She paused in the act of scooting backward, taking the covers with her, then continued until her shoulders came to rest against the headboard. “What…what about it?”
“Mrs. Mills and the rest of the servants received strict instruction that those pieces were not to be moved under any circumstance.”
“Are you…saying someone did?”
“Exactly, Mrs. Temple, and I expect you to ferret out the culprit and see that he doesn’t do it again.”
“You are here…in my room at—” she broke off, glanced at the small clock on the bureau “—half past three in the morning, because someone moved a chess piece? I don’t see how that could possibly be of such importance that you would come barging into my bedchamber in the middle of the night.”
“What you do or do not see is none of your concern. I don’t want those pieces moved—not until my cousin is returned.”
“Your cousin?”
“That is correct. Captain Ethan Sharpe of the Sea Witch. He and his crew are missing.”
She said nothing for several long moments. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure what she saw in his face but her features softened. “You must be very worried about him.”
There was something in the way she said it. Or perhaps it was the way she looked at him when she did. Whatever it was, his anger seeped away as if a hole had been pricked in his skin.
“Yes, well, I am, and I appreciate your concern. At any rate, if you discover the man who moved the piece, please inform him not to do so again.”
She eyed him in the moonlight, took in his weary expression. “Perhaps it would be good to finish the game, my lord. Sometimes memories do more harm than good. You can always begin anew once Captain Sharpe is returned.”
He’d had the same thought himself. The chessboard was a grim reminder, a haunting note that never let him forget Ethan was missing, perhaps even dead. “Just do as I say, Mrs. Temple.”
Cord took a last long look at the woman propped up in bed and thought how incredibly desirable she looked. In the moonlight, her eyes were luminous green pools, her lips a little pouty. He wanted to pull back the sheet and lift her night rail, to feast his eyes on the delectable body outlined by the thin cotton garment. He wanted to remove the ribbon at the end of her braid and run his fingers through the heavy dark strands of her hair.
His body tightened with arousal and Cord turned away. As he left the room, he shook his head, wondering what the devil was happening to him lately. He had never been the sort to have designs on his serving women, but lately, two of them had caught his fancy.
He amended that. One had appealed to his appreciation of beauty, like a finely crafted vase or an exquisite painting. The other intrigued him with her saucy tongue and overly protective nature. Now that he had seen her in her bedclothes, his prurient interests had also been aroused.
He should have gone to Madame Fontaneau’s, he told himself as he climbed the stairs. Then again, he far preferred a relationship of sorts with the women he took to his bed. As he headed upstairs, he thought again of Victoria Temple.
With Olivia Landers gone from his life, he remained in need of a mistress. Now that his misplaced desire for Claire had vanished, he began to think that perhaps he had merely fixed his interest on the wrong woman. Where Claire was shy and fearful, Victoria was bold and not the least afraid of him. Beneath her prim facade, he sensed a passionate nature he would very much like to explore.
And of course, he would take care of her, set her up in grand style and see that she wanted for nothing. She could take care of Claire, as she wanted so badly to do. He would be doing them all a favor.
Yes, Victoria would be a far greater challenge than her sweetly innocent sister. In fact, judging from the fiery look in her eyes when he had burst into her room, she might very well run him a merry chase. Still, Cord loved nothing better than a challenge, and in the end, he would have her. Victoria Temple might as well resign herself to her fate.
Tory immersed herself in her work the following day, making an inventory of the wine cellar, receiving deliveries from the butcher and the milkman, trying to keep her mind off the earl and his appearance in her room last night.
Just thinking about it made her pulse race. Sweet God, the man had been beyond angry. Surely moving a single chess piece hadn’t set off such a reaction?
Tory thought perhaps it was more a response to his worry for his cousin than the fact that the piece had been moved. It was obvious the men were close friends. She knew what it was like to lose a loved one. She had lost her father and not long after, her mother. She knew how badly it hurt.
And yet she wasn’t sorry that she had moved the piece. Perhaps in a way, the outburst had been good for him, a means of helping him vent his frustration. She could still recall the way he had looked—a virtual fire-breathing dragon with the light of battle glowing in his golden eyes.
His coat had been missing, his shirtsleeves rolled up over nicely corded forearms. Snug black breeches hugged a narrow waist and the long, solid muscles in his thighs. He had been breathing hard, expanding the width of an already powerful chest.
As furious as he was, for the first time since they had met, he had looked at her. Really looked at her. And the heat in his tawny eyes had made her feel as if her bones were slowly melting. She had felt as if her heart might pound its way out of her chest, as if her entire body might go up in smoke. Then, to her utter mortification, her nipples had peaked beneath her night rail.
Secretly, she had worried about the strange pull she felt whenever she encountered the earl. Now, sweet Lord, her worst fears were confirmed. She was attracted to the earl of Brant!
It was ridiculous. Completely absurd. She wasn’t even sure she liked him. She certainly didn’t trust him, and aside from that, the man was an earl while she was merely a servant. Even as the daughter of a baron, after hearing the gossip about him, Lord Brant was the last man who should interest her.
Was it only earlier that morning Miss Honeycutt had stood just inside the butler’s pantry giggling at the tale she had heard from Alice Payne, lady’s maid to the Viscountess Westland?
“Alice says ’e’s quite the stallion, is the earl. Says ’e can tup all night and still be rarin’ for more in the mornin’. Says her ladyship were sore for a week the last time ’e come to call.”
Like every other young woman, one day Tory hoped to marry. Someone kind and considerate, a gentle sort of man, she had always imagined, a man much like her father, who never spoke a harsh word to either his daughters or his wife.
Certainly not a man like Brant with his fiery temper and equally fiery passions.
Fortunately, aside from the hot looks he had cast her way last night—due, she was certain, to the natural instincts of a male in the proximity of a young woman in a state of semi-undress—Lord Brant had eyes only for Claire. In that regard, Tory vowed to remain vigilant. If Brant were half the rake he seemed, Claire yet remained in danger.
Tory strengthened her resolve to do whatever it took to protect her sister from the earl.
Four
“Tory?”
