Ten Reasons to Stay Read online

  Or the large hand encircling her throat with potent menace. She swallowed, which only made her more aware of his grip. Surely he was bluffing. He was the duke’s cousin—he’d never assault her virtue. Would he?

  Blast it—she didn’t have time for this! By morning, her uncle, Silas Whitcomb, would surely have discovered her gone, no matter how drunk he was. They were supposed to head to Cornwall in a hired coach at dawn, so once he came to fetch her from her bedchamber—

  “If I tell you my name, will that satisfy you?” she offered.

  She’d throw the dogged earl a bone to get him to release her. Giving him her name was probably safe, since both of them were new to the area. He wouldn’t know that her uncle had a niece . . . if he even knew her uncle at all.

  “I want more than your name.” The earl’s arm still anchored her against his side and his hand still clutched her throat. “I want to know where you live—”

  “My lord, is that you?” came a voice from below, followed by footsteps coming up the servant’s stairs.

  They both froze. They’d awakened someone. And if they were caught together in the middle of the night, she’d be ruined for certain. Which would only give her uncle more of an excuse for going through with his heartless plans.

  “Please . . .” she whispered, but Lord Monteith was already releasing her.

  “Yes, it’s me!” he called down as he scooped up her cloak and gloves, then tossed them into the nearby closet, which he locked with a little key. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. No need for you to come up.”

  They heard the servant hesitate on the stairs. “Very good, sir. If you need anything—”

  “I’ll ring for you. Go back to bed.”

  They both held their breaths until they heard the door close below. Then Lord Monteith pocketed the closet key. “We’d best continue this discussion somewhere more private.” He gestured toward a long hall. “I believe the parlor is that way.”

  “You believe?”

  He scowled at her. “I just arrived this afternoon. Too bad your spies didn’t pass on that bit of information.”

  “Too bad indeed,” she shot back, “for I’d have tried harder to avoid you.”

  Turning on her heel, she headed off down the hall he’d indicated, but with every step she felt the time racing by. Much longer, and she wouldn’t make it to Honiton on foot. She could try to run from him . . . no, he could outrun her easily. Besides, he still carried that nasty pistol. She didn’t think he’d use it, but—

  How the devil had everything gone so wrong? Her plan had been simple: borrow one of the duke’s horses, ride to Honiton, catch the mail coach back to school in Richmond, and appeal to Mrs. Harris for help with her mad uncle. Running afoul of the new owner of Chaunceston Hall hadn’t been part of the plan.

  And what was she to make of him? She could feel his eyes on her as he followed at a more leisurely pace.

  You’d look like a cherry ripe for the picking.

  Judging from the audacious way he’d raked her body with those black-as-hell eyes, he wouldn’t mind doing the picking, either.

  An errant thrill coursed down her spine before she squelched it ruthlessly. This was not one of her favorite gothic melodramas. This was real. Real trouble.

  Besides, men didn’t think of her like that—she’d always been too full-figured and freckled to be fashionable. It was just this ridiculously gothic house and gothic situation making her imagine such things.

  But it didn’t help that Lord Monteith made the perfect gothic hero, with his brooding stare and his piratical features, and those threats he kept making that she was sure he wouldn’t follow through with.

  Almost sure, anyway.

  “In here,” he bit out as he thrust her through the door of a well-appointed parlor.

  He closed the door behind them, then strode across the room to build a fire in the enormous hearth while keeping a suspicious eye on her like the gothic hero he was.

  Or gothic villain? She wished she could be sure. So far he hadn’t hurt her, though he’d nearly given her heart failure half a dozen times. Like when he’d first caught her in the stables, with his ebony eyes gleaming and the shadowy light darkening his olive features. And when he’d drawn his sleek, well-oiled pistol—

  A shudder racked her. Perhaps she should have better heeded the lesson Mrs. Harris had set for her to learn over the holidays: You have a tendency not to look before you leap, Eliza. It’s time you stopped letting it land you in the briar bushes.

  Lord Monteith made quite a fearsome briar bush. As he crouched to feed the fire, the flames lit his fierce warrior’s face, and his broad shoulders and muscular thighs impressively strained the confines of his wool clothing. She had no doubt of their strength after being pinned against the stable wall. This wasn’t a man to be toyed with, Louisa’s relation or no.

  He rose and strode to where a carafe of brandy sat on a console table. She instantly stiffened. “I’d prefer that you not drink.” She’d already had to deal with one intoxicated male this evening; she had no wish to wrangle with another.

  “I’d prefer that England not be so damned cold, but since it is, I’m hoping the brandy will compensate.” Arching one silky black brow, he held up the carafe. “I’m happy to share.”

  “A lady never partakes of strong drink,” she recited, one of the few lessons that had actually stuck with her. She cast the carafe a pointed glance. “And English gentlemen don’t imbibe strong drink in front of ladies, either.”

  To her annoyance, he still poured himself a glass, then turned to eye her speculatively as he sipped from it. “What makes you think I’m a gentleman?”

  Certainly not his looks. With his thumb thrust inside his waistband and his hand brushing the pistol tucked there, she could easily mistake him for one of the ruthless sultans so popular as villains on the stage.

  Except that his surtout and perfectly tailored wool suit, not to mention his confident bearing, were pure English aristocracy. Even his speech was precise and cultured as any lord’s, with only a hint of a foreign accent. And if he wasn’t a gentleman, why was he trying so hard to keep her from traveling alone?

  Perhaps if she appealed to the gentleman in him, she could convince him to let her go. There was still time.

  She met his gaze squarely. “Louisa told me all about you.”

  “Ah, yes, my cousin’s wife, your ‘good friend.’ What exactly did she say?”

  “That her husband regarded you highly when you served as his aide-de-camp. That’s why he worked so hard to have your rightful inheritance and title given to you after all this time. She said you were educated in one of the best schools in Calcutta and raised a gentleman, that you fought valiantly for England during the Battle of Kirkee despite—”

  “My Indian blood,” he broke in coldly.

  “I was going to say, ‘the hard loss of your wife before the battle,’ but clearly you know my mind better than I.”

  His gaze softened a fraction. “Touché.”

  “And as I understand it, your blood is only half-Indian.”

  “That certainly hasn’t prevented my countrymen—or you, for that matter—from regarding my dusky features with suspicion,” he said with a hint of bitterness.

  “It’s not your dusky features I regard with suspicion,” she said dryly. “It’s that loaded pistol shoved in your trousers.”

  He blinked, then laughed. “Clever girl.” He lifted his glass in a toast, but didn’t take the hint and remove the pistol as she’d hoped. Instead, he took another sip of brandy before pacing closer. “How odd that I never met you in London. God knows I met any number of Louisa’s other ‘good friends.’ ”

  “I’ve been in mourning for my father the past few months,” Eliza explained. “He died when his landau lost a wheel and he was thrown into a—” She blinked hard, forcing back tears before going on. “Into a stone wall. It broke his neck.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured.
r />   “Thank you.” She swallowed her sobs. She couldn’t dwell on Papa right now. “Anyway, that’s why you didn’t see me at Louisa’s. I’ve been rather reclusive.”

  “Until tonight.” He swirled the brandy in his glass. “Does your father’s death have something to do with why you’re running away?”

  He was fishing for information again. “You could say that.”

  “Come now, Miss—Damn it, I still don’t even know your name.”

  “Eliza,” she offered. “Just . . . Eliza.”

  “And where do you live, Just Eliza?”

  A small smile touched her lips. “In Hampstead Heath.”

  “Very amusing. Even I know that Hampstead is near London.”

  “And that’s where my home is. Or used to be, anyway.”

  “Where’s your home now?” The clipped military command reminded her that not only had he once been a soldier, he was also the son of a soldier.

  She weighed her choices. She could continue to tell him nothing, hoping he really had been bluffing about the strip-her-clothes-off thing.

  But refusing to answer wasn’t getting her anywhere. So perhaps if she told him everything, he might recognize her desperate situation and be willing to lend her a horse or drive her to Honiton. It was rapidly getting to the point where she’d never make it in time, otherwise.

  Then again, he might just decide to return her to Uncle Silas. And then she’d never get another chance to escape.

  Very well, she’d tell him only enough to convince him to help her. She’d leave out the part that might ruin her plan for escape. “My home is yet to be determined, actually. This is my first day in this area, as well. My . . . er . . . guardian and I only arrived here this evening.”

  “And what is his name?”

  “I can’t tell you.” When frustration scored his features, she added, “But only because I can’t go back to him, and if I tell you who he is, you’ll try to make me.”

  He muttered an oath under his breath. “Eliza, it’s late, it’s cold, and I’m in no mood for playing games.”

  “Nor am I. But my guardian is determined to marry me off to a stranger. He means to force me into it, whether I want it or not.”

  Casting her a skeptical glance, he sipped more brandy. “I thought this was enlightened England, where no one is forced to marry against their will.”

  “I thought so, too,” she retorted. “But that was before my new guardian left me at my school after the funeral, while he apparently went off to arrange some marriage without my knowledge or permission.”

  Her uncle’s betrayal still made her reel. The Uncle Silas she remembered from childhood visits had been amiable and affectionate, a country squire held in high regard by the townspeople of nearby Brookmoor. Not the drunken bully he’d become.

  “The day before yesterday, he came to fetch me for the holidays,” she went on. “But when we arrived in Brookmoor, he informed me that I couldn’t have my Season in London next spring after all. Instead I was to marry some friend of his.”

  Worse yet, the marriage was to occur as soon as they arrived in Cornwall. Uncle Silas had said he intended to marry her to his friend no matter what, and would use any means—even force—to make sure she complied. He knew she had no recourse, with all her friends being in London.

  “So you ran away,” the earl said.

  She thrust out her chin. “Yes. I didn’t see any way around it.”

  He swore under his breath. “No, you thought it better to steal a horse and hie off to London alone in that outrageous costume. How about simply informing your guardian that you won’t marry his choice?”

  “I tried that. He slapped me.”

  “Slapped you!” Anger flared in his dark eyes, and his hand paused in midair as he was lifting his glass to his lips.

  “Yes. He was drinking. Heavily.” She touched a hand to her cheek, still mortified to remember it. No one had ever struck her, not her father nor any teacher or tutor. That a beloved uncle could do it—“And I fear what else he might be capable of if I persist in refusing to marry his friend.”

  A muscle ticked in the earl’s jaw as he glanced from her to the brandy, then set his glass down. “What was your father thinking to give such a man charge of your life?”

  She sighed. “I gather that my guardian’s drinking has only become a problem in recent years. I’m sure Papa would never have appointed him if he’d realized that the man had become a sot.”

  But Papa’s will had been drawn up before Aunt Nancy had followed Mama, her older sister, to the grave two years ago. Since then, Uncle Silas had refused to visit, saying that he still grieved too much.

  Now she wondered if he’d had other reasons for refusing. When they’d arrived at Uncle’s manor this evening, her aunt’s once elegant parlor had been littered with bottles, and a horrible stench had pervaded every hall.

  “So you see, I can’t go back there.”

  “Then we’ll take you to the local magistrate. He’ll make sure that your guardian does his duty.”

  An alarm seized her that she struggled to hide. “You can’t do that.”

  He eyed her closely. “Why not?”

  Because my guardian is the local magistrate. “You just can’t.” When the earl raised an eyebrow, she added hastily, “The magistrate is sure to be on my guardian’s side, so if you take me to him I’ll be worse off.” She met his gaze squarely, praying her answer would be enough to convince him to help her.

  Apparently it wasn’t, for he now regarded her with clear suspicion. “I see that my house isn’t the only gothic thing around here.”

  She caught her breath. Good Lord, had he somehow guessed her fanciful speculations about him as a gothic hero? “I-I can’t imagine what you mean,” she said, unable to suppress a blush.

  That only seemed to rouse his suspicions further, for his expression grew positively menacing. “I may be foreign, Eliza, but I do read books and attend the theater. I know all about the present passion for gothic literature that you young ladies pursue. So I recognize a trumped-up tale when I hear one. The drunken guardian. The late, lamented father. The forced marriage.”

  Her blood stilled in her veins. She hadn’t realized until he said it that she’d begun living in a gothic play. Oh, how the other girls would laugh! They’d always teased her about her enjoyment of the absurd plots and excessive characters.

  And they were right—it was absurd, all of it. Absurd that Papa had died in such an awful manner. Absurd that Uncle Silas had become a sot and was up to some wild scheme to marry her off to his friend.

  Absurd that Lord Monteith, whom she’d begun to think might actually be reasonable, had returned to playing the arrogant and slightly scary gothic hero. Minus the wicked mustache and cape.

  Well, she’d had enough of the play for tonight. She wasn’t going to sit here quarreling while the minutes ticked by, bringing her ever closer to a marriage she didn’t want. “So you don’t believe me,” she said. “Fine. Think whatever you want. Because it’s not going to change anything. I, sir, am leaving.”

  Three

  Muttering a curse, Colin moved to block Eliza’s march to the door. “I can’t let you do that.”

  He was already furious with himself for listening to the spoiled chit’s nonsense about a drunken guardian. How many of his wife’s exaggerated complaints had he acted upon before he realized she’d say anything to get her way?

  “You said you wouldn’t let me leave until I told you everything,” she protested, looking every bit the outraged gothic heroine. “So I did. It’s not my fault you refuse to believe it.”

  “Nor mine that your tale left out so much,” he countered. “The name of your guardian and where he lives. Even details about your dastardly suitor, like who he is and why you object to the match.”

  “I object to the match because he’s a stranger to me! And that’s why I can’t tell you who he is. Why would I lie about it, anyway?”

  “Because you think ex
aggerating your situation will enable you to talk me into helping you run away.”

  She looked genuinely appalled. “I would never—”

  “If your guardian is shirking his duties, you should be happy to speak to the magistrate. Yet you refuse. So I know you’re hiding something.”

  A guilty flush touched her cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “There’s another fellow involved, isn’t there? Your guardian whisked you away from the city to keep you from marrying a penniless nitwit who’s claims he loves you for yourself—”

  “Absolutely not,” she said with a sniff. “Mrs. Harris would skin me alive if I married a penniless nitwit after all her lessons.”

  Mrs. Harris. Where had he heard that name? Ah, yes. “So you’re one of her little heiresses. From her School for Ladies.”

  “Yes.” She eyed him warily. “What of it?”

  “That makes your tale even more unbelievable. Why the blazes would your guardian marry you to a stranger when you could have your pick of suitors?”

  “I said the same thing to him! But he claims I don’t even have enough money for a Season, much less my dowry—which is ridiculous, because I know Papa left me adequately provided for.”

  “So that’s what this is all about. You’re angry that he isn’t giving you a Season.”

  “No! That merely showed me that something is dreadfully wrong.” She cast him a pleading glance. “And there was another odd thing—my guardian told me that after seeing me in the park, his friend was smitten.”

  “And that insulted you?” he said, all at sea.

  “Blast it, no!” She looked exasperated. “Don’t you understand? My guardian never introduced me to this man. So if the suitor had been in town, why didn’t my guardian bring him to meet me?” Her eyes flashed. “I’ll tell you why. Because he’s some . . . horrible, decrepit fellow who has made a dastardly arrangement that my guardian refuses to reveal.”

  “And this is the tale you plan to tell your friends in London to gain their help. Well, perhaps your friends would indulge your whim, but I’m not fool enough to do so.”