He was in no mood to share. He’d trusted her with too much already. He was appalled by how readily he’d let down his guard—by his own stupidity.
“Nothing’s the matter,” he muttered. “Except that I’ve wasted hours trapped in this stinking place.”
She drew a breath. “Do you need help climbing up?”
“No, I do not need your bloody help.” He snatched the dangling rope. “You have done enough. You’re the reason I’m here in the first place.”
She jerked as if he’d struck her.
“The reason you are here is because you decided to vandalize my friend’s property.” Her stare was harder than diamonds. “Well, I wish you the best getting out on your own. And by the by, you’re welcome for the rope, you ungrateful clod.”
If there was such a thing as stomp-crawling, she managed it. Her knees thudded irately overhead as she made her exit.
Jaw clenched, he grabbed the rope, tested that it could take his weight, and began his ascent.
Chapter Twelve
Walking through the village five days later, Conrad nodded brusquely as villagers greeted him by name. It didn’t take long for a man to be recognized here, and if he’d been smart, he would have left. He would have returned to London and worked out another stratagem for ruining Abel Pearce. Instead, he’d done the opposite. He’d hung around the village, hoping to run into Gigi. He’d briefly considered calling upon her at her brother’s house but discarded the idea because of the two most likely outcomes: she would refuse to see him, and Ethan Harrington would call him out.
Tired of staying at an inn, Conrad had leased a property in Chuddums called Honeystone Hall and sent for his London staff. When he wasn’t working or staking out Gigi, he found himself brooding: he wasn’t used to feeling like a bastard. While a few prior lovers had accused him of being one, he normally did not agree with their assessment. He prided himself on being clear about what he had to offer in a relationship and what he expected in return. He did this to protect both parties; after Vicky had shredded his heart, he had no wish to repeat the experience. If somewhere along the line his lover became dissatisfied with the terms, that was her problem. It wasn’t his fault that she’d changed her mind. His usual response had been to terminate the arrangement.
To his knowledge, he had never treated a woman unfairly…except Gigi. The one woman who’d held up her end of the bargain. Who was the bravest, cleverest, and most spirited female he’d ever met.
The shimmering hurt in her eyes gnawed at his gut, reminding him of the hearty kidney pie he’d ordered for lunch. Actually, he hadn’t ordered the dish: the cook at the local tavern, a fearsome matron by the name of Mrs. Thornton, had plunked it in front of him, declaring, “Eat it or starve, it’s up to you.”
He’d appreciated her honesty.
Truth be told, he wished he could be as blunt with Gigi. Wished he could go up to her and apologize for acting like an ass. Wished he could thank her…and ask for a second chance. Yet he hadn’t acted on his instincts because, for the first time in his life, he didn’t know what he wanted from a woman. That is, he knew he wanted Gigi—Christ, he frigged himself several times a day, thinking about her—but he didn’t know how to fit her into his plans.
There was only one way to have a well-bred virgin. But marriage meant commitment, and he was already committed to vengeance. He didn’t want any distractions. Moreover, Gigi stood squarely in his path: she was determined to save the spa while he was equally determined to see it fail.
There is no way to make it work. Cut your losses and leave. Stop acting like a namby-pamby.
But he couldn’t.
He could still taste her. Smell her. He could feel the way she’d trembled during her climax, rubbing her pussy so desperately against his cock that he’d gone off like a cannon. Moreover, how could he leave knowing that she was angry at him and rightly so?
Seeing Wally up ahead—thank God the fellow favored garish colors that made him easy to spot—Conrad hastily ducked into the nearest shop. Wally had cornered him several times in the last few days, bending his ear about the legend of Bloody Thom. Although Conrad didn’t believe in ghosts, a bad luck curse would explain a few things: since his arrival in Chuddums, nothing was going his way.
“Welcome to Hatcherds, sir.”
Conrad turned from the window, where he’d been surveilling Wally, to see another elderly fellow smiling up at him.
God’s teeth, what is it with friendly codgers in this village?
“I am Mr. Khan, the proprietor of Hatcherds.” The man was as wrinkled as a prune, with snowy hair and eyebrows. His eyes twinkled behind thick spectacles, and he was holding out a tray dotted with exotic-looking sweets. “May I offer you refreshment whilst you browse?”
Since it would be churlish to refuse, Conrad took a small, pale confection studded with slivered nuts. He popped it into his mouth, his eyes widening as creamy, spiced sweetness melted upon his tongue.
“That is exquisite,” he said.
“Thank you. I made the barfi myself.” Mr. Khan beamed at him. “Have another.”
Conrad didn’t have to be asked twice. Before he knew it, he’d consumed the entire tray and found himself having a cup of tea with Mr. Khan at the counter. The bookshop owner was as chatty as Wally, and Conrad used this to his advantage, subtly milking the other for information.
“I’m told a family from London moved here recently,” he said casually.
“You must mean Lord Ethan Harrington. His new bride, Xenia Harrington, is a gracious lady and dear friend,” Mr. Khan said fondly. “She inspired me to reorganize the shop?—”
