“But you will see something of interest listed amongst the articles given to Mr Golding’s father.”
Intrigued beyond measure, Evan took the letter and studied the contents. It seemed Mr Golding had taken receipt of various items of correspondence. One in particular leapt off the page.
Letter for the archbishop. Approval for a special licence.
“Were it not for the yellow stains and faded ink, I might be inclined to think you wrote this, Miss Hart. It seems our ancestors went to great lengths to remove any obstacles to a potential marriage.”
Miss Hart looked quite pleased with herself as she sat in Lamont’s flamboyant clothes, clutching her precious box. “Are you not curious to know why?”
“Curious to the point of madness.” Particularly when the person who approved the licence must have influence with the archbishop. “Every passing hour brings a new riveting revelation.” Indeed, Miss Hart had swept into his life and knocked him off his feet.
“Oh, we’ve only just begun, Mr Sloane. Wait until the masked devil discovers we’ve visited Mr Golding together.” The lady’s expression darkened, and she shivered visibly. “He is watching our every move and has been for weeks.”
“Then we need to gain ground if we hope to catch him.” He gathered the papers and handed them back to Miss Hart. “We will take the tea caddy with us. Change into something more appropriate and pack a valise. I’ve already asked Buchanan to gather clothes for Mrs McCready.” And to bring the plague mask left by the intruder.
“Pack?”
“You cannot remain here. You and your servants will remove to Keel Hall.” It was the only way he could guarantee her safety. “No doubt we will have a lot to discuss, and I cannot make the trip to town whenever I need to ask a question.”
After a silent deliberation, she said, “You’re right. Few people venture to the wilds of Little Chelsea, and considering the fact we shall soon be married, your suggestion makes perfect sense.” She locked the letters away, clutched the casket to her chest and stood. “What shall I do with Monsieur Lamont’s clothes?”
Evan stood, too. “Leave them here, or throw them on the bonfire. I doubt the poor will want them.”
Before she left the room to slip out of Lamont’s fancy breeches, he couldn’t resist one last look at her tempting thighs. Miss Hart had a body made for sin. Lust throbbed in his loins as he considered every delectable curve. Ironically, she had everything he’d imagined wanting in a wife—strength, courage, a voracious appetite for adventure, a total disregard for propriety. One thing was certain. Miss Hart posed a greater threat to his sanity than the masked fiend.
* * *
For the second time this morning, Vivienne found herself alone in a carriage with Mr Sloane. His commanding presence filled the small space, as did the alluring smell of his cologne. The urge to press her nose to his neck and inhale the exotic scent left her shuffling in the seat. But it was the undercurrent of tension in the air, the strange spark of electricity, that held her in its grip and made it hard to breathe.
The ride to West Smithfield wasn’t particularly bumpy, yet her stomach flipped like a skilled acrobat. Staring out of the window served as a distraction but did little to settle her racing pulse. She felt the heat of Mr Sloane’s penetrating stare despite having her nose pressed to the glass.
It all became too much.
“I’m surprised you let Buchanan ride atop the box.” She forced herself to look at him, and her insides fluttered all over again. “I thought you’d insist on a chaperone. What if I did something disreputable and tried to force you to marry me?”
The gentleman moistened his lips. “We’re in a closed carriage, Miss Hart. Should we wish to partake in anything illicit, there is no one here to bear witness.”
Vivienne sucked in a sharp breath to halt the rising blush. “As most men insist on marrying a virgin, it would be unwise to do anything scandalous in a carriage with you, sir.” And certainly not with Buchanan in earshot.
“I’m not most men, Miss Hart.”
No. He was vastly superior on many levels.
“While I’m confident you’re chaste,” he said in a sensual drawl, “I would prefer my wife had experience in the bedchamber.”
The devil enjoyed teasing her, but she was used to bantering with Highlanders. “Bedding a virgin who happens to be your wife might prove highly satisfying.”
“Fondling innocents is not my forte.”
“You surprise me. Surely a man who values honesty would prefer to feel the true touch of a woman’s lips. A passionate kiss must be better than one feigned for pleasure.”
Mr Sloane laughed. “You want to marry me to gain our ancestors’ treasure. What is there to feel from your lips but desperation and greed?”
The comment stung. The sudden constriction of her throat came as a shock. Water welled in her eyes. Heavens, she couldn’t let the gentleman see her sobbing into her handkerchief, but he’d noticed something was amiss.
“I apologise if I’ve upset you.” He’d softened his tone. “We agreed to speak honestly, Miss Hart. If there is another reason you wish to marry me, then simply say so.”
How could she speak? What could she say? Though blunt in delivery, his words rang with truth—not the whole truth. Yes, she needed to marry him to stop the murderous blackguard, to gain financial security. But she wanted to kiss him, had admired him for weeks. She wanted to feel locked in his strong embrace.