My God, is this chit flirting with me so that she can see the heap of old stones Tremberley has in the garden?
Tremberley received frequent requests from various quarters to tour the ruins. Lazy rogue that he was, he had put out that he disliked showing them—something about an old family dispute or some nonsense—because visitors cut into his time being a debauched layabout who only hunted, feasted and fucked.
At any rate, John would show her the stones. Tremberley wouldn’t care a whit. He would be delighted that the old ruins, which he regarded as eyesores, had finally come to a use he could appreciate.
Because if John took her into the gardens, there was no doubt as to what he would attempt. His attraction to her was too marked to ignore.
A beautiful woman just to his taste asking him to see the grounds—well, how was he supposed to resist that lure?
If she would let him, he would ruin her.
John realized that Miss Musgrave was tracing the consternation on his face. She was probably worried he would censure her for prying into Tremberley family matters or rebuff her request as improper.
He stood and held out his arm.
“Whatever you wish, Miss Musgrave.”
John tried to ignore the pleasure that radiated through him when she placed her hand on his elbow. He needed to control himself. To approach her like a man, not a rutting animal. If he was going to ruin her, if he was going to have that on his soul, then he wanted her to beg for it.
He knew he should surrender her to the ballroom and walk away. He shouldn’t be leading her out into the dark grounds. Not when her touch gnawed at his self-restraint.
And yet he couldn’t relinquish her arm.
They exited into the hallway and then out the passage that led to the gardens. He nabbed a lantern from the wall and they left the manor, finding the gravel path that wound down to the ruins.
The cool night was heaven in contrast to the heat of the ballroom. The fresh air filled his lungs. He concentrated on walking, still trying to disregard her nearness. Their solitude seemed to press down on them, dissipating the flirtation of moments before. Her silence seemed an acknowledgment of the risk they had taken in leaving the safety of the assembled guests and setting out into the night alone.
“I assure you the ruins are really unremarkable,” he finally said, trying not to choke over the words. Aloud in the night air, his voice was surprisingly smooth. The lantern illuminated the way through the garden and he could just see the looming silhouettes of the Tremberley Ruins up ahead. “I saw them for the first time yesterday afternoon with the viscount. I think he would have them cleared away if keeping them intact weren’t part of the entail. They destroy all his plans for fashionable landscaping.”
He couldn’t forget his assumed identity, he warned himself. In her mind-addling presence, it would be an easy thing to do. His Mr. Overton scheme was working even better than he had ever dreamed, although it was leading him down far riskier paths.
“You can’t be serious.” Her tone was almost as light as it had been inside, making him wonder if he had read her silence wrong. “They were built in the time of theRomans.”
John shrugged. He wanted to tell her that Tremberley didn’t care about history, only about his next erotic conquest and showing up rivals from Eton, but Mr. Overton, the poor cousin, would never be that disrespectful, so he said nothing.
She dropped his arm and moved away from him towards the stones. Her departure made a spot just above his sternum throb. But he let her go, knowing that the space would help him think clearly—a faculty he sorely needed.
“I am glad that Lord Tremberley cannot uproot them. God knows what monstrosity he would erect in their place.”
“He is mad to even think of it.”
John had to smile at the blithe way she insulted a nobleman. Clearly, her enthusiasm for the stones was real. It hadn’t been a feint. Perhaps, he thought with displeasure, she really had nothing untoward in mind when she had asked for an escort.
“Do you truly think Lord Tremberley would dispose of them if he could?”
John bit back his own laughter at this question, reminiscing about Tremberley stalking across the grass and kicking the stones and yelling at his steward, the impassive Mr. Foxcroft, that he wanted the damn thingsout.
“I am sure of it. And I understand his feelings. Lord Tremberley wants to control what belongs to him. He doesn’t want his present dictated by the past.”
“These ruins are a miracle.” Her dismay was severe and yet, somehow—damn her—he found it arousing. “He can’t escape the past. No one can. What we have of history is just the scraps—but we have to try to understand it anyway.”
John didn’t answer. He could be relied upon to proffer a wry comment or charming anecdote but speculative metaphysical conversation was something he generally disdained. He never spoke like this to anyone.
In the lantern light, she was searching his face with those dark blue beams again.
Then she dropped her eyes altogether. And she began to tug on one of her long white gloves.
She was removing her gloves.
