My Notorious Gentleman (4 page)

Oddly enough, however, she wasn’t feeling so lonely anymore. The prospect of returning to the ball seemed even duller now, knowing that Lord Trevor would not be there. Nevertheless, she realized George might be looking for her even now to claim his dance.
Better fix my hair.
She could still practically feel his clever fingers running through her hair, his sensual touch on her skin . . .

Scandalized by her own thoughts, she scrabbled about to find a candle and tinder in the room. Laying hold of one at last, she struck the flint with hands that still trembled, but finally managed to bring back a flicker of light.

Then came the task of remaking her chignon. In short order, she had twisted her long, light brown hair into a smooth rope. She looped it around her hand to form a neat bun, then tucked the edges under and inserted the long hairpin she had poked him with to hold it all in place.

There.
Now she looked like the Reverend Kenwood’s virtuous daughter again.

In the glass, however, her cheeks still glowed coral pink. Nervously pulling up her neckline again, she frowned at her reflection.

What a barbarian he was, grabbing at her so! No one had ever touched her body like that before in her life. She still felt foolish and overwarm, guilty and unsure.
It wasn’t my fault,
she assured herself, smoothing one last stray hair into place.
He’s the one who started it.

In any case, he hadn’t even meant to do it. She understood that now. He had thought she was one of those awful women stalking him and had reacted accordingly.

He had only kissed her to be rude. Of course, he had apologized. Egads, there was no point in dwelling on it. Forgive and forget. The man had made a mistake.

A rather startling mistake, one they had both enjoyed . . . Indeed, every woman ought to be kissed like that just once in her life, Grace thought, as another sigh escaped her. The main thing was, it wouldn’t happen again.

Her heart sank.
Back to being a spinster.

But she wasted no time in sneaking out of the parlor. She opened the door a crack, glanced to the right and left, and finding the hallway empty, headed back to the ball.

A
wkward.
So, so very awkward.

Comically so—even though the humor was at his own expense.

Trevor could not believe he had made such a mortifying blunder, but it just went to show how out of sorts he was, and besides, as mistakes went, this was one he had thoroughly enjoyed.

It had also made one thing very clear: Perhaps it was time he started paying attention to life again, get his bloody head on straight, and come out of his dark fog of angry, bitter brooding.

Whoever she was, the little minx had certainly jarred him out of his disillusioned rut.

Half-amused, fully chagrined, and still smoldering from head to toe with thwarted lust, he headed for his carriage, hands in pockets.

Still, the question would not leave him alone. Who was she?

A little terror, that’s who.
He could not believe she had jabbed him with her hairpin—all to escape his kiss, which he had doled out as if he were doing her a favor.

Tickled by the irony, even though he himself was the butt of the joke, Trevor paused reluctantly and glanced back over his shoulder at Lievedon House, all its windows warmly aglow.

Hang it, he was torn about whether to go home now as planned or venture back inside and stay a little longer.

Try to find out who she was . . .

He shook his head to himself, well aware that his apology had been inadequate. What she must think of him!

He
knew
how a gentleman ought to treat the fair sex: Unlike his Order teammates, he had sisters, after all. He had never been a serial seducer like Beauchamp, nor took twisted pleasure in the kind of stormy, hot-and-cold affairs with dangerous females that were Nick’s Achilles heel.

But now he felt like a villain, for it was obvious in hindsight that the lady he had groped like a drunken libertine was a genuine nice girl.

A nice girl!
Imagine that.
He had lost faith that they existed. It made him all the more intrigued. And all the less willing to accept her refusal to tell her name.

He could learn it easily enough, of course. He did have some experience in gathering information.

But maybe she was right. Maybe it was better to leave it alone, as she had said—a secret kiss with an intoxicating stranger. God knew he’d had his share of those, he thought, letting out a wistful sigh.

Somehow, this felt different. He looked at the house again. Then a fleeting memory of her clinging to him in a dizzied swoon of very virginal passion flashed through his mind and made his nether regions pulsate with long-starved need.
Right.
All of a sudden, his mind was made up.

This would not do. Honor had its demands. He had misused a lady: He, of all people, could not possibly leave it at that. He had to go back and tell her again—properly, without sarcasm—that he was sorry and that she needn’t fear at all for her good name.

Which he fully intended to learn.

At the very least, he owed it to himself to find out who she was. For the first time in ages, he felt a stirring of hope. Whoever she was, she symbolized, well, something. He wasn’t quite sure what. It was enough to have seen there were still good women out there in the world.

While all the others fawned on him—exactly what he didn’t need—she, with that little pinprick, had neatly popped the bubble of his own dark focus on himself.

Aye, she had done him a favor, he thought wryly. He owed the girl his thanks. And why not?

He had nothing else to do tonight, nowhere else to go.

And nothing left to lose.

Laura and her new beau obviously weren’t coming, so maybe now he could finally relax. Go back in, have another drink, he mused, and at least
try
to enjoy himself like a human being again.

With the taste of that beguiling girl’s innocent kiss still lingering on his tongue, Trevor surrendered to his curiosity, drawn back toward the light.

The iron chandelier glowed, hung from the mansion’s airy, half-round portico. He crossed beneath it, walking back into Lievedon House.

Rejoining the fray, he made a mental note to try to steer clear of those vexing hussies and keep to the company of men while he made his inquiries.

One way or the other, he was determined to find out who the devil he had just kissed.

Chapter 3

O
h, no.
Grace’s heart sank. Upon returning discreetly to the ball, she had arrived in the doorway of the card room only to find that George had either forgotten about their promised dance or had forfeited the bargain.

She looked on in worry from a safe distance as the marquess’s son plunged himself into his fatal passion at the gaming tables. It appeared to be whist that they were playing, and if it was the long form, she would not be seeing him again for the rest of the night.

Unless I tell Papa.

Yes, that was the best solution. Not so much time had passed; George could not yet be too far gone in the grip of his vice. If anyone could still pull him back from the brink, it was the kind and unflappable Reverend Kenwood.

Frankly, she could not believe the brat would even
do
this with Papa here—but Heaven only knew what might happen if his own father found him first. Lord Lievedon had forbidden his son from these perilous amusements. But here was George, doing as he pleased right under his father’s nose. Lord Bratford, indeed. Maybe this was his way of trying to get his father’s attention . . .

She shook her head uneasily, then left the doorway and went looking for her sire. Along the way, she lifted a glass of wine from a footman’s tray and took a large sip to steady her nerves, for she was still a little shaken by her deliciously sinful rendezvous.

As she hurried through the glittering crowd, she was shocked at herself for feeling a trifle smug as she passed the glamorous, highborn ladies who had been thronging the Order hero. It was wrong of her to gloat that she was the one who had secretly won his kiss—and secret it had better stay. She had worked hard to earn her reputation as a paragon, and she intended to keep it.

Shaking off a shiver of remembered pleasure, she put the ex-spy forcefully out of her mind.

There’s Papa.
Standing on her tiptoes, she spotted her father near one of the refreshment tables before the shifting crowd hid him from view again.

She began weaving her way toward him, sipping her wine again to keep from sloshing it on herself or others in the noisy throng.

When she reached the edge of the group where the amiable minister was deep in conversation with several other gentlemen, she envied his ability to make friends wherever they went.

It was not as easy for her, with her shy streak.

She was still on the outside of the male gathering when she heard him at it again, an excellent conversationalist on any number of topics.

“If you are handy with such things, my lord, I know the perfect property you should consider,” he was saying. “Back in our own home village in Leicestershire near Lord Lievedon’s country seat, there’s a fine old farmhouse called the Grange. It’s fallen into a state of disuse since the previous owner’s death and could use a skillful hand to bring it back to life. I’ve been inside the place,” Papa continued. “Excellent linen-fold paneling. Brickwork ’round the hearth that dates back to the Tudor age, if it can be preserved.”

“And what is the name of your village, Reverend?” another man nearby asked.

“Thistleton. The Grange has some of the most fertile acreage still to be had in the Midlands.” He took a drink and continued. “The house sits on the brow of a hill, northward facing, a very agreeable location. The fields have long lain fallow, which would ensure abundant crop yields for years to come. The pastures are suitable for cattle, horses, sheep. It has an orchard, well established, and a fine brook full with fish. The old colonel was very fond of his fishing stream.”

“You sound like you’d rather buy the Grange yourself, Reverend.”

He chuckled with a mild wave of his hand. “I’m just a humble minister to my flock, gentlemen. Besides, at my age, all that work sounds exhausting. But you may be just the man for the task, Montgomery.”

Grace gasped as her father stepped across the open circle of the dozen or so men who had gathered around, and handed a small piece of paper to none other than Lord Trevor Montgomery.

She only just managed to duck out of sight again behind some portly fellow taking a pinch of snuff.

Oh, God. What is he doing back here? I thought he left!

“The food at the Gaggle Goose Inn isn’t half-bad—that’s Thistleton’s only coaching inn,” her father was explaining. “But if you do decide to come out and see the Grange, by all means, call on us at the parsonage. My daughter and I would be pleased to invite you to supper.”

“You’re very kind, sir, thank you.” Lord Trevor tucked the card into his breast pocket.

“Ah,” her father said, turning and spying her, but missing her look of panic, “here’s my daughter now.”

Grace froze as he beckoned her over with a smile.

Lord Trevor’s eyebrow arched high when he saw her.

“Grace, my dear, where have you been? I was missing you,” her father said affectionately.

She turned a guilty shade of red at the question, but thankfully, Papa didn’t pursue it.

“I have been talking to the most congenial fellow,” the reverend continued, as cordial as ever, gesturing at the ex-spy with his glass of brandy. “He is interested in Colonel Avery’s old farm.”

“Oh?” she choked out.

Egads, it was only a short walk through two pastures and a grove of trees between her home at the lovely stone parsonage and the rambling old gentlemanly farmhouse known as the Grange. Of all the neighbors who might have dreamed of moving in next door—!

She managed not to choke and summoned up a polite smile instead. “Oh, but, Papa, the Grange is just a ruin. It’s scarcely livable,” she assured Lord Trevor with a nervous smile.

“Nonsense!” her father objected. “It just needs a few intelligent repairs, but my young friend here was just telling us he’s a bit of an amateur architect—among his many other talents, so I hear.”

“To be sure,” Grace whispered guiltily, while Papa raised his glass to the Order agent in a discreet acknowledgment of his service to their country.

She’d had a taste of certain other talents he possessed, thank you.

Then Papa set out to do the introductions in a more official manner. “Grace, allow me to present Lord Trevor Montgomery,” he said, turning to the national hero. “Lord Trevor, this is my greatest treasure on the earth, and my all-essential help since her mother passed. My daughter, Grace.”

Lord Trevor Montgomery bowed to her without giving away the slightest sign of their mutual misdeeds. He was, after all, trained to lie, she supposed. “Miss Kenwood. An honor.”

So much for her anonymity.

Heart racing, she bowed her head and sketched a curtsy, praying that her father did not question too much why her cheeks were scarlet. Most ladies’ cheeks no doubt went as red as beets upon meeting such a man.

“Um, Papa, may I speak to you for a moment?” she mumbled, turning away with her father.

“Of course, my dear. Is something wrong?”

Meanwhile, she saw Lord Trevor gloating beyond her father’s shoulder; he sent her a pointed look that seemed to ask in amusement, “
You thought this was over?
”

She took her father’s elbow and pulled him another two steps away. “George is in the card room playing whist,” she murmured.

His silver eyebrows shot upward. “Oh dear. I’m on my way.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“No, I’ll make better headway if I go and speak to him man-to-man. Why don’t you stay and have a chat with this Montgomery fellow, what? You seemed to spark his interest.”

“What, me? Don’t be absurd! I can’t imagine why you’d say such a thing!” she answered rather more hotly than his passing comment warranted.

Her father gave her a curious stare, then shrugged. “Probably because you’re the only woman here who’s not throwing herself at him.” Then he elbowed her discreetly. “Tell him more about the Grange. We should get him in there if we can. He enjoys architecture as a hobby and was just saying he’s on the hunt for a new project. He just finished having a house built and sold it, and Heaven knows the Grange needs a new tenant. Perhaps he’ll even buy the old place if he likes it well enough.”

“Papa, I’m sure he would never enjoy our dull country village. He’s a man of action, adventure—that is, from what I hear. A warrior. He’ll be bored silly out there in the sticks with us ‘hayseeds.’ ”

“Whether he’s bored or not, it hardly signifies,” Papa informed her under his breath. “We need the tithe to help the village. If he could get the farm operational again, we could better afford to feed all those strays you bring to the parish.”

She scowled at his pointed reminder that her charity work did not come cheap. It was true.

Because of her efforts, poor people for miles around heard about the generosity of their village and flocked to their almshouse for help in these hard times.

She realized it wasn’t fair to put any more of a burden on their parish members when they already gave as much as they could, especially since so many of them were widows from the war.

Things were not going to get any easier this winter, either, with this year’s crops already blighted by the disruption in the weather. But perhaps by next year, with a wealthy tenant or even an owner living at the Grange, there could be new life in the village, new crops and harvests—and more than enough for everyone to eat.

She had to admit it sounded like a reasonable idea . . .

“Besides,” her father added, “every knight-errant has to settle down at some point. There’s no place more peaceful than Thistleton. It would probably do him good.”

“Papa.”

“Trust me, daughter,” he whispered low enough that only she could hear, “nobody hates war more than a man who’s fought one. He’s lived its horrors firsthand. You can see it in his eyes.”

Grace melted at this comment. Blast him, he always knew just what to say—but then, her father
had
been an army chaplain for a time before Lord Lievedon had bestowed his living on him. He knew what he was talking about.

Papa gave her a knowing wink, then nodded farewell to the others with a murmured, “Excuse me, gentlemen.” With that, the Reverend hurried off to go and save His Lordship’s scapegrace son from himself once more.

Abandoned where she stood, Grace could feel a certain individual nearby watching her with some degree of amusement. She turned slowly and met Lord Trevor’s twinkling gaze. Papa was right. Even when he smiled, a perceptive soul could almost see the drifting clouds of black smoke pass behind his eyes, could almost hear the cannons boom. As for the secret missions he’d gone on and what ghastly deeds they might have entailed, Grace did not really wish to know, any more than the ex-spy wanted to tell it, according to what George had said.

All she could think was that it wasn’t fair for one person to suffer so much for the rest. In a sudden flood of compassion, any resistance she might have felt about his moving in next door gave way. Her father was probably right: He usually was.

Maybe Lord Trevor needed Thistleton just as much as Thistleton needed him.

So she set aside her nervousness around him, gave him an arch look, and murmured in mock severity: “You again.”

T
revor flashed a rare grin. “It’s no good whispering in front of an ex-spy, Miss Kenwood. I’m afraid we have extensive training for that sort of thing.” He sauntered toward her, pleased with what he had found, now that he was better able to see her in the light.

Indeed, he’d have enjoyed their stolen moments in the parlor even more lustily if he had known that his partner in the dark was this enchanting.

She was taller than he had noticed before, decisively made, statuesque, and curvy, with an air of capable self-sufficiency. Even her body seemed to suggest that there was little in life that could shake her, and after years of Laura’s moods and tempers, Grace Kenwood put him instantly at ease, like taking a deep breath of clean, fresh air.

The top of her head came up almost to his chin, which was also different for him in a woman because he had always tended to go for the delicate little dolls. Their petite size brought out the protector in him, he supposed.

Grace’s height made it easy for her to look him in the eye like an equal. And the eyes looking into his were lovely—clear, warm blue.

Her thick, wavy hair was a rather ordinary brown. Then he noticed the sweep of her long golden brown lashes and the milky skin that he was sure had never been cheapened with powder and rouge.

She had no trickery in her, and that in itself made him tremble like a horse that had been galloped too long finally led back to the barn.

Maybe he was more exhausted than he had realized, running too long on anger and restless energy.

Yet he managed another cordial smile.

She smiled back, and he thought her very slight overbite was possibly the most adorable thing he had ever seen. It gave her just the smallest hint of a childlike quality. Other than that, by God, she was every inch a woman.

“How much did you hear?” she inquired, folding her arms across her ample bosom.

“Enough to confirm what you already know—that I am no knight-errant.”

“Mmm, not exactly.” Her fingers tapped her arm as she tried not to smile. “I suppose you think you’re very clever.”

“But I am.” His smile widened. “That is why, Miss Kenwood, I deem it only fair to tell you that withholding information from your humble servant doesn’t usually work,” he said with the politest of bows. “You might as well know that now. If we are going to be neighbors.”

“Are we?” Her eyes sparkled with intrigue. “Were you just humoring an old man, my lord, or are you really interested in the Grange?”

“If it means living next door to you, I could be interested, indeed.” He studied her for a moment, biting back a groan of inexplicable hunger for her that seemed to come out of nowhere.

Obviously, it was futile to want her so much when it was quite clear that he was dealing with a Tower of Virtue.

Ah, well. Inspired to claim her in perhaps some smaller way, he captured her hand without warning. “Dance with me, Grace!” he ordered. “Let’s see if you live up to your name.”