Stranger in My Arms Page 7

  “The title has only been theirs for two months.”

  Lara shrugged. “My insistence on staying would only have delayed the inevitable. And it was good for me to live in the cottage. I'd been sheltered and insulated for my entire life. When I was compelled to move out of Hawksworth Hall and live in humbler circumstances, it opened my eyes to the needs of the people around me. The orphans, and the elderly and ill, and those who are lonely—”

  “I was told by more than one person today that you'd become something of the town matchmaker.”

  Lara colored modestly. “I've only helped in two such situations. That hardly qualifies me as a match maker.”

  “You were also described as a busybody.”

  “Busybody!” she exclaimed in indignation. “I assure you, I try never to intrude where I'm not wanted.”

  “Sweet Lara.” There was a subtle flicker of enjoyment in his eyes. “Even your own sister admits that you can't resist trying to solve other people's problems. One afternoon a week you spend hours reading to a blind old woman—a Mrs. Lumley, I believe. You spend two full days at the orphanage, and another running errands for an elderly couple, and the rest of the time scheming and matchmaking, and prodding reluctant people into doing good works for others.”

  Lara was astonished that Rachel would have confided such things in him. “I wasn't aware that it was a crime to help someone in need,” she said with as much dignity as she could marshal.

  “What about your needs?”

  The question was so intimate, so startling and yet unspecific, that Lara could only look at him in wide-eyed confusion. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I am fulfilled in every way. My days are filled with friends and interesting activities.”

  “Don't you ever want more?”

  “If you mean have I desired to marry again, the answer is no. I have discovered that it is possible to lead a pleasant and productive life without being someone's wife.” Some reckless inner impulse prompted her to add, “I didn't—I don't—like having a husband.”

  His face went smooth and serious. Lara thought that he was angry with her, until he spoke in a tone filled with self-reproach. “My fault.”

  The flash of bitterness made her uncomfortable. “It was no one's fault,” she said. “The truth is that we don't suit. We share none of the same interests, as you do with Lady Carlysle. Really, my lord, I think you should go to her—”

  “I don't want Lady Carlysle,” he said brusquely.

  Lara picked up a fork and toyed with a morsel of partridge, but her former pleasure in the food had dissipated. “I am sorry about the ring,” she said.

  He waved the words away with an impatient gesture. “I'll have another made for you.”

  “There's no need. I don't want another.” Lara sent him a discreet but steady glare, her entire body simmering in rebellion. Now he would command and crush her into compliance. But he held her gaze and sat back in his chair, contemplating her as if he found her a fascinating puzzle.

  “I'll have to tempt you, then.”

  “I have no interest in jewelry, my lord.”

  “We'll see about that.”

  “If you desire to dispose of money—and I doubt that there is much left for you to spend—it would please me for you to make improvements to the orphanage.”

  He glanced at her left hand, her fingers clenched around the silver fork as if it were a weapon. “The orphans are fortunate to have such a dedicated patroness. Very well, make a list of what you require for the place, and we'll discuss it.”

  Lara nodded and removed the linen napkin from her lap. “Thank you, my lord. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to retire now.”

  “Before dessert?” He gave her a chiding glance, and grinned. “Don't tell me you've lost your sweet tooth.”

  Lara couldn't help returning his smile. “I still have it,” she admitted.

  “I asked Mrs. Rouillé to make a pear tart.” Hunter stood and went to her chair, settling his hands on her shoulders as if to keep her there forcibly. Leaning close to her ear, he lowered his voice and murmured, “Stay for just one bite.”

  The velvet rasp of his voice made her shiver. He must have felt the tiny movement, for his fingers tightened on her shoulders. Something about his touch disturbed her profoundly, a gentle strength, a sense of ownership that she balked at. She made an automatic gesture to push him away, but as she felt the warm, hair-dusted backs of his hands, she paused. She couldn't seem to stop herself from exploring the shape of his long bones, the hard angles of his wrists. His fingers flexed, like a cat kneading its paws, and she drew her hands over his in a tentative sweep. The moment spun out, the silence deepening until the only sound that broke it was the tiny sputter of the candle flames.

  From somewhere above her head, she heard Hunter's shaky laugh, and he pulled back as if she had burned him.

  “I'm sorry,” Lara said softly, her face reddening with surprise at her own actions. “I don't know why I did that.”

  “Don't apologize. In fact…” He knelt by her chair, staring at her. His voice was low and a bit unsteady. “I wish you would again.”

  She was mesmerized by the fire-swept darkness of his eyes. He held very still, as if encouraging her to touch him, and she clenched her fist in her lap to keep from reaching out. “Hunter?” she asked in a whisper.

  His face changed, the illusion of perfectly cast bronze dispelled by a crooked grin. “You always say my name as if you're wondering who I really am.”

  “Perhaps I am.”

  “Who could I be, then?”

  “I don't know,” she replied soberly in the face of his teasing. “Long ago I used to dream…” Her voice died away as she realized what she had been about to reveal. He had such a terrible power over her, making her want to tell him her secrets, to be vulnerable to him.

  “What did you dream, Lara?”

  She had dreamed of a man like the one he seemed to be…she had dreamed of being wooed, charmed, caressed…things she had never dared to confess even to Rachel. But those fantasies had faded when she had met Hunter, and she had learned the reality of marriage. Duty, responsibility, disappointment, pain…loss.

  She didn't realize that her emotions showed on her face until Hunter spoke wryly. “No dreams left, I see.”

  “I'm no longer a young bride,” she replied.

  He gave a short laugh. “No, you're an ancient matron of twenty-four, who knows how to manage everyone's life but her own.”

  Pushing back from the table, Lara left her chair and faced him as he stood. “I've managed my affairs quite well, thank you!”

  “So you have,” Hunter said, all mockery gone. “And I intend to do better this time. I'm going to make a settlement on you, so that if anything ever happens to me—again—you'll be provided for in a suitable manner. No more hovels and ill-fitting gowns and shoes with holes worn through them.”

  So he had even noticed the soles of her shoes. Was there anything that escaped his notice? She strode to the door and opened it, pausing to look back at him. “I shan't stay for dessert—I couldn't eat another bite. Good night, my lord.”

  To her relief, he didn't follow her. “Pleasant dreams,” he murmured.

  Her mouth curved in a forced smile. “For you as well.”

  She left quietly, closing the door behind her.

  Only then did Hunter move, wandering to the portal, his large hand clasping the oval brass knob that she had just touched, searching for any remaining warmth her skin might have imparted. He leaned his cheek against the cool, glossy panel and closed his eyes. He craved her body, her sweetness, her hands on his body, her legs open to him, her throat tightening with feminine cries as he pleasured her…He shoved the thoughts away, but it was too late, he was left with a painful erection that wouldn't subside.

  How long would it take for her to accept him? What the devil would she require? If only she would assign him some herculean task for him to accomplish and prove himself. Tell me what to do, he thoug
ht, emitting a slight groan, and by God, I'll do it ten times over.

  Disgusted by his maudlin longing, he pushed away from the door and went to the Chippendale mahogany sideboard, its serpentine front adorned by delicate gilded swags and carved leaves. A silver tray had been placed on the top, laden with cut-glass decanters and snifters. He poured a healthy splash of brandy for himself and downed it at once.

  Hanging his head, Hunter waited for the smooth fire in his throat to spread through his chest. He braced his hands on the top of the mahogany cabinet, fingers curving over the edges…and then he felt it. A tiny, nearly undetectable hinge at his fingertips. Curiosity prickled along his nerves. Removing the silver tray and glasses, he set them on the floor and felt underneath the top of the sideboard in a search for hinges and latches. Locating an irregularity in the wood, he pressed inward, felt it give, heard a click. The top of the sideboard loosened, and he lifted it free.

  A secret compartment—and what it contained made him sigh in sudden relief.

  Just then a footman entered the room to remove the plates and bring dessert. “Not now,” Hunter barked. “I want to be alone.”

  The servant closed the door with a muffled apology. Letting out an explosive breath, Hunter scooped up the pile of thin, leather-bound journals that had been stored in the sideboard's false top, carried them to the chair by the fire, and sorted them in the correct order.

  He began to read, scanning the pages rapidly. As he absorbed the neatly written lines, he tore out the finished pages in sheaves of two or three, and fed them to the fire. The flames danced and crackled in anticipation, flaring up with each new addition. Every now and then Hunter paused thoughtfully, staring into the grate…watching the words that blazed and shrank into ashes.

  Chapter 6

  LARA ENTERED THE breakfast room and felt a stab of apprehension when she saw that Hunter was there. He sipped a cup of black coffee—the way he had always taken it—and set aside a copy of the Times as he beheld her. The footman in attendance brought Lara a cup of chocolate and a plate of strawberries, and left for the kitchen while Hunter seated her.

  “Good morning,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over her face, not missing the shadows beneath her eyes. “You didn't sleep well.”

  Laura shook her head. “I lay awake for the longest time.”

  “You should have come to me,” he said, his face innocent except for the devilish spark in his brown eyes. “I could have helped you to relax.”

  “Thank you, no,” Lara said promptly. She lifted a strawberry to her lips, but before she tasted it, a sudden laugh choked her, and she set down her fork.

  “What is it?” Hunter asked.

  She pressed her lips together, but that only worsened her giggles. “You,” she gasped. “I'm afraid you're in desperate need of a tailor.”

  Hunter had donned some of his old clothes, and he was swamped in folds of extra fabric, his jacket and waistcoat hanging loose, his baggy trousers held up by some miracle she didn't care to speculate on. An answering grin appeared on his face, and he spoke in a rueful tone. “I like to hear you laugh, sweet. Even when I'm the target.”

  “I'm sorry, I…” Lara dissolved in another burst of merriment. She pushed back her chair and went to him, unable to keep from investigating further. She pulled at the loose wads of material at his sides and waist. “We can't have you go about looking like this…Perhaps a few stitches here and there would help…”

  “Whatever you suggest.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled as she continued to fuss over him.

  “You look a complete vagabond!” she exclaimed.

  “I have been a vagabond,” he said. “Until I came home to you.”

  Lara's gaze met his. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement. Her breath caught as she accidentally touched the hard surface of his midriff, his heat filtering through the thin linen shirt. She snatched her hand back at once. “Excuse me, I—”

  “No.” He caught her wrist swiftly, enclosing it in a gentle grip.

  They stared at each other, frozen in a quiet tableau. Hunter exerted only a light tension on her wrist. It would be so easy for him to pull her forward, bring her tumbling into his lap, but he held still. It seemed as if he were waiting for something, his expression arrested, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm much faster than normal. Lara sensed that if she took one step toward him, he would pull her into his arms…Her nerves clamored with excited alarm at the prospect. She looked at his mouth, remembered the warmth and taste of him…Yes, she wanted him to kiss her…but before she could move her leaden feet, Hunter released her with a crooked smile.

  Lara expected to feel relief, but instead she was flooded with disappointment. Troubled by her inexplicable reactions to him, she went back to her chair and bent her head over the plate of strawberries.

  “I'll be leaving for London tomorrow morning,” she heard Hunter say casually.

  Startled, she glanced at him. “So soon? But you've only just arrived.”

  “I have business to take care of, including a meeting with Mr. Young and our bankers and solicitors.” At her questioning expression, he added, “To arrange for some loans.”

  “We're in debt, then,” Lara said gravely, not surprised by the news.

  Hunter nodded, his mouth twisting. “Thanks to Arthur's mismanagement.”

  “But to arrange for more debt?” she asked hesitantly. “Won't that encumber the estate beyond all reason?”

  He gave her a brief, reassuring smile. “It's the only way to climb out. Don't worry, madam—I have no intention of failing you.”

  The pucker on her forehead remained, but when she spoke again, it concerned a far different matter. “Is that the only reason you're going to London? I suppose you'll want to see some old friends as well.” She paused and sipped at her chocolate in a show of unconcern. “Lady Carlysle, for example.”

  “You keep mentioning her name,” he commented. hardly flattering, this desire of yours to push me into the arms of another woman.”

  “I was merely asking.” Lara didn't know what had prompted her to bring up the subject. She forced herself to eat another strawberry as she waited.

  “I told you I don't want her,” he said flatly.

  Lara struggled against a senseless feeling of gladness at the information. Her mind pointed out that it was to her benefit if Hunter renewed his affair with Lady Carlysle, thus sparing her from his unwanted attentions. “It is only to be expected that you would pay her a visit after having been gone for so long,” she said. “At one time you cared for each other very much.”

  Hunter scowled and pushed back from the table. “If this is the direction of your breakfast conversation, I believe I'll occupy myself elsewhere.”

  As he stood up, there was a respectful tap on the door, and the senior footman's impassive face appeared. “Lord Hawksworth, there is a caller.” At Hunter's nod, the footman brought a card on a silver tray.

  Hunter read the card with an impassive expression. “Send him in,” he said. “I'll receive him here.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Who is it?” Lara asked as the footman departed.

  “Lonsdale.”

  Rachel's husband. Lara stared at Hunter curiously, wondering why his reaction should be so matter-of-fact, even unenthusiastic. For years Terrell, Lord Lonsdale, had been one of Hunter's best friends, and yet Hunter's face was that of a man confronted with an unwanted duty. Hunter watched the door, and as soon as the sound of footsteps approached, a smile appeared on his lips…but it wasn't natural. It was the expression of an actor preparing himself for a performance.

  Lord Lonsdale entered the room, his face glowing with anticipation and happiness—unusual for Lonsdale, who was known for his moodiness. There was no doubt of his genuine gladness to see Hunter again. “Hawksworth!” he exclaimed, striding forward to seize him in a brief, bearlike embrace.

  The two men laughed and pulled apart to survey each other. Although Lord Lonsdale was above averag
e height, he didn't quite reach Hunter's towering build. He was robust and muscular, though, and had a love of riding and sporting that rivaled Hunter's. Dark-haired and fair-skinned, with deep blue eyes inherited from an Irish grandmother, Lonsdale was a handsome and engaging man—when he wished to be. Other times he allowed his famous temper to explode out of control, frequently with unpleasant results. He always apologized afterward with a charm and sincerity that made everyone forgive him. Lara would have liked him much more if he were not married to her sister.

  “My God, man, you're half the size you were!” Lonsdale exclaimed, laughing. “And as dark as a savage.”

  “And you're the same,” Hunter replied with a grin. “Exactly the same.” “I should have known you'd cheat the devil his due.” Lonsdale stared at him with open fascination. “You're so altered. I'm not certain I would have recognized you, except that Rachel told me what to expect.”

  “It's good to see you, old friend.”

  Lonsdale responded with a smile, but his penetrating stare did not waver from Hunter's face. Lara could understand the reason Lonsdale's pleasure suddenly seemed to dim. Lonsdale was no fool, and he was confronted with the same dilemma that everyone else faced. If this man was indeed Hunter, he was greatly changed…and if he was a stranger, he was an astonishingly convincing replica.

  “Old friend?” Lonsdale repeated cautiously.

  As if sensing the man's anxious desire for proof, Hunter let out a coarse laugh that made Lara flinch. “Let's have a drink,” he said to Lonsdale. “I don't care what the hour is. I wonder if there's a bottle of Martell 'ninety-seven left, or if my damned thieving uncle finished every drop.”

  Lonsdale was instantly reassured. “Yes, the Martell,” he said with a bark of happy relief. “You remembered my liking for the stuff.”

  “I remember a certain evening at the Running Footman when your liking for the stuff nearly got us beaten senseless.”

  Lonsdale was nearly overcome with laughter. “I was as drunk as a mop! With quite an itch for that whore in the red gown—”