A Scoundrel by Moonlight (11 page)

N
ell slept late the next morning, a luxury for a servant. The doctor had pronounced Mr. Crane unhurt apart from his broken arm, but the hall clock had struck four before she’d settled the patient and cleaned up. The marquess had stayed to the last, which had surprised her. Something else that surprised her was Mr. Crane’s unmistakable respect for his employer. During her previous encounter with the two together, Leath had snapped at Crane for wasting time with her.

The light outside her windows was bright. Yorkshire had such strange, violent, unpredictable weather. Howling tempest one minute, unreliable brilliance the next. It was so different from the green gentleness of her home. The landscape was as mercurial as the man who owned this barren wilderness. Except that the moors weren’t barren. There were rich mines and valleys of good farmland. At first glance, the moors seemed all desolation and solitude. But when one looked more closely, there were hidden subtleties, secret treasures—an appeal more powerful for not being immediately visible.

Very like the Marquess of Leath.

After that odd, confiding conversation in the kitchen, his lordship had punctiliously kept his distance. One would imagine that he’d always called her Miss Trim and that he’d never kissed her.

She should be grateful. It would be too ironic if this quest to bring Dorothy’s seducer to justice resulted in her own ruin. But stupidly, she missed that resonant voice saying her name as if she was the first and only Eleanor in the world.

Exhausted as she’d been, she’d taken forever to fall asleep. Now that she’d learned that her position was safe, she should feel reassured. But somehow she didn’t. Instead, questions buzzed around her mind. As ever, with Leath, she had no answers. When she’d taken a risk mentioning Dorothy, she’d watched avidly for some hint of guilt. She’d seen nothing.

Then he’d drawn her into speaking about her father, something she always found painful. Nell had loved Robert Trim with a little girl’s adoration, and through her mother’s eyes, she’d learned to love him into maturity. Her mother had always mourned her first husband, fond as she was of scholarly William Simpson. It continued to anger Nell that some administrative bungle had deprived Frances Trim of those last tangible memories of Robert’s life in Portugal.

When Nell hurried down to the marchioness’s apartments, Leath was taking tea with his mother. The last time she’d seen his lordship, he’d been dirty and rumpled and worried for Mr. Crane. This morning, in a dark blue coat, buff breeches, and boots polished to a mirror shine, he looked ready for Mayfair. But the burning glance he cast her was familiar from last night. And as it had last night, the sight of him set her heart racing with excitement.

“Your ladyship, I’m so sorry. I overslept.”

The marchioness waved her hand. “James told me about
your heroics. You needn’t have rushed. Have you had breakfast?”

“No, my lady,” Nell said, her conscience twitching at Lady Leath’s concern. She’d imagined a closer relationship with the family would promote her cause. Instead it muddied her convictions. Perhaps she should leave, even without the diary. Every day, her loyalties became more tangled.

The marchioness gestured to a tray of cakes and sandwiches. “There’s plenty here. Or I can ring for more.”

“You’re too kind.” Nell meant it. She glanced at the marquess, expecting him to disapprove of this informality, but his faint smile lacked the usual reserve.

Overwhelmingly conscious of his intense gray gaze, she hesitantly chose some food and poured a cup of tea. The marquess’s presence stole her appetite. Feeling awkward, she sat on the window seat, deliberately setting herself apart. “How is Mr. Crane?”

“In a sorry way, I’m afraid,” Leath said. “Dr. Angus called again this morning and says it’s a bad break, likely to take months to heal.”

Poor Mr. Crane. He was distantly related to the Fairbrothers, but from a much less prosperous branch. His wages supported his sister and widowed mother in London. “How will his family manage?”

The marchioness laughed. “James, clearly Nell thinks you’re a heartless tyrant.”

Nell blushed. “My lady, I didn’t—”

“Paul will continue to receive his salary,” she said.

“After all, he was injured in my service.” Leath’s response was wry, rather than annoyed. Nell didn’t trust this sudden amiability.

“Which leaves James without a secretary,” her ladyship said.

Why on earth were they involving Nell in this discussion? “Perhaps your steward can help.”

“Powter is far too busy. And he has an abominable hand.” Leath studied her with an expression she couldn’t read, although it made her shift uncomfortably.

“Nell writes beautifully. Her letters are works of art,” the marchioness said. “She could help you, James.”

Nell was so shocked that she fumbled the cup and spilled tea on her skirts. Nervously she slid the cup and saucer onto a small table and reached for a napkin to dab at the stain.

“Clearly she’s overjoyed at the prospect.” Leath’s voice was as dry as sawdust.

“I’m not qualified,” she said unsteadily.

“Don’t be a goose, Nell,” the marchioness said. “You’re the most capable young woman I know. Is there anything you can’t do?”

I can’t resist your son.
She set the creased napkin on the tea tray and told herself to stop acting like the goose her ladyship had called her. “I certainly don’t feel up to filling Mr. Crane’s shoes.”

There, that came out almost sensibly.

The marchioness made an airy gesture. “It’s only until James arranges another secretary from London. A couple of weeks at the most.”

“What about my duties with you?” Under her lashes, Nell glanced at Leath. He looked particularly enigmatic. She wondered how he’d reacted when his mother had suggested this scheme.

“We’ll try mornings with James and afternoons with me. We’ll see how it works.”

“His lordship may decide I’m completely inadequate.”

He shot Nell a searing look. “Do you intend to ensure that’s the case?”

She started with surprise, although it wasn’t a bad strategy if she wanted to avoid him. “No, of course not.”

“I’m collating a major report. It’s essential I finish it,” he said.

“It sounds complicated,” Nell said doubtfully.

“So you won’t help me?”

Oh, dear God, when he put it like that, how could she refuse? In truth, she was torn. The prospect of hours in the marquess’s company terrified her. Already he’d undermined her defenses. She didn’t need to see his brilliance in action. Because she had a sinking feeling that he was brilliant. His intelligence drew her almost as strongly as his big, strong body did.

On the other hand, this could be her opportunity. His secretary would have access to his papers. Perhaps the diary was amongst them.

“Good Lord, Miss Trim, I’m not asking you to do anything that you don’t already do for my mother,” he said impatiently. “There’s no need for this soul-searching.”

She leveled her shoulders and tried to convince herself that this wasn’t a horrible mistake. “My lord, I’m willing to try. Thank you for your confidence.”

Which raised another question. Why on earth did he want to work with her when he didn’t trust her?

Leath soon recognized his blunder in taking Miss Trim as his secretary. But he needed help to finish these reports. And despite the thaw in their relations—a thaw that had turned into a tropical heatwave in his bedroom—he still didn’t trust her. He wanted her under his eye until he learned her scheme.

He hadn’t bargained on how disturbing her nearness would prove. After a week of struggling to pretend that Miss Trim was a female version of Crane, he was exhausted.
And making vilely small progress in his work. The moment she glided into his library, all thought of political economy scurried out the opposite window.

He couldn’t even censure her for encouraging his distraction. She’d reverted to perfect servant mode. If she was infatuated with him, she did nothing to put herself forward. Instead, she was almost eerily self-effacing, speaking only when spoken to, willing to assist but not to make suggestions, fading into the background in her gray dresses.

Perhaps his kisses had killed her romantic interest. Perhaps she’d never had a romantic interest and she’d been in his room for some other purpose. For the life of him, he couldn’t think what that could be. He found it impossible to see this self-possessed woman succumbing to curiosity and invading his room, however much she fancied him.

Even now, when she read out a list of figures that would bore any reasonable man into catatonia, he couldn’t help recalling what they’d done in that wide bed upstairs. Her soft sighs when he’d kissed her. His hand curving around her breast. Worse, he couldn’t help imagining what would have happened if she hadn’t protested.

Leath stood staring out the window at the unseasonably fine day. He hoped the view would distract him from Miss Trim.

No chance.

Her docility should make things easier. But it… didn’t.

“My lord?” She clearly thought that low voice placed them on a purely professional footing. Instead it made him imagine her whispering naughty suggestions in his ear as he slid inside her. He burned to see her naked with that fairy hair drifting around her like a veil, offering glimpses of the white body beneath. Eve before original sin.

He turned. “I’d like to ride out to the drainage project in the west pastures.”

From behind Crane’s desk, she regarded him with that unreadable gaze that had driven him mad all week. “I’ll finish that letter to your agent in Staffordshire.”

“No, I want you to come with me,” he said, and saw his own surprise at the suggestion he hadn’t intended to make reflected in her face.

Then she once again became a cipher. “I don’t ride, my lord.”

She didn’t want to accompany him. He couldn’t blame her. She’d have to be dead not to feel the prickling sexual awareness.

“We can take the gig.” He paused. “It’s probably the last good weather. Don’t you long to be out in the fresh air?”

Something wistful flashed in her eyes, but it vanished so quickly that he couldn’t be sure. His voice deepened to persuasion, although they both knew that if he issued an order, she must obey. “Even my mother is sitting on the terrace. It’s inhuman to stay cooped up.”

At Miss Trim’s reluctant smile, triumph surged. Lately she hadn’t smiled at him, much as he resented noting the lack. Damn it, he should be glad that she played down the sizzle between them. But he’d reached a point where one more minute in this room would have him flinging her onto the couch and taking his pleasure.

“As you wish, my lord. I’ll fetch my bonnet and shawl.”

Cursing his susceptibility to this prim female, he rang to order the gig brought around. Perhaps a brisk moorland breeze would blow some sense into his thick head.

As he sat beside Miss Trim in the gig’s confoundedly confined seat, Leath derided himself for a mutton-headed idiot. Every jolt bumped his hip against hers. On the drive from the house and bowling through the village outside the gates, that created a damned suggestive rhythm.

Bump. Release. Bump. Release.

He thought he’d go mad with it.

Worse came when they struck the rough track over the moors and the bumps became more violent. The contact of hip to hip lasted until he felt her heat through her serviceable merino dress, and her sweet, fresh scent filled his senses. He wished to Hades he could buy her some new clothes. Scarlet. Cut low. Clinging where gray wool suggested. What quirk of his nature made her puritanical costumes so provocative? Perhaps if she dressed to seduce, he’d lose this itch to tear every respectable thread away.

He pulled the gig to a stop at the crest of the hill that brooded over the western end of his estate. The horses needed to get their breath back.

So did he.

He tried to shift away, but the narrow seat stymied him. Illogically, her lack of response to his nearness chafed.

A ridiculous contraption of a bonnet hid her face, except for her chin and that lovely mouth. Her gloved hands lay clasped loosely in her lap. The wind that always blew here, even on the finest days, flirted with the fringe on the pretty paisley shawl that added unexpected color to her appearance.

“It’s so beautiful here,” she said softly.

He wanted to tell Miss Trim that
she
was beautiful. He resisted the urge and surveyed the miles of rough moorland with displeasure. “Really?”

“Don’t you think so?” She turned and he found himself lost in cinnamon eyes. For once, they contained no suspicion. Just curiosity and interest.

With a frown, he returned to contemplating the inhospitable landscape. Gray. Stony. Unforgiving. Dangerous. “It’s useless for anything except raising grouse.”

“Do you enjoy shooting?”

He shrugged. “I’m not much of a hunting man.”

“Unless you’re chasing down members of the opposition.” Her gaze was searching. “I always thought you loved the moors.”

Uncanny that she read him so easily. Most people couldn’t. “Of course I do, but I was brought up here.”