Of all the reprobates and rakes in London, why did it have to behimwho had happened upon her in the library on the lone occasion she had stolen from her chamber in search of a book to read? Why did it have to behimwho had kidnapped her in the midst of the night?
Viscount Torrington.
The tormentor of her failed Seasons. The unspeakably handsome, debonair rogue for whom she had once held a foolishtendre. A silly, girlish infatuation. He was the gentleman whose notice she had tried with unrelenting determination to earn, the one on whom she had pinned all her fragile hopes. Until she had unintentionally eavesdropped on his crushing words at a ball, and she had been forced to admit that he would never return her feelings.
But although she had eventually tamped down her inconvenient and pathetic longing where he was concerned, watching him flirting his way shamelessly through thetonhadn’t been any easier.
“I am indeed angry, my lord,” she managed, banishing all thoughts of the past. “You have spirited me away in scandalous fashion, at great peril to my reputation and my situation. If Lord and Lady Worthing discover what has happened, I will be dismissed from my position. To say nothing of the fright you have given me.”
Her mouth was still dry from all the terror he had visited upon her during the abduction.
He winced. “Forgive me, Miss Brooke. It wasn’t my intention to frighten you, as you know.”
Did he suppose such a reminder would ameliorate the sting? He had mistaken her for his mistress, the undeniably beautiful, diamond of the first water, Countess of Worthing. Lady Worthing was golden-haired and ethereal, her skin pale, her eyes blue, her face perfect in every way. She didn’t possess a pointed nose, dark hair, brown eyes, a mouth too large for her face, and a cumbersome figure that was more plump than willowy. Lady Worthing was not a woman who had ever been referred to asplain.
“Nonetheless, Lord Torrington, you did, indeed, frighten me.”
He had also smacked her quite firmly on the bottom. Her cheeks filled with unwanted heat at the thought, and that portion of her anatomy which had been so rudely abused tingled with remembrance. She had not liked it. Except, now that she knew it was the viscount who had taken her from Worthing House…
No, she stopped that dreadful, traitorous thought before it could be completed. He hadn’t been swattingherrump in his mind. He had been doing it to Lady Worthing, who was apparently cuckolding the earl with the only man Elizabeth had ever foolishly carried romantic inclinations toward. But that was years ago now, and Lord Torrington himself had disabused her of all such youthful folderol in cutting fashion.
“I am very sorry,” he apologized, sounding sincere, pressing his fingers to his temples as if to assuage some manner of ache lodged in his head. “You must know that this is most extraordinary for me. I would never have spirited you away if I had realized you were not Eugenia.”
Eugenia.
Elizabeth couldn’t say why, but his use of Lady Worthing’s given name nettled her. It certainly wasn’t jealousy; she had long ago abandoned her silly infatuation. Perhaps it was merely the acknowledgment, so plain and unrepentant, that he was engaging in an affair with a married woman. That the marriage between the earl and the countess was yet another cold society match founded on the need for heirs rather than true love. And that the viscount was happily bedding another man’s wife. But then, Elizabeth had abandoned all hopes of true love for herself long ago. She should not be disappointed by this discovery.
“I am greatly relieved to know that you only kidnap the wives of other lords and not their governesses,” she forced out.
Her fingers were falling asleep, going numb. Just how tightly had he tied the dratted knot on the rope?
“If it be of any solace to you, Miss Brooke, I don’t ordinarily kidnap anyone,” he said.
She glared at him. Was he an imbecile? She didn’t think he had always possessed such a feeble intellect. But then, he had never deigned to speak directly to her, onlyabouther, and Elizabeth would eternally regret ever unintentionally eavesdropping on those cutting words. How could she know his intelligence? And what manner of goose imagined herself in love with a man she knew so little about? It was humiliating, this situation notwithstanding.
“Solace would be found in the removal of the rope you’ve knotted around my wrists,” she hissed, struggling against them again.
The action only served to tighten the binding further.
“Do sit still, Miss Brooke,” he said with irritating calm. “I’ll never be able to untie you if you continue squirming.”
Outrage bubbled inside her. A governess wasn’t allowed the luxury of emotions. But then, neither was a poor relative. Her lot was to serve. To smile. To pretend. To bear every indignity foisted upon her and act as if each one was her due. But to the devil with that. She had been kidnapped! She was going to lose everything. And all because the handsome scoundrel she’d once pined for in her girlish ignorance had decided to spirit away his mistress. As what? A lark?
More emotion boiled to the surface, and she embarrassed herself by emitting a high-pitched noise that was half incredulous laugh, half hiccup. Hot tears of shame were burning her eyes, and something tickled her throat.
“I cannot tell if you are laughing or crying.”
Nor could she.
“Both,” she cried, and then allowed her head to fall back against the carriage squabs so that she could consult the ceiling of the conveyance, as if divine intervention might miraculously appear on her behalf.
It did not.
All that happened was a large, warm, masculine hand.
On her knee.
Hishand.
