All About Love

  Desire, in all its forms, was on his side. He only had to touch her to feel it flare—sometimes he only had to meet her dark eyes to be conscious of their mutual need. He could afford to give her time to decide that, despite her qualms, marrying him was an excellent idea.

  For the past two days—yesterday and today—he’d pursued the strategy of propinquity, the notion that being constantly with him would help quell whatever qualms she possessed. On both mornings, he’d called at the Grange after breakfast; yesterday, after finishing her search of the outbuilding and storerooms, she’d joined him here. They’d spent the hours since making inroads into Horatio’s book collection. Unexpectedly, they’d stumbled on a shared interest, stopping every now and then to exclaim over some plate in an old tome, to share some discovery. Her excitement yesterday over the illuminations in a prayer book had had him smiling—he’d caught a glimpse of his own youthful enthusiasm in her face. Thus must Horatio have seen him. They’d parted that evening when he’d walked her home before dinner, closer, more relaxed, the understanding between them broadening, deepening.

  Propinquity was definitely working. It hadn’t escaped him that, just now, she’d felt sufficiently comfortable to not bother looking at him when asking her question. A sign of growing ease. Little by little, even if she didn’t know it, she was leaning his way.

  They broke for lunch, a cold collation Mrs. Hemmings had laid out in the dining room. Afterward, returning to the library, they found Covey stacking books on the desk.

  “I’ve finished one wall in the drawing room. These are the books with notes written in them—I forgot to give them to you the last couple of days.”

  “That’s all right, Covey. We’ll go through them now—it’ll give us a break from the shelves.” Lucifer lifted a brow at Phyllida.

  She nodded and headed for the desk. They settled in, he behind the desk, she in a comfortable chair before it, and knuckled down to decipher the often illegible notations.

  “Hmm.” Phyllida sat up and scanned the desk, picked up a scrap of paper, placed it as a bookmark in the book on her lap, then set the book on the floor by her chair.

  She glanced up; Lucifer looked his question.

  “A recipe for plum sauce—I must take a copy.”

  Lucifer smiled. They returned to the books. Companionable silence wrapped around them. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked on.

  Then Phyllida sat up. Lucifer glanced at her; she was frowning. “What?”

  “This has another inscription to Letitia from Humphrey. ‘To my dearest heart, my love, my life.’ It’s dated February 1781.”

  After a moment, Lucifer asked, “How old is Cedric?”

  Phyllida looked at him. “In his late thirties.”

  Lucifer raised his brows and held out a hand for the book; when Phyllida gave it to him, he set it aside. “One to think about later.”

  Five minutes later, Phyllida humphed. “This is another one ‘to my dearest Letty.’ The wording is quite . . . warm. It’s signed ‘Pinky.’ ”

  “Date?”

  “1783.”

  Lucifer added that book to the “later” pile.

  Fifteen minutes later, the pile had grown by three more volumes. Handing over the last, a book of poetry sent to dearest Letty from a gentleman who’d signed himself “Your fated lover,” also with a date of 1781, Phyllida viewed the pile with consternation. “This is really rather worrying.”

  Lucifer eyed the stack of books with notations they’d yet to check. “From what we have already, it would appear Cedric, certainly, has cause to be concerned over what might be found in Horatio’s collection.”

  Phyllida stared at him. “You mean that Cedric might not be Sir Bentley Fortemain’s legitimate son?”

  Lucifer nodded. “If that could be proved, and if Sir Bentley’s will is the usual simple affair, then Pommeroy could claim that Sir Bentley’s estate should be his.”

  “Pommeroy is not fond of Cedric.”

  “So I gathered. That gives Cedric a definite motive to clandestinely remove books from Horatio’s collection.”

  Silence fell. Phyllida stared at Lucifer; he looked steadily at her. “I can’t believe Cedric’s a murderer.”

  “What does a murderer look like?”

  “Even worse, Cedric wears brown. Most of the time. I know he wears brown hats.”

  “Think back—have you ever seen him wearing the hat you saw in Horatio’s drawing room?”

  Phyllida considered, then shook her head. “I can’t recall seeing him in that particular hat.”

  “Are you sure you’d remember it?”

  “The hat? Yes, definitely. I looked directly at it. I nearly picked it up. If I saw it again, I’d know it.”

  Lucifer sat back. “If Cedric’s our murderer, he won’t still have the hat.”

  “No. He’ll have got rid of it. Cedric may bluster, but he’s not stupid.” Phyllida frowned. “Did you ask Todd who rode out from Ballyclose that Sunday morning?”

  “Dodswell asked. Unfortunately, Todd not only went to church, but then visited his brother-in-law’s farm. He has no idea who rode that morning.” Lucifer considered. “Could Cedric have been the intruder we chased?”

  Phyllida grimaced. “Cedric used to be more athletic. If pushed, he could probably run as fast as the intruder.”

  “So Cedric’s a possibility.”

  Phyllida fell silent; after a moment, Lucifer prompted, “Penny for your thoughts.”

  She glanced at him, then looked away. “Cedric wants—wanted—to marry me. If he’s the murderer, then . . .”

  Lucifer glanced at the clock, then stood and rounded the desk. “Come on.” He held out his hand.

  Phyllida looked up, her fingers slipping into his even without the answer to the question in her eyes.

  Lucifer looked down at her. “You’ve forgotten the summer ball at Ballyclose Manor tonight.”

  “Good heavens!” Phyllida glanced at the window. “I had forgotten.” She looked at Lucifer. “Perhaps . . . ?”

  He met her gaze. “We’ll need to go carefully, but we can certainly test Cedric’s interest in Horatio’s books, and all they may contain.”

  Five hours later, stylishly gowned in pale blue silk, Phyllida stood by the side of the Ballyclose ballroom and watched the only one of her suitors who had succeeded in getting her to consider marrying him. He was standing across the room, charming the Misses Longdon; clinging to the shadows thrown by a large palm, she considered his tall frame, considered the dark locks rakishly framing his brow, the elegant black coat and trousers set off by his ivory cravat and an ivory silk waistcoat. Along with most of the women in the room, she savored the aura of strength and masculine confidence he so effortlessly exuded.

  She’d hoped distance would help her gain perspective. With an inward sniff at her own susceptibilities, she forced her gaze from him and scanned the room. She’d sent Basil to fetch her a glass of orgeat; she hoped he would find some distraction along the way.

  She needed time to think. Spending day after day by Lucifer’s side was undeniably pleasant, but it made thinking sensibly about him difficult. And she definitely needed to think—about him, about marrying him. About what she wanted, about if she would.

  His statement that he would never have seduced her if he hadn’t intended to marry her had opened her eyes, not to his motives but to hers. She would never have allowed him to seduce her if she hadn’t already loved him, even if she didn’t understand what love was.

  She’d always found the subject of love—love between a man and a woman—confusing.

  Her mother had not lived long enough for her to form any useful view of her parents’ marriage. The only other married couple she knew well were the Farthingales, and their relationship was based on mutual acceptance, not on any stronger emotion. Lady Fortemain’s apparent excursions outside matrimony only muddied the waters further—she had always viewed her ladyship as the epitome of a gentlewoman.

  No one had ex
plained love to her. As for her reaction to Lucifer, she’d been suffering from self-assured blindness, convinced such an emotional development—the sort that looked set to bind Mary Anne and Robert for the rest of their lives—could never happen to her.

  Out of the blue, it had. Lucifer had arrived and affected her life like an earthquake—everything had changed and was still changing. The new landscape hadn’t yet taken final shape. She hadn’t yet allowed it to do so.

  Desire might have temporarily fogged her brain—it still did with just a touch, just one look from those midnight-blue eyes—but she was still her own woman, still in charge of her life. Letting the matter slide as she had with her other suitors was not an option with Lucifer. She couldn’t ignore him; he’d created and occupied a place in her world that none of the others had. He was her lover.

  He was, however, a great deal more.

  A ruthless pirate at heart, a protective tyrant—all that she could easily see. She’d also experienced his gentleness, his tenderness. In teaching her of his desire and hers, he had, time and again, put her needs ahead of his wants. She might have been innocent, naive, a virgin, but she’d overheard enough over the years to know not all men were so considerate. With him, it had gone far beyond consideration—he had cared.

  The emotion, the impulse, was so much a part of her, she’d recognized it instantly with no possibility of error. He cared for her. That truly unnerved her—everyone else expected her to be the one who cared.

  She had wondered whether he’d seduced her intending to use the fact to pressure her into marriage, yet he hadn’t done so. She was under no illusion that he expected to win her, to ultimately gain her agreement to their wedding, but she’d read his character accurately—he’d play fair. He was so much stronger than she, yet in his arms she never felt threatened. In his arms she felt safe—safe from everything, even him. So it was still her life, her choice, although he would do all he could to influence it.

  It was still possible to say no, to turn her back and retreat to safer ground, but she was no longer the woman she’d been when he’d arrived, and so much of what he was offering was tempting. But there was one major hurdle to accepting that new future: How would their marriage work? If like the Farthingales’ or Lady Fortemain’s, then her answer would be no. He’d asked her what she wanted of marriage. She’d always known what she didn’t.

  She couldn’t make up her mind, not without the answer to that major question. Could it work? Could she retain her sense of self while being the object of his overpowering protectiveness and the associated, highly possessive ramifications? Could she accept being cared for, rather than being the active carer? Could she adjust? Could he? If both of them were willing . . . that raised the question of how willing he was.

  When he’d asked what she wanted of marriage, she hadn’t had a clue. Now she did. She wanted to share. She wanted to work together, live together, love together—to make a difference together—to share his life and have him share hers. That was a prize worth the risk of binding herself to a protective tyrant.

  If she told him what she wanted, would he give it? Would he let her take the driving seat sometimes? Was he truly capable of sharing the reins?

  Smiling, she turned to greet Basil, all her questions still weaving through her mind.

  Basil had brought her orgeat; she rewarded him with the next dance. Lucifer had strolled up the instant she’d stepped into the ballroom; they’d agreed to let the ball get under way before sounding Cedric out. So they were both dancing, chatting, and waiting for the time to pounce.

  Lucifer watched Phyllida curtsy and link hands with Basil, then was forced to pay attention to his own partner, a Miss Moffat. Lady Fortemain had been exceedingly busy on his behalf—she’d invited every unmarried young lady for miles around. He was sorely tempted to tell her she didn’t need to bother. He knew who his wife would be.

  The word used to make him shudder; it no longer did. He was beyond fighting this fate—it was too desirable to reject. But he knew his social role and he played it well, charming the ladies, conversing with the gentlemen, acting as the perfect guest. Around him, the large crowd swayed and dipped. Lady Fortemain had pulled out all the stops; the occasion exuded a festive air. Her neighbors had joined in enthusiastically; the faces about him glowed.

  The Grange household was well represented. Sir Jasper stood chatting with Mr. Farthingale and Mr. Filing. Mrs. Farthingale and Lady Huddlesford were similarly occupied. Jonas, Percy, and Frederick were engaged on the dance floor. Percy had condescended to attend. Frederick was making an effort to be pleasant. Jonas, on the other hand, had an easy smile on his face—only his eyes flicking every now and then to Phyllida gave him away.

  Lucifer twirled Miss Moffat; he could dance a cottilion without thought. Like Jonas’s, his thoughts were on Phyllida and the man who had her in his sights. He had spoken to Jonas. If, for some reason, he wasn’t watching Phyllida, then Jonas would be. No matter her intentions, no matter her fear, she too often forgot the danger. The village was her home; she’d been safe here for all her twenty-four years. It was hard to change a lifetime’s habit. So he or Jonas would keep watch over her until the danger was past.

  This was the second cottilion, the fourth dance; as he changed sides in the set, Lucifer scanned the crowd.

  Cedric was standing in a patriarchal pose, watching his guests with an approving eye. Lady Fortemain was the center of a knot of voluble ladies. Pommeroy was dancing despite the exigencies of his ridiculously high cravat. Lucius Appleby was lending his assistance entertaining the guests and doing a much better job than Pommeroy.

  The local ladies considered Appleby an enigma; Lucifer read the signs with ease. Appleby ranked as handsome; despite his reserve and an attitude that suggested he had no interest in stepping over anyone’s line, his success with the ladies was assured. A Miss Claypoole was dancing with him, eyes and lips smiling. Appleby deflected her interest with a confidence that had Lucifer wondering.

  With a flourish, the cottilion ended; Lucifer bowed and excused himself from Miss Moffat’s side.

  He headed for Phyllida’s. She welcomed him with a smile that warmed him and a look so eager he pressed her fingers warningly. He exchanged nods with Basil.

  “How opportune, Mr. Cynster. I was about to mention that I understand Phyllida’s been forced to spend the past two days at the Manor for safety’s sake. That must be both boring for Phyllida and a distraction for you, what with all you have to do to settle Horatio’s estate.” With a patronizing air that stated louder than words that he believed every word he said, Basil smiled at Phyllida. “I’ll send the carriage around tomorrow morning, my dear. Mama would be delighted to have you spend the day.”

  Lucifer glanced at Phyllida’s face, calm as always, and resisted the urge to applaud. She returned Basil’s smile. “Thank you, Basil, that’s a kind thought. But I have other plans for tomorrow.”

  “Indeed?” Basil clearly considered asking what; instead, he said, “Then perhaps—”

  “The day after tomorrow is Sunday, so that’s out of the question. After that . . . well, the endeavors with which I’m assisting Mr. Cynster have yet to be completed, so I’ll still be helping him at the Manor.”

  Her tone as she uttered that last sentence was enough to give even Basil pause. After a moment, he bowed. “My apologies, my dear, if I did not properly understand—”

  There was no apology in his tone, only irritation and faint rebuke; Phyllida stopped him with a raised hand. “There’s a great deal you fail to properly understand, Basil, usually because you don’t wish to understand it.”

  A violin hummed, then screeched. Phyllida turned to Lucifer. “I believe that’s our waltz commencing.”

  Lucifer bowed and took her hand. He nodded to Basil. “You’ll excuse us, Smollet.”

  No question, of course; Basil bowed stiffly. With a bob, Phyllida turned on Lucifer’s arm and let him lead her to the floor. She went into his arms, following his le
ad without thought; after a moment, she felt his hand stroke her back.

  “Relax.”

  She threw him a glance—one she knew he would interpret correctly. “Where he ever got the idea that he owned me, that he could simply appropriate me and dictate my life, I have no notion.”

  Lucifer said nothing. He drew her closer, just enough so their bodies brushed lightly as they whirled. She softened, relaxing into his embrace.

  “Not all men are like that, surely?” She glanced around them. “Well, of course they’re not, but just look at Basil, and Cedric, and Henry Grisby. No woman of sense would marry such a man.” After a moment, she added, “Perhaps it’s something in the water hereabouts.”

  Lucifer held her protectively tighter as they went through the turn, then he murmured, “Appleby. How long’s he been with Cedric?”

  “Appleby?” Phyllida scanned the dancers. “He’s been here . . . well, it seems a long time, but he only joined the household last February. Why?”

  “I wondered before if he’d been in the military—I think he must have been. He seems popular with the ladies.”

  “He is. They approve of his style and his person, and his behavior is such as must please.”

  “You don’t sound particularly taken.”

  “I’ve never seen the attraction, I must confess.”

  Lucifer was glad to hear it; her tone left no doubt she found the other ladies’ interest puzzling. Her comments on Basil were less reassuring.

  “I think,” she said, “that it’s time to speak to Cedric.”

  Lucifer glanced at their host, now listening to Lady Huddlesford. “At the end of this dance. Follow my lead.”

  “What tack do you intend to take? You can hardly walk up and ask if he was aware he might be illegitimate.”

  “I thought I’d ask if he was interested in acquiring any of Horatio’s tomes.” Lucifer looked to where Silas Coombe, resplendent in a green silk coat and a canary-yellow waistcoat, stood conversing. “How likely is Coombe to have mentioned to anyone that I don’t intend to break up Horatio’s collection?”