With a shrug, she dashed up the steps, aware she had abandoned Cordelia for too long with a pack of salivating wolves.
Cordelia Greenwood, diamond of the first water, all-round proper miss, and innocent debutante, was petrified.
The hallway leading to what she’d hoped was the retiring room lay empty except for the formidable man standing in front of her.
A highwayman to all intents and purposes, dressed entirely in black. He wore a covering mask in soft silk, a tricorn hat, and a cloak shrouded his frame. Cordelia stepped to the left, eyes lowered, but he also took a step, blocking her path.
She darted to the right but he was sleight of hand and broad of shoulder and only needed to shift an arm to thwart her route.
Oh, goodness.
Why had she come here? Cordelia wanted to wail. Although the dancing had been enjoyable, she’d soon realised she didn’t belong, not understanding the secret signals or whispered words; one gentleman had asked if she bleated when tupped, whatever that meant.
“Might I pass, sir?” She was ashamed of the quiver to her voice. Aideen wouldn’t act like a frightened mouse, but she lacked her friend’s spirited manner.
Cordelia’s eyes widened as the man shook his head and began to unravel his black cravat.
A muscular throat revealed itself. Her mouth dried at the sight, skin oddly tingling, but that was beside the point, and she spun to flee.
Almost at the stairs, an ungloved, and henceentirely bare,hand encircled her waist.
Quaking, she recoiled from the touch but thudded straight into a dense male body. She may have squeaked, but it definitely became a shriek when cloth was banded over her mask and across her eyes.
The world darkened.
“Please,” she begged. “Let me go.”
But the highwayman remained silent and the next thing she knew, she was hauled up into muscular arms. He swung her around, kicked a door, and then she could hear male jeers and clapping. Pulling her into his chest, he held her tight. A warmer room and a low female moan reached her ears – where was he taking her? What was happening?
She struggled but his arms were iron in their grip and he did smell very pleasant – musky.
Finally, cool air and she heard a door slam shut. His arms suddenly released her and she shrieked as she fell, landing on something soft and creaky.
Scrabbling the cloth from her eyes, she peered blearily around.
A bed. A bedchamber.
Gosh.
The abducting scoundrel had his back to her and was filling a glass with amber liquid. He’d shrugged off his cloak and did have a very nice posterior and strong thighs, she noted…which, of course, was unimportant at this moment.
Escape.
Gingerly, she edged a foot to the side of the bed, but her sheep’s tail got tangled around her legs.
The highwayman spun. He’d removed his sinister mask and his eyes glittered, jaw tight.
“Oh,” she moaned pitifully. “Good evening, Lord Oakdean. Wh-what a coincidence.”
Chapter Fifteen
Thrice the advice, thrice the claptrap.
“Stafford married a Frenchwoman in secret.”
Rakecombe pushed the papers over the desk towards Lord Rainham, and watched his brow knit in consternation.
“Confound it,” Rainham snapped, flicking through the certificates. “I never predicted that. Not of Stafford.”
