“I think it will,” Channing said quietly. Grahame tried not to shift in his seat. Channing’s incessant smiling was making him nervous. He liked Channing Deveril immensely but Channing had an unnerving talent to literally read people like books, which was a good thing, Grahame reasoned, because Channing didn’t read. It wasn’t that he couldn’t read, the man was certainly literate, he simply didn’t. But that talent was deuced awkward when it was turned on him. It meant Channing knew something he did not and that made Grahame uneasy, indeed.
“All right then, tell me.” The room had suddenly become fraught with an invisible air of anticipation. Grahame far preferred the foe he could see.
Channing pulled out another file from his desk. He pushed it toward him and spoke one word into the tense silence. “Vienna.”
Of all the words Channing could have spoken, this was the one he couldn’t resist. Vienna, home of the Spanish riding school, the very place that had written two weeks ago and asked him to come for an interview on the eighteenth of the month. They thought perhaps they could use an instructor of his caliber on horseback and with his distinct specialty in sabrage, a gentleman’s art to be sure.
Vienna represented everything he’d been chasing since he’d known what it was he hungered for—the chance to belong, the type of belonging that came with a sense of permanence and respect, not because of birth but because of skill.
Grahame blew out a breath and gave in to the urge to shift in his seat. He crossed and recrossed his legs. He wasn’t like the others here: not like Channing, an earl’s second son, or Jocelyn Eisley, heir to an earldom, or even the recently married and retired Nicholas D’Arcy who was at least the son of gentry. He, Grahame Westmore, was nothing. He’d earned his commission, not bought it. He’d fought for his leg up in the world every step of the way. To have been an English officer and to now be invited to the Spanish riding school in Vienna, was the best he could hope for, a dream, really, for a boy of his humbling beginnings.
“You know very well what that means to me,” Grahame said slowly. “I would escort the devil himself in order to get to Vienna.”
Channing nodded. “Then I’ll take that as a yes. But you’re cutting it pretty fine. They’ll expect you to arrive on time if you’re serious.”
Grahame gave a tight grimace. He knew what it meant to escort the devil. There’d be hell to pay.
Chapter Two
What the devil was going on down there? The sound of barked orders and the hurried march of booted feet on hardwood floors brought Elowyn Bagshaw to the balustrade overlooking the townhouse foyer. Below her, footmen carried boxes and trunks out the door, maids scurried to and fro with last-minute packing supplies. Everyone was organized and purposeful in their tasks, the chaos of moving minimized with efficiency and it was all wrong, every last bit of it, starting with the fact that they weren’t moving.
At least not today. She should know. She’d been moving her father’s household since she was fifteen. Boxes and trunks weren’t scheduled to be loaded until Thursday and by all accounts, today was Tuesday. She knew exactly where to place the blame—Captain Grahame Westmore, a man she’d met only by letter. More like by note. The two lines he’d sent over yesterday hardly qualified as a letter.
The culprit stood with his back—his very wide, broad-shouldered back—to her, directing it all, looking for all intents as a man on a mission. There was a bridled urgency to the way he ordered the staff, as if it mattered how quickly this task could be done.
It had not been hard to pick him out. Her eyes had found him with little effort. Elowyn suspected he would be easy to spot in any room. His physical presence reeked of command. Captain Westmore was taller than most men, his hair longer, his shoulders broader and his stance wider. Attributes which were all emphasized by the absence of his coat. There were other attributes emphasized, too, like the firm, muscled contours of his buttocks encased in snug riding breeches. She’d always had a weakness for horsemen. There was nothing sexier than a well-made man in tight breeches.
Still, a delicious derriere and the fact the hall was emptying at an impressive pace didn’t excuse his arrogance. It would have been nice if he’d seen fit to consult her before he started carting up her mother’s china without so much as a by your leave. She was in charge here. He took orders, he didn’t give them.
Elowyn started down the staircase, ready to do battle. It was not her first choice of introduction but he’d left her no option with his unorthodox barging in. It would be a long trip to Vienna if she didn’t put him in his place. One should always begin as one meant to go on; it was the essential rule of establishing control in any relationship. If Westmore thought he could just walk into her home and start moving her things without permission, who knew what other presumptions he’d make?
A bit of naughty excitement trilled through her. There were presumptions and then there were presumptions. He looked like a man who didn’t let the difference stop him. Dear Lord, she hadn’t even officially met him and her imagination was already running away with her. Now was not the time. There was business to take care of. When he’d written to say he’d call in the morning, she’d never equated that two-line statement with this.
Elowyn raised her voice to be heard over the noise. “What do you think you’re doing, Captain?” The foyer fell silent, all activity freezing in motion at the sound of her challenge. Captain Westmore pivoted toward her and advanced, hands on lean hips, drawing her eyes to the core of his swagger—hips, pelvis and the place in between.
What had been impressive physicality at a distance was imposing masculinity up close. Elowyn took an involuntary step up the staircase to establish an equality of heights and tried to focus her gaze on the rugged features of his face instead of that one place a well-bred lady never looked on a man. It would have certainly helped if he’d been wearing a coat. Then again, the man fairly exuded raw sexuality. It was likely to find its way out regardless of how many coats he put on. Well, this was just fabulous. Her father had managed to hire the most dashing guard in London.
“What does it look like I’m doing, princess?” Westmore planted a booted foot on the bottom stair and gave her a gray-eyed perusal that suggested the answer to his question was less about moving boxes and more about something else altogether, something that sent a slow trail of heat straight to her stomach.
Elowyn met his gaze evenly. “It’s hard to say, since what it appears you’re doing isn’t scheduled for another two days.”
“There’s been a change of plan.”
That was it? There was no attempt at an apology, no effort to be conciliatory. Not even an explanation. This was not the attitude of a model employee.
Elowyn crossed her arms and stood her ground. Leave it to her father to also hire the most arrogant escort available. She was beginning to wonder if her father had even met Westmore. He wasn’t really her father’s type. “Since when do you make the plans, Captain?”
“Since the weather changed.” Again, the unrepentant stare. “My sources on the Channel coast say there’s a storm moving in. Unless you want to be holed up in an inn with your wagons stuck in a stable yard for a few days, we leave now and hope we can beat the weather.”
She hated being cornered. The captain had to know very well she wouldn’t want the wagons exposed to the elements and possible theft any more than they had to be.
Captain Westmore gestured to the room behind him, now empty of boxes. “I believe we’re packed. We’re just waiting on you, miss.”
She wanted to wipe that self-satisfied smile off his face. There was winning and then there was gloating. He was gloating. He thought