Fielding rose from the ridiculously small chair. “‘Bastard’ covers a multitude of sins,” he said. Undoubtedly there were a great many people in London who would use exactly that word to describe him. He gripped the back of the dainty parlor chair.
“Rumors,” Max said, his usual cool facade disappearing. “I don’t remember much, as I rarely pay any attention to societal scandals, but I do remember word of Elena’s younger sister causing quite a stir. And then she was gone, sent to a country estate after a reported illness.”
“Convenient for them,” Fielding said. “Perhaps I need to pay the Weatherbys a visit, inform them of Esme’s safety.” And assure them that he would not be party to any rumored scandal that required he make an honest woman out of Esme.
CHAPTER 9
Esme hadn’t wanted to talk about her sister. Nothing good ever came from that. She flung open her trunk, fully intent on unpacking her belongings, but found the task had already been completed for her. The armoire was filled with the dresses Thea had crammed into the case and her personal belongings—her hairbrush, combs, and the few pieces of jewelry she owned—lay sorted on top of the dressing table.
With a resigned sigh, she walked to the door. Esme had tried to continue her relationship with her sister, had tried to see her a few times, but Elena had not been interested. All Esme knew was that she’d stood on Elena’s doorstep and been asked to leave by a servant. Despite her best efforts, Esme’s relationship with her sister had dissolved to the occasional letter at Christmastime.
But she hadn’t wanted to say any of that either. Living an anonymous life was rather easy when one stayed home and ventured out only to libraries or obscure bookstores. Besides, no one knew she was still in London. As far as Esme knew, Elena was still telling everyone that Esme preferred the solitude of country living.
Quietly, she made her way down the massive staircase to the main hall. Here, in the house of a marquess, though, she was bound to have her identity discovered.
Did that mean Elena and Raymond would discover all the trouble she’d gotten herself into as of late? The empty marble expanse seemed to echo with her thoughts as she made her way through it. She turned a corner to find Fielding standing with Lord Lindberg, and they were quietly having a discussion.
Having Elena and Raymond find out about the kidnapping would only further prove to them that they’d made the right decision in leaving her to her own devices. Wouldn’t they relish all the details about her being abducted and the ancient curse she was under, a curse that was turning her into a wanton? Right now, at this very moment, looking at Mr. Grey standing at the opposite end of the hall, Esme wanted to press herself against him and experience another of his knee-weakening kisses.
Fielding saw her standing there, and his brown eyes flashed with acknowledgment, but he continued his conversation. She decided he was undoubtedly the most handsome man she’d ever set eyes on. Esme took in Fielding’s height, the sheer length of his legs, and her heart rate accelerated.
The marquess was also an attractive man, especially if one was the sort to prefer dark blond hair and an easy smile over Fielding’s darker features. Fielding, though, had a smile that, while slower to appear, came with tight dimples that pierced his scruffy cheeks. And eyes that seemed to bore into her and make her want to admit every secret she’d ever hidden.
She didn’t have many of those, but for him, no matter the cost, she would share the secrets she did have.
The two men both had the physique of an athlete, although Fielding’s shoulders were broader, and his added height put him at least a head taller than the marquess. While the marquess’s clothes were impeccably pristine and wrinkle-free and his face freshly shaven, Fielding’s shirt was open at the neck, revealing a swath of dark hair, and his own face had not seen a razor in days. Unkempt and unmade like a just-slept-in bed. Esme sighed. Fielding Grey did not look like a true gentleman with his rough edges and lack of polish, but to her, he was all the more attractive for it.
She tried looking at the marquess, searched for something in his clean good looks that would draw her in, make her heart skip a beat. But she felt nothing. It appeared her lustful curse had chosen its mark.
Suddenly the marquess slapped Fielding on the back and strode away. Fielding turned toward her, and her heart not only skipped a beat, it seemed to stop beating altogether.
“Come along, Miss Worthington.”
She wondered for a moment if her feet would move, but they seemed to respond to him on their own as a dog to its master. If he beckoned, she would follow. Perhaps she should be humiliated by such a realization, but she was only eager for more time spent in his presence. Infernal curse. She supposed she should be thankful her lustful thoughts were for him and not some wretched man with rotting teeth and crossed eyes.
“The marquess has prepared a room where we can study those books and journals of yours and hopefully find out what needs to be done to remove that bracelet from your wrist.”
“Very good,” she managed. She followed him down a hall toward the back of the house. They turned left and then entered a room through a large open doorway.
The room was perfect for such a task. Normally, it must serve as a smaller dining room, as it contained the standard buffet against the wall and a table in the middle of the room, yet both were on a much smaller scale than houses this large tended to warrant. The far wall was lined with windows. The heavy draperies had been pulled back, allowing what remained of the day’s light to stream in. The room faced the back of the marquess’s house and looked out onto the small but lovely garden. Stacked on the table were the volumes they’d brought from her house.
It gave her a semblance of peace to have that bit of her own household here with her. As it were, her poor Aunt Thea was upstairs, lulled to sleep by a pot of tea laced with more than enough brandy to bring down a grown man. The older woman might have a headache on the morrow, but hopefully her nerves would be settled and she’d have peaceful dreams.
Esme took a seat and once again opened the book she’d been perusing back at her house. It was a translation of an old Italian text purchased just weeks earlier. She’d glanced through it a few times, but she looked forward to delving deeper into the mysteries it held.
Tracing her finger down the page, she tried to concentrate on the text. Ordinarily, this was precisely the type of work she’d find riveting, but it was hard to concentrate with that man sitting in such close proximity. The room wasn’t very large, the table only big enough to seat six. And they were in here together. Alone.
She was a scholar, for goodness’ sake. Never had she been subject to romantic fantasies. Well, that wasn’t precisely true, but over the last several years, she’d become quite accomplished at ignoring fanciful notions. She tried to force herself to focus on the book in front of her. But several minutes later she found herself observing Fielding, admiring the way the sun burnished his brown hair, the way his face changed as he studied the text before him.
Fielding tossed the book aside, then reached for a journal, and when he did he caught her staring. Leaning back in his chair, Fielding steepled his fingers across his abdomen, drawing her eye to the way the fabric stretched across his taut stomach.
Her pulse quickened.
“Esme,” he said, her name coming out in a caress. “You warned me I would have to play the gentleman. But I told you that I’ve never been much accomplished in that.” He shrugged, pulling her attention to the breadth of his shoulders. “When a beautiful woman wants me to touch her, I tend to find myself most agreeable.”
She tried to speak, but her breaths were coming so quickly she lost her words, and so she merely nodded. Suddenly she wondered what she’d agreed to.
He leaned forward until his face was so close to hers their lips nearly touched. “How am I to deny you?” His cheek caressed her own, the stubble of his beard tickling her flesh.
