So, she was—somewhat inexplicably, considering all that had happened—right back where she’d started, before she’d left Wiltshire. Well, nearly so. She’d since blackmailed and shot the Duke of Montford in the backside. If blackmailing a duke didn’t land her in Bridewell, shooting one certainly might.
So, rather worse than where she’d started.
Perhaps it would be for the best if she returned to Wiltshire, before she made another blunder. Franny would object to her leaving so abruptly, but deep down she’d be relieved to see Prue go. Goodness knew she wasn’t doing either herself or anyone else any good remaining here.
Yes, she’d speak with Franny tomorrow morning. She rose to her feet and dragged herself toward the door, weary down to her bones, but as she made her way down the hallway toward the staircase, she paused in the doorway of the billiards room.
It was dark, the grate cold, but she entered anyway, shivering at the chill in the air as she approached the billiards table and took up one of the balls, running her fingers over the smooth surface.
Did Montford believe she’d intended to shoot him? When her shot struck him, tearing into his flesh, did he think, even for an instant, that she’dmeantto hurt him? That she was taking revenge for her father’s wager, or her loss to him at billiards last night?
Or did he imagine it was their kiss that had offended her? Oh, that was a wretched thought, unbearable—
“Have you come for another game, Miss Thorne? One would think you’d have learned your lesson by now.”
She whirled toward the door, her heart vaulting into her throat. A tall, broad-shouldered shadow was leaning against the door frame, as if she’d conjured him from her imagination alone. His face was cast in darkness, but the dim light from the hallway behind him caught the gleam of disheveled dark curls, the grim curve of his lips, the lazy arrogance with which he lounged in the doorway.
“I—I—aren’t you meant to be in bed?” For pity’s sake, the man had beenshotonly hours earlier! What was he doing, prowling about when he’d just suffered a load of birdshot to his backside? “Why are you downstairs?”
“Are you not pleased to see me, Miss Thorne?” He straightened from his fashionable slouch and came toward her—no,stalkedtoward her, like a predator who’d spied his next meal, and was already salivating with the anticipation of sinking his teeth into it.
She retreated a step, even as she cursed herself for her cowardice. “If you’re looking for the Duke of Basingstoke, he isn’t here. He’s retired for the evening.”
A soft laugh floated toward her from the darkness. “I didn’t come for Basingstoke, Miss Thorne. I came foryou.”
Oh, dear God, here it was, the consequences of her foolishness, creeping from the darkness and looking much taller, sturdier, and more forbidding than she’d ever seen him look before. “I, ah, I beg your pardon, Your Grace, for, er . . . for—”
“Shooting me in the arse?”
She winced. “Well, yes. I hope you know I didn’t mean . . . I never intended to . . . the brim of my hat collapsed, you see, and the water splashed into my face. Rather a lot of water, in fact, and I’m afraid I pulled the trigger, er . . . accidentally.”
He drew closer, a dark chuckle on his lips. “That’s an extraordinary story, Miss Thorne.”
“It’s not a story, Your Grace.” She raised her chin. “It’s the truth.”
“Perhaps so, though you must allow it looks suspicious, given our history. Stolen jewels, blackmail, secret wagers.” He tutted, shaking his head. “You lead a rather dangerous life, Miss Thorne, for an innocent young lady from Wiltshire.”
Not so dangerous she wished to tangle withhim, however. “Stay where you are, if you please, Your Grace.” Without thinking, she darted around to the other side of the billiards table, putting it between them, her fingers tightening around the heavy ball in her hand. A bit melodramatic, perhaps, but at least her voice hadn’t been shaking.
Much.
He paused in his pursuit, surprise flashing across his face. “For God’s sake, Miss Thorne, I’m not going tohurtyou. What sort of man do you take me for?”
“An angry one.” She was grateful for the darkness, as her cheeks were so hot, they’d undoubtedly gone scarlet. Goodness, when had she become such a coward? “What is it you want from me?”
He approached the table, but he didn’t venture any closer, only plucked up one of the billiard balls. “I had a rather unexpected visit from my grandfather this evening.” His long fingers curved around the ball as he weighed it in his hand. “I believe you and he have become rather friendly, have you not?”
“We have, yes.” That had been one of the worst things about the, er . . . mishap this afternoon. Shelikedhis grandfather. Colonel Kingston was a proud, stately old gentleman. A bit gruff, yes, but charming in his own way, like her father was.
And this afternoon he’d watched her shoot his only grandson.
“You’ve made quite an impression on him.” He tossed the billiard ball up in the air and caught it again as if it weighed no more than a feather. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen him as determined as he was when he came to see me in my bedchamber this evening.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I don’t see what this has to do with me.” Nor did she wish to, by the look of him. He was polite enough, but there was something dark underlying his calm, as if he were holding onto his temper by the slimmest thread.
“You may beg all you like, Miss Thorne, but I’m afraid it’s much too late for that. You’ve made your bed, and now you’ll be obliged to lie in it. Or perhaps I should say, we’ll both be obliged to lie in it,together.”
Lie in bed, together? For one wild moment, an image flashed behind her eyelids. The Duke of Montford as he’d been in the painting, every inch of his body on glorious display, from his smooth, olive skin to the crisp, dark hair dusting his chest, his flat, taut belly, as well as the other . . . anatomical curiosities.
