“England is simply crawling with scoundrels and ruffians. Why, only last week, I was insulted twice—once by an exceptionally rude innkeeper and again by my own nephew!” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Home Secretary, Lord Sidmouth, in a strategic discussion about securing domestic order and tranquility.
A crust of bread landed on the scarred table in front of Colin while loud bickering sounded behind him. A husband and wife sniped at one another over whether to continue on to Manchester or head south to Warrington, where her mother lived. This was why he did not want to marry. Eventually, every woman became a shrew haranguing a man over his dislike for her kin.
Rubbing his forehead between finger and thumb, Colin took a swig of bitter, musty ale and stood. As he left the taproom of the dank old public house and pushed outside, the midday light hit him hard, sending needles of pain arcing through his head. He pulled his hat lower, hunched his shoulders, and headed for the stable.
Even after weeks, sudden movement and bright light bothered him. He recalled little of how he had escaped Syder’s man. Three days after his injury, he had awakened in a boarding house in Richmond, west of London. A large, gruff, middle-aged woman with a love of knitting and the unlikely name of Fern had been hired to care for him. By whom, she would not say. He suspected either Chatham had experienced a rare attack of conscience or Drayton had found him and assumed Harrison wouldn’t want his only brother—and current heir—dead. No matter. Once he’d regained his feet, he had paid Fern handsomely for her trouble and her silence, then had purchased a horse and headed north.
He hated traveling. Too damn much time to think. Thinking hurt abominably.
A scream and the sound of glass shattering came from inside the pub. The door slammed open and the husband was shoved outside, wheeling backward to land on his ass in the muck. The wife threw a wad of cloth in the man’s lap, screeching about how her mother had been right about him all along.
Pulling his hat lower over his eyes, Colin cringed and felt grateful never to have been caught in a woman’s leg shackles. He hurried on to the ramshackle stable where his horse was waiting. She was a fine little bay mare, gentle and calm.
Nickering softly at him as he entered, Matilda accepted the small bit of apple he had saved from his meal. “There you are, old girl.” She nuzzled his hand in a bid for more. He chuckled. “Aren’t you a demanding little thing? If I had more, I would give it to you. Of that you can be certain.” A wave of dizziness came over him, and he leaned his head against her neck for a moment. He still wasn’t right. Fern had warned him about leaving Richmond too soon, that he wouldn’t heal unless he rested fully.
But he had felt the itch before. Felt the wormy sensation of being hunted. They were close. And so he’d run. First to Southampton. Then, after a near-miss with a dock worker who was apparently receiving funds from Syder, all the way to Liverpool. Bought passage to New York, only to learn his ship to America was delayed for unexpected repairs; it wouldn’t depart for ten days. Then he had spotted six men combing the waterfront. Syder’s men.
Southampton wasn’t far enough. Liverpool wasn’t far enough. Perhaps even America wouldn’t be far enough.
“Running ain’t the answer, Lacey.”
The low, graveled voice came from behind him. He turned, his head swimming, to see the tall, rangy man who had trailed him relentlessly from one end of England to the other. “Drayton.”
Come what may, Harrison’s damned hound was on his scent. It was a bloody nuisance.
“Aye.” Craggy and disheveled, the runner looked as he always did—worn threadbare. “Think you Syder’ll give up? Best think again.”
“What do you know about it?”
In a blink, the runner’s eyes went from flat and weary to dark and fierce. “I know that butcher all too well.”
“Then you know running is the only answer.”
Drayton dropped his eyes and shook his head. “Head for Blackmore. Tell the duke the truth. Give your apologies to the duchess.”
“Duchess?”
The look the runner shot him made Colin blink. What an ass I am, he thought. Of course Harrison would marry her. “Lady Jane,” he whispered to himself.
“Aye.”
He groaned and rubbed his forehead.
“Head to Blackmore,” Drayton repeated. “You might believe you’re dodging notice, Lacey, but a boy in leading strings could track you.”
“That is precisely why I will not head there, you dolt.”
The man shrugged. “Don’t mean much to me, mind. My task is to watch you. Get paid for that whether you’re asleep on your horse, hanging from a hook in Whitechapel, or lying in a dirt hole staring at your Maker.”
Colin cringed at the blunt litany of his likely outcomes.
“Were it my debt and my skin, I’d be looking to the one man who gives a bloody damn whether I live or die.”
“And what happens when they follow me?” He shook his head. “No. I have done more than enough without placing my brother and his new wife in danger.”
Drayton shifted sideways so he could look out to the muddy road. “You prefer death, do you?”
His jaw tightened along with his gut. “Yes.”
The man’s shaggy head hung forward. “Ballocks,” he muttered. He glanced back at Colin. “I can give you a week’s lead. Perhaps a fortnight.”
Colin squinted. “How, precisely?”
The runner grinned. It was not a pleasant sight. “They’ll be chasing ghosts.” He turned his back and walked to the entrance, pausing with a hand braced on the timbered frame. “Make haste, Lacey. If I know Syder, you’ll need every minute. And for Christ’s sake, stay off the stage roads.”
Watching Drayton shamble through the muddy courtyard into the public house, Colin considered the idea. Blackmore. He hadn’t been home in over a year. Not since before Harrison had cut him off. Harrison, who was ashamed to call him his brother, but who also continued to pay Drayton to watch him. Evidently he did not want Colin dead. It was a small comfort.
Matilda nibbled his hat, forcing him to pull away from the stall. Absently, he reached back to rub her nose. “Fancy a long ride, Matilda? I cannot promise an easy journey, but if we reach our destination in good time, you shall have the finest stall in the finest stable in Yorkshire.”
Her nose pressed his hand insistently. The smell of rotting hay and horse dung was sharp and vile. Sighing with his decision, he gave her one last pat. Then he saddled Matilda, mounted up, and headed back out into the daylight.
Ignoring the pain of it, he turned east.
Toward Blackmore.
Toward home.
*~*~*
Jane stared out the library window, watching Blackmore mount his horse for yet another ride. The truth was now undeniable: Her husband was avoiding her. Four days after their explosive tryst, merely entering the old library gave her a heat flush that was slow to abate. It made reading (and sitting and sleeping and breathing) dashed difficult.
But Blackmore did not appear to suffer the same malady. He had, in fact, spoken to her only once in those four days, and that because they’d nearly collided at the top of the staircase. One word—“apologies”—muttered solemnly before he backed away and waved her onward; that was the only time she had heard his voice. In four bloody days.
Jane was heartily sick of it. He took his meals in his room, his rides nearly a half-day from the house, and his beautiful, confusing self away from her presence as though she were covered in honey and he standing on an anthill.
Glancing down at the letter from Annabelle, received this morning, she reread her sister’s stark advice. “You must press for what you desire, dearest. Marriage lasts a lifetime. That is far too long to accept less than the happiness you deserve.”
Of course, Jane had written her two weeks ago, so Annabelle did not know about the old library. She did not know what Blackmore had done to Jane, how he had revealed himself and, in turn, changed her fundamentally.
He was not cold. Far from it. He wanted her. Her. The Oddflower. The round, bespectacled, short, bookish, shy her. Unbelievable, she admitted, but also true. Why, in heaven’s name, he did not simply allow his desire free rein, she could only guess. Some misplaced sense of propriety, most likely. Well, that nonsense must stop.
She pressed her thighs together to stifle the ache of emptiness there as she watched him ride away.
And it must stop today.
What she needed was a plan of seduction, a way to break his everlasting control. The problem was she had no idea how to accomplish such an aim. Last time had happened purely by chance.
As she scoured Annabelle’s letter for clues, her eyes caught on the third paragraph. “Consider his preferences. Offer him more of what he seems to enjoy.” Of course, Annabelle was speaking of meal planning, not marital relations, but perhaps this sound advice could be applied to more intimate matters.
Jane sniffed and folded the letter neatly. First, she would have to determine what would tempt his appetite. She tapped the folded edge of the paper against her chin, trying to recall what precisely had set him off four days ago. She’d been reading a passage from The Song of Solomon. He had stalked into the room looking stern and commanding and tall and broad … oh, dear. She squeezed her thighs together again. There went that flush.
Attempting to concentrate, she closed her eyes. He’d been vexed with her because of chocolate. No. Before that, he had been riveted. On the Bible she held. No, that wasn’t quite it, either. He had focused on her hands.
Her eyes popped open. He did that a lot. More than a lot. Almost constantly. She held out her hands, flaring her fingers and examining them in the light from the window. They were perfectly ordinary. Pale, small. The skin was quite smooth, and her fingers were well shaped, but she could see nothing that would cause him fits of passion.
Hmm. Most perplexing. But, certainly, if the duke favored the sight of her hands, she would be happy to employ the knowledge for their mutual benefit.
What else might appeal to him? Instantly, she thought of her bosoms. Undoubtedly, he appreciated those. She glanced down. They had always seemed rather cumbersome to her, like great, fleshy globes that made dress fittings a misery. However, the duke seemed to like them quite well, if his lingering glances at her bodice were any sign.
Come to think of it, he stared at her a great deal: in the carriage on the way to Blackmore Hall, on their excursions around the estate, even at dinner. Especially at dinner. Or any meal, really. Many times, she had looked up after savoring a delicious bite to find his eyes on her. She had always concluded that his staring was a form of judgment, that he was examining her for flaws, which he could then demand she correct.
But what if that had not been the cause at all? What if he had been watching her because …
She swallowed.
Oh, dear. The flush was getting worse. Now weakness invaded her limbs. She staggered toward one of the chairs and plopped down into the seat, fanning herself with her sister’s letter.
Suddenly, she knew how to seduce her husband. It would take planning and a fair amount of daring. Her teeth worried her lower lip. Could she do it? If she was right, and he could be tempted, then she must try, for she could not bear to continue on as the polite strangers they had been for the past few days. So, that meant leaving the library and implementing a bold, inspired plan of action. And the first step involved a mad Frenchman.
*~*~*