LOVE AND THE SINGLE HEIRESS Read online

“She slides down the banister.”

  Amusement-filled dark eyes assessed her. “Why, Lady Catherine, is this shocking statement true?”

  “Sometimes I’m simply in a bit of a hurry to get downstairs,” she said as primly as she could.

  “And sometimes she wakes me after Cook’s gone to bed so we can steal to the kitchens and find ourselves a grand snack.”

  “Spencer is a growing boy who requires a great deal of nutrition,” she said even more primly, although the effect was ruined when she felt her lips twitching.

  “She sings songs with naughty lyrics while she works in the garden.”

  “Spencer!” Catherine’s face heated. Good heavens, she hadn’t realized he had heard. “I’m certain you, ah, misunderstood.”

  “Not a bit. You tend to sing rather loudly. And off-key.” Spencer grinned at Mr. Stanton. “Mum couldn’t carry a tune in basket.”

  “Will you regale us with a selection, Lady Catherine?” Mr. Stanton teased.

  A bubble of horrified laughter escaped her, and she coughed to cover the sound. “Perhaps some other time. And now that everyone knows far more about me than they should, it is your turn, Mr. Stanton, to share an ‘I should not have done that’ tale.”

  He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers against his chin. After several seconds of consideration, he said, “The day I arrived in Egypt, after being on board a ship for weeks, I wanted two things: a hot, decent meal, and a hot, decent bath. After I’d eaten, I found a bathhouse on the outskirts of Cairo. Feeling well fed and clean, I departed, only to discover that I’d inadvertently ventured into an area known for cutthroats and thieves. Fortunately, I managed to get out alive. Unfortunately, I was robbed before I managed to escape.”

  “Why did you not defeat the brigand with your fists?” Spencer asked, his eyes wide.

  “Brigands. There were four of them. And as they all had knives and pistols, I’m afraid I would not have fared very well.”

  “What did they steal from you?”

  “My money. And my... clothes.”

  Spencer’s jaw dropped. “Never say so! All your clothes?”

  “All my clothes. Right down to my boots, which quite irked me as they were my favorites.”

  “So you were... ?” Spencer’s voice trailed off in disbelief.

  “Naked as the day I was born,” Mr. Stanton confirmed.

  “What did you do?”

  “I briefly debated fighting them to get my clothes back, but decided my life was not worth the risk. Fortunately, they seemed disinclined to do away with me. Indeed, I think they were highly amused at leaving me to find my way home in broad daylight, naked as a babe.”

  Heat whooshed through Catherine, and her throat went dry at the thought of Mr. Stanton, freshly bathed, standing in a column of golden sunlight. Naked.

  She instantly recalled the chapter in the Guide dedicated to instructing Today’s Modern Woman on some of the many things she could do to, and with, a naked man. Her recollection did nothing toward cooling the inferno that seemed to have engulfed her.

  “Did anyone see you?” Spencer asked, his eyes agog. Catherine prayed she did not wear a similarly rapt expression and barely resisted the urge to fan herself with her linen napkin.

  “Oh, yes, but I just kept running as fast as I could. I finally filched a sheet from someone’s laundry, which afforded me a small measure of my lost dignity. Not one of my more stellar episodes, and while I can laugh about it now, it was not at all humorous at the time. Yes, wandering about Cairo on my own was just one of many ‘I should not have done that’ moments.” He grinned. “Would you like another?”

  “Yes!” said Spencer.

  “No!” said Catherine at the same time. Mr. Stanton naked, wandering about in a sheet, robbed by armed ruffians, naked... Lord only knew what else he’d done, and she was quite certain she did not want to know. Yes, quite certain.

  A nervous laugh escaped her, and she rose, signaling the end to their meal. “Perhaps another time. For now, I suggest we retire to the drawing room. Do you play cards, Mr. Stanton? Chess? Backgammon?”

  “I enjoy all three, Lady Catherine. What would be your pleasure?”

  To see you naked. Catherine barely suppressed the horrified squeak that rose in her throat. Good God, where had that ridiculous thought come from? Of course she did not want to see him naked. The absurd, inappropriate notion was clearly just a consequence of his absurd, inappropriate story. Yes, that’s all it was.

  Straightening her shoulders, she said, “Why don’t you and Spencer play while I enjoy my needlework by the fire?”

  “Very well.” He turned to Spencer. “Backgammon?”

  “My favorite,” Spencer said.

  She led the way toward the drawing room and mentally congratulated herself on her excellent plan. She’d now have her needlework to concentrate on rather than her unsettlingly attractive guest.

  An hour later, however, she realized that her plan was not so excellent after all. It was nearly impossible to focus her attention on the intricate flower pattern of her hated embroidery when her gaze continually strayed in the most annoying manner across the room to the French windows, where Mr. Stanton and Spencer sat, the backgammon board resting on a cherrywood table between them. Damnation, when had she lost control over her own eyeballs? Even when she managed to stare at her work, she accomplished little, for her entire being was focused upon trying to hear snippets of their conversation—a conversation Spencer was clearly enjoying.

  The deep rumble of Mr. Stanton’s laugh mingled with Spencer’s chuckle, and for the hundredth time, Catherine’s hands stilled, and she peeked at the pair from beneath her lashes. Spencer’s mouth was stretched in a boyish, ear-to-ear grin. Pure delight emanated from him, and the fact that no shadows lurked in his eyes squeezed her heart with maternal love.

  Spencer laughed again, and she gave up all pretense of needlework. Setting her project aside, she leaned back against the soft brocade of her wing chair, and just indulged in watching her son enjoy himself. She loved to see him smile and laugh, and he did so far too seldom in her opinion. During the last year he’d taken to solitary walks, wandering the estate’s gardens and trails that led to the warm springs. While he basked in the freedom afforded by the vast grounds, she worried that he spent too much time alone in sad reflection. She gave him the privacy he needed, but made certain that they still spent time together every day—talking, reading, sharing stories, eating their favorite foods, enjoying the gardens and each other’s company.

  Now, sitting across from Mr. Stanton, Spencer looked happy, carefree, and relaxed in a way she rarely witnessed when he was in the company of anyone besides his familiar, immediate circle. Normally he was wary and withdrawn with strangers, fearing they would jeer at him or pity his condition. But clearly he harbored no such fear with Mr. Stanton.

  Catherine’s gaze shifted to the man who’d invaded her thoughts far too often since last evening. His chin was propped upon his palm as he studied the backgammon board, while Spencer hooted with mock-diabolical laughter, predicting his defeat. It suddenly struck her how cozy and domestic this scene—indeed this entire evening— was, and acute yearning washed over her.

  How many times during her marriage had she hopelessly wished to experience a pleasurable home-and-hearth scenario such as this? How many hours had she foolishly wasted inventing scenes in her mind, of her, Bertrand, and Spencer enjoying a meal, then father and son laughing over a game board, while she looked fondly on? More than she could count.

  The fact that that vivid, longed-for image she’d held so dear to her heart had come to life before her eyes, prominently featuring Mr. Stanton, filled her with an aching sensation she could not name. He had not figured in the tableau she’d imagined. Yet even though his presence should have been all wrong, it somehow felt most disturbingly right.

  She gave herself a mental shake. Good Lord, she was long past hoping for and wanting such a domestic scene. She and Spencer d
id not need anyone else in their lives. Still, looking at Spencer’s joyful expression, the animation with which he spoke to Mr. Stanton, filled her with a rush of gratitude toward her guest for the kindness he was extending toward her son. While Mr. Stanton possessed many qualities she found irksome, clearly Spencer enjoyed his company.

  At that instant, Mr. Stanton turned, and their eyes met.

  Heat sizzled through her, skittering jitters to her stomach, and her toes involuntarily curled inside her satin slippers. How did he manage to throw her so off-balance with a mere look? How was it that his presence in her home simultaneously comforted yet agitated her? And why, oh why, was she so intensely aware of him?

  His lips curved upward in a slow smile, then he returned his attention to the backgammon board. She snapped her lips together, horrified to discover that they’d been slightly parted as she’d gawked at him. With grim determination she snatched up her embroidery and jabbed the needle into the material.

  “He is annoying and presumptuous and really, not even all that attractive,” she muttered under her breath. “Why, I’ve known dozens of men far more handsome.”

  Perhaps. But none of them weakened your limbs the way this man does, her inner voice taunted.

  She pressed her lips more firmly together. Fustian. If her limbs were weak, it was merely due to fatigue. She’d suffered an exhausting ordeal. ‘Twas merely weariness playing with her body and emotions. After a good night’s sleep, everything would fall back into its proper place.

  Stiffening her spine, she jabbed the needle through the linen once again. Very well, she found the man attractive. But only slightly, and in a strictly physical way. She certainly had no intention of acting upon these unsettling feelings. Therefore, her best recourse was to avoid him as much as possible—a challenge, as the entire purpose for him being there was to protect her should the need arise—but nothing said they had to be in the same room. And even if she found herself in the same room with him, nothing said she had to converse with him. Or stand near him. She could simply ignore him.

  Relief swept through her. Avoid and ignore would be her strategy—surely easy enough tasks to accomplish.

  Her inner voice chimed out something that sounded suspiciously like in a pig’s eye, but she managed, with a great deal of effort, to ignore it.

  Chapter 9

  If Today’s Modern Woman wishes for her gentleman to express more passion, she should boldly explain to him that while a kiss upon the hand can be employed to demonstrate fervent regard, it is not the most effective method as it can also symbolize nothing more than a sign of brotherly or sisterly fondness. It is nearly impossible, however, to misinterpret the meaning behind a kiss on the lips. Or the nape. Or the spine...

  A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

  Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

  by Charles Brightmore

  After a fitful night, which she firmly attributed to her worries about the shooting, Catherine put her avoid-and-ignore strategy into immediate effect by taking an early, solitary breakfast in her bedchamber. She knew Spencer would not be about so early, and she had no intention of risking a cozy breakfast with only Mr. Stanton for company. After her meal, Catherine spent the remainder of the morning sitting at her desk, catching up on her correspondence. When she finished, she dressed carefully, relieved that the ache in her arm had faded so as to be barely noticeable. She spent extra time on her appearance, and told herself it was because she wished to appear presentable when she visited Genevieve this afternoon.

  Deciding it was well past the time to check on Spencer, who surely would have arisen by now, and perform polite hostess duties toward Mr. Stanton, she headed downstairs, looking forward to a cup of tea.

  When she entered the foyer, she was immediately greeted by Milton, who held out a silver salver bearing a sealed note.

  “This just arrived from London, my lady.”

  Catherine’s heart quickened as she recognized her father’s distinctive bold, cursive scrawl. Deciding the tea could wait, she took the note, nodded her thanks, then headed directly back to her bedchamber. The instant she closed the door behind her, she broke the seal and scanned the contents.

  Dear Catherine,

  I am happy to report that the scoundrel who fired the shot last night has been apprehended. The man, a ruffian by the name of Billy Robbins, is well-known to the magistrate for perpetrating robberies in Mayfair and elsewhere. Thanks to the information provided by Mr. Carmichael, Robbins was identified and captured near the docks. As we suspected, you were the victim of a robbery gone awry. Robbins, of course, insists he is innocent, but as we all know, Newgate is filled with “innocent” men.

  While this news cannot erase the harrowing ordeal you suffered, you at least now have the satisfaction of knowing that the culprit responsible can no longer hurt anyone. Please extend my regards to Spencer and Mr. Stanton, and I look forward to seeing you all again soon.

  With love,

  Your father

  Catherine closed her eyes and blew out a sigh of heartfelt relief. It had been an accident. Thank God. She was not in danger. Nor was Spencer. Nor Genevieve. Charles Brightmore’s identity was safe. Yes, there was still that investigator Lord Markingworth and his friends had hired, but since the publisher of A Ladies’ Guide would never reveal her and Genevieve’s secret, the man would eventually have to admit defeat. The chances of his investigation leading him to Little Longstone were so minute as to be nonexistent.

  She opened her eyes, smiled, and drew in what felt like her first easy breath since she’d secreted herself behind her father’s Oriental screen. Now her life could resume its tranquil course, without threat of danger. Without need of protection—

  Without need of Mr. Stanton.

  Her smile froze. She no longer required the protection and security his presence afforded. He could leave Little Longstone. Right away—although she supposed it would be insupportably rude to suggest he depart sooner than tomorrow morning. And since she rarely traveled to London, she need not worry about seeing him again in the near future.

  Mr. Stanton’s imminent departure was good. Very good. No more necessity for avoid-and-ignore tactics. The man was a blight on her peaceful existence, and the sooner he departed for London, the better. She was happy. Ecstatically so.

  Her inner voice coughed to life to inform her she’d somehow managed to confuse “ecstatically happy” with “utterly miserable.”

  Botheration, she needed to find a way to somehow muzzle that damnable voice.

  “May I have a moment of your time, Mr. Stanton?”

  Andrew paused at the top of the staircase. He gripped the mahogany banister and suppressed a sigh at the way his heart skipped a beat at the mere sound of her voice.

  He’d spent the entire morning—not to mention a number of the predawn hours when sleep had eluded him— replaying the wonder of last evening in his mind. Sharing a meal and silly stories with her and Spencer, laughing together, enjoying after-dinner games—it was a cozy, domestic scenario he’d played out in his dreams more times than he could count. And the reality had exceeded all his imaginary expectations. By God, he couldn’t wait to repeat the experience tonight.

  And every night, for the rest of their lives.

  Had she noticed how well the three of them fit together? How very right last night had been? Well, if it had somehow escaped her notice, he certainly intended to remedy that tonight.

  Turning, he watched her approach. An artful array of chestnut curls framed her face in a becoming style that made her golden brown eyes appear luminous. Her pale peach muslin gown highlighted her creamy skin. The gown and its neckline were properly modest, yet rather than inspiring propriety, Andrew’s imagination ran wild with what delights her demure clothing covered.

  As she neared him, the subtle scent of flowers invaded his senses, and he tightened his grip on the banister to keep from reaching out to touch her.

  “You may have as many moments as yo
u wish, Lady Catherine.”

  “Thank you. In the library?”

  “Wherever you wish.” Whenever you wish. However you wish. Whatever you wish. He clenched his jaw to contain the words that threatened to break free of his heart. This was hardly the time or place to blurt out that he was madly in love with her, desired her to the point of pain, and wanted nothing more than to grant her every wish.

  He followed her down the stairs and through the corridor, admiring the subtle hints of feminine curves revealed when she walked. His gaze wandered upward and fastened on her vulnerable, smooth nape, left bare by her upswept coiffure—bare except for a single curl that bisected her pale skin with a shiny chestnut spiral.

  His fingers flexed, and he locked his elbows to keep from reaching out to glide his fingertip over that beguiling solitary curl. So intent was he on looking at the tendril, he didn’t notice that she’d paused in front of a closed door. Didn’t notice until he walked right into her.

  She gasped and reached out, pressing her palms against the oak panel to maintain her balance and keep from plunging headlong into the door. His hands came forward and slipped around her waist.

  For several stunning seconds neither moved. Andrew’s mind shouted at him to release her, to step back, but his hands and feet refused to obey the command. Instead, his eyes slid closed, and he absorbed the intense pleasure of her body pressing against his from chest to thigh. Her scent, that alluring essence of flowers, surrounded him like a seductive cloud. He had only to turn his head slightly to press his lips to her fragrant skin that was so close... so tantalizingly close.

  Before he could think, before any reason why he shouldn’t invaded his mind, he gave in to the overwhelming longing. His lips touched the ivory skin just behind her ear, gentle as a breathless whisper, so softly he wondered if she even realized what he’d done—and that it was done deliberately.