“No, I’m taking you home,” he said, before giving his coachman instructions to return to Blackhurst House.
When he looked back at Lisbeth she had her pistol out. Blast! Her eyes were now full of panic, her breathing erratic. He knew she would do it, silly woman.
“Put it away,” he said in his most serious voice. He was sick of this particular threat.
“Give me my watch,” she demanded with her hand outstretched. “Please!”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “When I have you safely in your door, I shall return it to you.” He kept his eyes directly on hers, trying not to look at the pistol at all. “I promise.”
“Now, Bellamy! I want it now!” she demanded.
Oliver grabbed the barrel of the pistol, gave it a twist and a tug, and gained command of the gun.
The look on her face was priceless. She had gasped, her mouth a perfect O. Obviously, she had not expected his efficient removal of the pistol from her possession. “Now, sit down and be a good girl,” he said, trying to speak as softly and calmly as he could without grinning.
Her face was flushed, her breathing rapid and heaving, then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fell forward, knocking Oliver back against the back of the seat.
“Lisbeth?”
No response.
She fainted? Well, this was certainly something new.
Pinned underneath a beautiful woman would normally have Oliver in good spirits, but this was hardly the same situation. He was used to women passing outafterward.
The carriage pulled up outside Blackhurst House. He maneuvered around so he could gather her in his arms and on his lap, then pocketed the pistol.And she had the hide to say men were dangerous with pistols! What a grand end to the evening, he thought as he gazed down at her angelic face. Quiet like this, she seemed no more than a child.
This whole situation was ludicrous. What was he doing here, with her, on this fool’s errand? There was no way they would find Blackhurst’s killer. Frankly, he didn’t care who killed the bastard.Even if it may have been your dear departed brother?Oliver shook the thought away.
He was meant to be collecting wagers, making money, paying off Henry’s debts. Instead, he was obsessing about Lisbeth’s lips and her backside—of putting his lips on that sweet backside—and mauling her in confined spaces. Mauling her? She’d been mauling him! He’d be damned if she hadn’t planned the whole thing, luring him into that farcical oak box to have her wicked way with him. He laughed out loud in the carriage because if he didn’t he just might yell in frustration. John Coachman opened the carriage door.
Oliver carried Lisbeth up the steps and kicked the door a couple of times with the toe of his shoe. Lisbeth’s head lolled on his shoulder. She moaned his name and her eyelashes fluttered as if trying to open but she stayed unconscious.
Rollands opened the door. When he saw his precious countess lying so still in the earl’s arms, he looked perplexed, then horrified.
“Good Lord! What has happened?” the butler asked, still standing in the doorway.
“Let me in and I’ll tell you.” Oliver followed a red-faced Rollands into the parlor and deposited Lisbeth onto a soft peach-colored sofa.
“Is she ill? Should I call for a physician, Lord Bellamy?” Rollands asked, looking apprehensive from his position behind the sofa. Mrs. Rollands, the housekeeper, was hovering in the doorway, her face a mask of concern for her mistress.
“No, I don’t think it will be necessary. She fainted, is all; some smelling salts would be handy if you have some.”
“Oh, yes, of course, my lord. I will get them immediately.” Her butler scrambled out of the room like Aunt Petunia’s dogs were nipping at his heels.
Oliver perched himself on the edge of the sofa. He removed a dark wayward curl from over Lady Blackhurst’s eyes and then rubbed the back of his hand over her soft cheek.By God she is beautiful,he thought. Beautiful despite the dark smudges under her eyes which indicated she was not sleeping well. It seemed these last weeks had worn her down at least as much as they had worn him. Oliver was not sleeping well either these days. It had been a frustrating few weeks in more ways than one.
Their investigations had yielded very little in the way of physical evidence, but a disturbing picture of her husband was beginning to form, and her list of suspects capable of his murder had grown to terrifying proportions.
Oliver looked down at Lisbeth. Her lips were relaxed and opened slightly. He was taken back to when those lips were on his, hot with passion, not so very long ago. His eyes moved lower to where her breasts strained against the fashionably low-cut bodice. He remembered the feel, the weight, of those glorious globes in his hands, of having said breasts squashed against his face only moments past. It should have been an occasion worth celebrating. Alas, it was not to be, and taking advantage of an unconscious woman was not his style.
Instead, he put a cushion under her head and adjusted her skirts so she was the picture of unconscious ladylike composure. She was not as unflappable as she always put on, it seemed.
He looked up to see Rollands re-enter the room. He passed a small vial of smelling salts under the countess’s nose and very effectively brought her back to consciousness.
“Rollands?” Lady Blackhurst asked, in a confused voice and then looked at the woman. “Mrs. Rollands?” She then focused onOliver her expression still a little wistful, as if she thought she was dreaming.
“Bellamy?” she queried, in a wispy voice. “Bellamy!” she repeated but this time her eyes were wide open and accusing. “Where is my watch?” she demanded, sitting up.
