Even though she had decided on this affair with him, she still doubted his motives. She wondered if she would take back her offer to be his lover in the cold light of morning without the sensual strain of music in the air, and his tempting presence luring her to unknown pleasures.
He shuttered his gaze quickly enough, but she saw her question had startled him.
“For my part, because of my views on marriage I’ve wanted to take a discreet lover,” she explained, “which I know you’ll be. You’re breathtakingly handsome and interesting and irreverent, and I wanted you from the moment I saw you at Lady Calvert’s ball. I want to throw propriety in the wind and simply enjoy my life.” She tilted her head and regarded him. “But why are you interested in me?”
“You are available,” he drawled blandly.
She jerked back, stung. Pain sliced through her at his callous answer. “I—” She hated that he’d said it that way, as if she were a common doxy. She did her best not to show her profound hurt. “I see.”
The familiar feeling of shame tried to rise up, but she refused to indulge it. Ice crept over her, chilling the warm satiety in her flesh to cold indifference. She straightened her spine and started to walk away. “I bid you good evening, my lord.”
“Most young ladies would have slapped me for my temerity,” he said.
She halted, anger flushing her cheeks. “You were testing my reactions?” she demanded.
At his silence, she spun and walked with rapid steps out of the garden.
“Phillipa.”
“Go to hell,” she said, and kept walking.
In an instant he had grasped her arm, spinning her to face him.
“I’ll tell you why. You captivate me. I admire your thirst for adventure…your joy for freedom, your vivacity. I want you because you rouse me as no other woman has done in years, if ever. And I want to burn in the passion I see beneath your cool gaze, a passion I suspect will satiate my every need. I want to see you bound to my bed with silken ropes as I spank you, fulfilling your every dark fantasy. Then I want to ride you hard and deep, until neither of us can move for spending.”
She gasped at his vivid descriptions…and at the chaotic cravings that erupted in her body at the forbidden pictures they created in her mind.
He saw her expression, and gratification swept over his. “I want total control over your body and your pleasures, Phillipa. I believe you want the same. You will match me perfectly, fantasy for fantasy. I had thought to court you. But if you are not interested in marriage, I will gladly take you as my lover.”
Heat slashed her cheeks, her whole body. How does he see me so deeply?
She nodded jerkily, stunned by his profound insight to a part of her she had never dared reveal to a living soul. And grateful, at least, that he understood why she had no desire to marry. “I thank you for your honesty, Anthony,” she managed.
She did not linger. She couldn’t. She needed to think. To work through the intense emotions that had erupted within her at his bold declaration. She fled through the gate, nimbly walking toward the side window.
Missing the shadow that lurked behind a hedge, watching her as she hastily made her way back inside.
Chapter Nine
The white silence of winter pressed in on Anthony. Snow fell in a steady dribble, dotting the land with its frosted beauty. The fireplace crackled, and his mind inevitably turned to the delectable Miss Peppiwell. She consumed his thoughts. Her vigor when she danced, the coldness she could exude, and the honest need she burned with when he took her in his arms. The sweetest lips he’d ever tasted. And the forbidden things they had explored together…
But it was her desire to be free of society that tantalized him. He had wished for the same, years ago in the face of constant disapproval from the old duke, the occasional thrashings, and the feelings of inadequacy.
She had no wish to marry. But he would entice her with sensual fantasies and tantalizing adventures, and when he had secured her affections, he would offer for her hand. How could she refuse?
He wondered what had happened to her to inspire such an aversion to marriage. Most young ladies plotted their wedding day from the cradle. He knew Constance had already decided before she left the schoolroom the month and day she would wed.
Mamas and young chits throughout Society constantly sought to entrap him or his brother. It was just his luck that the first woman to evoke such intense passion and his first real interest in marriage only wanted to have an affair. But he was determined to woo the lady, and would do everything in his power to ensure her answer would be yes.
A soft knock sounded and his ornery butler entered, his eyes blazing with irritation. “A Sir Hawke is here to see you, my lord.” Interesting having a butler who felt exasperated when his door was knocked upon.
“I will see him in the library,” Anthony indicated, swiping up the copy of George Elliot’s Middlemarch he’d been reading.
A few minutes later Hawke strode into the library looking more harried than usual. He was short and stocky, with dark, beady eyes furtively scanning the room to pause on the decanters of brandy on the drinks tray. Anthony had never seen the man so distressed. Hawke hastily handed his top hat and coat to the retreating butler, then scurried over to the great chair and sank in its depth, his eyes darting everywhere but at Anthony.
“What is it, man?” he asked as he rose. He walked around his oak desk to pour the man a brandy, and pushed it into Hawke’s hand. Taking a seat on the edge of the desk, Anthony folded his arms across his chest and waited for Hawke to speak.
“The gel you had me watching was taken.”
“What?” Anthony demanded, instantly on his feet.
“Miss Peppiwell was taken on her walk from Kensington Gardens.”
“Damn it, man!” He bent to grab the lapels of Hawke’s tweed jacket. “Taken by whom? Why did you not prevent it?” he bellowed.
“You paid me to watch at a discreet distance, not to interfere.”
He jerked the man out of the chair. The brandy went flying. “Tell me what happened.”
“I believe she was kidnapped. Some gent grabbed her from behind and threw her into a carriage. He then leaped in after her and the driver sprung the team into motion. I couldn’t have reacted in time to stop it.”
Anthony’s gut tightened. “And you did not set anyone to follow?”
“I did my best, milord, on me own. You didn’t pay for—”
He grabbed Hawke’s neckcloth and strangled his words. The man’s eyes bulged and Anthony went cold, immune to the fear that widened them. “If she is harmed because of your inefficiency, I will hunt you down and gut you,” he swore savagely.
He let the promise sink in, and only after Hawke nodded, he released him. “Which direction did they travel? And tell me the type of carriage.”
“It was a black lacquered. The crest was covered with a black cloth and the driver’s hat was pulled low over his face. But their horses were Andalusian, some of the finest I have ever seen. They headed toward Brighton, but…”
“Spit it out man,” Anthony snarled at his hesitation.
“I followed as far as Corydon, then I lost them.”
Anthony’s mind worked swiftly to reason out his options. “Go,” he grunted. “Hire as many men as need be. Send to the west, east, and south. Discretion is paramount, but do everything you can to find her. If she is located, bring her here. Pay anyone you must to keep silent.”
He opened a desk drawer, withdrawing a hefty bag. It jangled as he threw it at Hawke. Anthony ignored the man’s sharp inhalation as he opened it.
“This is gold, milord!”
“Get out,” Anthony ordered, fury riding him hard.
Hawke moved swiftly to obey, and Anthony strode to the gun case and grabbed several weapons. He carefully loaded his pistol and slipped it in his pocket, then withdrew his special cane, twisted its head, and checked that the hidden sabre was still razor sharp. He shrugged on his jacket, and then yank
ed on the bell pull.
“Yes, milord?” The butler had appeared instantly, his irritation smothered by the anger that saturated Anthony’s voice.
“See that my brother gets this tonight.” He scrawled a note and stamped his seal handing it to him. “There must be no delay. Find him wherever he is and deliver the note personally. He is most likely at Sherring Cross.”
The butler executed a smart bow and sped from the library, a man on a mission. Perhaps his mother had not been so remiss in hiring him, after all.
Anthony stormed out to the stables, his mind roiling with the possibilities. It could only be Orwell. The knowledge settled uneasily in Anthony’s gut. He would investigate, leaving no stone unturned, but the obsession he had seen on Orwell’s face had been about more than Phillipa let on. He’d had little doubt before, and now it was confirmed.
Rage burned at Anthony, some of it directed at her for dismissing the danger Orwell presented. Most of it was directed at himself for not demanding a full explanation. If he had not been concerned and hired Hawke to watch her, no one would even know she had been taken. Not until it was too late.
Anthony would tan her backside when he found her. For real, not in bed play. He refused to give in to the ugly thought that he might never find her.
“Milord?” His groom scampered out of his way in alarm. “I was not told to prepare a horse, milord.”
“I’m telling you now.”