Frovtunes’ Kiss (12 page)

“Proud that I've taken treasures from one country and given them to another?” He winked at Moira as if she should understand the joke behind his words. As it was, she felt a sinking in her stomach. She hadn't thought of it quite that way before, but he did take valuables that rightfully belonged to one country and bestowed them on another. For profit.

As he held her chair for her, she thought of her codicil. But no, she had already laid those suspicions to rest. Graham Foster might be a rogue and a scamp, but a thief?

“You say such odd things, Monteith. Of course, I'm proud of your accomplishments. Oh, but our manners…” The woman's capricious attention finally wandered back to Moira. “I'm quite certain we've met somewhere…” Suddenly her smile waned. “Good grief. You're the new maid. By all that's decent, Monteith, how could you? You inherit a title and a fortune and all you can think to do is dally with the staff?”

Hunched in his chair, Frederick Foster giggled.

An insupportable weight of embarrassment crushed Moira's shoulders. Here she sat at her own mother's table—purchased on their honeymoon in Italy—while a usurper insulted her beyond endurance.

The back of her chair trembled slightly against her spine. She twisted round to discover Graham towering like a sentinel behind her, hands white-knuckled on the chair's shield back. No trace of amusement curled his sensual lips now; no mockery glinted from his eyes. Jaw locked, nose pinched, he was a narrowly contained explosion. He frightened her, just a little.

“Mother. That…is…enough.” Little more than a murmur, but with an undercurrent that traveled under Moira's skin. Frederick closed his mouth on a chuckle. Letitia tensed, gaze darting from face to face. Seated beside her, Mr. Paddington pressed both hands to the table as if poised to push to his feet. “Miss Hughes is our guest, Mother, and we shall treat her accordingly.”

“I don't understand.”

“Then you should not jump to conclusions.”

Flushed, Augusta Foster looked ready to burst into tears.

“This is our cousin, Moira Hughes,” Graham said more calmly, yet not entirely without admonition.

“Everett Foster's stepdaughter,” Letitia clarified with rather more emphasis on
step
than Moira would have preferred. As if to emphasize she wasn't truly their cousin.

“And she is here as my guest.” Graham's tone clearly challenged anyone to refute the claim. No one did.

“Then, why…” His mother trailed off, her tongue flicking over her upper lip. With a breath she seemed to collect her composure. “If you'll pardon my asking, why did she disguise herself as a maid?”

The question had the peculiar effect of raising a sudden chuckle in Moira's throat—one she just as quickly swallowed. But she had to admit, Mrs. Foster could not be blamed entirely for her misconception, even if her outburst showed a want of decorum. Moira
had
deceived the family, and she couldn't help feeling Graham had responded rather too harshly over what was, truly, a rather comical misunderstanding.

He moved to his seat at the head of the table. “Miss Hughes has come to search for something her stepfather might have left here.” One eyebrow rose to a bold slash above his eye. “For reasons you may be able to shed light upon, Mother, she doubted she would receive a warm welcome by our family.”

Oh, why didn't he let it go? Why did he persist in making the poor woman squirm?

And squirm she did, while pressing a hand to her bosom. “Did you, indeed, my dear? I'm sure I don't know why you would think we'd receive you with anything less than open arms. Your dear mother, too. How is she faring?”

“Very well, thank you for asking.” She answered this and a slew of other polite inquiries as the servants served the soup.

Thank goodness for Augusta Foster's endless questions about Monteith Hall and Mr. Paddington's eager observations about country homes in general, or the meal would have been as festive as a tomb. Frederick and Letitia spoke little, and Graham less, though Moira was keenly aware of his constant gaze upon her.

Was his scrutiny protective, or predatory? All she knew was because of it, the tension never lifted from the room; she was more than happy to make her escape as soon as the dessert course reached its conclusion.

Her exodus did not take her far. At Graham's insistence, she retired to a guest room rather than embark on a late-night journey across the river to her lodging house. She appreciated the gesture, but experienced a pang of regret when Miss Letitia breezed past her in the gallery, bid her an over-the-shoulder good night, and slipped into the bedroom that had once been Moira's own.

Alone in a guest room, she wrapped a robe around her nightgown—the plain one she'd worn as a maid—and sat before the dressing-table mirror. These Fosters were a perplexing family, painfully ill at ease and on their guard. And resentful. Yes, resentment weighted this house like a pall.

As she ran a brush through her hair, she cringed to remember how Graham had taken Augusta to task for her mistake. What kind of son embarrassed his mother before guests?

What kind of man robbed a nation of its treasures?

What kind of rogue stole kisses from unsuspecting ladies?

A tap sounded at her door. Rising, she hoped it was merely the upstairs maid. She'd quite had her fill of Fosters for one day. “Who is it?”

“Graham. May I have a word?”

She might have guessed. Ever since he had discovered her identity, the man seemed intent on never letting her out of his sight. She opened the door an inch or two. “I'm very tired.”

A candle in his right hand illuminated his crisp, white shirt, his bronzed cheekbones. A sense of impropriety rippled through her. She was, after all, clad only in a night shift and robe, her hair loose about her shoulders. She stepped behind the door, leaning to poke only her face into the opening. “Can't we speak in the morning?”

“It won't take but a moment.”

She sighed and nodded.

“I wanted you to know that Mrs. Higgensworth spoke with the servants. They are now aware that you are a guest, not an employee. If there's anything you need, you have only to ask.”

“I appreciate that.” She grimaced. “I hate to think what they're all saying about their odd houseguest.”

He flashed his devastating smile. “I suppose the tale will have spread through Mayfair by tomorrow at supper time.”

“Undoubtedly.” She waited, for he looked as though he had something more to say. He also looked far too casual for her liking, in shirtsleeves with cravat and collar gone. Didn't he know that was no way to appear before a lady?

Of course, the rascal knew, just as he undoubtedly understood the effect he was having on her at that precise moment. She pried her gaze away from the smooth column of his neck, from the sight of strong collarbones revealed by his partially unbuttoned shirt.

“Good night,” she said, and tried unsuccessfully to close the door.

“May I come in for a moment?”

She frowned, considered delivering a blunt no, and hugged her robe tighter around her. “It's rather late.”

His candle fluttered and sent a shimmer through the golden ends of his hair. “I wanted to apologize for this evening.”

“Which part of it?”

He tilted his head and leaned into the gap between the door and lintel, bringing his face close to hers. “You know which part. My mother had no right—”

“She had every right.” Knowing she should simply accept his apology and bid him a final good night, Moira ignored her better sense and opened the door wider. “It was you who behaved rather badly, if the truth were told.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Under the circumstances, your mother's accusation was perfectly understandable. She thought I was a maid, and I'm to blame for that. When you think about it, the entire situation was funny. You might have laughed it off instead of embarrassing her as you did.”

“I was defending you.”

“Were you? Or was something more going on, something that had nothing whatsoever to do with me?”

His eyes smoldered with unspoken ruminations. “Since you won't accept my apology, perhaps you'll accept this. I'd like you and your mother to move back into Monteith Hall as soon as it's convenient.”

Moira's heart made a little leap before plummeting with a thud against her ribs. Her throat stung with the desire to grasp this unexpected boon. She turned away from him and spoke to the shadowy bedchamber. “I do thank you, but that would be impossible, at least for the time being.”

“What the devil do you mean?” He stepped over the threshold and came up behind her, his breath warm on her neck. “Isn't this the very thing you wanted?”

“It was. But it's too late now.” She turned to face him. “The first move…well…confused my mother. It affected her health. I fear another move, even back to the home she knew, would only upset her further.”

“You keep insisting your mother is fine and that the two of you are amply taken care of. Is that a lie, Moira?” He took her chin, raised it, and lowered his own to meet her gaze. Their breath mingled, warm and sweet from the evening's wine.

Her thoughts thrashed, swam, foundered. What were they discussing? Her mother. Had she lied? Yes. And the truth…did she trust him enough? When he touched her, when his warm strength spread through her and her name became a rumbling murmur on his lips—yes, she wanted to trust.

Or did she? Why, for all she knew, he was here winning her sympathies simply to steal another kiss. That was a harsh assessment, she knew, but in her admittedly scant experience of him, that had been the one dependable occurrence.

Never before had she encountered a man like Graham Foster. When was he serious, joking, teasing, seducing? With this man she could never discern one from another.

Trust him?

She pivoted and made a tense circuit of the carpet before halting a safe distance away on the far side of the woven medallion. “What I want, what I need, is quite simple. Self-sufficiency. Not charity, not the tolerance or indulgence of a distant relative, but the provisions my stepfather made for us before he died. Only upon that am I willing to depend.”

“I see.” His nostrils flared; his blue eyes frosted. “Then tomorrow we'll continue the search. Good night, Moira.”

His shoulders squared like twin battlements as he strode from the room. Her words had hurt him, and that she regretted. But could she have framed her wishes differently and still made them clear? She wanted him to understand. Wanted him to stop confusing and provoking her. Needed him to stop making things like thinking and breathing so blasted difficult.

“Shaun, wake up.”

Graham nudged his friend and ducked the resulting blow. Shaun's haphazard fist struck the bed table and upturned a glass of water, splashing the floor and Graham's foot. He caught the tumbler before it rolled to the floor and shattered.

Shaun flinched upright. “Who's there?” He squinted, sniffed, pushed higher, and blinked. “Good God, Graham. I was out like a baby. Take ten years off a man's life, waking him like that.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Can't it wait till morning?”

“There's a matter that needs attending first thing tomorrow, and I'll be busy with Miss Hughes.”

With a sigh that conveyed he'd much rather sleep than talk, Shaun nonetheless asked, “What's the problem?”

“Well, after supper I lined up that family of mine and asked them point blank if they'd come upon any documents left in the house by Moira's stepfather. Or if they simply felt the need to confess something.”

“What sort of documents?”

“A codicil. One that would have left Moira and her mother far better off than they are now. But neither Mother nor the twins seemed to know a thing about it. After exchanging utterly baffled glances, they stared at me as if I'd gone daft. Couldn't help believing them, despite a lingering conviction that they
would
have interfered in Moira's finances if they'd known about the codicil.”

“So where do I fit in?”

“I need your special area of expertise.”

“Ah.” The candlelight illuminated Shaun's burgeoning interest. “Another scheme, eh? What do you want me to sniff out now?”

“Moira's mother's finances. I want to know everything, including the condition of that cottage they've moved into.”

Shaun scrubbed a hand across his face. “Why don't you simply ask Miss Hughes?”

“I have, and she's lying through her teeth. I'm sure of it. If my assumptions prove correct, I want to make arrangements, secret ones with Moira none the wiser. We'll get Smythe to manage it.”

“You mean like an anonymous fund?” Shaun sat up, warming to this latest mission. His mouth skewed to a sly grin. “But why the secrecy? Seems like helping the mother would send the daughter straight into your lusting arms.”