The Husband Hunt (11 page)

Suddenly, it seemed to her as if the entire world had gone still. Either that, or the rush of blood to her brain had drowned out all other sound. There was nothing but him in that moment, nothing but his mouth devouring hers, stealing her breath, her body a hot flush of sensations. His virility rendered her helpless. She barely protested when his hand brushed her breast, when his hips lifted into her, steel against the vulnerable softness of her body. He had set her blood on fire, and she would never be the same.

He broke off, giving her the illusion that she was safe. Then he anchored his fingers in her hair and brought his mouth down on hers again, harder now, hungrier. She was trembling in his arms, beyond resistance, and he knew that with a little persuasion, he could take delight in her body. Hell, he was going to hammer her into the ground if he didn't get hold of himself. But she felt so good, soft and submissive, her body molding to his. Every male instinct urged him to make her his mate. He thrust upward, into her, releasing a groan as her back arched in response. Untutored, untamed, she was more than he could resist, and he wanted to teach her everything he knew about sensuality.

He brushed his lips across her throat, burying his face between her breasts. "This is a hell of a time to discover I have a conscience," he muttered.

"You had a conscience today when you met Arabella," she pointed out.

He closed his eyes. He was too aware of her body, her every curve, her breasts, her belly, the warm hollow between her thighs that he was aching to explore. "That was entirely different. My conscience didn't stop me as much as my lack of desire."

"Do you desire me?" she asked softly.

For a moment he, couldn't move, his brain and body screaming the answer. He wanted to push her beneath him and take her down the dark channels of his desire. He wanted to nail her to that tree and thrust until neither of them could walk. She wasn't wearing anything under that nightgown. He could be inside her in a matter of seconds, but she would be shattered afterward, and the thought of hurting her was more than he could bear. He liked this cousin of Lionel's, liked her far more than he should.

"Do you desire me?" she asked again, her soft voice stirring the nerve endings on his neck.

"You have no idea," he said curtly. He stood without warning, drawing her to her feet. "And with any luck, you never will. Olivia means to find you a perfect husband. This does not qualify as helping the situation."

She didn't move away from him at first; she was pinned to the spot by the suppressed need that darkened his eyes as he stared down at her. Goose bumps prickled a path of forewarning down the surface of her forearms. His hands tightened briefly around her waist, holding her against him so she could feel the hard ridge between his legs.

"Catriona," he said, before bending his head to kiss her on the cheek. "There. Be quiet going back to the house."

"I liked your kisses," she said quietly. "They make me feel, well, I can't even describe it."

He closed his eyes for several moments, a shard of lust piercing the remnants of his control. "Get your bag. Now."

He felt her edge around him where he stood, seemingly unperturbed as he allowed her to escape when already, in his mind, he had taken her a dozen times. Had it only been that morning that he'd been criticizing
her
behavior? Twice in one day, now, he had let a rogue's instinct cloud his judgment. Well, at least he'd gotten himself under control. At least it wasn't too late to repair whatever damage he'd done by kissing her.

He motioned her to walk ahead of him. "Run into the house first. Just in case anyone is watching."

"But—" The stark emotion in his voice gave her pause. A wiser young woman would not have admitted she liked what had happened between them. Deception was another skill she would never learn.

"Go, Catriona, before I make things worse between us. Go, or so help me God, I'll have you on the ground, and Saint Bride will have one fewer virgin to watch over."

She shrugged and whirled around, her eyes briefly meeting his. He trailed behind her, a raw feeling inside him. He had never been caught in a woman's power before, at least not to the degree that he couldn't predict his own behavior. He didn't particularly enjoy the feeling, but it wasn't too late to put an end to it. He—

He stopped, the hairs on his nape tingling. Either he had not been paying attention, or the woods seemed different from when he'd arrived. Had he noticed the toadstools glowing? Was that owl in the branches above, the only one left from the unholy raptor orchestra,
following
them?

If he had turned around, he might have noticed the earth pulsing beneath the blasted oak, the humus trembling as if it contained a human heart. He might have known he was wrong. He might have remembered the warnings of his father that he had laughed at in his reckless youth, that once love took hold of you, that was the end of reasonable behavior.

It was already too late.

*                        *                              *

He saw Catriona hurry up the steps to the house before he followed. Engrossed in watching her, he failed to notice his sister standing in the doorway, tapping her fingers impatiently on the door; if he'd seen her, he would have sneaked in through the servant's entrance to avoid an embarrassing scene. Instead, he walked right into the core of the erupting volcano.

"Well, Lord Rutleigh, isn't this a surprise?" Olivia said in a crisp voice. "Did you two enjoy yourselves?"

He paused. "Not exactly."

"In her nightclothes, Knight!" she burst out. "Of all the scandalous—you're both hopeless, you do realize that. Completely hopeless."

He nodded.

"Are you trying to ruin her?"

He sat down on the steps, not helping the matter by grinning in response. "Ruin her? Hell, I was trying-"

She grabbed Catriona by the hand, dragged her forward, and slammed the door on him. The door of his own house, mind you. Put out like a dog that couldn't behave.

He could hear Catriona being escorted down the hall, saving her own skin with a skill he had to admire. "It was all my fault, Olivia. He was worried when he saw me outside. On my honor."

"Then why were you outside in the first place?" Olivia shouted.

"I was trying to get those awful owls away from the house."

Then another woman's voice. Lord protect him, it was Aunt Marigold, ancient but on the alert. "What? What? They went for a walk, in their nightclothes?  Odd. I thought Knight slept in the nude like his father…"

He stared out into the night, venting a sigh. The taste of her still lingered on his lips. His neck tingled where she had clasped him with her hands, sending a warmth deep into a place in his heart that hadn't been touched in a long, long time. In the morning, he would double his efforts to avoid her. He would redefine the boundaries between them, reluctant guardian to recalcitrant charge. He would establish emotional distance—

He looked up as a great horned owl descended in the branches of the tree that faced her window.
Her
window. Within moments, he heard the treetops beyond rustle with the arrival of other birds. Predators. Creatures of the dark. Secret messengers—of whom?

What did they want with her?

He sprang to his feet, ran down the steps, and collected a handful of gravel from the drive to throw at the tree. Whatever she thought she'd done in the woods to discourage them hadn't worked.

"Go away!" he shouted, flinging another handful into the air. "This is my house. Those are my trees, and she's my—"

He glanced at her darkened window. "—problem."

He lowered his hand, letting the gravel fall to the ground. The trees were empty, the woods suddenly silent. In fact, the only sign of life on the estate came from Catriona's window, where she stood watching his peculiar behavior with Olivia and Aunt Marigold, protectors of her virtue, on either side.

The widowed French seamstress
who had set up shop in the village of West Briarcombe arrived early the next morning. Claudette Malraux knew that rumors abounded about her past, whispers that she was really a countess in exile or even a royal refugee. She allowed the rumors to circulate, sometimes even secretly encouraging them. Such tidbits of scandal helped business, and business had been dismally slow of late except for the usual funerals.

Lady Deering had indicated that this summons involved some sort of personal emergency, which was just the sort of situation Claudette needed to revive her own sluggish spirits. For a time, she had even thought she might have a chance of becoming Viscount Rutleigh's mistress. Surely she had not imagined the sexual interest in his eyes when she had seen him at his pottery factory last winter.

He had been jilted by that insipid moron Arabella Minton for her boring husband, Anton, who was probably as exciting in the bedroom as a Latin mass. Knight had seemed ripe for a love affair, vulnerable, and not linked to any female in particular, and Claudette had waited patiently for him to visit her. But he never had, and this morning, when she passed him in the hall, her hopes suffered a fatal blow when he barely seemed to recognize her.

"Lord Rutleigh," she had said in the deeply accented voice that appealed to a great many Englishmen. "I have not seen you for some time. I trust you are well."

For the most insulting instant, he had seemed not even to remember her, and when he did, there was a decided lack of male interest in his eyes. "My sister has need of your services, madam," he said rather absentmindedly. "It is good of you to come on such short notice. You do remember how to find her room?"

She sighed in disappointment. How formal, how cold, a clear delineation between the two classes, and she knew from that nitwit Arabella Minton's indiscreet tongue that the viscount was a man of insatiable passion. According to his past amour, there was nothing formal about him in bed; he was an inventive and energetic lover, which could only mean one thing.

He had found another love interest. Claudette shook her head resignedly as she hurried up the stairs to Lady Deering's chambers, which she had not visited since before Sir Lionel's funeral to measure Olivia for her dreary widow's weeds. Someone else had caught his eye. Another woman was satisfying his needs. At this rate, Claudette would end up marrying a nobody like that impertinent footman Howard who had tried to pinch her bottom in the hallway.  No, she would rather make her own way in the world than lower herself to wedding an underling. Before escaping France, her mercantile parents had been arranging her marriage to the distant cousin of a duke with connections across the Continent.

She knocked on the door, sighing again as it was opened. Lord Rutleigh could be a generous man, as was evidenced by his treatment of his sister, who had her own modest estate but chose to live here. Her gaze went straight to Olivia sitting on the bed. Shocked, Claudette saw the impact of the woman's prolonged grief. Once vivacious and youthful, Olivia had allowed her alluring curves to go to skin and bones, and she looked years older than her actual age.

"Thank goodness you've come," Olivia said, springing off the bed.

"I can see I am needed," Claudette agreed as she mentally rolled up her sleeves for a good day's work. There was enough money to be had here that she could overlook her own neglected love life for the time being.

Olivia smiled ruefully at the younger woman sitting at the dressing table. "She needs help, and rather badly, I'm afraid."

Claudette had not noticed the other woman before, nor had she spotted the baroness leaning against the wardrobe, her face haughty and unfriendly. Their eyes met in mutual dislike, and then Claudette returned her attention to the young woman in dishabille who sat sifting halfheartedly through a jewel box, her bright hair a mass of lustrous waves down to her hips.

"Her,
madame?"
Claudette said with a sniff of disdain. "You want me to help this—person?"

"Please," Olivia said, the word almost a prayer. "Work your magic on her, Claudette. We are quite desperate. She has no wardrobe of her own."

Claudette compressed her lips as the younger woman turned to examine her. Was it possible? Was
this
who had captured Knight's heart, this wild-looking thing who lifted her head with a disinterested sigh?

All right, Claudette thought. Her client had an angel's face and a body to match, and she wasn't as young as Claudette had first assumed, either. And those eyes—there was character there, emotion, and a surprising intelligence with a spark of she-devil to match Knight's wickedness. She could see what had attracted him, although the female had absolutely no sense of style. But those eyes,
la,
this one had lived a life despite her tender years. Claudette forbore an impulse to cross herself, as if in the presence of the supernatural. So this was her rival, she thought again. A woman unaware of her own beauty, and Claudette was expected to polish this raw stone into a diamond?

She squared her shoulders.
Eh, bien.
She was a professional. She could do it. "I do not know,
madame.
So much work."

"Name your price," Olivia said.

"Her hair is impossible," Claudette announced. "It spoils any hope of subtlety."

Catriona did not look at all offended. Rather, she gave a vigorous nod of agreement. "You should see it after it's washed. My head is a bramble bush."

"We'll have to pull it to the back," Arabella said, joining the conversation. "Or have it styled
à la Grecque.
She has the facial structure for shorter hair."

Claudette arched her brow, although privately she agreed with the assessment. She could not stand Arabella. She never paid her bills on time and always bought the most inferior muslin. "I have it on good authority that long hair will be the rage again soon. We'll do something with flowers or a beaded cap."

"Can you do something in two weeks or so?" Olivia asked. "An evening dress, at least. I want to introduce her to the local gentry. I have someone special in mind for her to meet."

"Meet for what?" Claudette said absently, narrowing her eyes to picture her client in French gauze that would wrap around those curves like a dream.

"To marry, of course," Arabella snapped. "Why else would we go to all this trouble?"

Claudette's eyes widened. Was the young woman
enceinte?
Had that devil Knight impregnated her, and was he hoping now to marry her off to some unsuspecting fool before his seed started to show? She frowned. Oh, men. She would have to allow for an expanding waistline in planning a wardrobe.

"I suppose lilac gauze would be best," Olivia said.

Claudette shook her head. "Sea-green, I'm thinking, shot with gold thread to rival those eyes. And we want to expose as much bosom as we can." She eyed Catriona closely. "Well, at least the illusion of a bosom."

Knight needed to escape from the house before his attraction to Catriona deepened into something far more dangerous. He couldn't concentrate on balancing accounts and choosing designs with her picking flowers outside his window or sneaking past his desk to steal another book from the shelf. And he couldn't bring himself to participate with any degree of enthusiasm in her hunt for a suitable husband when the sight of her brought too many unsuitable things to his mind. He was positive there wasn't a man in the whole of West Briarcombe he could approve to court her.

Still, what a wife she would make, warm, supportive, with a mind of her own and a body to haunt a man's dreams. He had known the moment he met her that she was trouble, but with his blinding arrogance, he had never believed himself vulnerable to her appeal. He couldn't guess who would possess the strength, energy, and good fortune to marry her. If he were—he blocked the tantalizing thought before it could take root.

He tried to bury himself in business affairs. He intended to invest himself, both energy and wealth, in the local pottery firm. He liked the fact that he could visit it at will; he liked the idea of speculating in a product he could actually hold in his hands. Creating art seemed like the perfect antidote to the destructions of war he had witnessed. Crude earthenware could be dipped in pale clay to conceal the dark flaws beneath. Or it could be decorated by
sgraffito
to enhance its appeal, remarked to fit a standard form of beauty. A piece of clay could be molded to one's ideals, unlike a human being. Unlike Catriona Grant, whose character had been shaped by mysterious forces indeed.

A knock distracted him. "There is someone who wishes to see you, my lord," Howard said from the doorway.

Knight glanced up. He wondered if the visitor might be Simmons, two days early, and he was sorry now he'd sent the man on a fool's errand because he needed him to go to Bristol on business. He couldn't imagine that Catriona harbored any darker secrets in her past than her illegitimacy, and Olivia was right. Her background didn't matter, anyway. She was Lionel's cousin, and having accepted her into the family, Knight would stand beside her no matter what she had been or done. To hell with what anyone thought.

"It's not Simmons?" he said.

"Oh, no, my lord," Howard said. "I know Simmons. It's the old jeweler from Clover Hill."

"Jeweler? Did I send for a jeweler?"

"I dunno, my lord. But he's brought more pearls with 'im than a bleedin' oyster bed."

"What do I want with—" Knight turned, his nostrils narrowing in distaste. "What is that unpleasant odor?"

"Vetiver, my lord. I bought some at market last month and thought I'd give it a try. To please the ladies, you know."

Knight raised his eyebrow. "No, actually, I don't, but I will pass along a bit of advice on the subject. Unless you wish these particular 'ladies' to pass out in droves at your feet, you will not drown yourself in scent. You have enough on to boil an ox."

"Shall I call Lady Deering down to see the jeweler, my lord?"

"Lady Deering? He asked for my sister?"

Howard scratched his head. "He asked for her first, then he asked for you as you would be the one paying the bill. I took it upon myself to escort him to the entrance lobby."

"I shall take care of this," Knight said in exasperation, rising from his desk. "Where is she, anyway?"

"Upstairs, with that saucy little French—" Howard flattened himself against the door to allow his lordship passage. "Do you require my assistance, my lord?"

"No point in stinking up the entire house, Howard," Knight retorted. "Go to the kitchen and have a good wash."

The jeweler caught sight of Knight in the hall as he attempted to make a covert dash for the stairs. "Ah, Lord Rutleigh. I've done the very best I could on such short notice, bearing in mind your message that expense was no object—"

"I said that, did I?" Knight said grimly, taking the stairs two at a time. "Olivia!" he bellowed.

He heard female voices coming from the bedchamber, chattering, scolding, a curse here and there. Olivia had never demonstrated a sense of economy, not once in her life. If he didn't curb her extravagance, this simple country party would impoverish the both of them.

"Olivia." He opened the door without knocking. "I would like a word—"

The four women appeared to be too engrossed in some wardrobe witchery even to notice him. In fact, he hadn't put two and two together himself when that rather bold-eyed seamstress had appeared at the house early that morning. More money, he thought. And now a jeweler. Good heavens.

He stared into the room. More money spent to dress Catriona so that some clumsy-fingered fool like Anton could undress her on their wedding night and deflower her, so another man could kiss her and take pleasure in her unspoiled spirit. His eyes darkened in displeasure at the prospect.

"Olivia."

His voice cut into the feminine conversation like a saber. Olivia and Claudette, kneeling on the floor, glanced up at him with quick looks of resentment for invading their territory. Arabella, on the bed, looked away in embarrassment, a blush stealing across her cheeks.

The object of all their attention stood in the middle of the floor, draped in a scandalously immodest shell-pink sheath. She looked like a statue, a very unhappy statue, of some legendary maiden turned to stone by a vengeful goddess.

The deepest of Knight's instincts urged him to bring the young lady back to life in the most basic of ways.

He frowned at her reflection in the mirror, his gaze wandering up and down her willowy form. He could see her soft breasts straining against the silk, the dusky outline of her nipples, the hollow of her belly… and one naked foot tapping a hole into the floor.

"Well, Knight," Olivia said, putting down a tape measure. "Is there a fire in the house that you have interrupted us in such a manner?"

Finding Catriona in that revealing thing had made his mind unravel. He was perfectly aware that women dressed provocatively in public, but not one he was supposed to be watching over—what
had
he wanted, anyway?

"I do not think that Lionel would like his cousin wearing that to a dance," he said after a long hesitation. "Nor do I wish to be fending off improper advances on her behalf all evening."

"Did you come all the way upstairs to deliver that commentary, or was there another purpose?" Olivia asked, frowning in exasperation.

"I happen to think that her dress is a little indelicate for a country dance," he said forcefully, afraid that he had not made his point.

"It's a chemise and an underskirt!" the four women shouted at him in unison.

"As if he didn't know," Arabella said amusedly under her breath. "As if he had not removed his share of them in his day."

"Of course I knew," he said, giving a cough. "Just make sure she wears something over them to the dance."

"Exactly what is it that you wanted?" Catriona asked.

"I—oh, yes. The jeweler waiting downstairs. What am I to do with him?"

"I'll take care of this," Arabella said with a sigh.

Olivia frowned. "Why are you being so helpful all of a sudden, Arabella? Why are you even here?"