and despite the past stifling year, Ashdowne still called himself human. Whatever the reason, like a man flirting with his own doom, he could not seem to ignore Miss Georgiana Bellewether.
She was diverting, to say the least, and barring the recent trouble with his sister-in-law, Ashdowne could not remember when he had last been so intrigued. It was startling to realize just how mundane his life had become since assuming the title. He had not set out to embrace a life of boredom. Far from it, for he had always held his stolid, conservative brother somewhat in contempt.
It was only after that gentleman had keeled over from apoplexy and the title had been thrust upon him that Ashdowne had realized what a tiresome business it all was. Of course, he could have refused the responsibilities that fell to him, but too many people, from farm tenants to servants staffing the family seat, depended upon him now. And so he had immersed himself in the business of being Ashdowne, and although he didn’t regret it, he felt as if he had been swimming for some time and had just now come up for air. Only to find himself in a fog induced by the young lady at his side.
“This, uh, really isn’t necessary,” Miss Bellewether said. She spoke in a breathless voice, as though she had barely recovered after her misadventure in the Pump Room, and certainly a dousing with Bath water could steal your breath away. Ashdowne knew his had been sadly short after just looking at her, especially when the wet muslin had clung so delightfully to her pert nipples.
He forced his thoughts in a different direction. Gad, he must have been too long without a woman if he could be stirred by this wretched female! “Let me at least see you home,” he said, smoothly stifling his wayward lust. “Where are you staying?”
Ashdowne listened with approval to her mumbled direction, though he knew her address already. He made it his business to learn everything that might impact upon him and his plans, and he had discovered all that he could about the bothersome Miss Bellewether, Lady Culpepper having proven quite helpful in that regard.
The outraged matron had complained at length about the impertinent young woman who invited herself in only to claim that she was going to solve the theft. And all through Lady Culpepper’s shrill diatribe, Ashdowne had struggled with his own incredulity. He knew that common citizens rarely bothered to intervene in a criminal case, let alone a genteel female. What was the chit about?
Ashdowne’s gaze traveled to the lady in question, though he found it difficult to equate the self-proclaimed investigator with those bobbing blond curls. He shook his head in wonder. Obviously Miss Bellewether had recovered herself, for she no longer clung fiercely to the shawl he had borrowed from a matron, but neither did she seem at ease. She was staring straight ahead, her chin lifted, as if prepared to make some pronouncement, and Ashdowne found himself leaning close to hear her next inanity.
“I appreciate your assistance, my lord, but I assure you that I am not singling you out for any sort of…”
“Torture?” Ashdowne suggested wryly.
Although he had not thought her capable of it, the little miss made a face that evidenced some backbone behind that beribboned and beruffled exterior. Tossing her gorgeous curls, Miss Bellewether gave him a mutinous expression that Ashdowne found oddly charming. He must be truly desperate for diversion. “But, tell me, how is the investigation going?” he asked, to deflect her wrath.
Miss Bellewether, however, did not look appeased. “It is going quite well!” she answered, as if daring him to dispute her. “In fact, I am quite certain of the identities of the perpetrators.”
“Perpetrators?” Ashdowne asked. “Then there is more than one?”
To his surprise, she slid him a suspicious glance, and Ashdowne wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Apparently, it was something that nobody else noticed, and the thought sent a shiver up his spine, as if someone were walking on his grave. Unnerved, he rolled his shoulders beneath his fine tailored coat as he awaited her answer.
But when it came, it was as astonishing as anything else she had ever said. “I do not feel at liberty to discuss the case,” she muttered, refusing to look at him.
Uttered with all seriousness, her words stunned Ashdowne from his pose of practiced charm into a startled stare. Who did this mop-haired minx think she was? For a moment, he didn’t know whether to laugh or to strangle her. Unfortunately, they were in full view of several others who were strolling the streets, so the latter was not really an option, and the former would not further his cause.
With an effort, Ashdowne forced himself to swallow the sharp retort that came to his lips while he tried to appear humble. But since the pretense was not part of his usual repertoire, he was not too successful. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to interfere with your investigation,” he said smoothly. “Quite the contrary, in fact. Perhaps if I were to offer my help to you, as an assistant of sorts, you might feel comfortable speaking more…freely.”
His companion gave him a sharp look that told him she thought he was teasing her, but Ashdowne waited expectantly.
“Oh! I’ve never considered…” she began, only to trail off.
Ashdowne remained impassive as her blue eyes studied him, though it was a trifle difficult when he really wanted to get his hands on her neck—or perhaps lower, where an expanse of luscious white breast peeked above the edge of the shawl.
“That is, I have always worked alone,” she mumbled, gazing down at her toes.
It was a habit she had when with him. Although Ashdowne was not certain what it signified, he did not believe it had anything to do with modesty or deference, much to his regret. “Ah, but perhaps, as a man, I could be of some use,” he suggested.
She glanced up at him with a startled expression, a flush staining her cheeks, and Ashdowne felt an echoing interest in his breeches, along with an absurd sense of triumph. At least the chit was not wholly indifferent to him, if she thought he had offered to accommodate her in a purely personal fashion.
“I meant that I might be able to move easier than yourself amongst the male members of society, in places where you, for all your wherewithal, cannot be expected to go,” Ashdowne qualified. She stared up at him, and for a moment he felt transfixed by those blue eyes. They had stopped before her residence, and he stepped closer, an odd sort of anticipation buzzing in his veins.
It had been a long while since his last intimate encounter. Too long. And the young lady before him was a scrumptious delight for the senses, with her flushed skin and bright hair and mouth made for kissing.
“Georgie!” The call came from inside the house, destroying the moment between them and making Miss Bellewether wince. Was it the nickname that dismayed her, or the long minute they had spent mulling over the possibilities between them? Ashdowne had to admit that he was fairly dismayed himself to be attracted to the disastrous Miss Bellewether, no matter how briefly.
“I will consider your kind offer,” she said in what could be nothing but a dismissal. And then, as if she feared to look upon his face, she turned and fled, hurrying toward the house and leaving him standing outside like a tradesman.
At the sound of the door closing behind her, Ashdowne shook himself. He could not remember the last time he had been so summarily dismissed. Even as a younger son, he had moved in the first circles, his looks and charm and ready money assuring him a place at every party.
Rolling his shoulders, Ashdowne set off down the street. He was certain that more than mere shyness had sent her running inside, and the knowledge left him bemused. Although
