Could this infamous rake...

...finally have found his countess?

Part of The Sinful Sinclairs. When Lucas, Lord Sinclair, receives a mysterious summons from a Miss Olivia Silverdale he’s skeptical about whether he can help her. But Olivia, although eccentric, is in earnest about her quest to restore her late godfather’s reputation. Lucas’s curiosity is piqued, and not just by Olivia’s intelligent eyes and lithe form. A new challenge quickly presents itself: keeping Miss Silverdale at arm’s length!

The Sinful Sinclairs miniseries

Book 1—The Earl’s Irresistible Challenge

And look out for the next two Sinful Sinclairs—coming soon!

“It is a poignant, sentimental and expertly written love story.”

—Goodreads on Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress by Lara Temple

“Sensitive, touching and perceptive, this emotional book took me on the most wonderful journey where the hero and heroine deal with the obstacles in their way.”

—Goodreads on Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress by Lara Temple

LARA TEMPLE was three years old when she begged her mother to take the dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day she is a high-tech investment professional, who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance…at least on the page. Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help her weave it all together.

Also by Lara Temple

Lord Crayle’s Secret World

The Reluctant Viscount

The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies miniseries

Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress

Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal

Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress

The Sinful Sinclairs miniseries

The Earl’s Irresistible Challenge

And look out for the next book coming soon.

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Earl’s Irresistible Challenge

Lara Temple

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08861-9

THE EARL’S IRRESISTIBLE CHALLENGE

© 2018 Ilana Treston

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the marvellous, generous, creative

and all-round wonderful ladies of the

Unlaced Historical Romance Group—you are my

surrogate family in Romancelandia, and my little world

is so much the richer for my having found you…

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Blood was thudding in Olivia’s ears, loud in the echoing hollowness of St Margaret’s. She had purposely chosen an hour when there were likely to be few people in the church, but she hadn’t expected it to be empty. Or dark.

She should have realised they wouldn’t waste many candles on a near-empty church on a rainy winter afternoon. The few tallow candles smoked sulkily in their sconces and occasionally shivered in the draught that seemed to come from all directions at once.

Surely if she cried out someone would hear, wouldn’t they? Hans Town might not be a fashionable part of London, but it was respectable. Or perhaps it was best to just tuck tail and run...

Too late.

The strike of boots on the flagstones matched the rhythm in her ears and a man emerged from the darkness at the far end of the nave, his greatcoat rising about him like sweeping wings. She was not surprised they called him Sinful Sinclair. She presumed it was merely a play on his family name and less than pristine reputation, but, as he moved towards her in a swift, gliding motion and she noted his pitch-black hair and uncompromising features, she understood the name better.

‘Lord Sinclair, thank you for coming,’ she said as he stopped before her, pulling a piece of paper from his coat pocket.

‘Don’t thank me, this isn’t a social call. You sent this quaint little note?’

‘I did. Lord Sinclair—’

‘What do you want and why the devil did you have to choose such an inconvenient location?’

‘It is convenient for me. Lord Sinclair, I—’

‘I didn’t see another carriage in the lane outside. How did you arrive?’

She blinked. She had not even begun and already she was losing control of the situation.

‘What on earth does it matter? Lord Sinclair, I—’

‘It matters because I prefer to know what I am up against when I come to meet a silly little miss in an empty church in the middle of nowhere. If this is some kind of plan to entrap me I should warn you, you have very much mistaken your prey...’

Olivia’s confusion disappeared and she couldn’t hold back a laugh.

‘You believe I brought you here to entrap you? Goodness, you are vain.’

His eyes narrowed and she felt a new flicker of alarm. Perhaps laughing at him was not advisable under the circumstances.

‘Lord Sinclair...’ she began again and hesitated. The clear list of points she wished to make faded under the oppressive force of his black eyes. She took another deep breath. ‘Lord Sinclair—’

‘I know my name,’ he said impatiently. ‘Only too well. Stop wearing it thin and get to the blasted point.’

‘I have some information about your father.’

The draught swirled his coat out in a wide arc about him and cut through the thin fabric of her own cloak and she shivered. He didn’t reply immediately, but the impatience was gone, replaced by a rather sardonic smile.

‘So do I and very little of it is good. What of it?’

‘I have evidence that raises some questions about the circumstances of his death. It is possible that he was wronged.’

The only sound was the faint whistling of the wind through cracks in the high windows. She pulled her cloak more tightly about her and waited.

‘Raise your veil.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I prefer to see people’s faces when they are lying to me.’

Olivia considered her options. She didn’t know if involving this man was one of her more intelligent ideas, but he had come and she would have to see this through. She rolled back the thick lace veil attached to her bonnet and his dark eyes scanned her face without any change in their expression of amused contempt.

‘A little miss, but not silly, I think. Now let us begin anew. Why did you summon me here?’

‘I told you, I have some information about the circumstances surrounding your father’s death.’

‘I see. And what do you want in exchange for this so-called information?’

She hesitated.

‘That depends.’

‘Not a very clever bargaining approach. You should have come with a clearer idea of what you think your lies are worth. Or what you think I am worth.’

‘But that is precisely what I am trying to determine.’

He laughed, a low warm sound that did nothing to soothe her skittering nerves.

‘You want a list of my assets? You are by far the most inept blackmailer I have come across, sweetheart, and I have met a few.’

‘I wasn’t talking about your financial worth,’ she replied coldly. She knew he would be difficult, but she had not counted on him being annoying as well. She wasn’t at all certain she wanted to deal with this man.

‘I can think of only one other level on which I might be of any worth. But it’s a bit cold here for that, however tempting the bait. I have a carriage waiting outside, though, if you like.’

‘No, I would not like!’ she said, unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Really, if only he would be quiet for a moment and let her think. She knew he was a care-for-nobody, but she had expected a little more interest in her story. Did he really not care at all? If he did not, there was no point in continuing. Except that she very much needed help. Mercer, her man of business, was a treasure, but he was only good when told precisely what to do and she no longer knew which way to direct him.

‘Are you certain? You have a certain charm and I wouldn’t mind seeing just how far—’

‘Oh, would you please be quiet so I may think! I had no idea you would be so provoking!’

At least that wiped the mocking humour from his face. She waited for his anger, wishing she had held her tongue, but he merely took her elbow, turning her towards the exit.

‘Come with me.’

‘No! Let me go!’

Her confusion turned to panic and she tugged her arm out of his grasp. He raised his hands and took a step back.

‘Calm down. I won’t hurt you, but it’s as cold as a witch’s... It is freezing in here and I don’t feel inclined to stand around in this draughty church discussing my family for any busybody to hear while you make up your mind about extorting me. If you wish to speak with me, you may do so in the carriage. If not, goodnight.’

His words were calm, but his brisk stride as he headed towards the exit was a blatant dismissal. Olivia stared at his retreating figure with such a wave of hatred she could hardly believe it originated from her. The temptation to throw back her head and howl at the eaves was so powerful she could almost hear her own voice echoing back at her.

Instead she filled her lungs with cold air, lowered her veil and stalked after Lord Sinclair.

She reached the road and for one panicked moment thought she was too late, but then she saw the dark-panelled carriage on the narrow lane leading past the church. The buildings hung low, blocking out what remained of the late afternoon gloom and she could hardly see his face under the brim of his hat, but felt him watching her as she approached. Without a word he opened the carriage door.

She must be mad to be contemplating stepping into a carriage with one of the Sinful Sinclairs. Mad, desperate or a fool. Well, she was desperate. And though she might be an utter fool, something about the way he mocked her at least relieved concern for her person. But still...

‘Lord Sinclair, perhaps we could...’

He sighed and stepped into the carriage himself.

She hadn’t meant to grab the door as he closed it. She felt the resistance of his hold on the handle, then it eased but remained taut, counting out his patience. When he let go she stifled her qualms and grabbed her skirts to take the high step into the carriage. Once inside she pressed herself as far back into a corner as she could. He tossed a rug towards her.

‘I wish you would stop acting like a hissing cat being forced into a pond. Put that around you before you freeze; that cloak is about as useful in this weather as a handkerchief. Now, you have ten minutes to tell your tale and be gone.’

She clasped her hands together and began her rehearsed speech.

‘My godfather, Henry Payton, was found dead. The constable was summoned by a woman by the name of Marcia Pendle, who claimed she was Henry’s mistress and that he died...while...well, in bed. However, I know she isn’t the genteel widow she claims to be, but a courtesan at an establishment on Catte Street and that she was paid to make that claim to the constable at the inquest and though I don’t know why, I am at least certain she was not my godfather’s mistress.’

‘Are you? That is charmingly loyal of you, though naïve. But how does any of this sordid but mundane tale relate to my father?’

‘Well, it doesn’t, not directly. At least not that I can see as yet. But amongst the belongings my godfather left at the leased house where he died were letters written to him by a Mr Howard Sinclair from twenty years ago and with them a note in Henry’s hand which read, “If this is true Howard Sinclair was terribly wronged and something must be done,” and underneath that he wrote the name Jasper Septimus and underscored it several times. I don’t know if there is any connection between this note and his death and Marcia Pendle’s lies. The letters appear to be mostly business correspondence and I have no idea who Jasper Septimus is. I know this is all garbled, but I had to see if you could shed any light on this story.’

He listened with the same mocking calm with which he’d dismissed her earlier, as if he was watching a mediocre play just titillating enough to overcome the urge to leave the theatre. With his arms crossed and his chin sunk into his cravat, to her exhausted mind, it looked like the inverted white triangle of white fur on her pet wolfhound’s throat. Except that Twitch wasn’t in the least frightening despite his size and impressive fangs.

Finally he spoke.

‘I grant you credit for a very vivid imagination. Let me see if I have managed to follow this Drury Lane plot. Sorry, two interconnected Drury Lane plots. In the first a doxy is paid by someone to lie to the magistrates about being your godfather’s mistress, presumably to mask the circumstances of his death which I gather were at the very least humiliating. In the second your godfather ruminates over the past and comes to the startling conclusion based on the words of a Jasper Septimus, whose name is an insult in itself, that my father was wronged. And this revelation is possibly at the root of the first tale. Have I done your fantasies credit?’

It was evident he was a cold man, but she expected to hear something in his voice when he spoke of his father’s death. There was nothing, not a quiver or a change of inflection.

‘I am not fabricating any of this. It is the truth.’

‘Well, so what?’

‘So what?’ she asked, shocked.

‘The facts you proffered don’t amount to much, do they? Certainly not to a murderous plot that spans decades. A much more likely explanation is that you or this woman are attempting to extract money from me on the back of what you believe is my sentimental need to know more about my sire’s very ignominious departure from this world. Let me assure you I have no such need. In fact, you might have gathered I am not of a sentimental disposition.’

‘You are ignoring a further possibility, my lord.’

‘Am I? Enlighten me. I admit to being curious what your rather unique mind will conjure next. You are a very peculiar girl, do you know?’

‘I am not a girl. I am almost four and twenty years of age!’ She immediately regretted her outburst as the amusement in his eyes deepened. He was baiting her and she was rising to his hook each time. She should be the one in control of this conversation and yet she had let him take the reins from the moment he entered the church. She removed the rug, placing it on the seat beside her.

‘Goodnight, Lord Sinclair. I shall not waste any more of your time. You are clearly not interested in what I have to say.’

Again that soft gliding motion of his was deceptive. Though she was closer to the carriage door, she had not even reached the handle when his hand was there.

‘Don’t play me,’ he said softly. ‘I won’t be led. And certainly not by a pert almost-twenty-four-year-old who likes mysteries and hiding behind veils. You have five minutes remaining.’

‘Then listen instead of being so...aggravating! This is important to me and you keep...’ Her voice cracked and she stopped before she crumbled completely. She was shaking, from cold and weariness and the aftermath of tension and fear. She pulled the rug towards her and shoved her hands into its warmth, feeling like a pathetic fool.

He didn’t speak, just knocked against the carriage wall and it drew forward. Olivia gasped and reached for the door again, but he put his arm out, barring it.

‘Calm down. I won’t touch you and I will take you wherever you ask once we are done. But though I don’t care for much, I care for my horses and I won’t keep them standing further in this cold. Fair enough?’

She nodded warily.

‘Good. Now, what is your name?’ he asked.

‘My godfather’s name was Henry Payton.’

‘I asked for your name, not his.’

‘Olivia, Olivia Silverdale.’

‘Olivia Silverdale. Sounds as fanciful as your tale. Now begin at the beginning. Who is this Marcia Pendle and how did you trace her?’

He had changed again—more businesslike but no less ruthless.

‘I told you. Marcia Pendle works in a...a house of ill repute in Catte Street.’

‘Catte Street. Madame Bernieres’?’

She raised her brow contemptuously. Obviously he would know about the brothels of London.

‘I think that was the name. She calls herself Genevieve, but she is really Marcia Pendle from Norfolk.’

He shook his head briefly, but there was no negation there, only a kind of focused confusion as he watched her. Stripped of mocking or anger, he looked more human but no less unsettling.

‘So. Marcia Pendle is Genevieve. How and why did you trace her and why on earth would she tell you she was involved in your godfather’s death?’

‘I traced her because I had my man of business hire a Bow Street Runner, a Mr McGuire. He was present at the inquest into my uncle’s death. Apparently Marcia gave a masterful performance about a long-standing relationship where they would meet at the leased house where he died. When she left the inquest he followed her and after some discreet investigation discovered her true identity and occupation. He also discovered she is very superstitious and every week she visits a gypsy fortune-teller near Bishopsgate who is no more a gypsy than Marcia is French, but one Sue Davies from Cardiff. So, I went to see Miss Davies...’

‘You went to Bishopsgate to visit a fortune-teller.’

‘Yes. And after we had a little conversation and understood one another tolerably well, I paid Gypsy Sue, as she is called, to tell Marcia she must consult an occultist.’

‘A what?’ he asked. The sardonic edge had left his voice completely. All she could detect there was a kind of fascinated shock.

‘Have you never heard of them? Apparently they are quite popular of late. There is very much a demand for communication with dead loved ones on The Other Side. In any case, the gypsy, or rather Sue Davies, told me how Marcia was obsessed with someone named George whom she loved and mourned and that she asked Sue...’

‘Wait one moment... Hell, never mind. I will reserve my questions for the end.’

‘Thank you. So I had my man of business lease a house in an unassuming part of town where such an occultist might credibly have her lodgings and Sue Davies helped me set the stage, so to speak. Like Marcia Pendle she was once an actress and was very useful in procuring the correct clothes and artefacts. Then she sent Marcia Pendle to me and under the guise of my occultist’s persona I questioned her about her relations with Henry.’

‘Good lord. A vivid imagination doesn’t even begin to cover it. So we are now at a consultation between a masquerading occultist from Yorkshire, a French madame from Norfolk and a fraudulent gypsy from Wales. Charming. Proceed.’

‘How did you know I was from Yorkshire?’

‘I have an ear for accents. Proceed.’

‘Very well. During this session, Marcia Pendle revealed she never even met my uncle, let alone became his mistress.’

He held up his hand again.

‘Revealed. A doxy and practised blackmailer just handed you this information. Just for the asking...’

‘Not quite. I told you she is very superstitious. I told her the fellow she wanted to reach could not meet her in the afterworld unless she revealed all and cleansed her soul.’

‘You exposed yourself to a woman who you believe might be involved in murder and she believed a young girl is her gate to the afterlife. I don’t know which of you is more unbalanced...’

‘Of course I didn’t allow her to see me. I was heavily veiled and I wore a rather vulgar dress Sue gave me and she even showed me how to paint my face so that should my veil slip I would not be recognisable. Sue did offer to act the occultist instead of me but I had to be the one asking the questions. I could hardly prompt Sue all through the session, could I?’

‘I see,’ he said carefully. ‘I was apparently right about your imagination. I’m impressed the powers that be have no issue with Marcia Pendle being a doxy, only with her lying to the authorities.’

‘There are apparently different degrees of depravity.’

‘That is very true, there are. So back to your discoveries—I presume you asked her who paid her to engage in this deceit?’

‘Of course. That was where I ran aground. She did divulge that his name was Eldritch, but she was so overset by her communications with George she became quite hysterical with weeping and I felt horrid and halted the session and told her George was being summoned back, but we could try again in a few days once her soul was calm.’

‘And she accepted that?’

‘Apparently George was never fond of crying females so in fact it strengthened her belief in my powers. So you see, I need to find out who this Mr Eldritch is, but Mr Mercer had no luck and I do not know how to proceed.’

‘You surprise me. But before we proceed to Mr Eldritch, I’m curious why you are so certain she was not your godfather’s mistress in the first place?’

‘I just knew. And I was right.’

‘An intuition, in fact.’

The sardonic inflection was back and she shrugged. She had told him enough. It was time to see if he would be of any use at all or whether he was merely enjoying treating her like some freakish fair exhibit.

‘Will you help or not?’

‘Help with what?’

‘Help find out who this Eldritch is and why he paid to defame my godfather and whether it is in any way connected with Henry’s suspicions about your father’s death.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ She threw up her hands in disbelief. ‘Because I, for one, will not sit by while someone out there is ruining people’s lives. My godmother, Mrs Payton, is in shock and in pain not only at the loss of one of the most wonderful men I have ever known, but at the discovery that he had betrayed her and his family. I must find out who is behind this and make them pay for what they have done to the Paytons. And I don’t know how to do that on my own! That is why!’

Lucas stifled a sigh at her outburst. He wished he had tossed her note into the fire rather than succumbing to the siren’s pull of curiosity. If he had an ounce of sense he would send her on her way—she was probably either mad or a very creative liar and he didn’t have time to indulge in such nonsense, he was already running late for his meeting with his uncle at the War Office. But as his brother Chase always told him, curiosity was likely to be his downfall, which was rather ironic because Chase was just as bad.

For a moment he contemplated taking her to his uncle. Oswald would see through all the girlish dramatics and probably reveal her as the clever trickster she was, because although Oswald was as cursed with curiosity as any of their fated Sinclair tribe, he was never swayed by sentiment. Lucas usually wasn’t either, but as much as it galled him to admit, even to himself, mentions of his father’s demise still had the power to sink their talons into his flesh. He could stride over most matters without much compunction but the moment she spoke those words he stumbled. Just a little, but enough. He couldn’t walk away without at least trying to understand what was afoot. Which meant he had to find out the nature of the peculiar beast sitting opposite him.

Not today, though. However offended she appeared to be by his accusation of entrapment, her voice and demeanour were clearly those of a well-born young woman and every moment spent in her company as night descended was a moment of precisely the kind of danger he did not enjoy.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Why?’

‘Because as tempting as the thought is, I can hardly leave you in the middle of London in the dark. I presume you do live somewhere. This might be a fantastical story, but you appear discouragingly corporeal.’

For the first time her eyes shifted away from his. She was about to lie, which was interesting in itself.

‘Spinner Street.’

‘Spinner Street? Isn’t it around the corner from the church where you summoned me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Stranger and stranger. Is that sad neighbourhood populated by occultists now? At what number are you perpetrating your masquerade?’

‘Fifteen. But... Does this mean you won’t help?’ she demanded as he tapped the wall of the carriage and it slowed to a halt on the empty street and a postilion jumped down to take his directions.

‘It means it is nearing your bedtime, Miss Silverdale. I will consider what you told me. That is all I can offer for now.’

Again her expression changed, or rather it leached away, leaving her face blank just as they slowed and the gaslight filled the carriage. Now at least he could see what she looked like in repose. She reminded him of a painting he had once seen in Venice. It was a depiction of the biblical tale of Ruth, with Naomi seated on a stone cradling a very unattractive babe and Ruth standing, her hand on the older woman’s shoulder and, unusually for such a painting, looking straight at the viewer. She, too, had worn no expression, but the message was clear. Beware. I guard my own.

‘If this is a polite way of telling me you have no intention of pursuing this puzzle, I prefer you tell me so outright,’ she said as she raised the hood of her cloak over her bonnet. ‘Heaven forfend I waste any more of your precious time which could be spent so much more profitably in gaming hells and brothels like Madame Bern—’

Her haughty lecture ended on a squeak when he caught her wrist as she opened the carriage door. He should have kept his calm and sped her on her way. If he needed anything to convince him to have nothing more to do with her fantasies, it was a lecture. His temper had borne quite enough that evening.

‘I don’t need you to put words in my mouth and I sure as hell do not need your lectures. You do either again and that will be the last you see of me, Miss Silverdale. I said I will think about it and I will. That is all for now. Now run along before I decide to demand compensation for your ruining what had promised to be a very pleasant evening by fulfilling your worst suspicions about my character. Unless that is what you are looking for? Is that tortuous little mind of yours curious about that as well?’

He brushed his fingers lightly across her lips, as much to test his question as to warn her. They were soft and warm and as they shifted under the pressure his gaze caught on them as well, making the question rather more complicated than he had intended. But before he could pursue the thought she drew away so abruptly she bumped into the frame of the door and for the first time he saw real fear in her gaze and something beyond it which surprised him. Revulsion was not the usual reaction to his overtures, but then he never made overtures to proper little virgins and they never made appointments to meet him in a darkened church and proceed to tell him the world was made of cheese and rode along on the back of a turtle.

He opened the door.

‘Run along, little miss.’

She didn’t run. The blank watchdog expression returned and she drew down her veil and jumped down nimbly from the carriage, ignoring the postilion who stood by to assist her.

Chapter Two

Olivia looked around the respectable interior of St George’s, smiling at the gall of the man.

She might not quite have Lord Sinclair’s measure, but she knew without doubt his choice of arranging this meeting in a church in midday was an ironic riposte rather than out of any concern for propriety. The man was living up to his reputation as a care-for-nobody.

Well, not quite. She had expected someone more...spoilt. Indulged and self-indulgent. Not...

Well, whatever he was.

For two days she had heard nothing from him, her already meagre hopes foundering and leaving her even more depressed than before. When her old nurse, Nora, appeared that morning in Brook Street, bearing a sealed note she said was delivered to Spinner Street by a proper footman, Olivia’s first reaction was almost stifling relief.

The relief faded a little as she read his note. It was succinct, listing nothing more than a time, a place and a bold, scrawled ‘S’.

‘At least you are prompt.’

She rose on tiptoes in surprise at the deep voice directly behind her, her stretched nerves bursting into an agitated dance. How had he managed to cross the whole church without her hearing? Blast the man for putting her at a disadvantage again. She turned, gathering her dignity. The windows were small, but the sun that broke through the winter clouds was directly overhead and sunlight bathed him like a benediction, making it clear she had missed a great deal in the darkness. Two days ago he had been a figure of the dark—a shady hulk towering over her, menacing but indistinct. Now Gypsy Sue’s words came back to her and she could understand fully why the Sixth Earl of Sinclair was referred to as the sinfully seductive Sinclair. It wasn’t merely that he was handsome. She couldn’t even get enough distance from the impact of his aura to judge his looks. It was something completely different—his presence chased away everything else, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud with sudden brutality—harsh and demanding a reaction.

She searched for her scattering wits and managed to gather enough to speak his name.

‘Lord Sinclair.’

‘Miss Silverdale.’

The silence stretched and she felt the edges of her mouth rise against her will. It must be nervousness, understandable given what was at stake. There was nothing amusing about this situation.

‘Lord Sinclair,’ she repeated, and the humour she suspected gleamed in his eyes and tugged at the corners of his mouth as well. He bowed with all the formality of a London ballroom.

‘Miss Silverdale.’

Inspired, she brandished the note she held and tossed back his words from their first meeting. ‘You sent this quaint little note?’

He plucked it from her fingers. ‘You’ve mangled the poor thing. Have you been poring over it all morning?’

Blast the man. It was close enough to the truth.

‘No, it is merely that I had to rescue it from the cat.’

‘I am sorry you had to fight over me.’

‘Over the address. There are a dozen St Georges in town and I forgot which one you mentioned. It would have been a little embarrassing to send a note to Sinclair House explaining the cat lunched on your note. I felt my pride was worth a few scratches.’

His black brows twitched together. ‘Then you are as foolishly stubborn as I suspected. You should be more careful. Did the cat really scratch you?’

She blinked at the transformation, hoping the heat she felt in her chest would not bloom into a blush. She hardly managed to make the transition from annoyance to humour and now he was undercutting her with utterly misplaced concern based on her nonsensical embellishment. She shook her head and hurried forward, trying to cling to what mattered.

‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Do you agree to help me?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Then why are you here?’

‘Because two days ago I met a delusional young woman making outrageous claims about my father’s death. I told you I don’t like being coerced, managed, threatened or interfered with and this qualifies as most of the above. So I came here to say that should I find that you are making any enquiries that involve my family name I will stop you. Am I clear?’

‘You are many things, Lord Sinclair, not all of which can be spoken aloud in polite company. You don’t like being threatened? Well, neither do I. If you plan to stop me I suggest you begin today because aside from your delightful billet this morning I also received a request from Mrs Pendle. She assures me she is eager for another session with her dear departed and I invited her to Spinner Street tomorrow at five. So I give you fair warning I shall discuss whatever I see fit.’

She marched out of the cloistered entrance, angry with him, but far angrier with herself at the depth of her disappointment at his rejection. She had so been looking forward to sharing her thoughts with someone intelligent, and Lord Sinclair, though he might try a saint’s patience, was plainly intelligent and probably resourceful. For a moment the concern in his voice and the softening lines of his beautifully carved mouth had lulled her into believing he could be an ally.

Well, he wasn’t her ally. He was an arrogant, cloddish, opinionated...

‘Miss Silverdale! Olivia!’

Olivia froze halfway to the carriage where Nora was waiting. Of all the bad luck—the last person she expected to see in London was Henry Payton’s son, Colin.

‘Colin! I thought you were in Harrogate with your mother and Phoebe.’

‘I came to consult Mr Ratchett about the will and see about extending our mortgage. At least until probate is granted...’ His voice wavered and she reached out, briefly touching his sleeve. She knew Colin as well as her own brothers and she had never seen him so pale and beaten.

‘I’m so very, very sorry, Colin. What can I do to help?’

‘I did not mean to worry you, Olivia. We are not on our last legs, though Mr Ratchett did tell me in confidence that Sir Ivo is putting pressure on the bank to foreclose. Still, he assures me they see no need to take such drastic measures as we have always honoured our commitments and he did count Father his friend, despite the...unpleasantness. Still, I think it would be best to sell and remove from Gillingham. I cannot see Mama returning there, not with all the gossip.’ He rubbed his hand over his forehead. ‘I never guessed... I don’t understand any of it. Father always seemed so...reliable. I cannot comprehend why...’

‘I don’t either, Colin. It makes no sense.’

‘Nothing makes sense at the moment. I went by Brook Street, but Lady Phelps said you were visiting this church with Nora. I thought she is your chaperon, Olivia. You should not be here on your own.’

‘I am not on my own. Nora is awaiting me in the carriage.’

‘Nora is hardly an adequate chaperon in London.’

‘It is merely a church, Colin. Not Vauxhall Gardens.’

His eyes widened. ‘I trust Lady Phelps is not taking you to such places, Olivia. They are not at all the thing, you know.’

‘That was a figure of speech, Colin. If you must know, we do not go about much.’

‘Then why not come to Mama and Phoebe in Harrogate?’

‘There is some important business I must address in London.’

‘Surely Mr Mercer can...’

‘No, Colin. He cannot. Please let us not argue. How is Phoebe faring?’

‘Still in shock. It is doubly hard for her. She has barely begun to recover from Jack—’ He stopped. ‘I’m so sorry, Olivia. I know Jack’s death was painful for you as well.’

Olivia resisted the swiping claw of anger that demanded she strike out at his unknowing cruelty. She was accustomed, a little, to people presuming her friend Phoebe was the greater sufferer from Jack’s death. There was no point in trying to explain that the loss of a twin brother might be even more devastating than the loss of a fiancé. What mattered was that Phoebe herself never presumed her loss was greater. She knew how close Olivia and Jack were. Had been.

‘Please don’t apologise, Colin. I hate that people won’t talk about him with me. It makes it worse. He feels even more dead that way.’

He clasped her hand, shaking it a little. ‘You always say the strangest things, Olivia; if you’re not careful you will end up like one of those bluestocking quizzes.’

She smiled a little stiffly. ‘Then I shall have to school my tongue. When must you return?’

‘Tomorrow. I do not like leaving Mama for long. Phoebe tries, but Mama needs me there as well. When will you complete your...your business?’

The barely veiled condemnation in his voice struck home. She hated not being there to support Mary Payton and Phoebe during their mourning, but she hoped once they knew she was acting on their behalf they would forgive her defection.

‘Very soon, I hope. Please do come dine with Lady Phelps and me this evening, Colin.’

She clasped his hand briefly, but as she let go he grabbed it and pulled her back towards the church. She wanted to resist, but her guilt made her weak and she followed. The church seemed smaller now, a little stifling.

‘What is it, Colin? You know it isn’t proper for me to be here alone with you. I told Nora I would only be a moment.’

‘I believe that is the first time you preached propriety to me, Olivia; I cannot recall the number of times Mama had palpitations because of you and your brothers. I am glad to see you are finally growing up.’

‘That is one way of phrasing it, certainly.’

‘Couldn’t you convince Lady Phelps to come with you to Harrogate? We... Mother and Phoebe missed you these past two years since you left Gillingham. I never understood what happened between you and Bertram and of course we followed Father’s lead and stood by you, but the truth is I admit I am glad you jilted him. He was never right for you and I must say I don’t think the heiress he married last year is very happy with him either, if that makes you feel any better. But the point is I...we all miss you since you left.’

‘I will come as soon as I am able, Colin.’

‘What if I tell you I would like you to come?’ He moved even closer, taking her other hand as well. ‘Everything is so upended and somehow you always made the strangest things seem...commonplace. Coming to visit you with Father over the past two years while you were staying with Lady Phelps I have come to... I hardly had any idea how much I depended upon your presence until... I cannot say anything, under the circumstances, but once we are out of mourning...’

She forced herself not to move, not to pull her hands from his. This wasn’t Bertram, this was Colin, there was no reason to feel so stifled. It was not as if she had not contemplated this solution to her conundrum. She had noted Colin’s migration from friendship to admiration during his visits with Henry. If she could not redeem Henry Payton’s name and reputation by any other means, marriage to Colin would grant him access to her fortune and he could provide for Phoebe and Mary Payton without them suffering any qualms of conscience.

But as he pressed her hands between his, the gap between good intentions and reality widened and she struggled against the need to pull away.

‘You will come soon?’ he prompted and she breathed deeply and nodded. He bent to touch his mouth to her cheek and she held herself still even as his lips slid and settled on her own. It is only Colin, she reminded herself. This is not Bertram and you are no longer a gullible fool. No one will ever take advantage of you that way again. Ever.

He drew back, his blue eyes warm and his cheeks pink, and finally she allowed herself to move, pulling her hands from his.

‘I must go or Nora will worry. Please tell your mama and Phoebe... Tell them I will see them soon. Be strong, Colin.’

She hurried outside to the awaiting hackney, narrowly missing a pushcart piled high with casks. Inside, she tugged off her gloves and kneaded her palms, trying to chase away the stinging pressure that always came when memories of Bertram returned.

‘I’m so sorry I kept you waiting in this horrid weather, Nora. You will not believe who is in town...’

‘I saw Master Colin approach you, Miss Olivia. I told you this was foolishness itself. You aren’t twelve years old, hiding in trees so you can listen to your brothers’ talk unseen. And you needn’t tell me to save my breath, I know you won’t listen. Just put this shawl over your legs, it is almost as cold as back home. I take it you didn’t tell Master Colin the truth?’

‘I cannot, you know that. I may uncover nothing and I do not wish to give him false hope.’

Nora sighed, but didn’t answer, and Olivia turned to look out the window and caught herself as she rubbed again at her cheek, as if she could wipe away the underlying memories of her disastrous betrothal.

She did not regret jilting Bertram—marriage to that deceitful wretch would be far worse than heartbreak and ostracism—but she deeply regretted telling Henry Payton the truth and then swearing him to secrecy. Poor Henry had taken her side and then faced the fury of Bertram’s family without complaint, even when Bertram’s father Sir Ivo made it impossible for Henry to work in Gillingham. She did not even try to escape her culpability—it was her fault he had to spend so much time in London away from his wife, therefore her fault he sought solace with other women, therefore her fault he was dead.

None of this was Colin’s fault, but when he kissed her the mocking memory of her fateful confrontation with Bertram surfaced, as sharp and vivid as the reality. Bertram had dismissed her rejection, trying to placate her by the same means he achieved everything—seduction. She had once enjoyed his kisses, convinced they were signs of his love. But that evening the embraces she so looked forward to became unbearable. She could still see his face bearing down on her, feel his wet lips seeking her mouth, the weight of his body pressing her against the wall... Everything she looked forward to in their union became a sign of her gullibility. Colin was nothing like Bertram, but perhaps now and for ever any contact with a man would bear Bertram’s taint and that of her disgust with her blindness. All her passionate hopes capsized by the weight of his horrible deceit.

She shook herself. What mattered now was Henry. She had come to London and opened herself to the world again because of him and she would see her task through.

If Lord Sinclair wouldn’t help, she would do it alone. She would prove the Henry Payton she knew and loved had existed, even if he was dead. She would stand by him as he had stood by her.

Chapter Three

Lucas waited until the young man exited the church before leaving the shadow of the pillars separating the nave from the chancel. He was tempted to go after him and tell him precisely what foolhardiness his little friend was engaged in. Perhaps a few judicious words about her activities would have her family remove her before she caused real damage. To herself or to others.

He walked outside into the gloomy winter morning, juggling what he knew about her. He was accustomed to making quick judgements about people, but this girl was proving a bit of a puzzle. Perhaps it would be a good idea to discuss this with Chase. They rarely discussed the past, but his brother was not only good at puzzles but this concerned him as well. Not that he would show it, or much else for that matter. Chase went through life as lightly as possible. Lucas considered going to Chase’s apartments near St James’s, but thought better of it. This discussion had best be held at Sinclair House where they would be assured of privacy.

‘This place grows more cavernous every time I enter it. Shouldn’t you consider replacing the carpet on the stairs? I sounded like a herd of stampeding camels on the way up,’ Chase said as he entered Lucas’s study at Sinclair House. Lucas looked up from his papers and smiled at his younger brother. They were of a height and had often been mistaken for twins once out of school, but Chase’s eyes were grey rather than black, as if transitioning between their mother’s Italian blood and the Sinclairs’ northern heritage. He was still brown from his recent trip to the east, adding to the Latin impression.

‘I prefer it that way,’ Lucas replied as he went to pour his brother a measure of brandy. ‘You of all people should appreciate the benefit of being forewarned.’

‘You have the Tubbs clan in the nether regions to do that for you, Luke. Some boy I didn’t recognise, but scarcely out of breeches, opened the door for me. I thought Mrs Tubbs called a halt to her share in growing the family.’

‘That would have been Richard. He is Annie’s boy.’

‘Annie’s? My God, she was an inch high when I last saw her.’

‘Another sign you don’t come here often enough. Are you settled in London for now?’

‘I don’t know yet. A few weeks, perhaps, but I will visit Sam at the Hall before I leave again. I don’t like the fact that our little sister is still holed up at Sinclair Hall so long after Ricardo’s death.’

‘Don’t press her, Chase. It isn’t Ricardo she is mourning and you know Sam makes her own decisions, including how long and how hard to mourn. Besides, she is keeping busy with her work.’

‘I won’t press. I merely want to see her. And you? How long before you roam again?’

‘I am expected in St Petersburg in a month or so. Why not stay here while you are in London?’

Chase looked around the study.

‘No, the Mausoleum is your cross to bear, Lucas. Just walking by the closed door to the Great Hall reminded me why I prefer the uncomplicated impersonality of my lodgings on Half Moon Street.’

Lucas grimaced. ‘I always enter by way of the mews myself. One day I will have to do something about this place one way or another. It’s damnable that it is entailed.’

Chase swirled his brandy and went to sprawl in a wingchair by the fireplace.

‘That is sufficient reason to have an heir, just so you can then break the entail and rid us of the Mausoleum and the Hall.’

‘No, thank you. I don’t think the world needs more Sinclairs; we’ve done enough damage as it is.’

‘So we have. I dare say the world wishes our Sinclair ancestors had stayed in the far north among our Scottish forebears instead of joining the English court and wheedling good English titles and land out of them. Too late to repine now, though. So why don’t you tell me what is bothering you?’

‘Why do you presume something is bothering me?’

‘Years of experience. Out with it.’

Chase had an impressive ability to remain still while listening, offering neither distraction nor encouragement and certainly no indication of his thoughts, but Lucas knew him too well to be fooled. His very stillness was telling.

‘What do you think?’ Lucas asked as he concluded his story of the peculiar Miss Silverdale and her theories.

‘I think that if anyone else had told me this tale I would be checking them for the fever. Gypsies, doxies and occultists... Are you quite certain that young woman isn’t touched?’

‘I’m afraid not. She might be unconventional, but she is distressingly sane and as stubborn as a Cossack. Short of kidnapping her and bundling her off to her family in Yorkshire, I don’t think I can dissuade her from her fantasies of plots and injustice.’

‘Do you think there is a chance there is anything to it?’ Chase tipped his glass to watch the firelight undulate in its depths, his sharp-cut profile tense, his dark-grey eyes hooded. Chase was only ten when their father died and though their mother tried to keep the details from them, the gossip was too juicy to be contained and the boys at school were only too happy to share the tale of the duel and its causes. They were both sent down for brawling and the following year they had been only too happy to leave England to live with their grandmother’s family in Venice.

‘No, I don’t,’ Lucas replied. ‘This is clearly a case of acute denial of reality. Little Miss Silverdale evidently feels indebted to her godfather and has concocted this cock-and-bull story to assuage her grief and guilt. I think she is tilting at windmills, but I don’t want her making enquiries about our family. If anyone is to continue tarnishing our name, I prefer we remaining Sinclairs do it ourselves.’

‘True. So what do you plan to do about her and her occultist ambitions? What a pity I cannot observe her performance. You should.’

‘Are you mad? I prefer a full month of Wednesdays at Almack’s.’

‘No, you don’t. You are curious. Besides, imagine what might happen if that Catte Street doxy discovers she is being duped by this young woman during her occultism session? Not a pretty scene. Might sit heavily on what remains of your conscience.’

‘Be damned to you, Chase.’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘All the more reason to bundle her off home.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘It is a waste of time.’

‘Well, you have time to waste if you aren’t needed in St Petersburg until next month. Unless you wish to go early and enjoy the Russian winter to the hilt? Bonaparte tried that, not very successfully.’

‘No, I damn well don’t. I was hoping you would have some useful thoughts on defusing this loose cannon.’

‘I do. Go oversee your budding occultist and keep the Sinclair name off the dunghill where is appears to enjoy residing all too often. Meanwhile I will go to the Hall and see Sam before I must leave London again.’ He stood, straightening his waistcoat and looking around with a sigh. ‘Do you know, I am of two minds about your having allowed the Mausoleum to descend into such bare silence. It doesn’t do your hedonistic reputation credit, you know. You could hire an acting troupe to stage an orgy or two and leave the windows open on to the square.’

‘No, thank you. Besides, the lack of information about what occurs here only encourages the creative minds of the ton. God forbid I should confuse them with something as mundane as reality.’

‘That is true, especially since you provide them more than enough material with your activities in foreign lands. Speaking of providing material, will you join me at the club tonight?’

‘I cannot, it is Wednesday. Almack’s calls.’

For a moment Chase stared at him in shock before bursting into laughter.

‘Good God, for a moment I thought you were serious. Don’t scare me like that. If you ever turn respectable, the world might develop expectations of me as well and if there is one thing I find more abhorrent than Almack’s, it is expectations.’

Chapter Four

‘What the devil?’

Olivia dropped the tablecloth she was holding and ran for the study door. It was probably not a smart thing to do. The sound of a man cursing in what should be an empty house would usually be taken as a good sign to run in the opposite direction. But Olivia recognised the voice and, perhaps foolishly, she wasn’t in the least afraid. Alert, but not afraid.

She stopped in the doorway. Lord Sinclair was standing, hands on hips, inspecting her Wall of Conjecture.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, tucking a straggling curl behind her ear. It was absurd to wish she was wearing something more presentable than a simple muslin round dress. He was in riding clothes but he possessed the same casual elegance in his buckskins and dark blue riding coat as he had on both previous occasions. Again she was struck by the sheer power of his face and frame. He looked utterly out of place in her parlour. In her world.

‘What the...what are all these?’ he demanded and she moved a little more deeply into the room despite her discomfort.

‘Those are lists.’

‘I can see that. I’ve just never seen so many on a wall. How do you manage to make them stay there?’

‘I had felt pasted on the wall over a layer of corkwood and I use sewing pins to secure them. When I tried laying them out on the floor they kept scattering. How did you enter?’

‘And the strings? It looks like a mad spider is attempting to build its web here.’

‘That is how I remember what connects with what. It helps me think.’

‘If your mind looks anything like this wall, heaven help you.’

‘Did you come here to insult me or was there some other purpose to breaking into my house?’

‘I didn’t break, I entered through the area door. You really should have a locksmith install something more reliable than those ancient locks, you know. Your guest is arriving at five o’clock, you said?’ He proceeded along the wall and she resisted the urge to tear down her lists before he could read them. She would only look ridiculous and, besides, she wanted him to see them. If he had been intrigued enough to come today, perhaps this would snare him further.

‘Yes. I was preparing the room for her. Are you here to stop me?’

‘No.’

‘Why are you here, then?’

‘Curiosity. I’ve never attended an occultist’s meeting. I am expanding my horizons.’

He reached the part of the wall dedicated to his father and she tensed, waiting. It was emptier than Henry Payton’s side, but even the meagre amount of information about his death Mercer uncovered for her was likely to anger him. But he said nothing and after a moment he moved towards the desk.

‘More lists? Famous occultists... Who is Madame Bulgari?’

‘I am. Gypsy Sue helped me think of the name, she said people are impressed by foreign airs, but the rest I gathered from books.’

He took a book from the desk, his brows rising as he flipped through the pages. ‘Communication with the Other Side. Wasn’t Baron Lyttelton a Member of Parliament?’

‘I have no idea. Please don’t lose my place.’

‘Pericles? Christina, Queen of Sweden? A select grouping.’ He tossed the book down and took another. ‘And what is this tome about? The Forbidden Secrets of Occultism by Madame Volgatskaya? That sounds a little more entertaining, though Madame Vulgar would be more appropriate by all the gilt on this binding. I am beginning to think Madame Bulgari an excellent choice of moniker.’

She plucked the book from his hands. ‘If you came to poke fun at me, you may leave. I have work to do.’

‘Work?’

She didn’t wait to see if he would follow. He might be as flippant as he liked, but she knew the pitfalls of curiosity too well not to recognise a fellow sufferer of that malady.

Back in the parlour she drew closed the thick velvet curtains, casting the room into a gloom that would be near absolute by late afternoon when Marcia Pendle arrived. The candles and incense were prepared and she lit the fire so it would calm by the time the magic began. She needed just a hint of light and enough heat to spread the scents Gypsy Sue recommended. She marked the item on her list and continued: tinderboxes, brandy...

‘I don’t know which room is more disturbing, this parlour or your spider’s lair of a study. The study by a narrow margin, I think,’ he commented behind her.

‘Why is that?’

‘Because this is clearly for show, that room is in earnest.’

She shrugged. Votive candles. Bergamot oil. Present.

‘Did the otherworldly Mrs Volgatskaya inspire this decor? What are these scarves for? Do you perform a dance?’

‘No, I bind unwary visitors and sacrifice them to the dark lords.’

‘No, thank you. I’ve never had to resort to binding anyone to get what I want, certainly not women.’

She looked up from her list, her mouth curving into a smile despite her attempts to keep it prim.

‘You are rather vain, aren’t you, Lord Sinclair?’

He slid a scarf through his hands, his fingers skimming the shimmering fabric absently and his smile answering hers.

‘Am I? I wouldn’t call it vanity, precisely.’

Don’t pander to him, Olivia.

‘What would you call it, then? And don’t say “experience”, that would merely confirm my point.’

‘I won’t call it anything at all, then. So, what happens next?’

‘Next you leave.’

He pulled a chair from the table and sat down in clear disregard for conventions of politeness, still tugging the scarf idly between his hands. The hiss of silk as it slipped through his fingers tingled upwards from her feet, travelling like smoke over her skin. She could feel the warmth it picked up in the friction against his flesh, mirroring on the softness between her own fingers, a faint burning, spreading to her palms like the singe of acid. She held herself back from snatching the scarf away from him.

‘Do you really want me to leave, Olivia?’

Her name sounded like smoke and silk as well and she had to breathe in before she could speak. She was losing her footing again which was probably precisely what he wanted. The object of that subterranean rumble of heat was no doubt to soften her, make her pliable to his manipulations. That was all.

‘Miss Silverdale,’ she amended. The scarf paused for a moment before resuming its tormenting progress.

‘So. Do you want me to leave, Miss Olivia Silverdale?’

‘If you are here to help me, you may stay. But I don’t need you here if all you plan to do is poke fun at me,’ she said and he tossed the scarf on to the table. The sultry warmth was gone, confirming her suspicions, but she felt no victory at withstanding his charm.

‘I don’t find obsessions particularly amusing, Miss Silverdale. I am not here to help you, but to ensure you don’t do damage to my concerns with your rather colourful methods. My family name has been dragged through enough mud and we don’t need any help from outsiders in adding to our infamy.’

‘You said you weren’t here to prevent my meeting.’

‘I’m not. I am here to...oversee. I will be in the next room, listening as you do your occultist’s best to extract gold from Marcia Pendle, so keep that in mind as you delve. When you are done I want you to make it clear to her that her spectral friend will be taking an extended trip on the other side and will no longer be available to your summons. So have her make her tearful farewells and send her back to Catte Street. Permanently.’

‘I believe I told you I don’t enjoy being threatened, Lord Sinclair.’

‘I sympathise. I’m not fond of the feeling myself. So now we understand each other.’

‘I am not threatening you, I am merely trying to uncover—’

‘Yes, I understood you the first time, Miss Silverdale. You should consider it a serious concession that I am allowing even this meeting to take place. You take another step down this path without my knowledge and I move from threats to actions. Am I clear?’

‘To be fair, I did inform you of this step.’

‘Don’t split hairs.’

‘Out of curiosity, what actions are you contemplating?’

Some of the severity faded from his eyes.

‘You want me to show you my cards, Miss Silverdale? I’m insulted you think me such a soft touch.’

‘Not at all. I think you understand me well enough to know I am more likely to respond to a believable threat than to bombastic words.’

‘Very well then. My first action will be to send word to your brother, Guy Silverdale, as to your whereabouts and actions. As the head of your family he might object to his only sister leasing a house in a shabby-genteel part of London and arranging rendezvous with notorious rakes. Is that sufficient to start with?’

‘How did you know my brother’s name is Guy?’

‘I consulted my spectral spirit friends and they had a word with their Yorkshire connections by way of the ghost of Catherine the Great and Julius Caesar. Well, Olivia?’

Perhaps it was the way he said her name again, or perhaps it was merely his presence there and the fact he mentioned Guy’s name, as if knowing that would reach her above all else. She ought not to be worried; if he was completely serious about his threat he would have acted on it already. Which meant he was willing to make a concession, even if it was only out of curiosity. All she had to do was ensure he remained curious. It would mean coaxing him along, inch by inch.

She sat and extended her hand.

‘Very well, Lord Sinclair. After this evening dear departed George will take a long cruise down the River Styx until we agree otherwise.’

The hand might have been a mistake. Her nerve endings hadn’t calmed in the least from his scarf-toying and they leapt to attention as the warmth of his hand closed over hers, revelling in the contact. Her other hand twitched, as if envious, and she pulled away and hurried towards the door.

‘Marcia will be here soon so I must dress. I will be down directly.’

She didn’t wait for him to respond and, as she rushed upstairs, she didn’t know if she hoped he would still be there when she returned.

Chapter Five

Marcia Pendle’s cloying perfume rose like smoke from under the door and Lucas resisted the urge to move away. He did not want to miss any of the entertainment in the other room. Miss Olivia Silverdale might not know what a Bulgarian madame sounded like, but her version of a spirit-possessed fortune-teller would do well in a Drury Lane farce.

He had begun his vigil of her little masquerade annoyed as hell, but after half an hour of her antics he was having a hard time resisting the urge to laugh out loud. He couldn’t believe Marcia Pendle was taking her so seriously.

To give Miss Silverdale her due she paced her theatrical nonsense well. Just when Marcia Pendle was on the verge of extracting a promise of eternal fidelity from the deceased, who sounded like fidelity had not been his strong point during his corporeal state, Miss Silverdale sent him scurrying at the interruption of a host of avenging angels accusing Marcia of assisting in the perpetration of a heinous sin.

‘You must reveal all!’ Madame Bulgari intoned, her voice quivering with baritone outrage. ‘Only then will the Lords of the Gates be appeased and allow you to unite with George! The wife of the man you maligned has powerful spirits working for her. They can bar your way for ever!’

‘No! Please, Madame Bulgari, I only did what this man told me. I swear! He said it was to help someone from ruin. He weren’t no flash cove, nor sharp—why, he was nervous as a virgin on her bridal night. I reckoned the lady who rode that fellow so hard was his relation and he didn’t want questions. He gave me five guineas just to tell the constable I was this Henry Payton’s particular friend these past six months and that I visited him veiled and all. I told him don’t you worry, it happens, don’t I know it? I didn’t mean trouble; I thought I was doing a good turn. Tell the spirits!’

‘Calm yourself. They know your heart is true. They will seek the malefactor, but you must name him.’

‘The mal-e-what?’

‘He who did evil. The man who bade you lie.’

‘But I don’t know him, I tell you. He shows up and asks for me particular—says he heard I used to be on the stage and offers me five guineas. Five! He shows them to me, too, right there in the middle of Catte Street which shows you he has less sense than a day-old kitten. Clear as anything he didn’t want to be seen with me, had me walk three steps behind him the whole way from where the hackney left us. I only know his name because a man he passed tipped his hat and said, “Evening, Eldritch, fancy seeing you south of the river.” Poor fellow almost wet himself, turned redder than a duke in a new corset. I’m not saying it’s right, lying about who this Payton was frolicking with behind his missus’s back, but it ain’t a shade on the evil I’ve seen elsewhere. It ain’t right to punish me and my George for trying to help. You tell them that, will you?’

‘They hear you, but still you must present him to their judgement. Tell them what manner of man is he. Close your eyes and give him the image you see in your mind, give it to them so they may take away his sin from your spirit. Describe him.’

‘I don’t know. He was...a man. Not tall. He were dressed like a clerk or one of them better shopkeepers, brown eyes, I think, or black. I see a dozen of those a day at Madame’s, they look alike in the end. I’d say by his clothes he’s got a wife or someone who sees to his housekeeping, but they ain’t too well-padded. There’s the darning, neat stitches, but enough to say he doesn’t have too many Sunday clothes, see? If he’d have come to Madame Bernieres you can be sure he’d have been palmed off on the country girls who don’t know the tricks yet. He looked serious, scared, but then he ought to, oughtn’t he? Are they still angry, the spirits?’

The silence that followed her agonised question was punctuated by her tearful sniffling and Lucas reined in his impatience. Surely even the irrepressible Miss Silverdale recognised there was nothing more to be extracted from Marcia Pendle, even under the threat of eternal damnation. Finally there was a rustling and a shuddering sigh.

‘Ah, there is much water, fog, they are going away.’

‘But they won’t keep me from George when my time comes?’

‘For now they are appeased. But they say I am not to communicate with them again on your behalf unless they send word first. I dare not defy them.’

Lucas pushed away from the door frame. Marcia Pendle’s tale was far more sensible than Miss Silverdale’s theories. Perhaps now this outrageous young woman would abandon her fantasies of conspiracies. He glanced at the lists decorating the wall behind him and sighed. Not likely. People believed what they wanted to believe and Olivia Silverdale wanted to believe Henry Payton a wronged man.

When the front door closed behind the sniffling Marcia Pendle he entered the parlour. With the reek of perfume, the guttering candles and the garish scarves, it looked like a struggling brothel. Olivia was unwinding the gold-embroidered scarf that secured her curls and they tumbled down, glinting with copper and gold lights as they settled on her shoulders. She twisted them into a knot and secured it with a wooden pin, but tendrils escaped like trailing ivy, framing her face and curling around her neck and ears. Lucas picked up a discarded scarf to keep his hands occupied. It was a bad sign when he began contemplating helping a woman with her coiffure.

‘Well? What did you think?’ she asked the silence.

‘I think that was the worst Balkan accent I have ever had the misfortune to hear.’

Laughter burst in her eyes but her rouged mouth remained serious. It was a peculiar and unsettling combination.

‘It was effective, though, wasn’t it?’ she demanded.

‘That depends on what you consider effective.’ He went to the mantelpiece, snuffing the candles. ‘I think we should remove to your spider’s lair. This room reeks.’

She followed him into the study, untangling scarves as she went and balling them into a rainbowed lump. Without the veil she looked even more a parody of a fortune-teller, her cheeks and lips flared with rouge and her eyes dusky with kohl.

‘Can’t you take off that paint? You look like an actress from one of the lesser theatres.’

The honey-and-moss eyes sparkled with either amusement or annoyance, but her answer was all business.

‘I know we did not learn much beyond the fact that this Eldritch told her what to say to the constable, but at least that is something. We must find him.’

‘Sit down, Miss Silverdale. Let me explain something to you.’

She folded her arms, the tangle of scarves pressed against her bosom like a strangled pet, drawing his gaze to the low-cut bodice of the purple satin monstrosity she wore and to the tantalising cleft between what he judged were two delightfully shaped globes, neither too large nor too small. He regretfully removed his eyes from this unintended display and fixed them instead on hers.

‘Very well, stand if you wish. I will explain in small but explicit words so there can be no chance of a misunderstanding, and you will have to forgive me for not sparing your maidenly blushes because any woman dressed as you are dressed at the moment and pursuing your present course of action can surely survive a little plain speaking. Your godfather had the misfortune to expire mid-coitus—it is rare and highly undesirable, but it happens. It would have been better if the real person involved in this unfortunate situation had hared off and left Payton to be discovered in due course instead of involving a third party, but the fact remains this is nothing more than an unfortunate accident.’

‘But...’

‘But nothing. Your godfather was not perfect, no man is. If the worst you know of him is that he had an affair, then he is a man like many others, however regrettable that fact is. I suggest you accept this and move on, and by move on I mean back home at the soonest possible opportunity.’

‘What of the note I found with your father’s correspondence? What if they are connected after all? What if this Mr Eldritch was involved in his death? Perhaps he had been trying to prevent Henry from doing something or saying something or—’

‘Miss Silverdale,’ he interrupted again, ‘You clearly read too many novels. I have indulged your imagination far enough. You have a day to pack and leave Spinner Street and return whence you came or I will send a messenger to your family informing them of your whereabouts and your activities.’

‘Don’t you even wish to see your father’s letters?’

‘No, thank you. Twenty-four hours. By this time tomorrow you should be well on your way out of London. If you need help hiring a post chaise, I can offer my butler’s services. He is very discreet.’

Her arms spread wide, the crushed scarves fluttering in a parody of an exotic dance. ‘How can you be so certain there is no more to this than a weak heart and an officious relation? Can you honestly walk away without a qualm?’

‘Not honestly, sweetheart. Too late for that. But without a qualm, yes.’

‘Oh, don’t be so glib!’

‘Too late for that as well. What the devil do you think you will achieve if you keep rummaging in other people’s rubbish heaps? Do you think you will discover a dastardly plot to defame your godfather that somehow stretches back twenty years to another plot against my father? That you will redeem them from their own iniquity and win your godmother’s gratitude? The world doesn’t operate that way. Just accept that your godfather, like my father, was a weak man who made a mistake, or several. That is the end of this story. Anything else is pure indulgence on your part.’

Except for her garish clothes she looked a model of cool defiance, her shoulders back, her lips pressed firmly together and her eyes disdainful. But her hands gave her away, kneading away at the tangle of scarves, and he was sure he heard the rending of silk. He doubted the colourful fabrics would survive the evening.

Still, when she answered her voice was calm.

‘I know you are probably correct. About them. About me as well. But I must do this. If I walked away now...’ she shook her head ‘...I cannot do it. At least when I leave I shall know I did my best.’

She looked ridiculous but peculiarly appealing with her painted face and beseeching hazel eyes made far too vivid by the kohl. He assessed his options and sighed.

‘Do me a favour and scrub your face clean and put on something that doesn’t look like you stole it off a demi-monde’s back. Then we will talk. Calmly. Is there anything to drink here?’

‘Drink? There is brandy in the parlour. Gypsy Sue suggested having some on hand to make Marcia more generous. Or would you care for tea?’

‘I will find the brandy. Go and change.’

The brandy was surprisingly good and he took it into the study and poured himself a measure and on second thought poured her a glass, too. Perhaps it would make her more generous as well.

He paused with the glass halfway to his mouth at the thought of Olivia Silverdale being generous, the potency of the image surprising him with a rush of heat that flowed upwards from his stomach and then settled back into his groin with an insistent thudding. It was utterly unwelcome, but before he could push it aside it was followed by the realisation that she was somewhere upstairs, undressing. That the vulgar purple-satin dress was even now hissing downwards over her skin, puddling on the floor at her feet with a whisper like an exhaled breath.

He tightened his hold on his glass and grimaced at the unwelcome thoughts. She might be an appealing little thing, but despite her eccentricity she was clearly gently born and as far outside his areas of interest as was possible without being married with ten children. Besides, from what he witnessed in the church she had no positive outlook on physical intimacy.

The image returned of her standing in the church, chin up, eyes closed as that young cub bent to kiss her. It was a submissive stance except for the fact that her hands had been fisted and her mouth anything but inviting. She looked more like a soldier before a firing squad, defiant but resolved to embrace his fate, than a young woman about to be kissed. It struck him as strange then, but doubly so now. Someone so very passionate about life should not look like that when a young man she clearly cares for steals a very chaste kiss.

I must do this...

He swirled his brandy, watching it lick against the edges of the glass.

It was not his concern. She might not be able to tame her curiosity, but he had years of experience doing just that. The fact that his discipline was lagging in his dealings with her was no excuse to slacken control further. She was not his concern. The ragged remnants of the Sinclair name were. Sam should not have to weather any more storms and so his only concern was to push this genie back into her bottle and move on.

‘Oh, good. You found it. Is that for me?’

He turned, his body clenching in readiness to either administer or receive a blow. She was transformed again—she was wearing a cream-muslin dress with rows of tiny pale-yellow flowers marking the bodice and sleeves. The makeup was gone, but her lips and cheeks were reddened from rubbing and a faint shadow lingered around her eyes. She had not even tried to dress her hair, but merely twisted her curls a little more rigorously into an off-centre knot and secured them with what looked like short knitting needles. She looked like what he imagined a young woman from the country would look like in the privacy of the breakfast room, still warm from bed and with nothing more on her mind than embroidery and morning calls. Not that he had much experience with that breed or wanted to. What he wanted was to pull one of those needles and see if that knot of burnished curls survived. Then take out the other and watch it all unfurl. Then lead her upstairs and watch her remove that proper dress as well.

Hell and damnation. This was the very definition of unwelcome.

She sat, sipped her brandy, frowned and sipped it again.

‘This is rather foul. Do men truly enjoy it or do they merely drink it for the pleasure of becoming intoxicated? By the way, I should warn you I have no intention of leaving London tomorrow.’

‘Not voluntarily. I’m aware of that.’

‘Not even under duress. I must at least discover who this Mr Eldritch is. If he is indeed merely a concerned relation and there is another woman involved, then...well, perhaps you are right. But I must try. Well? You said you wished to talk. What shall we talk about?’

How I am going to bed you.

He smiled at his unaccustomed descent into folly and shook his head.

‘Who was that young man you were kissing at St George’s?’

Her eyes widened and a flush rushed over her cheekbones, as vivid as Madame Bulgari’s rouge.

‘You saw us?’

‘I saw him accost you by your carriage and, as you pointed out, I am a curious fellow, so, yes, I followed you back into the church.’

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘You weren’t meant to. So, who is he?’

‘Colin Payton. Henry Payton’s son.’

‘Ah, I see. What is there between you?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Are you engaged to that young pup?’

Her mouth flattened and her eyes narrowed.

‘He is not a young pup; he is but a good man. But, no, we are not engaged.’

‘If you go about kissing him in churches you are as near to engaged as possible without the priest reading the banns. Why didn’t you tell me this is one of your reasons for wanting Payton cleared? If I am to help you, you must be honest with me, Miss Silverdale.’

‘I didn’t tell you because it isn’t true.’

‘So you kiss men in churches for the sheer pleasure of it?’

‘He kissed me—I didn’t instigate it.’ Her ferocity confirmed his observation, though he couldn’t tell if it was merely a virgin’s inexperience or some deeper objection. Probably the former; her obsession with conspiracies was making him see shadows when there were none. His experience with virgins was thankfully minimal; for all he knew they all reacted like that at the prospect of physical intimacy.

Before he could respond she pressed her hands together, calming. ‘But I might marry him, if I cannot solve this any other way.’

‘How precisely would matrimony solve it?’

‘Well, it would at least solve the financial concerns that Henry’s death caused. I am very wealthy, you see. If my brother Jack had married his sister Phoebe they would have had his protection, both financial and otherwise, but he died and now it falls to me to help as much as I can.’

‘I see. Very noble of you.’

‘It has nothing to do with being noble. I am merely trying to do what is right for people for whom I care deeply. To answer your as-yet-unspoken question, no, I will not cease merely because you tell me to, so I think it is in your best interest to help me rather than try to chase me away.’

‘And so we circle back to your agenda. Are you always this stubborn or do I bring out the worst in you?’

‘Both.’

He laughed, moving forward to raise her chin with the tips of his fingers.

‘Do you know, if you want me to comply, you should try to be a little less demanding and a little more conciliating.’

‘I don’t know why I should bother. You will no doubt do precisely as you wish without regard for anyone. So far, the only way I have found of persuading you is either by appealing to your curiosity or to your self-interest. I don’t see what good begging would do.’

He slid his thumb gently over her chin, just brushing the line of her lip, and watched as her eyes dilated with what could as much be a sign of alarm as physical interest. He wished he knew which. His blood was simmering, expanding, demanding he find out.

‘It depends what you are begging for,’ he said softly, pulling very slightly on her lower lip. Her breath caught, but she still did not move. Stubborn and imprudent. Or did she really trust him not to take advantage of the fact that they were alone in an empty house in a not-very-genteel part of London?

It really was a pity she planned to waste herself on that dull and dependable young man. What on earth did she think her life would be like with him? All that leashed intensity would burn the poor fool to a crisp if he ever set it loose, which was unlikely. A couple of years of being tied to him and she would be chomping at the bit and probably very ripe for a nice flirtation.

He shook his head at his thoughts. Whatever else he was, and whatever his body was unexpectedly demanding, he had never yet crossed the line with an inexperienced young woman; they were too apt to confuse physical pleasure with emotional connection. It wouldn’t be smart to indulge this temptation to see if those lips were as soft and delectable as they looked. Not smart, but very tempting...

‘You could always offer a trade,’ he prompted gently, testing the line of her lip with another soft brush of his thumb. The sensation was addictive.

‘A trade?’ Her voice was husky and she cleared her throat.

‘I will try to find out who Eldritch is...’

‘And what must I do?’ Her expression was wary, but she did not pull away and if anything the tension in her shoulders relaxed, as if becoming accustomed to the licence he was taking. He wasn’t certain that was an encouraging sign either.

‘If it is about turning my back on this, then there is no trade,’ she added as the silence stretched.

‘I wouldn’t think of asking for something I know you are constitutionally incapable of. It is something much simpler.’

‘Well, what?’ She frowned and he hesitated. However much he wanted to test this strange need that was sinking its claws in him, the thought of asking her for something she had shown such an aversion to when approached by her friend was too uncomfortable. It was a breach of trust where trust should not be an issue at all, and that was problematic. He breathed in and dropped his hand, stepping back.

‘Never mind.’

She moved towards him.

‘No. Tell me what it is!’

The command should have served further to convince him he should leave this room, this house, this peculiar woman’s fantasy. Instead it prodded further at his own fantasy.

‘You tell me. What would that information be worth?’

‘Do you mean in monetary terms?’

‘No. I have no need for your money. This is pointless. Goodbye, Miss Silverdale.’

She caught his arm.

‘Oh, please just tell me. I need your help, but I have nothing else to offer but my money. Nothing someone like you might value, at least.’

‘Someone like me?’

Her beseeching eyes fell from his.

‘Someone with...experience. I can hardly imagine you would wish for anything along such lines from someone like me.’

‘Someone like you?’

‘Unremarkable.’ The word burst from her as if it had been lodged in her throat. It was not her word, and that was surprising in itself. Who in their right mind would call this woman unremarkable?

‘That is one epithet I would never associate with you. Believe me, Miss Silverdale, you are one of the most remarkable women of my acquaintance.’

Her cheeks, already pink, heated and so did every cell in his body. He touched his fingers lightly to the hand clutching his arm so desperately.

‘I will pledge to find this Mr Eldritch for you if I can.’

Her hand did not relax.

‘You will? Just like that? Without recompense?’

‘Without. But then you are on your own.’

She let go and as her tension seeped away he saw the return of her curiosity.

‘What were you about to ask for, Lord Sinclair?’

‘You have what you wanted. What difference does it make?’

‘I dare say it doesn’t, but I am curious.’

He sighed. ‘Of course you are. You will be pleased to find you were spared the noxious experience of being asked for a kiss.’

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

‘A kiss?’

‘You needn’t sound so shocked.’

‘You cannot be serious,’ she said, her voice scolding.

‘Rarely, but in this instance I am. It was merely a kiss, I was not about to ask for your first-born child.’

‘But why?’

‘Now that is a question worthy of being ignored. You have what you want. Now I had best leave before you further crush my vanity underfoot.’

‘I am not... It is merely that it seems a little silly. I mean, the gossip columnists hint you have dozens of mistresses, why would you wish for a kiss from me?’

‘I’m beginning to wonder that myself. Do you know you are the most aggravating woman...girl...whatever... I have ever met? Goodbye, Miss Silverdale.’

‘Wait.’

Despite his better judgement he paused at the door. ‘What now, Miss Silverdale?’

‘Did you really wish to kiss me?’ She looked so confused his impatience waned. His frustration on the other hand...

‘I do, but it was extremely foolish of me to make that suggestion. I am well aware that despite your Spinner Street fantasies you are a respectable young woman and one with a dislike of being...approached. That much was evident by your martyr’s stance when Payton’s son did no more than tickle your cheek.’

She pressed her hands to her cheeks.

‘It isn’t that I... I never did until...’

Anger bubbled up in him at this confirmation of his suspicion. He wondered what clumsy fool had left his mark on her. It probably wasn’t the boring Payton boy, she seemed quite fond of him and the kiss they exchanged had been as unthreatening as being accosted with a daisy. Still, it was all the more reason to leave now. She wasn’t his responsibility.

‘Someone hurt you.’

Her mouth thinned.

‘Someone lied to me and used me and that hurt most of all, but he never... It hardly matters, it is in the past. But you are wrong about Colin. I didn’t wish for him to kiss me because he would then read into that single kiss a hundred things I am not ready for and I would once again find myself in a corner, with no choices that reflect my own wishes. This is different; you don’t want anything from me but a kiss and I am still not quite certain why you want even that. Do you understand?’

He refrained from correcting her that what he wanted went quite a bit beyond a mere kiss.

‘I think I do.’

She smiled, her eyes narrowing, more honey than green. They were speculative now and he remembered how she inspected him that first day in the church—even though she had been tense and afraid, there was that same assessing gaze, measuring his worth.

‘May we try, then?’

‘Try what?’ He was rapidly losing control of the situation. She could not possibly mean...

‘Kissing. I cannot bear the thought that every time I think of it I must think of...him. When Henry died I decided that perfidious wretch had affected my life far too much. So perhaps this is a good idea. I wish to take his power away and I may not have such an opportunity again. After all, I know I can trust you not to tattle. I’m a little worried, though. What if I do hate it? Do you think you could contrive to be convincing?’

Only a madman would pick up that hand with the cards so absolutely stacked against him. He might on occasion be a little reckless, though certainly less than society imagined, but he never...

‘I could try.’

‘Good. Thank you.’

She straightened resolutely, shoulders back. Her cheeks were still flushed, but the animation was fading from her features and she looked as she had in the church waiting for that young man to kiss her.

Contrarily it was the anxiety behind the determination that held him there. It made no sense for someone as intensely passionate as she to react with such a mixture of resolution and fear to a mere kiss. He wasn’t certain if he agreed with her experimentation analogy, but it struck him that, his own undeniable interest aside, to spurn her request now would be to add insult to injury. He would just have to be very, very careful. He was well served that his foolish impulse to satisfy his curiosity by bartering for a quick kiss had landed him in such hot water. That would teach his impulses not to escape their fetters again in future.

He raised her chin gently and her lips tensed, pressing together hard.

‘Relax, I will not kiss you yet.’

Her eyes flickered up to his.

‘You won’t?’

‘I will tell you before I do and, if you wish me not to, you have only to say so. Now close your eyes.’

‘Why?’

He sighed. ‘Just trust me. I promise I will not kiss you without asking first. Now close your eyes.’

She obeyed, frowning, and he touched her cheek, moving his fingers lightly over her cheekbone to where a downy wave of brown hair curled over the tip of her ear. He brushed his thumb over its warmth, easing it back from her temple with soft stroking motions, his hand moulding to the curve of her jaw as he tucked it behind her ear. Her shoulder rose a fraction and he watched the flickering of her lashes, surprisingly dark and long, the shifting of her brows as they moved in and out of a frown as if trying to hear something far away.

He kept his touch light and soothing as his fingers explored the contours of her face, wondered what she was thinking. Whether despite her determination to master her thoughts and reactions she was cringing inside, linking his touch with memories of pain and humiliation.

‘Is it terrible?’ he whispered. ‘Shall I stop?’

Her brows twitched again, but she didn’t open her eyes or speak, just shook her head. It was hardly an accolade to his appeal, but it did quite a bit of damage, relief flowing through him more potently than her brandy, and he couldn’t stop his gaze from settling on her mouth or his head sinking towards hers. So he closed his own eyes and concentrated on touch. On the slide of his fingers over the curve of her ear, her neck, on to the hard ridge of her collarbone and the sweep of her shoulder, then back up again.

Without seeing them there were revelations on the journey. The lobe of her ear was softer than any he had ever felt, so much so he had to feel it again, brushing his palm against it and barely controlling the shudder that rushed up his arms to join the building agony in the rest of his body. Then there was her collarbone. He had noticed it before with the eye of a connoisseur who could appreciate architectural highlights, but under his fingers it was combination of hard lines and velvety skin; it drew his fingers along its definite sweep and made his body imagine her hands touching him in a mirror image of his caresses, sending tingling sensations over his chest to join the rising heat below.

His hands itched to go lower so he made them rise again, rewarding them by touching that impossibly soft skin beneath her ear where her pulse was fluttering as swiftly as his, then moving gently along her jaw and cheeks, resisting the urge to touch her mouth with every ounce of his control. He couldn’t remember the last time he had either touched a woman so innocently or been swamped by such mind-numbing need. He gathered his disintegrating control. It was time to either go forward or retreat.

‘May I kiss you now? I will stop the moment you ask.’

Her lips parted and she nodded slightly, the words sliding out, hardly audible, but they seemed to enter directly into this chest, two spears dipped in molten lead.

‘Yes, please...’

He had never felt such tension at the thought of just kissing a woman. The need to be gentle was in absolute opposition to his desire. But it was imperative that he not scare her, and allowing her to feel one iota of the heat tormenting him would probably send her running.

He touched his mouth to hers. The burn was immediate, like making contact with a live flame under a veil of silk. Her body jerked, her breath hitching, and he fought his own instinctive recoil at the contact. He held himself still, just absorbing the feel of her lips, as her breath, short and shallow, feathered over his lips. It was both torture and exquisite—nothing was happening, but every passing second the sensations shifted, sparking little shivers of pleasure along his lips that danced out through his body like ecstatic messengers preparing the ground for a feast. Her heartbeat thundered where his palms were pressed against her neck and cheek.

Finally, he felt something in the balance of her body shift; a slight quiver ran through her and her lips parted just a little, her lower lip sliding between his, until he felt the perfect point where the pillowy softness was damp, warmer. He concentrated on keeping his movements slight, gentle, sliding one hand into her hair, his thumb brushing over her ear as he pulled her lip slowly between his, tasting it.

His other hand moved over her shoulder, to her waist, holding her as he moved in, trying not to drag her against him as he wanted to, just bringing his body to touch hers. Her own hands, which had hung by her sides, rose languidly, resting for a moment on the lapels of his coat, then with another devastating shiver they slid up and around his nape, her fingers skimming into his hair, moving gently against his scalp. He wanted to arch his head back, force her to go further, to sink her hands into his hair, press her body the length of his, he wanted her to sink her teeth into the stinging need spreading in the wake of the sweep of her lips against his. The disconnect between her languid movements and the raging fire they were feeding finally dragged him to a halt.

He drew back, but he didn’t let her go or do more than manage even an inch of distance between their mouths.

‘That was nice.’ Her breath brushed against his lips, soft and warm as a Mediterranean breeze. But her words were as lacklustre as ditch water and dragged him categorically back to reality.

Nice.

‘For someone who was not certain she would like kissing, you did very well,’ he managed to say.

She moved back, but his hands remained on the soft curve of her waist. She didn’t appear to notice and he wasn’t going to call her attention to it because he wasn’t quite ready to let her go. Her eyes were half-closed and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth. It slid out, moist and full, and the tense knot of heat and desire tightened like a ship’s rigging in full gale winds and then her eyes softened in a smile that hit him like a fist to the gut. If he didn’t know better, he could well believe she had conceived of the perfect seduction. It was certainly far too effective.

‘I am glad I tried. This was quite...different,’ she replied.

Different. Almost worse than ‘Nice.’ Before he could respond she stepped back.

‘Do you really believe there is a chance you will find this Mr Eldritch?’

He let her go and moved towards the door.

‘I will do my best. Such a sacrifice on your part shouldn’t go unrewarded.’

He didn’t wait to hear her response. He was damned if he gave her any more opportunities to make a fool out of him.

Olivia went to sit at her desk, staring at the still-open door of the study until the thud of the area door closing brought her a little closer to the surface.

She touched her lower lip. It felt strange, puffy and sensitive like the time Jack accidently bumped his head against hers while struggling for ownership of a croquet mallet, except that it didn’t hurt. Everywhere Lord Sinclair had touched and a few places he hadn’t felt strange—tingly and restless and pulsing, as if he had scoured away layers of sheltering skin. She felt strange.

To think she had worried it would give even more power to those images and memories of Bertram. The moment his fingertips brushed her mouth her mind latched on to the sensation like Twitch on to a stick. By the time he asked if he could kiss her it would have taken a great deal more strength than she possessed to say no.

Now that he was gone she wondered where she had found the temerity to ask him to kiss her. She had told him far too much, revealed much more than she ever revealed to anyone. She had trusted him. She must be quite mad. He certainly must have thought her mad. She winced at the memory of her comments about experimentation. What had she been thinking to prattle on so? It seemed so natural, so right to share with him that fear, that need, her curiosity...

At least if she had utterly humiliated herself, again, there was some comfort in knowing she was not fated to think of Bertram the moment a man approached her. As much as she enjoyed Bertram’s embraces before his betrayal, she could not remember ever feeling them so potently. She remembered Bertram’s own excitement, his endearments, and especially the feeling of power over him. And all of those had been lies. This was different. She was not even certain the earl enjoyed the kiss or whether for him it was merely curiosity and dominance.

All she knew was that she remembered every second of it, every element of it. The sensation of his hair sliding between her fingers, silkier and warmer than those scarves, the scent of musk and soap and something far away but so familiar. Even with her eyes closed images filled her mind—the way his eyes narrowed and darkened as he bent over her, the strength of the long fingers bringing her skin to life, his mouth a breath away from hers... And then the scalding moment of contact and the kiss...

She had been utterly present and utterly lost in the moment.

Even now that he was gone she still felt...strong. Alive.

Confused.

She shivered and picked up his glass of brandy, watching the amber liquid pitch and sway. The packet of his father’s letters was right there, the handwriting on them still clear despite two decades having passed. He had looked right at them without a sign of recognition. Surely anyone...anyone normal would show some curiosity about letters from their deceased parent, no matter how much they disliked that parent? She wasn’t very fond of hers but she would definitely be curious if someone presented her with a packet of their lost letters, even if they were most likely about orchids and other rare flora.

Too much about this man didn’t make sense.

She sighed and sipped the brandy and stared at her wall. Then she pulled a sheet of paper towards her and dipped her quill into the inkpot. In her scrawled writing she wrote and underlined the title:

Lord Sinclair. Characteristics...

Chapter Six

Lucas paid the hackney driver and continued on foot. He was a half-mile from Spinner Street, but he would do well to expend some of his excess energy along the way. He wasn’t accustomed to rebellions either from his libido or his conscience and to have both of them heading in the wrong direction was surely a good indication to retreat.

And yet here he was. He couldn’t even completely blame it on his rebellious body. It had never ruled him in the past, whatever society chose to think, and he had no intention of allowing it to do so at his age. But he couldn’t shake the conflicting images of Olivia Silverdale that dogged his steps as he went about unearthing the identity of her mysterious Eldritch—the garish Madame Bulgari in her satins and silks, the coolly veiled woman issuing her demands, and especially the girl waiting to experiment with kissing, managing to look both lost and fiercely determined all at once.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.