Until Lady Tesh spoke up and effectively obliterated it.
“They may not need your escort, my boy, but I will. We shall make a party of it. Say, tomorrow around noon?”
Lenora froze and shot a quick, panicked glance at Mr. Ashford. His face had gone hard. For a hopeful moment, she was certain he would refuse Lady Tesh. But then he said, through teeth gritted tight, “As you wish.”
What a peculiar reaction, as if Lady Tesh were forcing him into it. Though what hold Lady Tesh could have over someone like Mr. Ashford, who seemed to hold everyone and everything about him in the deepest contempt, was beyond her understanding.
But that was no concern of hers. Even so, Lenora couldn’t shake the thought that Mr. Ashford was here against his will.
Chapter 6
Lenora never had trouble sleeping at Seacliff. Though the house was several centuries old, a great brick edifice propped like an avenging sentinel over the coastline of the remote island, it had been updated over the generations until it could compete with any of the most modern houses in London. Add to that the placement of her bedroom, a spacious apartment at the front of the house that gave her the rolling lullaby of the sea as her constant companion, and more often than not, Lenora dropped off to sleep the moment her head hit the pillow.
Tonight, however, sleep would not come. It was not her recent abandonment at the altar that kept her mind spinning about like a whirligig, or the upcoming trip to Hillram’s childhood home. It was not even due to the storm without, which battered at her window and turned the sea into a great thrashing beast. No, she thought with a sinking feeling in her stomach, she knew precisely at whose door she could lay the blame for her sudden bout of insomnia.
Mr. Peter Ashford.
All through the long evening, she had found, though conversation and laughter were plentiful thanks to Mr. Nesbitt, that she was unable to keep her thoughts or her eyes from Mr. Ashford. He had not been the least bit friendly through the meal or after in the drawing room, frowning mightily at any who attempted to converse with him. His clothing, too, had been given no quarter, his hands pulling and tugging relentlessly on the unsuspecting fabric. By the time Clara and Phoebe had left for the night and the rest had made to retire, his cravat was nothing more than a limp, sad thing dangling from his neck.
Even so, Lenora had felt a constant and undeniable pull toward him. There was no move he did not make that she was not fully and painfully aware of, no sound from him that did not earn the complete attention from her straining ears.
Now the man was even disturbing her sleep.
Several of her father’s more colorful bits of vocabulary flew through her head. In a burst of frustration, she let them loose into the dark quiet of her room. She’d hoped to find a modicum of relief with it. But no, the frustration and restlessness that plagued her remained. What was it about him that unsettled her so, that made her body go feverish and aching all at once?
Throwing off her blankets in disgust, she swung her feet to the floor and donned her robe and slippers. Perhaps a cup of warm milk from the kitchens would help.
She made it down to the ground floor quickly, her slippers silent on the polished wood, her single candle throwing wavering golden light over the walls and paintings. The faces of long-dead nobles stared back at her, the dips in light and shadow giving their features a fluid cast, making their eyes seem as if they had come to life. One painting in particular caught her eye, a gentleman draped in brocade fabrics and wearing a powdered wig. It was one she had seen a thousand times before, yet now the man’s eyes seemed to watch her with eerie intensity, his fingers tightening on the saber he held in his grip.
Her steps faltered for a moment. Surely her eyes were playing tricks on her. The longer she stared at it, however, the more it seemed to shift and sway. Shaking her head, she let loose a nervous laugh. “You cannot frighten me, my lord,” she said to the portrait. She made to turn away. And nearly dropped her candle as a muted thumping echoed about the darkened hall.
Lenora froze, her eyes going wide. “Who’s there?” she tried calling out. Her throat closed, the words coming out as more of a sputtering wheeze. Before she could gather her courage to try again, the strange pounding started up again, this time accompanied by a solid bang and a very masculine curse.
Her eyes flew to the door across the hall. It was ajar, a faint glow issuing from behind it. Who in the world could be up and about at this hour? Moving closer, she peered through the opening.
A great hulking shape moved about the space. As she watched, it took up a dainty chair and began moving toward the window with it.
A burglar. The breath left Lenora’s body. If she raised a cry, help would not come in time. Hoping to catch the person unawares and debilitate them, she quickly blew her candle out and hefted the heavy brass holder high above her head. She inched into the room, praying with all her might the thief would not turn around.
Just then, however, he did.
“Mr. Ashford,” she breathed, falling back a step.
He glowered at her a moment before eyeing the candlestick, still held aloft above her head. “Miss Hartley, what were you planning on doing with that bit of brass in your hands?”
She went hot, bringing the candlestick to her chest and gripping it tight. “I thought you were a burglar,” she said, but even to her own ears the excuse sounded weak.
“A burglar.” One blond eyebrow quirked. “You thought you could stop a burglar with that? Forgive me, but that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
The heat in Lenora’s face spread down her neck as embarrassment turned to anger. Perhaps it had been foolish. But she would certainly never admit as much to him. “It is not ridiculous in the least.”
“Isn’t it? A pampered society miss, so slight I could easily lift you with one arm, thinking you have the strength to lay low a burglar with nothing but a candlestick?” His gaze, made a fiery orange in the glow from the single lantern he had propped on a low table, skimmed down her body. Her angry flush transformed into something altogether different, a new heat that sent her mind to parts unknown.
But she would not be cowed by a rude brute of a man who had no more manners than a dog.
Which wasn’t the best analogy, she thought distractedly, as Freya was quite the most collected dog she had ever met. Even so.
“My intentions are neither here nor there,” she countered. “What I would like to know is, what are you doing here in the dead of night, stealing Lady Tesh’s furniture?”
