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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

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BOOK: Desire Becomes Her
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Dinner was an uncomfortable meal. Oblivious to the undercurrents, Stanley surprised Gillian by proving to be charming company and had saved dinner from being a disaster with amusing tales of London.
“Thank heaven for Stanley,” remarked Sophia as she sat down on the sofa in the salon, the ladies having left the gentlemen in the dining room to enjoy their liquors.
Gillian nodded. “If not for him, it would have been a terrible meal. I never thought I’d be grateful to Stanley, but after tonight I certainly am.” Biting her lower lip, she added, “I mislike Canfield’s silence. I cannot believe that he will simply go away.”
“No, I agree.” Sophia frowned. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you when he thought no one was looking. I fear you’ve made an enemy there, and while he may want you in his bed, I suspect that since he has been thwarted he’ll seek some sort of revenge against you.”
“I know,” replied Gillian. “And as long as he holds those vowels ...” Her lips twisted. “Between Canfield and Winthrop my reputation is in their hands.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Winthrop,” Sophia said in her brisk manner. “Even if he was foxed, I’m astonished he admitted to the bargain at all—especially that he didn’t get what he wanted. I’m certain if Canfield does expose the whole despicable affair, to save his own reputation, Winthrop will deny everything.”
Sophia’s words cheered Gillian until she remembered the vowels themselves. Gloomily she pointed out, “The vowels will lend credence to the story.”
“Oh, pooh!” said Sophia with a wave of her hand. “All Canfield really has is a drunken reprobate’s claims and a dead man’s vowels. He’d be a fool and would only arouse disgust in any sensible person if he started spreading gossip about an supposed event that occurred two years ago.”
Gillian started, her eyes widening. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Not,” warned Sophia, “that it wouldn’t be uncomfortable for you, us, but it wouldn’t be the utter disaster you think.” She smiled at Gillian. “Stop looking at Canfield as an ogre with great power. He’s not. He’s a nasty little worm who wants treading on and nothing more.”
Taking heart from sensible Sophia’s words, Gillian was able to get through the remainder of the evening with a measure of poise that not even Canfield’s presence could dent. Sophia was right, she reminded herself, crawling into bed a few hours later.
Canfield was a threat to her reputation and happiness, but not the inevitable, devastating one she imagined. No, she thought, staring into the enveloping darkness of her bedroom, Canfield was a problem but a more potent threat to her well-being lay in the formidable masculine appeal of Luc Joslyn.
Heat washed over her, and her breath quickened as the memory of his mouth, hard and hungry on hers, sped through her mind. Even now, just thinking of those stunning moments in his arms, her lower body softened and she shifted restlessly, desire flooding through her, her arms aching to touch him, her body throbbing for the sensation of his driving into hers.
Fighting back the needs clawing through her, with her fist in her mouth, Gillian bit back a frustrated sob. She was
not,
she swore vehemently, going to lose her head over Luc Joslyn—no matter how much he stirred her. I’ve had enough scandal to last me a lifetime, she reminded herself, and rushing willy-nilly into a passionate affair with someone like Luc Joslyn wasn’t going to happen. It was just as well, she decided, that his tempting presence would not be haunting High Tower for a while. His smiling face, the brilliant azure eyes laughing at her, wafted hazily through her brain, and against her will she felt her lips form a welcoming smile. Oh, damn him, she thought helplessly. Damn him.
Damn
him!
Chapter 8
L
amb may have been able to turn others away, but he had no defense against Emily and Cornelia. Within an hour of Silas’s departure, looking the Amazon he often called her, Emily brushed right past him with Cornelia by her side—and just as impossible to stop.
He did try. Moving nimbly to the base of the stairs, he stared at the two of them and said, “Ah, I know you want to see him, but even Barnaby thinks it would be better if he were given a few days’ rest. It was a nasty fall from his horse.”
“Oh, get out of the way, you big lummox, and don’t try to bamboozle me with any story of a fall from a horse,” snapped Cornelia, giving him a swift whack on his lower leg with her cane for emphasis.
Lamb yelped and yielded the field to the ladies, stepping smartly aside.
Stopping beside him, her gray eyes grave, Emily said, “Don’t fret, Lamb—Barnaby told us everything before he left for London.”
Lamb scowled at her. “You’ve bewitched him.”
She dimpled, then reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Yes, I know ... and you think it’s wonderful.”
That dragged a laugh out of him. With a grand bow, he murmured, “Right this way, ladies.”
Upon entering Luc’s room, Emily and Cornelia were horrified by Luc’s condition. They rushed to his bedside, their faces reflecting dismay.
“Oh, my dear heaven,” Emily cried as she stared at Luc’s battered features. “Your poor face.”
“You’ve looked prettier, I’ll grant you that,” observed Cornelia, her hazel eyes moving hawk-like over him, cataloging every bruise. “My God, boy, what have you done? Riling up Nolles—now that’s a fool’s errand if ever there was one.”
Meekly, Luc replied, “I didn’t mean to—and The Ram’s Head is a public tavern.”
Cornelia snorted. “Humbug!”
“You knew better than to go there,” Emily scolded. “Now let’s see about putting some of Cornelia’s oil of eucalyptus salve on the worst of your bruises. She makes it herself with the oils she has sent to her from London. I promise you it will make you feel better.”
Luc enjoyed having Emily and Cornelia cosseting and fussing over him, but as the days passed and he healed, he chafed at the confinement and grew more and more impatient to be out and about. By Wednesday in the middle of the first full week of November, his bruises had faded and his supposedly sprained ankle had healed enough for him to ride into the village with Lamb and enjoy a tankard of ale at The Crown.
The two men had barely seated themselves at a table near the brick fireplace before Mrs. Gilbert appeared from the kitchen, alerted to their arrival by her eldest daughter, Faith, who had been working at the long oak counter this time.
Wiping her hands on a big white apron worn over her gown of brown wool grogram, Mrs. Gilbert walked over to their table. After giving Luc a thorough appraisal, she said, “I see that the ... fall from your horse left you with no ill effects.”
Luc grinned. “It was my pride that was most injured.” He shook his head. “I cannot remember the last time a horse has gotten the better of me and sent me flying like that. It must have been bad luck.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” she answered. Her gaze slid to Lamb. “There seems to be a bit of bad luck going around. Gossip has it that Nolles slipped on his way home the very next night and split open his face... . I’ve heard that it looks more like someone took a knife to him than a cut from a fall.” When Lamb’s expression remained politely interested, after a hard look at him, she added, “He’s healing, but they say he’ll have a scar.”
Luc’s eyes narrowed and fastened on Lamb’s face. “Is that a fact,” he muttered.
“Indeed, it is, but of course, neither one of you would know anything about it, now would you?”
“
Mais non!
How could I?” asked Luc, his gaze still fixed on Lamb. “I was in my bed barely able to move a muscle.”
“And I,” murmured Lamb, “never left his side.”
Mrs. Gilbert looked from one face to the other. She snorted and retorted, “And you can both go teach your granny to suck eggs.”
Lamb grinned at her. “As if I would dare.”
She half laughed. “Very well. Keep it to yourselves. Now what will you have?”
 
Twenty minutes later, Luc and Lamb exited the inn and mounted their horses. The moment The Crown disappeared from view, his face grim, Luc looked at Lamb and inquired icily, “You or Barnaby? And don’t try to tell me that one of you didn’t go after Nolles.”
“I did,” Lamb admitted with no sign of contrition. He glanced at Luc. “It had to be done, and you were in no condition to teach anyone a lesson.”
“Did Barnaby know?”
Lamb looked askance. “The Viscount Joslyn? Now what do you think?”
“You had no right!” Luc exploded. “I was the one attacked. I don’t need anyone—especially
you
—to fight my battles. I would have handled Nolles all in good time.”
Lamb jerked his horse to a halt and glared at Luc, who had done the same. “A lesson,” Lamb said from between gritted teeth, “is better learned if punishment is administered as soon after the offense as possible. There is nothing to stop you from going after Nolles yourself now that you are healed, but he needed to learn that no one strikes at a Joslyn without swift and, I must add, painful retaliation.”
Since their attitudes were the same in this instance, Luc throttled back his anger. “It seems we both disagreed with Barnaby this time,” he growled, nudging his horse forward again.
 
Barnaby arrived home from London Wednesday evening, and on Friday morning he heard of Nolles’s accident from Lord Broadfoot, who had come to call. Broadfoot was barely out the door before Barnaby requested Lamb’s presence in his office. Once Lamb arrived and shut the door behind him, his face grim, Barnaby said, “I thought we decided to let sleeping dogs lie,” he said, staring hard at Lamb.
Taking a seat in one of the leather chairs in front of Barnaby’s massive oak desk, Lamb shrugged. “You decided. I didn’t.”
“Damn it, Lamb! Do you think it wasn’t difficult for me to stomach what Nolles did to Luc?” Barnaby demanded, the black eyes glittering. “I wanted to kill the bastard!” He sucked in a deep breath, struggling against rage. “And while you may have gained some satisfaction from your actions,” he said in a calmer tone, “we’re all going to have to suffer the consequences.” He leaned forward, his expression intent. “You’ve made Nolles doubly dangerous to us. If he wanted revenge before, he’ll be foaming at the mouth for it now.”
Lamb looked up from his contemplation of his boots. “Better we kill him sooner than later.”
Barnaby laughed without humor. “Oh, I don’t disagree. But I balk at cold-blooded murder.”
“But hot-blooded slaughter is acceptable?” Lamb asked with a cocked brow.
Barnaby pointed a warning finger at him. “You know precisely what I mean.”
Lamb sighed. “Luc wasn’t very happy with me either.”
“Only because he’d prefer to teach Nolles a lesson in his own way,” Barnaby grumbled, throwing himself down into the chair behind the desk.
Lamb rose to his feet. “Yes, I’m sure he would ... and I’m sure he will eventually find a way to get his own back. Luc is very good at that. Now is there anything else you need from me?”
Barnaby waved a dismissing hand in his direction. “No. Go annoy someone else.”
 
Both Barnaby and Lamb were correct about Luc. Luc would get his own back from Nolles, and during the time he’d been forced to remain cloistered at the Dower House, that topic had occupied his mind quite a bit ... as had the delectable Mrs. Gillian Dashwood. Gillian’s sweet form had drifted through his dreams and most nights he awakened with his member hard and throbbing and ready to explode—a situation he’d not suffered since he’d been a green youth. There had been the occasional woman he’d bedded while in London, but that had been months ago and he blamed celibacy for his persistent arousal.
Now that he was back to his normal self, he intended to rid himself of both problems. Lying in bed that Friday night, he considered the problems Nolles and Gillian represented and how best to solve them. Neither one was suitable for a straightforward solution, he admitted with a rueful twist to his lips. Gillian was no eager actress or daring widow willing to be bedded at the first opportunity. Widow Gillian might—and the most likely culprit for having murdered her husband—but he doubted she would fall into bed with him. Or would she?
The memory of that embrace in the garden of High Tower burst across his mind, and to his irritation, desire rolled through him. In an instant his staff was swollen and ready between his legs, and knowing sleep was impossible, he swore and, naked, swung out of bed.
Shrugging into the robe lain across a nearby chair, he lit the candle in the brass holder kept on a small table next to his bed and, carrying it, walked into the sitting room attached to his bedchamber. Crossing to the tray of liquors on an oak sideboard, he set down the brass holder and splashed some brandy into a snifter. Not taking time to enjoy the bouquet, he tossed the liquor down.
After pouring more brandy into his snifter, he wandered moodily around the room. It wasn’t like him to be so preoccupied with a woman. But Gillian Dashwood was like no other woman he’d ever met. Irritably he admitted she attracted him in a way he’d never experienced. He wanted her, but he’d wanted other women, many women in his life, but not quite the way he wanted Gillian Dashwood. He couldn’t explain how his emotions were different with her, and that worried him.
Snifter in hand, he prowled the room, turning the problem over in his mind. Her reputation, the fact that it was believed, but not proven, he reminded himself, that she had murdered her husband, added a cachet of danger to any affair with her. Ruefully he acknowledged his own predilection toward dangerous situations. But danger aside, she was also lovely. Desirable ... and she didn’t approve of him... . But then he didn’t exactly approve of her either. He wanted her, though, and despite her reputation and her relationship to Silas, he was certain he’d have her. That kiss in the garden told him as much. But when and where, he wondered.
She was no ladybird to be satisfied with a romp in one of the rooms in the nearest tavern... . He glanced around the sitting room bathed in the feeble light of the lone candle and grimaced. Bringing her here was out of the question, and the notion of bedding her in Silas’s own house simply wasn’t to be considered. Now if the weather was warmer, he could arrange a private picnic in a secluded place... . Imagining Gillian lying naked on a quilt, her eyes drowsy with desire and her generous breasts and hips dappled by the shade of tree, predictably he was again hot, hard and cursing.
Mon Dieu!
He had to stop torturing himself this way. But the lack of any comfortable, discreet place where he could bed Gillian reminded him of a problem he’d put off thinking about these past days: the need to have his own residence and privacy. Tomorrow, he decided. He’d miss having Barnaby, Emily, Cornelia and even Lamb nearby, but even if Gillian was not an issue, it was time—past time—that he stepped away from the haven Barnaby had provided for him.
The prospect of his own home was a novel one for Luc. Though he’d lived at the château of his French relatives from birth until he’d been twelve and had lived at Green Hill for nearly as many years, he’d never felt that either place had been home. He’d been grateful for Barnaby’s offer of the Dower House, but it certainly wasn’t home. Now that he’d paid Barnaby back with interest the loan Barnaby had given him several months ago and had money invested in the funds, he was in a position to buy his own residence.
He half-smiled. Luc Joslyn, gambler-at-large, property owner—the idea was ludicrous. That he’d settle in England had never crossed his mind. He’d always assumed, at some point in his life, he’d either return to Virginia or would set down roots in France. The recent events in France had removed that option, and while returning to Virginia to live, perhaps not at Green Hill, but someplace nearby was still viable, he doubted, except for a visit, that he’d return to America. Barnaby’s inheritance of the title and Windmere had changed the course of all their lives. With Barnaby and Lamb fixed at Windmere, the notion of living in the area held great appeal.
The day would come when Lamb tired of playing Barnaby’s manservant, but Luc couldn’t conceive of Lamb living far from Barnaby. Lamb would always be nearby. Emotion unexpectedly welled up inside him. Lamb will always be near for both Barnaby and me, he conceded, acknowledging for the first time that aggravating as his uncle could be, Lamb kept a watchful eye over both the Joslyn half brothers. Damn him!
He sipped his brandy. In the interest of making Lamb’s task easier, he thought cynically, it was probably fortunate that he’d be living in the area.
Feeling that until he had found a residence of his own, he could do nothing to ease the desire Gillian aroused within him, he put that problem aside for the time being. Telling Barnaby of his decision to start casting about for a suitable place to buy was a step toward solving the entwined problem of Gillian and a place for dalliance, and so for now he could put that problem aside also. His features grim, he considered the problem of Nolles ... and Townsend.
BOOK: Desire Becomes Her
4.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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