr Brown came with a replacement.
Her blood chilled.
Her heart almost stopped beating when she peered into the gloom and saw a dark figure slowly mounting the stairs.
Should she hide?
Was it not better to burst onto the landing and confront the devil?
Would Monroe find her lying in a pool of blood in the morning?
Logic said she should raise a hue and cry, make enough noise to scare the villain. Send him fleeing into the night.
Gathering every ounce of courage she possessed, Ailsa burst onto the landing, only to come face-to-face with a giant.
A giant who smelled of women’s perfume.
A giant who looked remarkably like Lord Denton.
She would know the twist of that arrogant mouth anywhere. “Merciful Lord! Ye scared me half to death. What the devil are ye doing in—”
In a move one might see in a pugilist’s den, he spun her around, hauled her against his chest and carried her into the bedchamber.
She would have cried out, but he smothered her mouth with his hand. The attractive hand she had admired hours earlier. She might have jabbed him with the scissors, but they fell from her grasp as she tried to wriggle free.
The man had lost his mind.
Losing the auction had left him deranged.
Had he noticed she wore nothing but a cotton nightgown? At the auction house, he’d mentioned throwing her over his shoulder and locking her in the broom cupboard. Surely he’d been joking.
Drawing her behind the door, he held her tight against his chest. Her loose breasts were mere inches from his forearm. Her bottom was squashed against his groin.
She should be mortified, crippled with embarrassment, scared to the marrow of her bones, but a more shocking sensation took hold. One she knew to be the stirrings of arousal.
Good grief!
“There’s a thief in the house,” he whispered against her ear. His breath came quickly, but he took the time to inhale the scent of her hair. “If I release you, you mustn’t make a sound. I need to find him.”
Ailsa nodded. When fearing for one’s life, there was something comforting about being held in a man’s strong embrace. Then she remembered the man in question was the dreaded Lord Denton and quickly prised herself from his grasp.
“A thief?” she whispered, whirling round to face him. “How do ye know?”
His gaze slid over her hair, lingered on her mouth, dipped to the open neck of her nightgown. “I was passing on my way home and saw a suspicious fellow waiting by the railings. He entered via the basement door.”
“Then why are we hiding in my bedchamber?” She had never entertained a gentleman at home, let alone in her private sanctuary.
The viscount scanned the dark room, a smile touching his lips when he noticed the bookcase crammed with old volumes. “I wanted to ensure you were safe before brawling with a mindless villain in your basement.”
“How did ye get in?” Ailsa grabbed the scissors from the floor. He was sober and by no means a reprobate, but one had to take precautions. “Monroe locked the door.”
The lord shrugged. “It was open.”
“Oh!” The poor butler’s head had been in the clouds for days. “I’m coming with ye. I’ll nae wait here wondering what’s happened.”
Lord Denton knew better than to argue. That didn’t stop his curious gaze roving over her white nightgown. Doubtless he found the dowdy garment unflattering. Hence why he grumbled and tutted to himself before leading the way downstairs.
