Anxiety grew as darkness descended.
After an hour spent sitting on her bed, trying to put a name to these blissful sensations that erupted whenever she pictured the enigmatic figure of Lord Greystone, Lydia gave up hope of someone unlocking the door and decided to light a candle.
She scoured the room.
No tinderbox. No candles.
So, Arabella had planned to keep her a prisoner all along. Cursing herself for her naivety, Lydia changed into her nightdress, climbed into bed and drew the coverlet up to her chin. The small room grew cold at night, and she’d given up hope of anyone coming to her rescue.
Wild and erratic thoughts kept her awake until she could no longer fight exhaustion. She woke numerous times. Her feet grew numb with cold. Her stomach rumbled and growled.
Later, the click of the key in the lock dragged her out of a light sleep. Perhaps Ada had waited until everyone adjourned to their beds and had come with supper. But then she noticed the large shadow near the door, heard the click of the key again, this time from inside the room.
“Well, I hope you’ve learnt something since your little escapade.” A husky, masculine voice penetrated the darkness. “You really are a naughty minx, you know.”
Lord Randall?
What business had he sneaking into her room?
Fear gripped Lydia’s heart and squeezed until painful, but she sat up and gathered her courage. “I must assume you’ve made a mistake, my lord, and entered the wrong room.”
There was no mistake. This was the attic. Still, it gave him an opportunity to come to his senses.
“You do so enjoy playing the coy little miss.” Lord Randall prowled towards her. “But rest assured, your ploy to gain my attention worked for I find I am in the grip of a mild obsession.”
As he drew closer she noticed he wore a mustard silk dressing gown, the black velvet belt tied loosely around his waist. Lydia’s gaze journeyed to his bare legs and feet and knew he wore little else besides.
“Then I must inform you that you are inept when it comes to reading signs.” How had the pompous lord misinterpreted disdain for desire? “My affections are held elsewhere.”
With a teasing sway, Lord Randall untied the belt on the garment that shielded his modesty. It fell open to reveal a pair of white silk drawers, the lord’s initials embroidered in gold on the waistband.
“Oh, you don’t really care for that heathen.” He slipped the garment off his shoulders, and it pooled to the floor. “Arabella assured me you’re just using Greystone to make me jealous. My dear, when you’ve seen what I have to offer, you’ll not want for another lover.”
Another lover?
Surely the lord did not mean to ravish her in her own home?
Damn Arabella.
Did she know of Randall’s despicable schemes?
Was this all part of her plan to force Lydia to wed?
She tried not to look at his bare chest, at the mass of golden hair, at the growing bulge in his drawers. After her experience with Greystone’s brother at the stone circle, she knew that if Randall lay on top of her, she’d have no hope of fighting him off. She needed to stand. She needed access to her hairbrush, to anything that would serve as a weapon.
“You think you have what it takes to impress me?” she said and forced a soft, breathless sigh. “Then let me look at you. Let me look at you in all your glory.”
For a man as vain as Rudolph Randall the comment tickled all notions of self-importance. “You’ll find no complaint.” He stepped back and held out his arms so she might survey him further.
Lydia slipped out of bed. Ignoring the dandy’s heated gaze practically searing holes in her nightgown, she circled him, stopping near the door.
“Do you train at Jackson’s saloon?” Lydia studied the less than well-defined muscles in his chest. The lord was a keen over-indulger. Signs of his love of port and gluttonous helpings of rich sweets and pastries were evident in his slight paunch.
“Doesn’t every gentleman when in town?” Sliding his thumbs into the waistband of his drawers the lord moved to push them lower. “But I’ve muscle where it matters, my dear, have no fear about that.”
“No! Wait. May I see your back?” She had already circled him once, but the faint flash of suspicion in his eyes forced her to say, “I’m rather partial to broad shoulders, fascinated by how they taper gradually to a trim waist.” Only his was less than trim.
Randall raised a mischievous brow. “There will be time for that once we’re wed.” He held out his hand to her though it hung limply as if he expected her to drop to her knees and kiss the garish rings gracing his knuckles.