Chapter Ten
Grayson stalked into the kitchen, calling for his valet so loudly that he startled Meg and earned a glower from Tom, who was ensconced on a stool in the corner.
“And what’s got your back up?” the coachman asked.
“My back is not ‘up’, as you so quaintly put it,” Grayson said, glaring at the old man. Unfortunately, it was another part of his anatomy that was giving him trouble, rising with alarming frequency, whether he willed it or no.
Grayson adjusted the coat he held in front of him, cursing the member that he had thought well under his control since his youth. Apparently, it was defecting at this late date.
“Yes, my lord?” Badcock appeared in the doorway, and Grayson welcomed the distraction.
“Take the tub from the buttery up to Kate’s room and make sure she has enough hot water for a bath. Get Tom to help you, since he has nothing to do.”
“Here, now!” Tom protested, straightening at the brusque order. Then his eyes narrowed. “And just why does Katie need a bath in the middle of the day?”
“She’s been berry picking,” Grayson said, depositing the bucket he had stayed to fill on the table.
He gave the coachman a look that made him squirm on his seat and then stalked from the kitchen, eager for the privacy of his room.
He needed to think, and he couldn’t do it here, surrounded by a sea of expectant faces.
At his own homes, he never particularly cared what the servants did or did not see, for he had grown up surrounded by them. It was understood that they knew where lovers trysted, what children were sired by whom, and the most minute personal habits of those they served.
It was a fact of life, and never before had he been concerned about it. He had no vices to hide, and he conducted his personal affairs discreetly with women who knew what they were about.
But Kate was not one of them. And Grayson did not want anyone to know he had been rolling around on the ground with her in a sybaritic scene that came very close to paradise. Perilously close.
Grayson frowned as he tossed his coat onto a chair and stripped off his now purple waistcoat. He had sought her out in order to talk about his investigation. He had never planned to kiss her, let alone what followed.
And yet he wished that Kate had not stopped him. He needed to bury himself inside her and stay there until his reckless compulsion to have her eased.
Although a meadow was not his first choice, it would have done just fine, more than fine. The location didn’t matter, as long as he…
Swearing under his breath, Grayson moved to the table, where Badcock had left a bowl and pitcher. He poured the water, spilling some over the side in his haste, and splashed it on his face. Once. Twice. Again. He stood up, dripping, to wipe away the moisture with a groan.
This was getting out of hand. He had been in control of himself, his emotions, his actions, his immense fortune, and his properties since the tender age of twelve, and his tendency to lose that mastery in Kate’s presence was unsettling, to say the least.
He liked her. He appreciated her quiet courage, her strength, her intelligence.
Circumstances had conspired to give her an openness, lacking in her contemporaries, that was delightfully refreshing.
She was dependable, loyal, and logical, and beneath her beautiful exterior burned a fire that had singed him more than once.
Like Charlotte, she was an intriguing, appealing woman, only more so, more straightforward, more uninhibited, more everything. Maybe too much.
Grayson swore again. Viewing the situation objectively, he was not sure he liked what happened when he touched her. He lost all finesse, all reason, all sense of himself. And it wasn’t just when he was touching her. Kate was affecting him even when she wasn’t near him, in ways he never expected.
What had begun so simply had become more complex than he ever imagined. For the first time in years, Grayson began to doubt his judgment. He scowled at the water bowl, realizing that his plans for Kate, long laid, might have to be reassessed.
Three days later, Grayson stood behind the doorway in the cottage, waiting for Lucy’s lover. Since rumors of the Courtlands’ new wealth had drawn no one, he set a trap, paying a village lad to give each of the local suspects a message, ostensibly from “the beautiful lady who lives at Hargate.”
The fevered plea that “we meet this afternoon at the usual place” would hold little meaning for an innocent man, but the culprit might come running, if only to find out how his identity had been discovered.
Grayson smiled grimly as he pictured the villain.
He had known the like before, men who used women without compunction.
And having no faith in Lucy’s judgment, Grayson was certain the kind and gentle nature she ascribed to her lover was just as feigned as his title.
Unfortunately for this particular fellow, he had chosen the wrong name to use for his charade.
Grayson’s hand tightened upon the pistol he held at the ready, one of a brace that Badcock had brought down from London. Although he would rather use his fists, his shoulder was in no shape for a brawl, and a cornered man might become dangerous.
He believed in preparing for any eventuality, and to that end, he had posted Badcock among the trees outside, ready to spring should the man slip through his fingers.
Tom, whom he could not trust to follow orders, had not been informed of this outing and presumably had not moved from his cozy spot in Meg’s kitchen.
A noise from outside roused Grayson to alertness, and he flattened himself against the wall.
Someone was here, and from the sound of it, the fellow was not adept at stealth.
For a moment, he feared that Lucy had gotten wind of their scheme, but then the door opened and a distinctly male body stepped in.
Grayson noted the light brown hair and medium height and build.
So far, the fellow fit Lucy’s description perfectly.
Sliding in front of the door, Grayson shut it behind him.
The young man—and he was young—turned abruptly, his mouth opening in surprise, his blue eyes bright with alarm.
He was dressed neatly enough, but not in the exquisitely tailored clothes of the ton.
Imposter.
He stood there, gaping at Grayson, until the silence became annoying. “Well? Have you nothing to say for yourself?” Grayson snapped. Was the fellow an idiot? “I could kill you for this, you know.”
His words finally produced an effect, for the young man fell into one of the chairs and buried his head in his hands. “I know. I know. And it’s no more than I deserve.”
Grayson stared at the boy in disgust, outraged that this baleful pup had passed as himself. “Do you know who I am?” he asked in a tone that had turned far steadier opponents to jelly.
The young man lifted his head and frowned in confusion. “Lucy’s guardian?”
Grayson laughed harshly, the sound echoing in the close confines of the cottage. “I am Wroth,” he said, and he had the distinct pleasure of watching every bit of color fade from the young man’s face.
“My lord! I… Forgive me, I never planned to…”
“Steal my name? Just how far did you take the charade? To Chisterton? To London? Is this debauchery the sum of it, or have you run up bills to my accounts?”
“Debauchery! Now—now wait a minute, my lord,” the young man stammered.
“No, you wait a minute,” Grayson said savagely. “You used my name to despoil a green girl who knew—”
“Stop!” The young man surged to his feet, took one look at Grayson’s face and then sat back down, obviously thinking better of his brief show of temper. “Do what you will to me. Shoot me right now, if you like, but don’t drag the lady into it,” he said with a tight frown.
“A little late for that, isn’t it, boy?”
Grayson was relieved to see the young man’s quick flash of anger. Apparently, Lucy’s beau was not totally spineless.
He drew himself up and met Grayson’s eyes evenly for the very first time. “My name is Archibold Rutledge, my lord. And you have no cause to malign Lady Courtland. She is an innocent in all of this.”
“Not anymore,” Grayson said softly.
“No,” Rutledge said, dropping his gaze. “But it’s not what you think.
I… I had been out scouting property.” He glanced back up at Grayson, his expression too earnest to deny.
“I manage the farm for my uncle, Squire Wortley, and he had been talking of buying more land. I came upon her in the woods, and she was like an angel, a fairy, so beautiful and fine.”
He flushed and stared at his boots. “When she said she was one of the earl’s daughters, I knew she wouldn’t think much of some poor relation to the squire.
So I lied. I knew the marquess had—” He paused, swallowing nervously.
“I knew your hunting box was nearby, so I said I was Wroth. It was just for the day, and I didn’t think any harm could come of it. ”
“But you saw her again,” Grayson said.
“Yes,” Rutledge admitted in a low voice. “I couldn’t help myself. She was so lovely and regal, like a queen, but gentle, too, and sweet.”
Grayson lifted a brow at the description, for he had yet to see that side of Lucy’s nature.
“Each time I told myself it would be the last, but it was like a fire in my blood, this need to see her,” Rutledge said, lifting his head as if to seek understanding.
Grayson refused to give it to him, but shifted uncomfortably as the boy’s raw admission struck perilously close to his own obsession with Kate.
“I love her, my lord.”
The devastation on the youth’s face made Grayson heartily glad that he did not subscribe to such nonsense. “Then why did you leave her?”
“What else could I do?” Rutledge asked. “I have no money, no prospects, no title, nothing to offer a lady like Lucy.”