An English Lord's Love Affair

Chapter 12.4.1. The Height Of Rudeness

   "Mama, where on earth are you going?" Paulina asked in shock, racing to keep up with the petite woman's hurried pace.

   "To his lordship's bedroom."

   Paulina glanced at Charlotte in alarm. "What if Sir Edward finds us and demands to know we are doing?"

   Aunt Penelope, remained oddly unruffled. "We insist that we heard a noise and wandered into the room by mistake."

   "Aunt Penelope, really, isn't that the height of rudeness?" Charlotte asked, deciding she had underestimated her aunt's determination. That Brumidge blood might be coming through, after all.

   "The height of rudeness," Aunt Penelope retorted as she swept down the moonlit gallery, "is a ghost who is bent on ruining my daughter."

   Charlotte hastened after her. There was no stopping a Brumidge on a mission, not even one whose strain had been diluted. Aunt Penelope had brought along in her reticule a packet of salt, a Bible, a silver bell, and a silk pouch containing the powdered finger bone of a French saint. Or so Madame Mara had claimed when she's sold Lady Crowbridge the crumbly granules that looked to Charlotte suspiciously like oatmeal.

   "Well, come along girls," Aunt Penelope whispered upon reaching the closed bedchamber door. "According to the parson's information, this is the room in which Lord Strathmere was murdered."

   "Perhaps we should do this in daylight," Paulina said, paling at the mention of the ghastly murder.

   "Nonsense," her mother said. "A ghost does his mischief at night, and another opportunity for us to stop him may not come our way. We cannot count on my husband's conversational skills to keep Sir Edward entertained much longer."

   Charlotte hung back as Paulina opened the door to the darkened chamber. She had no desire to see the room where Benedic had been so brutally attacked, to imagine him shocked, frightened, in unspeakable agony. Having witnessed the pain he'd suffered from his wounds, she could not remain unmoved by visiting the scene of his intended death.

   "Aren't you coming, Charlotte?" Paulina whispered over her shoulder.

   "I'll stand guard out here," she whispered back. "But hurry, both of you."

   After a few moments Charlotte found herself drawn to a painting on the wall at the other end of the long gallery. She knew at once that the dashing horseman depicted in a billowing wine cloak was Benedic. The gray eyes that gazed down at her from the portrait held the mocking glint she remembered. The artist had captured the potent energy and depth of Benedic's character.

   Almost as if he were poised right in front of her.

   "I ought to teach you a lesson," she whispered.

   She heard a noise. The faintest scratching, but from where? She followed the sound farther down the gallery to a large unused fireplace flanked by two Italian green marble columns.

   "A mouse," she said, peering a little disappointedly into the dusty void. "Probably only a mouse."

   She backed away from the fireplace to one of the tall canted windows overlooking the estate. Moonlight glimmered off the black surface of the lake. She did not see her ghost.

   "Where are you, Benedic?" she asked in a barely audible voice, pressing her hand to the leaded glass.

   "Closer than you think."

   She whirled around. A dark-cloaked figure moved toward her in a blur, and her heart leaped into her throat. Before she could speak, a black-gloved hand gently covered her mouth, and she was drawn off her feet into the dark yawning space beside the fireplace.

   The column closed in a swirl of dust, and warm, stuffy darkness enveloped her. She felt dragged hard against Benedic's chest. His muscular thighs pressed her backward into an airless void. She could not see him at all, but she felt him all over her body. His arms protected her from dangers she could but not name. His lips brushed her cheek.

   "Oh, my God, Benedic. You are mad—"

   "Do not speak," he whispered against her neck.

   She opened her mouth to protest the fact that she was wedged between the unfinished wall and his iron-hard body. He pressed his gloved forefinger to her lips, silencing her unspoken complaint. Then his large hand curved tenderly around her jaw. Charlotte shuddered, closing her eyes at the appalling thrill of being lovingly abused in his arms.

   His hands, encased in cool black leather, moved down her shoulders, to her sides, cupping the cheeks of her bottom. The sensation was at once intimate and impersonal, an invasion that he committed as if he had the right. He had gained strength since the last time she had seen him, in perfect control of his body and fully aware of his power. She was aware of him, too, in the confined space. Aware that he was aroused, his hard male form assuming a dominant position. The darkness heightened her sense of vulnerability, his advantage. She could feel the coiled muscles of his chest, and lower, his thighs pressed to hers.

   "I've been thinking about you, Charlotte. About how much I liked kissing you."

   "I don't know how anyone could think at all in here," she whispered. "It's so dark."

   "It's good to see you again." She felt his heartbeat quicken. "It would be good to kiss you, too."

   The promise in his voice stole her breath. He slanted his mouth over hers before she could respond. His tongue slid inside her mouth as his other hand drew her closer. His body tightened against hers, a deep moan escaped him, and all she could think was, He's alive. I didn't kill him, and all she could think was, He's alive. I didn't kill him with the horse medicine, and he's kissing me again.

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