Page 45

The house was silent. She wandered through the corridors and down the stairs, feeling a bit like a spy as she marveled again at the beauty of Penford. She walked through the long, shadowy gallery, squinting at the portraits shrouded in shadows. She peered into the conservatory, where Mrs. Hayes had created a wonderland of delicate plants, and found the music room, where a pianoforte and harp waited for musicians. She let herself into the large drawing room where the party had been and went to the tall windows overlooking the garden.

She drew near the glass, searching, until she located the spot where she had stood with Alec that night. Where she admitted that she was hiding from the guests because they pitied her family, and he told her about his youthful determination to protect his family from monsters, real or imagined. When she had realized they weren’t that different, actually; she was trying desperately to take care of her family, while he was trying to dodge the gossips who said terrible things about him.

He called her bold and brave. She didn’t feel either right now, but alone in the moonlight, staring at the silvery garden, she silently admitted she wanted to be. Brave enough to believe Callie’s insistence that Alec looked at her a great deal, and bold enough to do something about the fierce attraction she felt⁠—

“Good evening.”

She started violently, clapping one hand to her chest as she whirled around to see the man himself sprawled in a chair. Several bottles stood on the table next to him, with a glass half full of wine. He wore no coat, waistcoat, or cravat, and his shirt was pulled open at the neck. His eyes glittered in the moonlight, watching her.

“I beg your pardon,” she gasped.

He flicked one hand. “I should beg yours, for disturbing your midnight reverie.”

Her face burned. Her reverie had been about him. “No, no, no, the fault is mine alone, for rambling about the house. It’s not even my house! I just couldn’t sleep, and thought I would run mad if I didn’t do something. . . ”

She stopped talking as he smiled, a grim, bitter twist of his lips. But he said nothing. Cressida knew she should apologize again and flee the room, even if she knew she’d never sleep now. It took great effort to keep her eyes away from the bare column of his throat, all the way down his chest.

“I certainly didn’t think anyone would be awake so late,” she finished. "I didn’t mean to disturb you."

"You didn't." He tipped his head back, eyes drifting closed.

His ever-present air of contained energy was gone. He looked as though someone had thrown his body over the chair, one leg extended and the other tucked beneath the seat, one hand dangling over the chair arm and the other curled around a small wooden horse propped on his knee. He rubbed his fingers over its rough-hewn surface as if trying to memorize it, but she sensed his thoughts were elsewhere. Sitting here alone in the dark, in the middle of the night with only a bottle for company, he looked. . . hopeless. And so very lonely—broodingly, sadly, lonely.

Cressida took a step toward him. "It's a fine carving. Did you do it?"

“No." He looked at the horse, his brow wrinkled. "A friend did. I’d forgotten all about it until I saw it on the shelf over there." He sighed heavily and let his head fall forward. “My closest friend. Like a brother, from the time we were boys. He carved this in Spain, outside Burgos. We had besieged the town and there was little to do most of the time. Damned waste, as it turned out. Never took that town." He held up the horse, angling it from side to side and squinting one eye to study it. "Fine job he did," he murmured.

“Yes," she said quietly. "Very fine.”

"He died," Alec went on in the same distant tone. "Waterloo. A hero's death."

She had guessed as much. “I’m very sorry."

"So am I," he said bleakly. "I ought to have been the one. . . ” His face twisted, and Cressida’s throat closed up at the grief in that expression. “He was such a clever chap. He should have been a politician, not a soldier, for the way he could talk a man into anything and make him think it the finest idea ever conceived. He never should have died in that battle, or any other. Lucey was aide-de-camp to General Ponsonby, and ought to have been behind the lines, not leading a cavalry charge directly at the French."

"Lucey?" Cressida asked when he fell silent. "Of The Grange?" The Grange was an estate a few miles away. Angus Lucey, the owner, was an elderly man in ill health who rarely went out, but was known in Marston for his short temper and his sullen servant, a man named Morris. Cressida always gave Morris a wide berth whenever she crossed his path. She had imputed his same cold, vaguely menacing manner to his master, but now felt a pang of sympathy for Mr. Lucey.

"Yes. Will was Lucey's only son and heir, and painfully conscious of it." He glanced at her. "You've met the old man?"

“No," she said. "I only know of him."

The corner of his mouth curled bitterly. "I can imagine what. He was rude and short-tempered years ago, and I doubt his manner has improved."

"But to lose his son. . . " She wrapped her arms around herself. As a child, her greatest fear had been her father dying on a distant battlefield. Alec must have lost many friends, not just the one he loved like a brother. “How crushing to lose someone you love."

His hand abruptly closed around the horse until she thought he would break it. Cressida's eyes widened with alarm. "Yes," he said savagely. "It is." He unclenched his fist and set the horse gently on the table, then refilled the wineglass. Instead of lifting it to his lips, he held it out to her.

It seemed the whole world had shrunk to just the two of them, alone in a pool of moonlight. She took the glass from his outstretched hand and drank. It was good wine, rich and warm on her tongue. She sipped again, watching him over the rim. His heavy-lidded gaze seemed fixed on her mouth as she drank. Cressida lowered the glass, unconsciously licking the last drop from her lower lip as she handed it back. His jaw tightened, and when she met his eyes, she felt the full force of the wild, hungry longing there.

Her heart thudded. That look stirred desires that she had kept tightly leashed for years. Those desires only led to ruin and heartbreak, as she well knew. Once before a man had made her feel this way, and she had thrown herself into the blaze of lust between them. But the blaze subsided, sooner for him than for her, and she had been left behind, charred and humbled that she’d learned a lesson about men the hard way.

Or so she’d thought so, until the enigmatic man before her had walked into her stables and smiled when she pointed a pistol at him. He was almost unbearably attractive. He was intelligent and determined, but had a gentle side, enough to twirl his young nieces until they shook with giggles. He also frightened her at times, but then he made her laugh, and blush, and lie awake at night thinking about him. She opened her mouth to excuse herself.

"Sit." He raised the glass to his mouth and drank as he swept one hand toward the other chair. “Stay.”

She wanted to stay. She wanted to see that look again, to feel the heat of a man's desire—of Alec's desire—for her. It was easy to tell herself she was being foolish to think about him when he had never done more than look at her with unreadable calm, the way one might look at a hideous painting while trying to think what to say to avoid hurting the artist’s feelings. But this look, the one she craved, made her feel rash and reckless and bold. As he’d told her to be.

Instead of saying good night and going back to bed, Cressida sat, heart pounding.