He didn’t look at Miss Trim. But his brain worked, even as he argued with his mother’s conclusions. Despite his joke, Garson wasn’t a drunkard. If he said he saw lights in the library, odds were that he had.
A determination to catch Miss Trim in the act gripped him. If he could prove to his mother that the girl meant no good, he could send her away.
And conquer this inconvenient itch to bed her.
Nell had read every thought that crossed the marquess’s mind when his mother told him about Lady Mary’s ghost. He’d known immediately who was flitting around his library. Fear had twisted her stomach into knots as she waited for him to denounce her. Then she’d realized that he’d take this as a golden opportunity to catch her prowling about.
Her suspicions were confirmed that evening when she saw Mr. Wells, the daunting butler, delivering a tray to the library. Obviously refreshments for his lordship’s watch.
For once, she was a step ahead of Lord Leath.
The diary wasn’t in the library. The next likely place—in fact always the most likely place—was his lordship’s bedroom. After all, the scandalous document would hardly be shelved alongside Fordyce’s Sermons where anyone could lay their hand upon it. The problem was entering the marquess’s rooms unobserved. His vigil in the library provided the ideal chance.
Now as she crept along darkened hallways, only a candle to light her way, the house seemed twice the size as it did by day. And by day, the sprawling pile stretched for miles. Thick carpeting under her feet muffled her passing, but she remained preternaturally alert.
His lordship’s valet lived above his rooms, but last week Selsby had been called away to his sick mother. Everything conspired to allow her to search Leath’s apartments.
She prayed that she’d find the diary quickly. She desperately needed to escape Alloway Chase. The longer she stayed, the flimsier became her resolution. Every moment she spent with the marquess left her more befuddled. Witness today when he’d surprised his mother with those books. Hardly the act of a thoughtless cad. And was he hypocrite enough to denounce Lord Byron for sins he himself had committed? She wouldn’t have thought so.
If she’d been ignorant of the marquess’s offenses, she’d like him. Oh, who was she fooling? She’d more than like him. Even knowing his wickedness, she found him breathtakingly attractive.
However dirty that made her feel.
How could she yearn after the man who had destroyed Dorothy? Was she victim to the same fatal weakness as her half sister?
Carefully she inched open the door to the marquess’s apartments. Although he was safely ensconced in his library, her heart skittered with fear that somehow he was in two places at once.
She stepped into a dark, cavernous space. She closed the door and raised her candle to reveal a sitting room, as masculine in decor as the marchioness’s was feminine. Flickering light glanced across a leather couch and two armchairs beside a cold hearth. Piles of books teetered on heavy mahogany tables. She’d lay money there wasn’t a novel among them. Light glinted off decanters on the sideboard.
James Fairbrother’s presence was palpable, as though he stood right behind her. The muscles across her neck and shoulders knotted until she told herself to settle down. He was downstairs. She was safe, at least for now.
She pushed open the door from the sitting room and entered a short corridor. Shelves lined the first room off the hallway. She inhaled to calm leapfrogging nerves, then wished she hadn’t. When had the marquess’s scent become so familiar? Her senses expanded with pleasure as she recognized sandalwood soap and clean, healthy male. Riffling through the clothes he wore on that strong, hard body seemed unforgivably intimate, and she fumbled the door shut with a loud click that made her heart jolt with alarm.
Desperately listening in case someone came to check on the noise, she stood motionless.
Nothing.
She sucked air into starved lungs. Nell didn’t take easily to deceit. Sneaking around and eavesdropping and telling lies went against her character. Another reason to leave Alloway Chase sooner rather than later. Much more chicanery and she’d be a wreck.
The next door revealed a bathing room of a luxury beyond anything she’d imagined when her world was confined to Mearsall. At last she found proof of sensual self-indulgence. The marquess presented a restrained façade to the world. Something at Nell’s deepest level insisted that beneath that proper exterior lurked a man who appreciated pleasure.
The thought of James Fairbrother standing naked in this blue-tiled magnificence heated her blood. She couldn’t help seeing him as he doused himself with water, stroked soap along his wet skin, lounged in the huge bath.
This time, although she closed the door carefully, panic nipped more sharply. Her invasion of the marquess’s rooms inflamed her senses in a way that appalled her.
One door remained.
Only her piercing need to run away made her proceed. If she failed at this hurdle, she was likely to fail altogether.
As she opened this last door, her hands shook so violently that her candle cast wild shadows over the walls. She felt like Bluebeard’s bride breaking into the locked room. A discomfiting thought, as the nosy girl came to a nasty end in that tale. At least she did in the pragmatic version told around Mearsall’s firesides.
The bedroom was so enormous that the candle’s light didn’t penetrate its far reaches. A fire burned in the grate, but the flames left most of the room in shadow. The room was circular with tall windows facing three directions. She must be in the castle’s west tower. Quietly she closed the door behind her.
The huge four-poster bed sat on a dais, curtained in gold brocade. The ceiling was so high it dwarfed even this lofty structure. The covers were turned down, ready for the marquess’s powerful body. Nell shivered with a dread that, she was ashamed to admit, included a dollop of forbidden excitement.
If she’d felt like she infringed the marquess’s privacy elsewhere in these apartments, here where he slept, he could be standing at her elbow. A book lay open on the nightstand as if he’d just laid it down. A shirt draped across a chair. A black velvet dressing gown as soft as panther fur spread across the base of the bed, waiting for its owner to shrug it over his long body. She could picture him wearing it as he enjoyed a last brandy before sleep.
The image of Leath as his real, animal self, not the civilized man he presented to the world, was painfully vivid. Here it was easy to envision him with a lover. Not a girl he tumbled to scratch an itch, but someone he wanted. Perhaps even … loved. Nell released a soft gasp of distress when she realized that the fantasy woman in Leath’s arms bore her face.
Enough. She swallowed to control her queasiness. She didn’t have long. And she couldn’t waste it on nonsense.
Recalling Lady Mary’s “ghost,” she crossed to the windows to check that the curtains were closed. Then she set her candle on a small table and surveyed the room.
This vast, idiosyncratic chamber was full of interesting nooks and coffers. Fertile ground for her search. She leveled her shoulders and stepped toward a large studded chest near the hearth with the year 1676 picked out in heavy iron nails.
Then the unthinkable happened.
The door opened and his lordship strode in.
Nell caught her breath and held it as if somehow that made her invisible. Her queasiness changed to cramping horror.
Shock flared in his face then his gaze narrowed on her. He couldn’t be nearly as appalled to see her as she was to see him.
“What