Grabbing a low branch on the cherry tree, he swung himself up.
Chapter Four
With a weary sigh, Antonia closed her bedroom door behind her. She loved Cassandra dearly but the girl was so overexcited by her social success that she invariably came home bubbling with an endless desire to relive the night’s adventures. Tonight it had taken Antonia over an hour to settle her, and she suspected her cousin still lay awake counting the evening’s triumphs.
Antonia regretted that, among those triumphs, Cassie included her flirtation with the Marquess of Ranelaw. After that disturbing encounter on the terrace, Ranelaw had shown Cassie special favor. It was as if Antonia’s warning stirred a childish urge to flout her. Except that the marquess was disturbingly adult and his purposes contained no childish innocence. And he’d done it all in a manner that left Antonia helpless to reprimand either him or Cassie.
He was too damned clever for his own good, was the Marquess of Ranelaw. She wished him a speedy journey to Hades. Surely among the thousands of women he’d debauched, one must possess a jealous husband with a working set of pistols.
She quashed an unwelcome twinge of regret when she pictured all that glorious masculinity lying cold and still. Ranelaw was handsome but he was wicked. He meant trouble to Cassie.
And to her.
“What a ferocious scowl, my dear Miss Smith. Should I be nervous?”
She stiffened in disbelieving horror. With a shaking hand, she raised her candle to reveal what lay beyond the flickering firelight.
Surely not even Lord Ranelaw would break into her room. He couldn’t be so bold.
He could indeed.
He slouched on the brocade window seat, the casement open behind him to the old cherry tree. The breeze shifted the parted curtains, filled the room with a faintly almond scent, ruffled his thick gold hair. He looked more delicious than a plate of roast beef to a starving man.
“Get out,” she said flatly without shifting. Shock swamped anger.
He laughed softly, that low, musical laugh that never failed to tighten her skin with awareness. “Here I thought you’d fall victim to the vapors. Or a fit of hysterics.”
“I never faint,” she said, still in that hard voice.
Her brain worked feverishly at how to get rid of him. Dear God, the consequences of anyone finding him were unthinkable. As surprise ebbed, a tide of fear surged. Cassie and her father had sheltered her, allowed her to build a life that, for all its frustrations, meant she was fed and housed. If they thought she’d resorted to her bad old ways, she’d be out on her ear.
Ranelaw rose with a languorous grace that, even through her terror, made her blood pound hard and hot. Casually he brushed white petals from his broad shoulders. He still wore his elegant clothing from the musicale. For a rake, he had austere taste. His coats were always perfectly cut to his impressive physique and his waistcoats were masterpieces of simplicity.
Sweet heaven, he was temptation personified, for all the evil she knew of him. In comparison to Lord Ranelaw, handsome Johnny Benton, who had brought about her ruin, was a complete fright. Ranelaw made her ache to fling aside dull morality and taste again the heady wine of passion.
But the wine of passion was deadly poison.
“I should have known you’d be too stalwart to scream at the sight of a man in your bedchamber. Although I’m sure you’re shocked to the soles of your sensible shoes, Miss Smith.”
If she hadn’t been so afraid of the consequences of his presence, she’d laugh. How ironic that this disreputable Adonis remained convinced he addressed an untouched virgin.
“What do you want?” Her room was isolated so she had no need to whisper.
“Would you believe me if I said you?”
This time she did laugh, a huff of disdain. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of revealing her building alarm. She ventured closer because to hover near the door smacked of cowardice. “No. I wouldn’t. At least I’m glad you chose the wrong bedroom. I’ll make sure Cassie keeps her windows locked from now on.”
“I didn’t choose the wrong bedroom,” he said steadily, regarding her with an unwavering stare as she lit the lamp on her dressing table.
“Of course you didn’t.” She made no attempt to hide her skepticism. He was yet to touch her. It did wonders for her wobbly confidence. “I assume you climbed the cherry tree. I’ll have to ask the gardeners to chop it back.”
“That’s a prosaic response to a man daring convention to snatch a few moments alone with you, Miss Smith. Your maidenly heart should race with excitement.”
She blew out the candle and turned. Again, desperately, she sought some outward sign of moral turpitude. As ever, she found nothing but breathtakingly virile male. Reviving anger swelled above dread and rel
uctant desire. He didn’t care that his actions could destroy her. She mattered less to him than the dirt beneath his feet. He was such a selfish swine.
“Very romantic, I’m sure.” She raised her eyebrows and leaned against the table, hooking her hands over the edge to mask their trembling. “You’ve made my vulnerability clear. I’m suitably warned. You can go.”