Earl Crush (Belvoir’s Library Trilogy #2)

Chapter 15

Dearest, I’ve no doubt you’re acquitting yourself brilliantly in Scotland. By the by, did you intend to write “Lady Strathrannoch” four or five times at the bottom of your note, or was that merely a slip of the pen?

—from Selina to Lydia

It took Arthur nearly an hour to come upstairs after Lydia’s abortive attempt to enter her own bedchamber. Luckily, his door across the hall had not been locked, and so, in an abundance of caution, she had elected to spend that window of time waiting cross-legged upon his bed.

When he finally deigned to return to his room, Lydia heard muffled Scottish swearing and the rattle of the handle from outside the door. She crossed the room, threw open the latch, and let him in.

His eyes widened at the sight of her. “Och,” he said, “I’ve lost my head, it seems. I thought this was my chamber, but I suppose I’ve—”

He was backing swiftly out of the chamber, but she caught his hand and dragged him inside. “This is your chamber. Hurry in. Good heavens, are you drunk? You smell like a whisky still.”

He gazed down at her, looking stupefied but thankfully clearheaded. “I’m starting to think I must be. But no, ’twas only Thibodeaux, the right wee idiot, spilling his brandy all down my best shirt.”

Indeed, she could see, at this proximity to his chest, a pungent and spreading brown stain beneath his cravat.

“What are you doing in here?” Arthur went on.

“Someone has ransacked my room, and I—”

“They’ve what ?”

“—thought it best to wait here until you returned, and we—”

“Did you say ransacked your room ?”

“—might examine the scene of the crime, as it were, together.”

“Are you daft, woman?” He glared down at her from his impressive height and crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture which had a truly supernatural effect on both said arms and said chest. “Why did you not send for me? Or come down, damn it? You’ve been up here all alone, while I’ve been listening to Thibodeaux burble about ‘The Lusty Smith of Tipperary’?”

“The what?”

“Never mind.” He yanked off his cravat, which caused brandy fumes to waft into the air. “Why did you not find me?”

“I—” She almost did not know. It had not even occurred to her to do anything but wait. “I suppose I did not want to trouble you.”

“Christ!” he exclaimed, and caught her chin for one rough, heart-stopping moment before he let go. “Next time, damn it, trouble me! You can always trouble me. God knows you already do.”

Somehow, it sounded almost like a compliment.

“Stay here,” he grated and made for the door.

She followed him.

“For God’s sake,” he said, glowering at her, “can you not stay put? Will you not let me look for a moment before throwing yourself headlong into danger?”

“I’m certain whoever perpetrated the deed has long since gone. Had they wanted to harm me, they could have done so the moment I opened the door.”

“Then why did you wait for me to join you, if you were so bloody certain?”

She lifted her chin. “I am a prudent woman.”

“Aye,” he said, “and I’m the prince regent. Come on then.”

Inside her bedroom, things were as disordered as she recalled. Her belongings were tossed from the trunk Huw had brought down from Strathrannoch Castle and strewn about the room. Her letters—Davis’s letters—were spread across the floor. An inkstand on the escritoire had been overturned and was dripping steadily onto the green-and-white floral rug and—blast it!—one of her favorite hats.

Arthur was already in motion, searching beneath the bed, behind the draperies, and even inside the small wardrobe and her now-empty trunk.

“Are you quite satisfied there are no children or medium-sized dogs hidden about the room?” she asked when he finally halted.

He scowled at her. “I don’t like this at all. Let’s put your things back together, and we’ll try to work out if they’ve stolen anything.”

Together, they set the room to rights. A dozen pounds sterling had vanished from the bottom of her trunk, and a pair of lacy stockings, but she was not certain about the correspondence. Even with the letters stacked and reordered chronologically, she could not recall if any were missing.

She gave Arthur an apologetic glance. “I did not memorize them, you know. Perhaps if I had my notes, I could work it out more precisely. I can cross-reference them when we return to Strathrannoch Castle.”

To her surprise, he greeted this admission with a look of some buoyancy.

The look vanished, however, when she attempted to bid him good night.

“You cannot mean to sleep in here,” he protested. “The bastards could return any time.”

She pursed her lips. “Surely not. Whoever searched the room in the first place deliberately chose a time they knew I would be out—”

“Are you so certain of that? Certain enough to risk your life upon it?”

“I haven’t anywhere else to sleep,” she said in exasperation.

There was a short, tense silence. Now that Arthur’s jaw was clean-shaven, she could see the muscles leap as he ground his teeth. It was astoundingly attractive. She prayed his whiskers grew quickly. Perhaps she could ask Georgiana to abscond with his razor.

“You can sleep in my chamber,” he said finally. “I’ll exchange with you.”

“If it is safe for you, then surely it is safe for me as well—”

“I knew you were going to say that, damn it.” He glowered at her. “Fine, then. I’ll sleep outside the door in the hall.”

“In the hall?” Her voice rose so precipitously that Arthur looked toward the door as though anticipating a sudden influx of concerned parties.

“’Twould not be the first time I’ve—”

“Slept in the hall?” She put her hands on her hips. “Everyone in the bloody house would hear of it by morning. No. It’s out of the question.”

He gave her another black look. “’Tis the hall in front of your door or of mine. Take your pick.”

She threw up her hands in disgust. “Fine. Fine, then. I’ll sleep in your chamber, but you mustn’t sleep in the hall.”

“I would not compromise your reputation if I can help it—”

She directed her most disbelieving stare in his direction. “Arthur. We are pretending to be married. If anyone discovers my true identity, whether we slept in the same bedroom or not will be immaterial, don’t you think?”

“Christ, woman.” He opened the door and crossed the hall to his own room, gesturing for her to follow. “I thought you were shy and retiring. Not too bloody clever and slippery for your own good.”

She entered his chamber and heard him lock the door behind them both.

A little frisson of… something… went through her at the sound.

They were alone. They were alone, and the bedchamber was locked, and between them was a large, well-appointed, and entirely empty bed.

More. She had wanted more after their abbreviated kiss. And now they were together, and alone, and within sight of a bed. Her mind’s eye went wild—a flame-bright staccato series of limbs intertwined, sweat beading on skin—

“Why did you tell your brother we were married?” Arthur asked.

She blinked up at him, startled out of her erotic haze.

His mouth compressed, his head tilted, and she could not read his expression. “Surely you did not…”

He trailed off, and she hastened to explain herself. “I don’t mean to let him go on thinking it, of course. I would not take advantage of you in that way.”

He coughed.

“Only I feared that if I told him the truth just then, he would be… vexed. There might have been a commotion. A mild fracas, if you will.” She tried not to look too guilty as she peered into Arthur’s face to judge how he was receiving her explanation. “I shall tell him the truth when I return home.”

She had no idea what she would say, but that was a problem for Future Lydia to contend with.

“Grand,” he said. “No doubt he’ll be ecstatic.”

“Ah—”

“When we’re facing each other over pistols, I’ll have to remember to aim low.”

“To, er, wound him only?”

“Because he’s short.”

She laughed despite herself. Arthur’s eyes caught on hers. The room was dim in the candlelight, but she could still make out the gold around his pupil, the spiral of green and blue around it. He almost smiled back before he caught himself and rubbed one hand across the back of his neck.

“Still and all,” he said, “I find myself worried about much more than your brother. There’s more to this situation than we know. I cannot think Davis is here, hiding somewhere and hunting for your letters. Yet there must be a reason someone broke into your room and searched your things. Someone is suspicious.”

“Someone in league with Davis, perhaps.”

“Aye,” he said slowly. “And I’ve no notion whether it’s our hosts or someone else.” His face was set and earnest as he spoke. “Lady de Younge extended us an invitation to stay longer, just as we anticipated. Perhaps in the coming days, I can investigate their library—”

“And I can ask Georgiana to search the rooms of the French couples. They are all familiar with Davis; they could perhaps have plotted with him.”

“Aye—mayhap Monsieur and Madame de Valiquette harbor the same sympathies toward our own Scottish aristocrats that my brother does.” He paused, his mouth turning down at the corner. “Speaking of brothers—I think yours is lying about what he’s doing here.”

Lydia stroked a finger over her lips, thinking of her brother’s quick and far too facile explanation for his presence, his rapid acceptance of her supposed elopement. “I know he is. Only I cannot fathom why.”

She looked up at Arthur to see if any insight was forthcoming from his quarter, only to find that he had frozen in place, his eyes fixed upon the place where her index finger rested upon her bottom lip.

She felt heat gather all through her body. Not only the familiar warmth of a blush in her face and chest, but—everywhere. A slow swirl of warmth in her belly, rising to throb along her skin.

Arthur did not seem to move, yet suddenly she felt as though he’d surrounded her. Her gaze caught on his chest, where his shirt gaped open to reveal a mouthwatering triangle of skin. Her nose filled with the scent of whisky, and it went straight to her head, potent, dizzying.

She wanted to dissolve under that heated look. She wanted to feel his touch again; she ached for it. Her fingers twitched, desperate to slide into the vee of his collar and see if his body was as hot and solid as she remembered.

“Disrobe,” she commanded, and then could have bitten off her own tongue.

His gaze flew to her face. His lips parted; his pupils flared.

“The whisky,” she choked out. “I meant because of the whisky aroma. On, er, your shirt. I’m finding it… I’m finding this all a trifle…”

Overwhelming? Arousing? Will-sapping in the extreme?

“Intoxicating,” she managed, which wasn’t all that much better. “With the window closed and the whisky saturating the air.”

His deep voice was hoarse when he spoke. “I take your meaning. I’ll put on a fresh shirt in the hall, then.”

She swallowed hard and very nearly agreed with him. But no. That was absurd. She was a strong, independent woman. She would not be overcome by the sight of his bared chest.

But then again—

“That’s not necessary,” she said. “I shall close my eyes.”

To prove it, she leaned back against the wall and clamped her lids closed. She felt him retreat—her traitorous body gave a rather mournful wail—and then heard a great deal of muttering and shuffling.

What sound precisely did fabric make as it slid over skin? She had never considered it with quite so much fervency before.

Was that rustle the sound of his shirt slipping over his head? Was he, even now, bared to the waist? What would he look like unclothed? And how dreadful—how very dreadful—would she be if she opened her eyes to find out?

“I’m done.” Arthur’s deep voice interrupted her guilty quandary, and she startled.

She cracked first one eye, then the other. He wore a fresh shirt—spotted with a few scorch marks from his forge, of course—with the collar open. She tried to keep her wits about her with some difficulty.

“I shall need my trunk,” she said, “to change into my own night rail. We left it in my chamber.”

“I’ll get it.” He made for the door and then, pausing, looked back at her. “Do you need me to”—she did not think she imagined the way his voice dropped into a lower register—“unlace your corset?”

Did she? Could she possibly ask him to—

Flustered panic overcame her. “No,” she squeaked. “This one laces down the front. I can manage it myself.”

He looked slightly glassy-eyed at that. “Right. I’ll fetch your things and wait in the hall while you tend to yourself.”

She opened her mouth, but he forestalled her. “Don’t argue. And lock the damned door while I’m out there.”

“Surely that’s not necessary,” she protested. “Are you concerned someone will break in upon me whilst I’m unclothed?”

“Aye,” he said. “Someone.”