An Improper Aristocrat. Deb MarloweЧитать онлайн книгу.
touched something inside of her, stirred to life a part of her that she would rather be left slumbering.
And then she had heard it in his voice. That all-too-familiar longing when he had spoken of the wonders of Egypt. She knew that tone and exactly what it meant. He was one of them.
Like her grandfather, her brother, and even her father. Never happy where they were, always pining for something more exotic, more adventuresome, more dangerous. Or perhaps, just more.
That tiny wistful note that had crept into the earl’s voice; that was all it took to effectively quench all of the flutterings and tinglings and ridiculously rapid heartbeats that had plagued her every time their eyes met.
An adventurer—just like the others. With that realisation she reached for calm, breathed deep and let the veneer of her assumed identity fall back into place. They stepped down into the formal garden and he grudgingly offered her his arm. She took it, then had to school herself not to gasp as a slow, warm burn started in her fingertips, flowed like honey through her, and settled in a rich puddle in the pit of her belly.
Perhaps she wasn’t rid of all of those stirrings. Yet.
‘You are very quiet, Miss Latimer.’ Though his voice was rough, there was a hint of irony hidden in it. ‘Not at all like your brother.’
Chione had to smile at that. ‘No, indeed. Richard was many things, but quiet was not a label he was often burdened with.’ She swept aside a low hanging branch and held it back invitingly. ‘He was too full of life to keep quiet for long.’
He did not answer and they walked in silence for several moments. Despite her disillusionment, Chione could not but acknowledge her heightened awareness of his looming presence. It was more than the sheer size of him, too. The air fairly crackled around him, as if the force of his personality stamped itself on the surrounding atmosphere.
She wondered just what it was that brought him here. Not a happy errand, judging by his nearly constant frown, but really, who could blame the man? Since his arrival he’d had his hat eaten, his clothes bloodied, been entertained in the drawing room by a toddler and quizzed by a little boy. They should count themselves lucky he hadn’t run screaming back to the village.
Chione was glad he was made of sterner stuff than that. ‘Richard wrote of you so often,’ she began. ‘I know he held you in very high regard. Forgive me if I am rude, but I was surprised that you did not know of our…unusual family. Did he not speak to you of us?’
She had chosen poorly, perhaps, because his frown deepened. ‘He spoke of you,’ he said gruffly. ‘And of your grandfather.’ He paused. ‘I should have asked sooner—is he still missing? Have you had no word of him?’
‘No, not yet. Soon, I hope.’
‘Do you still have no idea what might have happened to him, then?’
‘On the contrary, there are many ideas, but no proof of anything.’
‘It has been what? Two years? And yet you hold out hope?’ He sounded incredulous.
‘Not two years, yet, and indeed, I do have hope. I hope every day that this is the one that brings him home. My grandfather has been in a thousand scrapes and survived each one. He told me once that he meant to die a peaceful death in his bed, an old man. I believe he will.’
The earl looked away. ‘Richard felt much the same,’ he said.
Chione felt a fresh pang of loss at his words. Yes, Richard had understood. She blinked and focused intently on the surrounding wood. The forest was alive around them as the birds and the insects busily pursued all the industries of spring. She sighed. Life did go on, and Richard’s responsibilities were hers now.
‘I am happy to have the chance to thank you for the letter you sent to us, on my brother’s death. It was a comfort to know that he had a friend like you with him when he died.’
For a long moment, Lord Treyford made no reply. The path had begun to climb and he paid careful attention to her footing as well as his. When at last he did speak, he sounded—what was it—cautious? Subdued? ‘That is truly what I’ve come for, what I’ve travelled all this way to do. To speak to you about Richard’s death.’
He fell silent again. Chione waited, willing to give him the time he needed. She harboured a grave feeling that she was not going to like what he had to say.
‘Richard’s last thoughts were of you,’ he finally said. They had come out on a little ridge. A bench had been strategically placed to take advantage of the spectacular view. The earl motioned her to it and gingerly lowered himself beside her.
His gaze wandered over the scene. ‘When one hears of Devon, it is always the desolate beauty of Dartmoor.’ He paused. ‘It seems that nothing here is as I expected.’ His gaze was no longer riveted on the view. Instead it roamed over her face, the blue of his eyes more than a match for the sky overhead. After a moment the intensity of his regard began to discomfort her.
She ducked her head and ruthlessly clamped down her own response. She breathed deeply, gathering her strength and reaching for courage. She raised her head and looked him in the eye. ‘Tell me about Richard’s death.’
It was enough to sweep clear the thickening tension between them. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course.’
He reached into an inner pocket, drew something out. ‘Just before he died, your brother asked me to give this to you.’ He took her hand from where it rested in her lap and placed the object in it.
It was sharp-edged, and warm from the heat of his body. For several moments that was the sum of Chione’s impressions, for she could not see through her sudden swell of tears. She breathed deeply again, however, and regained control of her emotions. As her vision cleared she got her first good look at the object.
Only to be seized by something uncomfortably close to panic. A wave of nausea engulfed her and she let the thing fall from her suddenly lifeless fingers.
Good God, he had found it.
Chapter Three
Trey watched, shocked, as Miss Latimer dropped the scarab as if it had seared her. She sat lifeless, eyes closed, fists clenched, neither moving nor speaking. He could see the sheen of sweat upon her brow. She really was frightened.
‘Miss Latimer?’ He grasped her cold hands and began to chafe them. Still she sat, frozen. ‘Miss Latimer?’ Already unnerved, he began to get impatient. ‘Damn it, answer me!’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was faint.
‘What is it?’ Her eyes were opened now, but glazed, her focus obviously fixed on some inner torment. ‘What ails you?’
There was no response. Trey bent down and retrieved the scarab, still on the chain that Richard had worn around his neck, and tried to press it into her hand.
‘No,’ she said sharply, shying away.
He closed his hand around it, feeling the bite of the insect’s sharp legs. ‘Richard’s last wish was for you to have this,’ he said roughly.
‘I don’t want it.’ The words emerged in almost a sob. She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide as if in horror at her own lack of control. Trey watched as she drew a deep breath and stood. ‘Do you hear me, Lord Treyford? I do not want it!’
Trey was dumbfounded. Here was yet another twist to this horrifyingly convoluted day. He stared at the girl, wondering where the calm and remote young lady he had walked out with had gone. ‘That is unacceptable,’ he said flatly. ‘I made a pledge to your brother that I would deliver it to you.’
She looked unimpressed.
‘I gave my word of honour.’ As far as he was concerned, that was the end of the matter.
Apparently it was for the girl, as well. It quickly became obvious that he had pushed her past the point of restraint. She stood poised, indignation