Return to the House of Sin. Anabelle BryantЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Three

      ‘My ears did not deceive me. Indeed, I heard a mouse.’ Crispin eyed the young miss wedged inside the room’s closet with wry amusement. Whoever she was, she was on her way out. Stowaway, lunatic or pleasure seeker – this last idea gave him pause – he wouldn’t be caught in a situation that brought him further anguish or, worse, a wife. Never mind the illegalities and complications this situation promised.

      ‘I’m not a mouse.’

      She squeaked out the words, her face pinched into a bemusing scowl that further confirmed the irony of his statement. With direct insistence, she held his stare. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t blinked since he’d thrown open the door and exposed her hiding place.

      ‘Would you like to come out of your hole, little mouse?’ He stepped aside, his stockinged feet silent on the floorboards, amused at her quick objection to his tease.

      Her eyes widened, a flash of brown or was it green? He couldn’t tell within the dim confines of the cupboard. With a fair amount of grace, she wriggled her way out of the closet and made a show of shaking out her skirts. She was slim with a high, pert bosom that caught his attention until he noticed her round bottom. Her gown, absent of the layers most women suffered, outlined her figure and explained further how she fit into the narrow space.

      Indeed, he amended, the lady was no mouse at all. Flushed cheeks and long mahogany lashes accentuated a pretty face, where striking cheekbones and pink lips finished the portrait of beauty. Who was she and why had she chosen to hide in a closet? What she was doing in his quarters was another matter altogether.

      ‘Thank you.’

      Her voice sounded tight, nervous, or had he imagined he’d had that effect? Too many nights spent with too many actresses, opera singers and widows cluttered his memory to render him clumsy with the manners required of a highborn lady. Somehow, despite her less than refined dress and awkward appearance in his quarters, he knew before him stood a proper miss.

      ‘You’re welcome.’ He defaulted to manners. ‘Should I ask why you’re hiding in my closet or would you prefer I march you to the top deck and speak to the captain directly? I believe we’re not so far from the coast that we couldn’t turn around.’ The captain of The Haven would hardly inconvenience the passengers and crew for the appearance of a stowaway, but she didn’t have to know that, and indeed, his tactic worked. The colour drained from her face and he mourned the loss of the fetching blush she’d worn so prettily.

      ‘No. I mean… yes.’ Amidst her flummox she gave her head a little shake as if she wished to jar the answer loose. ‘I can explain.’

      She didn’t begin readily, but he waited, a captive audience to the fiction she would concoct at his expense. The pause offered time for him to further assess her appearance. Long wavy hair, the colour of fine brandy, evoked the same spirited effect and was pinned back to reveal the gentle curve of her neck, the skin creamy and pale. He’d spent so much time in the arms of Italian lovers of late, the stark contrast of fair skin and delicate beauty proved arresting. Against conscious thought, his fingers twitched as if urging him to touch and discover if his assumptions rang true, to place a kiss there, or better, feel her satiny smoothness against his tongue. He silently cursed himself for the ridiculous idea. He’d indulged in debauchery overlong if he could no longer speak to a lady without wondering of the texture of her skin. Alas, he was that much a bastard. The worst kind.

      ‘I wandered into your quarters mistakenly. When I heard you enter, I panicked and chose the closet when the better choice would have been to tell you at once and exit. I’ll leave you now as to not cause further trouble.’ She looked at him directly, her eyes as guileless as they were crystalline. And yes, they were green. A fine mossy colour which reminded of England and all he’d left behind.

      She made to move around him, but he stepped in to block her path.

      ‘Where will you go? Do you have passage on this ship?’ He had no reason to care other than a distant and buried sense of protective chivalry ingrained in him from birth and long ago tarnished. He couldn’t help but reflect on his sister Sophie’s tomfoolery. She was always working her way into one problem or another, much to his amusement. He wondered idly if she had accomplished her goal of entering the Underworld, a gaming hell that served as his greatest foe and biggest embarrassment, but he wouldn’t take his thoughts there this moment. He shot his eyes to the lady before him, willing to offer a bit of help if needed.

      ‘I may have acted a bit impetuously.’ She dared a tight smile at this admittance and he noticed she was really quite lovely when she wasn’t startled. ‘I may have boarded the wrong ship altogether, actually.’

      ‘Well, you can’t stay here.’ He walked to the front of the room, anxious to create distance and reason a solution, where he paced a line and worked through the predicament. As was habit, he spoke aloud, listing his thoughts and contemplating his options. ‘Nor can I put you out. A ship is a dangerous place for women, and while I can offer my protection, I wouldn’t be with you at all times. The risk is too great otherwise. I know for a fact the ship’s quarters are all reserved. Ferris complained about his accommodations and the captain explained there are none to spare. Furthermore, I doubt the captain would look too kindly on a stowaway, no matter how fetching.’ He finished ruminating and lifted his eyes to catch her expression, confused and slightly bewildered at best. Had he spoken out of turn? What had he said as he cogitated?

      ‘I don’t know what I can do otherwise.’ She stepped closer, her forehead wrinkled with worry. ‘I must return to England. My happiness depends upon it. I won’t burden you with the story, but I would never have acted in a rash manner if this journey wasn’t of calamitous importance.’

      Interesting, indeed. His mind spun with sympathetic suggestions. Perhaps her mother or father suffered on their deathbed, or worse, a child struggled to survive. Could she possibly have borne a child? She appeared too young, but then what did he know about maidens? The one woman to whom he’d offered his heart had rejected him. Several levels of embarrassment and humble wound-licking ensued until he’d hied out of London with a vow never to fall prey to the vicious affliction others labelled love. Still, he couldn’t ignore the utter turmoil detailed plainly on the lady’s face.

      ‘What’s your name, mouse?’ He heaved a breath of disgust. Somehow, he knew he was journeying down a road aimed for mental derangement and he had no room in his life for irrationality, his predicament already crowded with too many knots to untangle.

      ‘Lady Beasley.’ Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘You may call me Amanda, if you’d like.’

      It was more information than he’d expected and he would have preferred she hadn’t offered her Christian name. Their alliance would be brief and inconsequential. At the most three weeks in length, though he doubted even that time span would pass before discovery and subsequent consequence took Amanda down a different path.

      ‘Well then, Amanda. I’m Crispin Daventry, Lord Hastings. Crispin, if you prefer.’ Her expression eased and he eyed the door, wondering if he should fasten the latch. If Ferris interrupted, all hell would break loose. Hadn’t his friend protested of no winsome companionship only an hour earlier? This young woman would catch a blind man’s eye.

      ‘Thank you.’ A cheerful note filled her words.

      He waited, his mind still mulling the matter of her urgent return to England. ‘What will you do?’

      ‘I’ll find a way to stay out of sight. I’ll be fine, Crispin.’ She sounded much more like a mouse now, her voice high and thready, most likely due to the impossibility of her suggestion.