The Maddening Lord Montwood: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series Read online

  As luck would have it, Lucan managed to catch up with the carriage as it arrived at the southern border of Lincolnshire, breaking the final night before the end of the journey. Unfortunately, the inn was full, and Miss Thorne had been forced to share a room with a pair of debutantes who were traveling toward Northumberland, again leaving Lucan without a chance to speak with her.

  Then, good fortune finally smiled on him when he spotted none other than Arthur Momper waiting outside the tack room. The lad started chatting about his journey, how well he fetched the step for Miss Thorne, how Burt, Whitelock’s driver, had let him manage the reins, and how—while Burt was having a pint—he was in charge of seeing to the horses. The lad beamed with pride.

  As for Lucan, a new plan of action suddenly formed in mind. He would need to send a missive ahead to Valentine, the butler of Fallow Hall, in order to pull it off. But it was time to resort to drastic measures.

  “Arthur, just how good are you at handling the reins?”

  Leaving London, when her father was in Fleet, was the hardest thing Frances had ever done. Each time she thought of him there, all alone, she wanted to cry. But the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if all the tears were for him.

  Even though Frances didn’t think she was a selfish person, she realized that some of those tears were for herself. She was frightened but also filled with guilt for moving forward. How could she start anew before she’d properly mourned the life she’d had up to this point? And only a horrible daughter would feel the smallest amount of excitement about her new position as a paid companion! Yet a fair amount of trepidation lingered within her as well. So at least in that, she could forgive the inconsiderate nature of the thoughts that were not solely concerned for her father.

  Before Frances left London, Lord Whitelock, true to his word, had made inquiries, and Frances learned where her father was being held. Unfortunately, she’d slept for the remainder of the day after she’d accepted his lordship’s offer for employment. She’d never experienced such exhaustion. It was rather alarming. Apparently, she’d slept so soundly that she hadn’t even removed her shoes. Upon waking, she’d felt peculiarly disoriented, her thoughts muddled. So much so, in fact, that she was not able to visit her father in prison before leaving. When she’d voiced her concerns, however, Lord Whitelock had informed her that her father had not wanted her to see him in a place such as that, and that he was relieved she was being well looked after.

  That message sounded like something her father could say, she supposed. Yet she’d expected him to renew his request for her to seek out Lucan Montwood’s help. Though, perhaps, that was not a message he’d wished to relay through Lord Whitelock. Therefore, she’d written to her father straightaway, informing him of her new employment and letting him know that she would be able to pay off his five-pound debt in five weeks. The viscount had even offered to post the letter for her. She wrote a missive to Kaye as well, letting her know not to worry.

  That was four days ago, and now Frances was traveling to Lincolnshire. As the carriage slowed, she felt a tremor of apprehension. What if Lady Whitelock did not like her?

  Moments away from beginning her new position, Frances peered through the window. The carriage approached a gray stone manor. Though, when the sun peered out from behind the clouds, the façade brightened, almost gleaming like silver. It was a vast, noble estate, and elegant in its monochromatic design. A large black lacquered door graced the front. There was no busy ornamentation, only high, sturdy walls, dotted with windows encased in a paler shade of gray. To her, the house emitted confidence and security, a haven from her worries. She liked it very much and hoped to remain here for many years to come.

  Before the carriage came to a full stop, the door opened and through it rushed a large gray beast of a dog that might have blended in with the stone if not for his constant motion. He darted around the carriage, yawping excitedly, short ears flapping against the side of his head, and a skinny, curved tail wagging madly. Curious, she leaned closer to the window. She’d never seen such a large dog this close. He was the size of a pony, only much sleeker.

  Then, abruptly, the dog stopped. With a quirk of his head, he stared up toward the driver’s perch and, after a final woof, summarily sat down on his hind legs and waited.

  A footman in dark livery came forward. A stern-faced man in similar attire stood to the side of the open doorway. She took the older man for the butler and was eager to make his acquaintance, as well as the housekeeper’s. Frances would be working closely with them for the term of her employment.

  Minding her foot on the step, Frances exited the carriage with all her earthly possessions in her grasp. She’d left the basket of food at Lord Whitelock’s townhouse. But that was after she’d removed the violets and the booklet. She didn’t know why she’d kept Lucan Montwood’s flowers or pressed them in between the flats behind the miniatures of her parents. Perhaps she’d only thought to take a piece of London with her.

  “Miss Thorne,” the older gentleman said, drawing her attention. He bowed. “I’ve been instructed to escort you to the study.”

  “Thank you, Mr. . . . ”

  “Valentine, miss.”

  Crossing the threshold, a large hall awaited. The stone walls resembled the exterior. On the far side, a colorful tapestry brightened the space, while overhead, a rather robust iron chandelier hung. The masculine simplicity of this manor appealed to her, but it also surprised her. To her, Lord Whitelock had seemed a much more refined, particular type of man. His townhouse was quite ornate, with curving sculptures, upholstered furnishings, and all manner of softness. This was the antithesis of his house in town. Since his wife resided here, Frances had thought the opposite would have been true.

  Valentine relieved her of her satchel, her gloves, and her hat. The once-frayed straw brim was now smooth, since she’d had ample time on her journey to repair it.

  Reaching the study, she noted the inviting warm colors—the brown leather-upholstered chairs, a deep burgundy and blue woven rug, the polished wood desk near the window, burgundy brocade curtains, and a hearth on the far wall large enough to fit the pallet she’d slept on at Mrs. Pruitt’s boardinghouse.

  “His lordship will be with you shortly,” Valentine said before he left the room.

  Lord Whitelock was here already? The viscount had explained that he would follow in a few days. But perhaps he’d only wanted to give her time to travel alone and sort out her thoughts instead. If so, it was quite considerate of him. Now that he was here, he would likely make the introduction to his wife himself.

  Frances moved closer to the desk. A blank page lay on the surface with a quill resting in a stand beside a pot of uncapped ink, as if prepared to attend to business matters. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow cross the study door and automatically turned, expecting to see Lord Whitelock.

  Yet it wasn’t the viscount at all. It was Lucan Montwood.

  She gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, Miss Thorne.” Lifting one hand in an absent wave, he moved into the room. Wearing a hunter green tailcoat over a gold waistcoat and a pair of snug, buttery breeches, his self-assured gait bordered on brazen.

  She tried not to notice the way each step seemed to accentuate every shift and clench of his muscles. Her throat went impossibly dry. She took a moment to swallow and to lift her gaze. “You live here?”

  That hand—those long fingers—stroked the line of his jaw as one corner of his mouth curled up in a smirk. “I’m afraid that I must admit to subterfuge. You see, this is Fallow Hall, not Whitelock’s residence. His estate is a few miles further north.”

  The words registered slowly. No wonder this place looked nothing like Lord Whitelock would live here.

  Yet, she could easily imagine Lucan here.

  “You’ve abducted me?” A pulse fluttered at her throat. It came from fear, of course, and alarm. It most certainly did not flutter out of a misguided wanton thrill. A
t her age, she knew better. Or rather, she should know better.

  That grin remained unchanged, as if he could read her thoughts. “Not at all. Rest assured, you are free to leave here at any time—”

  “Then I will leave at once.”

  “As soon as you’ve heard my warning.”

  It did not take long for a wave of exasperation to fill her and then exit her lungs on a sigh. “This is in regard to Lord Whitelock again. Will you ever tire of this subject? You have already said that you believe him to be a snake in disguise. I have already said that I don’t agree. There is nothing more to say unless you have proof.”

  “And yet you require no proof to hold ill will against me,” he challenged with a lift of his brow. “You have damned me with the same swift judgment that you have elevated Whitelock to sainthood.”

  What rubbish. “I did not set out to find the good in his lordship. The fact of his goodness came to me naturally, by way of his reputation. Even his servants cannot praise him enough. They are forever grateful for his benevolence. And I can find no fault in a man who would offer a position to a woman who’d been fired by her former employer and whose own father was taken to gaol.”

  “Perhaps he wants your gratitude,” Lucan said, his tone edged with warning as he prowled nearer. “This entire series of events that has put you within his reach reeks of manipulation. You are too sensible to ignore how conveniently these circumstances have turned out in his favor.”

  “Yet I suppose I’m meant to ignore the convenience in which you’ve abducted me?”

  He laughed. The low, alluring sound had no place in the light of day. It belonged to the shadows that lurked in dark alcoves and to the secret desires that a woman of seven and twenty never dare reveal.

  “It was damnably hard to get you here,” he said with such arrogance that she was assured her desires would remain secret forever. “You have no idea how much liquor Whitelock’s driver can hold. It took an age before he was deep in his cups.”

  Incredulous, she shook her head. “Are you blind to your own manipulations? It has not escaped my notice that you reacted without surprise to the news of my recent events. I can only assume that you are also aware of my father’s current predicament.”

  “I have been to Fleet to see him.” Lucan’s expression lost all humor. “He has asked me to watch over you. So that is what I am doing.”

  What a bold liar Lucan was—and looking her in the eye all the while, no less. “If that is true,” she scoffed, “you then interpreted his request as ‘Please, sir, abduct my daughter’? I find it more likely that he would have asked you to pay his debts to gain his freedom.”

  “He declined my offer.”

  She let out a laugh. “That is highly suspect. I do not think you are speaking a single word of truth.”

  “You are putting your faith in the wrong man.” Something akin to irritation flashed in his gaze, like a warning shot. He took another step. “Perhaps those spectacles require new lenses. They certainly aren’t aiding your sight.”

  “I wear these spectacles for reading, I’ll have you know. Otherwise, my vision is fine,” she countered, ignoring the heady static charge in the air between them. “I prefer to wear them instead of risking their misplacement.”

  “You wear them like a shield of armor.”

  The man irked her to no end. “Preposterous. I’ve no need for a shield of any sort. I cannot help it if you are intimidated by my spectacles and by my ability to see right through you.”

  He stepped even closer. An unknown force, hot and barely leashed, crackled in the ever-shrinking space. She watched as he slid the blank parchment toward him before withdrawing the quill from the stand. Ignoring her, he dipped the end into the ink and wrote something on the page.

  Undeterred, she continued her harangue. “Though you may doubt it, I can spot those snakes—as you like to refer to members of your own sex—quite easily. I can come to an understanding of a man’s character within moments of introduction. I am even able to anticipate”—Lucan handed the parchment to her. She accepted it and absently scanned the page—“his actions.”

  Suddenly, she stopped and read it again. “As soon as you’ve finished reading this, I am going to kiss you.”

  While she was still blinking at the words, Lucan claimed her mouth. The parchment crinkled. She heard an indrawn breath but wasn’t sure if it was hers or his. All she knew was that the first press of his lips sent a ripple through her—her body clenching on a sigh of rapture as if she’d been waiting a lifetime for this. Her eyes closed.

  This was no tentative kiss meant to test her response. Lucan did not ease away to beg her forgiveness. Nor did he ask her permission to continue. He was confident and sure. His lips firm but not hard. Coaxing but not demanding. He took command but yielded. It was exactly the way she’d always wanted to be kissed. It was as if this kiss were designed solely for her pleasure.

  Somewhere along the way, his hand came up to cradle her jaw, and he stepped closer. Although, perhaps he’d done that first . . . She could hardly think straight at the moment. His scent filled her lungs, transporting her to a dewy midnight hour. She breathed him in deeper, opening her mouth to draw air as well. And then she tasted him on her tongue. His flavor was earthy and dark—a seductive elixir.

  She’d never tasted a man before. Never slipped her tongue into a man’s mouth. She’d never imagined wanting to. But the urge broke over her so suddenly that she was already engaging in the act before questioning it.

  Lucan’s mouth slanted, his flesh sliding along hers, stroking the sensitive inner walls of her mouth. Oh yes, her body sighed again. He made her legs tremble. Her hand slipped to his shoulder for support but somehow ended up curling around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss altered, turned hungry. She hadn’t eaten since early this morning, so perhaps that was the reason. But she couldn’t seem to stop searching for sustenance from him.

  A low, growling sound rose up from his throat. Now, both of his hands held her face. He stepped between her legs, urging her bottom against the desk. Her trembling legs now ached, throbbing at the apex where they merged at her sex. She felt empty there, as if a part of her had gone missing, and she needed it returned in order to stop the insistent, anxious beat of her pulse. Instinctively, she arched against him—

  Then, just as suddenly as the kiss had begun, it ended.

  Abruptly, Lucan took a step back and lowered his hands. She nearly lost her balance. He reached out to steady her with a hand at her elbow but nothing more intimate than that. She tried to read his expression, but for some reason she couldn’t see him quite clearly. That was when she realized her lenses were fogged, her spectacles askew. She’d forgotten about the parchment in her grasp as well. Now, it was completely crumpled.

  Removing her glasses, she faced the desk and laid the paper down before she rubbed her lenses with a corner of her shawl. She was barely able to catch her breath, and his labored struggle told her that she wasn’t alone. She didn’t know what to make of it. Any of it.

  Frances replaced her spectacles. Glancing down at those words, she felt that ripple cascade through her once more. She had no idea what to say after experiencing a kiss like that. “You have exceptional . . . penmanship.” And the ability to scatter my wits completely.

  Lucan stood beside the desk, staring at Miss Thorne’s profile. What had happened?

  He’d wanted to prove that she might not be as adept at anticipating a man’s actions or motives as she’d assumed. He’d meant to make a point by issuing an example. Instead, he was the one reeling from the lesson.

  He’d lost control. Or nearly had.

  Frances Thorne had surprised him. And he didn’t particularly care for surprises.

  He felt as if he’d taken a bite of that forbidden glazed bun. No, not just a bite. He felt as if he’d devoured the entire pastry. And now he wanted to lick his fingers to find any remnants. Wait . . . had she said something about penmanship?


  Apparently, she wasn’t going to mention the kiss or berate him for his advances. Which was fine with him. They could pretend it never happened. Or at least she could. He couldn’t.

  When he’d first begun to imagine what it would be like to kiss her—and he had to admit it had happened more often than not—he’d always thought of her as tightly wound, like a knot that he was meant to unravel. He’d even been prepared to take his time, to work his way beyond her stuffy exterior and those damned erotic spectacles. Yet in the end, it was she who’d undone him.

  Penmanship? He nearly laughed. That was the most pressing matter on her mind? He was still trying to quiet the beast she’d awakened. The beast that cared little for control and only wanted another taste . . .

  Now, as she started to smooth out the wrinkles of the parchment, he reached out and snatched the page from her. Then he stalked across the room to throw it in the fire. Unfortunately, there was no fire. The wadded-up ball merely pinged off the empty grate and sat there. It was far too anticlimactic. He needed to see that damnable page burn to ash.

  “How did you convince the driver to bring me here?”

  “I was your driver, Miss Thorne. Or at least, I took your driver’s place in Stampton when he became too inebriated to continue.”

  Her slender brows furrowed. “A messenger at the inn informed me that Lord Whitelock’s carriage required repairs.”

  “I needed a way to explain the change in carriages to avoid suspicion,” he said with a swipe of his hand through the air. “Your cleverness forced my actions.”

  Lucan had made certain the man was foxed. Then, to lessen any ill will—should they cross paths again—he’d introduced the driver to the insatiable Nina. She’d been seeking bedsport with Lucan, but this time he’d not been tempted by her charms. Perhaps because she wore no spectacles, and her lips hid no overbite. Strangely, he found that combination entirely too tempting.