taken liberties with me, and you are not even aware of whose house it is you have broken into!’ she accused impatiently.
This young woman looked magnificent in her anger, Gray acknowledged ruefully. Her eyes were glittering, her cheeks flushed from those ‘liberties’ he had taken.
A pity, then, that she was also a liar …!
Gray’s mouth tightened. ‘Is it necessary that I should know a man’s name in order to rob him?’
‘I would have thought it would have been something that interested you, yes!’
Gray shrugged. ‘Then perhaps you would care to enlighten me, sweeting?’
‘I am not your sweeting,’ the haughty little miss informed him agitatedly. ‘And Steadley Manor is owned by Lord Gideon Grayson, of course.’
A fact that Gray—the Lord Gideon Grayson in question—was all too aware of. As he was also aware that he did not possess a wife! ‘The man to whom you claim you are married …?’
‘To whom I am married, sir,’ Amelia confirmed firmly, only to frown once again as her claim was met with what could only be called a loaded silence. A silence Amelia found she did not much care for. ‘No doubt you have heard the tales of my—my husband’s gambling and womanising whilst he is in Town, but do not be fooled by his rakish reputation, sir. I assure you he is an excellent shot. Nor will he take kindly to the fact that you have—have taken liberties with his wife!’
‘Indeed?’ the intruder drawled dryly. ‘Your …husband would also appear to be something of a heavy sleeper …’
Having been rudely awoken herself only minutes ago, by the sound of footsteps crunching outside on the gravel driveway, Amelia had barely had time to locate the pistol she kept on her bedside table and pull on her robe over her night-rail before hurrying out into the hallway to confront this man. She was certainly in no mood to be trifled with. To be mocked. Especially by a man whose only weapon appeared to be her own no longer primed pistol.
Of course he could have a pistol of his own secreted somewhere about his person—indeed could be hiding several weapons under the many folds of his greatcoat. But as he had not produced any so far, Amelia did not believe he would do so this late in their encounter.
‘I assure you, sir, you will not find this situation so amusing if my husband appears, or one of the servants should decide to loose the dogs on you!’
‘My, my—a sleeping husband who, when awake, is nevertheless an excellent shot. And several dogs—fierce ones, no doubt?—who might also be loosed upon me,’ the infuriating man taunted mockingly. ‘Be assured I am quaking in my boots, madam!’
The devil sounded more amused than chastened, as Amelia had intended that he should. ‘You are insolent, sir!’
‘And you, madam—amongst other things—are a liar!’ he assured her grimly.
Amelia’s hands bunched into fists at her sides. ‘How dare you?’
‘Oh, I believe, if our acquaintance continues for any length of time—’
‘Which I sincerely hope it will not!’
‘—that you will find that I dare a lot of things, dear lady,’ he continued undaunted.
‘I am not your—’
‘But first—’ the man harshly overrode her protest ‘—I must dispute your claim of being mistress of this house. I have it on good authority that Lord Gideon Grayson is not, nor has he ever been, in possession of a wife!’
‘You have …? Then you have been sadly misinformed, sir,’ Amelia blustered as she faced him down defiantly.
‘I have?’
He spoke mildly. Too mildly for Amelia’s comfort. ‘You have,’ she insisted firmly. ‘Lord Grayson and I were married in the church here in the village but six months ago,’ Amelia assured him haughtily. ‘A quiet ceremony, attended only by family and close friends,’ she added hastily—just on the off-chance this man did actually have ‘good authority’ with which to consult on the matter.
Not just a liar but a bare-faced one at that, Gray allowed exasperatedly, as the lies continued to trip so smoothly off this woman’s little pink tongue.
But, considering he was Lord Gideon Grayson—Gray to those close friends this woman talked of so knowledgeably, the same close friends, no doubt, with whom, when he was in Town he gambled and womanised—Gray knew exactly where he had been six months ago.
And it had certainly not been anywhere near Bedfordshire or this village, and certainly not in a church marrying this impudent chit of a woman …!
All of which posed an interesting question—who the devil was she?
As far as Gray was aware, apart from his household servants—of which there had so far been neither sight nor sound—there were only two people currently in residence at the estate he had inherited on his brother’s death two and a half years ago: his young ward, Amelia, and her companion—a Miss Dorothy Little.
Although that name aptly suited the petite young woman standing before him, Gray considered her behaviour in confronting a man with a pistol in the middle of the night, whilst wearing nothing more than her nightclothes, to be reckless. Considering that Gray had ‘taken liberties’, as she called it, it had been reckless in the extreme!
As for this woman’s outrageous claim of being his wife …
Gray’s mouth tightened grimly. ‘I propose, madam, that we see to the lighting of a candle and begin this conversation anew.’
Amelia was completely nonplussed by the suggestion. This man should have turned tail and run the moment she’d confronted him with a loaded pistol. He certainly should not have mocked her or taken her in his arms, only to then remain completely undaunted by her warning concerning her husband’s prowess with a pistol and the threat of having the dogs loosed upon him.
The way he had spoken to her just now, and his proposal of lighting a candle before they recommenced their conversation, did not give Amelia the impression that he had been, or indeed was, any of those things!
She searched his face, her eyesight having adjusted slightly to the bathe of moonlight shining in through the windowed cupola high above them, and was able to see now that the man was possibly aged thirty, maybe a little younger, with dark hair that curled about a hard and roguishly handsome face. His light eyes were narrowed—the moonlight was still not sufficient for Amelia to see their exact colour—and glittering down at her.
The covering of the many-caped greatcoat he wore—the reason, no doubt, why he’d given every appearance of being an avenging angel towering over Amelia a few minutes ago—revealed only that he wore snowy-white linen at his throat, a dark tailored superfine, and pale pantaloons above black Hessians.
He looked, in fact, more like an arrogantly confident man of fashion than the burglar Amelia had initially assumed him to be. ‘Who are you, sir?’
