Page 6 of Love, the Duke
“There is a huge difference between agreeing to marry someone sight unseen and meeting with them, Miss Stowe. Furthermore, I have every intention of visiting Winston.”
Her expression sagged as she glanced at the recently tended fire for a second or two before responding with, “That’s impossible now. I’m sorry to say my brother passed away shortly after he sent the letter to you.”
The sting of guilt pricked Hurst as sharply as the tip of a footpad’s dagger. “My sympathies. I really wanted to see him again,” he said as honestly and gently as he could. “I believed he would be strong enough to weather his illness. I’m sorry.”
She hesitated and took an unsteady breath before saying, “Thank you. That is some comfort, but I’m here because Winston still needs your help.”
“Of course, I’ll do whatever I can.” It was damned unsettling to talk to a lady who wore the clothing and the look of a man. Especially a quite lovely lady who had very real reasons to pull on his heartstrings and his desires, but he was managing. “We can discuss it tomorrow when you return with proper attire and chaperone so neither of us will be shunned from Society or forced into marriage because of your prank.”
“Ah,” she said after inhaling a deep breath. “You’ve already made your thoughts on marriage to me quite clear.”
“I want to marry, Miss Stowe, but not that way. Rest assured I was only thinking of your reputation. Not my own. I’ll have Gilbert call for my carriage, so I’ll be assured you get back to wherever you’re staying without anyone ever knowing you were here.” Hurst made his way to walk past her. “You can wait in—”
In a surprise move, she took hold of the crook of his arm and stopped him.
Flames leaping from the blazing fire couldn’t have heated him more than the unexpected contact. At her touch, a quiver of sensual awareness pounded through his stomach and settled low. His fascination with her was real and exasperating.
Both glanced down at her hand firmly holding his elbow before their eyes met again. There was a gentle strength in her determined grasp, but more intriguing was an undefinable emotion he felt surging between them as they stood close together. For a moment the room was so quiet he would have sworn to anyone he heard both their hearts beating. For a moment he had the oddest feeling she was the lady for him. That was an odd thought he dismissed quickly.
Slowly, she relaxed her grip one finger at a time as ifshe wasn’t sure she wanted to let go of him at all. And for one wild second he wasn’t sure he wanted her to. There was such a warmth of loveliness about her that it was easy to forget she had tricked her way into his house.
“Please, wait and hear what I have to say.” Her voice was beseeching, though her gaze never wavered from his determined stare. “I’ve been planning this for a long time.”
That was apparent by her well-fitted costume. “Planning what?” He pulled on the sleeve of his coat and shook his head, wanting to fend off the purely masculine feelings swirling inside him. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t know what kind of trouble you are in, Miss Stowe, but I think you came to the wrong man.”
“I hope that’s not true. I wanted to come to London right away, but I couldn’t risk leaving the village before the proper mourning time was over.”
His gaze flickered over her face again. Unable, for the time being, to shake off his inconceivable attraction to her, he nodded understanding but insisted, “Whatever you have to say can wait until tomorrow.”
She blinked as if she might have truly realized the gravity of her actions for a moment, but then her shoulders rolled back. Her chin lifted again. “There’s good reason I’ve gone to such trouble to see you alone,” she said resolutely.
Hurst stiffened at the tug of her honest plea, but it did nothing to alleviate his worry about her getting safely home before someone else saw her dressed as she was. “No reason could be good enough.”
“You can’t know that until you hear me out.” Her dark velvety lashes fluttered in sudden indignation. “It won’t hurt to at least listen to what I have to say since I am already here,” she argued. “I daresay most men would be thrilled a woman had crept into their home cloaked by masquerade.”
He muttered a near soundless oath. “Woman, perhaps yes, Miss Stowe. You are a lady.”
He moved to head for the door. Again, her arm snaked out, but she caught herself and snatched back her hand, clasping it to her chest. The defensive action and the shifting emotions crossing her face was enough to stop him.
No doubt, he did owe it to Winston to keep his sister from being banished from Society, or worse. Nonetheless, that’s not what gave him pause to reconsider and listen to what she had to say.
“Please,” she said. It was the faint sound of desperation mixed with a feminine vulnerability in her voice that pulled on his heartstrings once again. He couldn’t turn away from her or his interest in why she had sought him with such desperation.
Staring into her eyes, he moved his face close to hers and realized straightaway that was a mistake. He wasn’t prepared to be intoxicated by her fresh womanly scent or the hushed sounds of her anxious breathing. They teased his senses with primal thoughts, throwing him out of kilter for a few seconds before he shook them off and snorted with derision at the reality of what was happening. He couldn’t figure out why he was so sensitive to every move she made.
Hurst relented and grudgingly said, “I will give you the courtesy of hearing what the devil brought you here while we wait for my carriage to arrive.” He strode over to the door, called for Gilbert to have it brought around in front, and then walked back and stood before her again.
She may not understand the ramifications of what she had done, but he did. “Tell me why you are here, Miss Stowe, and make it quick.”
Standing her ground and suddenly looking more hopeful, she murmured, “Thank you.” There was a skip in her breath before she stated confidently, “The day after Winston passed, I discovered the door to the room that holds the sacraments of the church where Winston had been vicar slightly ajar. It is always locked. At first glance nothing seemed out of place, but a closer inspection revealed the box that held the Chatham’s chalice wasn’t properly locked and the priceless relic was gone.”
“And?” he asked, impatient for her to move on with the story.
“Someone must have taken the keys to the room and the box from Winston while he was so ill and stolen the chalice.”
“That seems presumptuous, Miss Stowe. Surely it has simply been misplaced. Or sent out to be cleaned or repaired. The chalice may well be on a shelf, waiting for someone to pick it up.”
“No, it is gone. I have handled all nonspiritual matters for Winston the past couple of years. It wouldn’t have been removed from the box without permission from me.”
