A Night Like This (17 page)

Harriet looked up.

“Don’t ever let anyone hear you say that out of context.”

Harriet laughed aloud at that, then gave her papers a little shake to indicate that she was ready to begin. “Act two,” she read with a flourish. “And don’t worry, you shouldn’t be too confused, especialy now that we’ve reviewed all the wifely demises.” But before Harriet reached act three, Lady Pleinsworth entered the room, her expression urgent and grave. “I must speak with Miss Wynter,” she said to Harriet.

“Please leave us.”

“But we haven’t even—”

“
Now,
Harriet.”

Harriet gave Anne a
what-can-this-be
look, which Anne did not acknowledge, not with Lady Pleinsworth standing over her, looking like a thundercloud.

Harriet gathered her papers and left. Lady Pleinsworth walked to the door, listened to make sure that Harriet had not lingered to eavesdrop, then turned to Anne and said, “The reins were cut.”

Anne gasped. “What?”

“The reins. On Lord Winstead’s curricle. They had been cut.”

“No. That’s impossible. Why would—” But she knew why. And she knew who.

George Chervil.

Anne felt herself blanch. How had he found her here? And how could he have known—

The posting inn. She and Lord Winstead had been inside at least half an hour. Anyone who had been watching her would have realized that she would be riding home in his curricle.

Anne had long since accepted that time would not dampen George Chervil’s fire for revenge, but she’d never thought he would be so reckless as to threaten the life of another person, especialy someone of Daniel’s position. He was the Earl of Winstead, for heaven’s sake. The death of a governess would most likely go uninvestigated, but an earl?

George was insane. Or at least more so than he’d been before. There could be no other explanation.

“The horses came back several hours ago,” Lady Pleinsworth continued. “The grooms were sent out to retrieve the curricle, and that’s when they saw it. It was a clear act of sabotage. Worn leather does not snap in an even, straight line.”

“No,” Anne said, trying to take it all in.

“I don’t suppose you have some nefarious enemy in your past you’ve neglected to tell us about,” Lady Pleinsworth said.

Anne’s throat went dry. She was going to have to lie. There was no other—

But Lady Pleinsworth must have been engaging in a bit of galows humor, because she did not wait for a reply. “It’s Ramsgate,” she said. “God
damn
it, the man has lost all reason.”

Anne could only stare, not sure if she was relieved that she’d been spared the sin of lying or shocked that Lady Pleinsworth had so furiously taken the Lord’s name in vain.

And maybe Lady Pleinsworth was right. Maybe this had nothing to do with Anne, and the vilain was indeed the Marquess of Ramsgate. He’d chased Daniel out of the country three years earlier; surely it was within his character to try to have him murdered now. And he certainly would not care if he took the life of a governess in the process.

“He promised Daniel he would leave him alone,” Lady Pleinsworth raged, pacing the room. “That’s the only reason he came back, you know. He thought he would be safe. Lord Hugh went all the way to Italy to tell him that his father had promised to put an end to all this nonsense.” She let out a frustrated noise, her hands fisted tightly at her sides. “It has been three years. Three years he was in exile. Isn’t that enough? Daniel didn’t even kill his son. It was just a wound.” fisted tightly at her sides. “It has been three years. Three years he was in exile. Isn’t that enough? Daniel didn’t even kill his son. It was just a wound.” Anne kept quiet, not sure that she was supposed to be taking part in this conversation.

But then Lady Pleinsworth turned and looked at her directly. “I assume you know the story.”

“Most of it, I believe.”

“Yes, of course. The girls would have told you everything.” She crossed her arms, then uncrossed them, and it occurred to Anne that she had never seen her employer so distraught. Lady Pleinsworth gave her head a shake, then said, “I don’t know how Virginia is going to bear it. It nearly kiled her before when he left the country.”

Virginia must be Lady Winstead, Daniel’s mother. Anne had not known her given name.

“Wel,” Lady Pleinsworth said, then abruptly added, “I suppose you can sleep now. The sun’s gone down.”

“Thank you,” Anne said. “Please give—” But she stopped there.

“Did you say something?” Lady Pleinsworth inquired.

Anne shook her head. It would have been inappropriate to ask Lady Pleinsworth to give her regards to Lord Winstead. Or if not that, then unwise.

Lady Pleinsworth took a step toward the door, then paused. “Miss Wynter,” she said.

“Yes?”

Lady Pleinsworth turned slowly around. “There is one thing.”

Anne waited. It was not like her employer to leave such silences in the middle of conversation. It did not bode wel.

“It has not escaped my notice that my nephew . . .” Again, she paused, possibly searching for the correct combination of words.

“Please,” Anne blurted out, certain that her continued employment was hanging by a thread. “Lady Pleinsworth, I assure you—”

“Don’t interrupt,” Lady Pleinsworth said, although not unkindly. She held up a hand, instructing Anne to wait as she gathered her thoughts. Finaly, just when Anne was sure she could not bear it any longer, she said, “Lord Winstead seems quite taken with you.” Anne hoped Lady Pleinsworth did not expect a reply.

“I am assured of your good judgment, am I not?” Lady Pleinsworth added.

“Of course, my lady.”

“There are times when a woman must exhibit a sensibility that men lack. I believe this is one of those times.” She paused and looked at Anne directly, indicating that this time she
did
expect a reply. So Anne said, “Yes, my lady,” and prayed that was enough.

“The truth is, Miss Wynter, I know very little about you.”

Anne’s eyes widened.

“Your references are impeccable, and of course your behavior since joining our household has been above reproach. You are quite the finest governess I have ever employed.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“But I don’t know anything about your family. I don’t know who your father was, or your mother, or what sort of connections you might possess. You have been well brought up, that much is clear, but beyond that . . .” She held up her hands. And then she looked directly into Anne’s eyes. “My nephew must marry someone with a clear and unstained status.”

“I realize that,” Anne said quietly.

“She will almost certainly come from a noble family.”

Anne swalowed, trying not to let any emotion show on her face.

“It is not strictly necessary, of course. It is possible he might marry a girl from the gentry. But she would have to be most exceptional.” Lady Pleinsworth took a step toward her, and her head tilted slightly to the side, as if she were trying to see right down inside of her. “I like you, Miss Wynter,” she said slowly, “but I do not know you. Do you understand?”

Anne nodded.

Lady Pleinsworth walked to the door and placed her hand on the knob. “I suspect,” she said quietly, “that you do not want me to know you.” And then she departed, leaving Anne alone with her flickering candle and tortuous thoughts.

There was no misconstruing the meaning of Lady Pleinsworth’s comments. She had been warning her to stay away from Lord Winstead, or rather, to make sure that
he
stayed away from
her
. But it had been bittersweet. She’d left a sad little door open, hinting that Anne
might
be considered a suitable match if more were known of her background.

But of course that was impossible.

Could you imagine? Teling Lady Pleinsworth the truth about her background?

Well, the thing is, I’m not a virgin.

And my name is not really Anne Wynter.

Oh, and I stabbed a man and now he’s madly hunting me until I’m dead.

A desperate, horrified giggle popped out of Anne’s throat. What a resumé that was.

“I’m a prize,” she said into the darkness, and then she laughed some more. Or maybe she cried. After a while, it was hard to tell which was which.

T
he folowing morning, before any female member of his family could put a stop to what Daniel knew was improper behavior, he strode down the hall and rapped sharply on the door to the blue guest bedroom. He was already dressed for traveling; he planned to leave for London within the hour.

There was no sound from within the chamber, so Daniel knocked again. This time he heard a bit of rustling, folowed by a groggy “Enter.” There was no sound from within the chamber, so Daniel knocked again. This time he heard a bit of rustling, folowed by a groggy “Enter.” He did, shutting the door behind him just in time to hear Anne gasp, “My lord!”

“I need to speak with you,” he said succinctly.

She nodded, scrambling to pull her covers up to her chin, which he frankly thought was ridiculous, given the thoroughly unappealing sack she appeared to have put on in lieu of a nightgown.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, blinking furiously.

Without preamble, he said, “I’m leaving for London this morning.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I’m sure you know by now that the harness was cut.”

She nodded.

“It was Lord Ramsgate,” he said. “One of his men. Probably the one I went out to investigate. The one I told you was a drunkard.”

“You said he wreaked havoc from the stables to the inn,” she whispered.

“Indeed,” he said, every muscle in his body straining to keep himself perfectly still as he spoke. If he moved, if he let down his guard for even one moment, he did not know what would happen. He might scream. He might beat the wals. All he knew was that something furious was building within him, and every time he thought it was done, that his rage could not possibly expand further, something inside seemed to pop and crackle. His skin grew too tight, and the anger, the fury—it fought to break free.

Hotter. Blacker. Squeezing at his very soul.

“Lord Winstead?” she said quietly, and he could not imagine what sliver of rage had shown on his face, because her eyes had grown wide and alarmed. And then, in the barest of whispers: “Daniel?”

It was the first time she had said his name.

He swalowed, clenching his teeth together as he fought for control. “This would not be the first time he has tried to kill me,” he finaly said. “But it is the first time he has very nearly kiled someone else in the attempt.”

He watched her closely. She was still clutching the covers under her chin, her fingers wrapped over the edge. Her mouth moved, as if she wanted to say something. He waited.

She did not speak.

He remained still, his body straight, his hands clasped behind his back. There was something so unbearably formal about the tableau, despite the fact that Anne was in bed, her hair mussed with sleep, a single thick braid resting on her right shoulder.

They did not usualy speak with such stiffness. Perhaps they should have done, perhaps that would have saved him from such infatuation, which would have saved her from being in his company on the day Ramsgate had chosen to make his move.

It would have been better for her if they had never met, clearly.

“What will you do?” she finaly asked.

“When I find him?”

She gave a small nod.

“I don’t know. If he’s lucky I won’t strangle him on sight. He was probably behind the attack in London, too. The one we all thought was just bad luck, a couple of petty thieves out for a heavy purse.”

“It might have been,” she said. “You can’t know. People are robbed all the time in London. It’s—”

“Are you defending him?” he asked incredulously.

“No! Of course not. It’s just that . . . Well. . .” She swalowed, the convulsive movement rippling down her throat. When she spoke again her voice was quite small. “You don’t have all of the information.”

For a moment he just stared at her, not trusting himself to speak. “I spent the last three years running from his men in Europe,” he finaly said. “Did you know that?

No? Wel, I did. And I’m sick of it. If he wanted revenge on me, he has surely wrought it. Three years of my life, stolen. Do you have any idea what that’s like? To have three years of your life ripped from you?”

Her lips parted, and for a moment he thought she might actualy say yes. She looked dazed, almost hypnotized, and then finaly she said, “I’m sorry. Go on.”

“I will speak to his son first. I can trust Lord Hugh. Or at least I always thought I could.” Daniel closed his eyes for a moment and simply breathed, trying to keep hold of an equilibrium that would not stay still. “I don’t know whom I can trust any longer.”

“You can—” She stopped. Swalowed. Had she been about to say that he could trust her? He looked at her closely, but she had turned away, her eyes focused on the nearby window. The curtains were drawn, but she was still staring at it as if there were something to see. “I wish you the safest of journeys,” she whispered.

“You’re angry with me,” he said.

Her head whipped around to face him. “No. No, of course not. I would never—”

“You would not have been injured had you not been in my curricle,” he cut in. He would never forgive himself for the injuries he had caused her. He needed her to know that. “It is my fault that you—”

“No!” she cried out, and she jumped from the bed, rushing toward him but then stopping abruptly. “No, that’s not true. I— I just— No,” she said, so firmly that her chin bobbed in sharp punctuation. “It’s not true.”

He stared at her. She was almost within his reach. If he leaned forward, if he stretched out his arm, he could take hold of her sleeve. He could pull her to him, and together they would melt, he into her, she into him, until they would not know where one ended and the other began.

“It’s not your fault,” she said with quiet force.

“I am the one upon whom Lord Ramsgate wishes revenge,” he reminded her softly.

“We are not—” She looked away, but not before she wiped one of her eyes with the back of her hand. “We are not responsible for the actions of others,” she said. Her voice shook with emotion, and her gaze did not meet his. “Especialy not those of a madman,” she finished.

“No,” he said, his voice a strange staccato in the soft morning air. “But we do bear responsibility for those around us. Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances—would you not have me keep them safe?”

“No,” she said, her brow coming together in distress. “That’s not what I meant. You know it wasn’t—”

“I am responsible for every person on this land,” he cut in. “For you, too, while you are here. And as long as I know that someone wishes me il, it is my charge and obligation to make sure that I do not carry a single other person into my danger.”

She stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes, and Daniel wondered what she saw.
Who
she saw. The words coming from his mouth were unfamiliar. He sounded like his father, and his grandfather before him. Was this what it meant to have inherited an ancient title, to have been entrusted with the lives and livelihoods of all who like his father, and his grandfather before him. Was this what it meant to have inherited an ancient title, to have been entrusted with the lives and livelihoods of all who resided on his land? He had been made the earl so young, and then been forced to leave England but a year later.

This was what it meant, he finaly realized. This was what it all meant.

“I will not see you hurt,” he said, his voice so low it almost shook.

She closed her eyes, but then the skin at her temples wrinkled and tensed, almost as if she was in pain.

“Anne,” he said, stepping forward.

But she shook her head, almost violently, and an awful choking sob burst from her throat.

It nearly tore him in two.

“What is it?” he said, crossing the distance between them. He put his hands on her upper arms, maybe to support her . . . maybe to support himself. And then he had to stop, to simply breathe. The urge to hold her closer was overwhelming. When he’d come into her room this morning he had told himself he would not touch her, he would not come close enough to feel the way the air moved across her skin. But this—he could not bear it.

“No,” she said, her body twisting, but not enough to make him think she meant it. “Please. Go. Just go.”

“Not until you tel—”

“I can’t,” she cried out, and then she did shake him off, stepping back until they were once again separated by the chil air of the morning. “I can’t tell you what you want to hear. I can’t be with you, and I can’t even see you again. Do you understand?” He did not answer. Because he did understand what she was saying. But he did not agree with it.

She swalowed and her hands came to cover her face, rubbing and stretching across her skin with such anguish that he almost reached out to stop her. “I can’t be with you,” she said, the words coming out with such suddenness and force that he wondered just whom she was trying to convince. “I am not . . . the person . . .” She looked away.

“I am not a suitable woman for you,” she said to the window. “I am not of your station, and I am not—” He waited. She’d almost said something else. He was sure of it.

But when she spoke, her voice had changed tenor, and she sounded too deliberate. “You will ruin me,” she said. “You won’t mean to, but you wil, and I will lose my position and all I hold dear.”

She looked him in the eye as she said that, and he nearly flinched at the emptiness he saw in her face.

“Anne,” he said, “I will protect you.”

“I don’t want your protection,” she cried. “Don’t you understand? I have learned how to care for myself, to keep myself—” She stopped, then finished with: “I can’t be responsible for you, too.”

“You don’t have to be,” he answered, trying to make sense of her words.

She turned away. “You don’t understand.”

“No,” he said harshly. “No, I don’t.” How could he? She kept secrets, held them to her chest like tiny treasures, leaving him to beg for her memories like some damned dog.

“Daniell. . . ,” she said softly, and there it was again. His name, and it was like he’d never heard it before. Because when she spoke, he felt every sound like a caress. Every sylable landed on his skin like a kiss.

“Anne,” he said, and he didn’t even recognize his voice. It was rough, and hoarse with need, and laced with desire, and . . . and . . .

And then, before he had a clue what he was about, he puled her roughly into his arms and was kissing her like she was water, air, his very salvation. He needed her with a desperation that would have shaken him to his core if he’d let himself think about it.

But he wasn’t thinking. Not right now. He was tired of thinking, tired of worrying. He wanted just to feel. He wanted to let passion rule his senses, and his senses rule his body.

He wanted her to want him the very same way.

“Anne, Anne,” he gasped, his hands franticaly tugging against the awful wool of her nightgown. “What you do to me—” She cut him off, not with words but with her body, pressing it against his with an urgency that matched his own. Her hands were on his shirt, tearing at the front, puling it open until he felt her on his skin.

It was more than he could bear.

With a guttural moan, he half-lifted, half-turned her until they went tumbling to the bed, and finaly he had her exactly where he’d wanted her for what felt like a lifetime. Under him, her legs softly cradling him.

“I want you,” he said, even though it could hardly have been in doubt. “I want you now, in every way a man can want a woman.” His words were coarse, but he liked them that way. This wasn’t romance, this was pure need. She’d almost died. He might die tomorrow. And if that happened, if the end came and he hadn’t tasted paradise first . . .

He nearly ripped her nightgown from her body.

And then . . . he stopped.

He stopped to breathe, to simply look at her and revel in the glorious perfection of her body. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, and with a trembling hand, he reached out and cupped one, nearly shuddering with pleasure from just that simple touch.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. She must have heard those words before, thousands of times, but he wanted her to hear them from
him
. “You are so . . .” But he didn’t finish, because she was so much more than her beauty. And there was no way he could say it al, no way he could put into words all the reasons his breath quickened every time he saw her.

Her hands rose to cover some of her nakedness, and she blushed, reminding him that this must be new to her. It was new to him, too. He’d made love to women before, probably more than he wanted to admit to, but this was the first time . . . she was the first one . . .

It had never been like this. He couldn’t explain the difference, but it had never been like this.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, “please.”

He did, yanking his shirt over his head right before he settled his body atop hers, skin to glorious skin. He kissed her deeply, then he kissed her neck, and the holow of her colarbone, and then finaly, with a pleasure that tightened every muscle in his body, he kissed her breast. She let out a soft squeal and arched underneath him, which he took as an invitation to move to the other side, kissing and sucking and nipping until he thought he might lose control right then and there.

Dear God, she hadn’t even touched him. He still had his breeches fuly fastened, and he’d almost lost himself. That hadn’t even happened when he was a green boy.

He had to get inside her. He had to get inside her now. It went beyond desire. It went beyond need. It was primal, an urge that rose from deep within him, as if to say that his very life depended on making love to this woman. If that was mad, then
he
was mad.

say that his very life depended on making love to this woman. If that was mad, then
he
was mad.

For her. He was mad for her, and he had a feeling it was never going to go away.

“Anne,” he moaned, pausing for a moment to try to gain his breath. His face rested lightly on the tender skin of her bely, and he inhaled the scent of her even as he fought for control of his body. “Anne, I need you.” He looked up. “
Now
. Do you understand?” He rose to his knees, and his hands went to his breeches, and then she said . . .