Page 41 of His Wicked Charm

The last few months, being around him more, she had begun to wonder if what she had taken as impulsivity was actually an ability to think and act quickly. If one looked at his flirtations in a different way, it was good of him not to pursue anyone so intensely that it raised expectations or caused gossip. Of course, why he felt the need to flirt with every woman alive was a mystery—and rather irritating, as well—but it didn’t rise to the level of wickedness. He was quite loyal, at least to certain people.

She had just been so angry at her aunt for not only saddling her with Cuddington, but also dawdling so much Lilah had almost been late to the station. Then Con had kept goading her until finally she exploded. She wished she could have her words back, but they were irretrievable. He would remember them no matter how much she might try to explain or apologize—and really, apologizing to Con was not something she looked forward to. She would do it of course, because that was polite, but Con would make it difficult.

It was foolish to be so downcast. It wasn’t as if Con had liked her before her angry, impulsive statement. He found her staid, stuffy and dull. He seized any opportunity to make light of her, always prodding and poking. And, whatever he said, he had avoided her the entire time Lilah had stayed at Broughton House when they’d helped Alex and Sabrina escape.

But why had he said that at the end? After telling her what a nuisance she was, he’d admitted he’d wanted her with him. He didn’t mean that—but it had shot out of him as if he couldn’t keep from saying it. As if he hadn’t wanted to feel it.

Then he had pulled her into his embrace and kissed her until she couldn’t think straight—which, admittedly, had not taken long. If she couldn’t deny her attraction to Con, neither could he deny his desire for her. She remembered the heat in his eyes, the hunger with which he’d kissed her, his hard body pressing her against the door.

If Cuddington hadn’t come in, there was no knowing what might have happened. Lilah supposed that was a good reason to have the woman along, but she couldn’t summon up any gratitude. She wanted to know what Con would have said. What he would have done.

Any chance of finding out was gone now. Con was deep in gloomy thoughts, not even speaking to her. There was little chance he would kiss her again. Which, of course, was all to the good. She shouldn’t ache for a repetition of the incident. It went so far beyond inappropriate that she scarcely knew what to call it. Vulgar? Licentious? Scandalous?

What if she was like Aunt Vesta? That was a worrisome thought. No. She wasn’t. Even if she did have these improper feelings, Lilah could control them. Other people must have felt this way and not given in to it. So could she. The current awkwardness between her and Con would help her to do so. She should be glad of it. Really.

Lilah leaned her head against the cushioned back and closed her eyes. At least she could avoid the heavy silence by pretending to sleep. To her surprise, her pretense turned to reality, but she awakened when the train stopped. She glanced around, disoriented. “What—are we to Bath already?”

“No.” Con shook his head. “Just a stop to pick up passengers.” He pulled out his watch and opened it. “Still some distance from it, if their schedule is correct.”

“I see.” She wondered if she’d disarranged any of her hair as she was sleeping. She tugged at the hem of her jacket. At least Con was talking to her. “The weather has been nice.”

This was precisely the sort of polite social chitchat Con abhorred, but what else could she do under Cuddington’s basilisk gaze? She wondered if the woman really did have instructions from her aunt to report Lilah’s behavior. Con made a noncommittal noise, but apparently he decided to make an effort as well, for a moment later he said, “What is your home like? Barrow House, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She wished he had chosen something else to talk about. “Well, um...” She picked an invisible bit of lint from her skirt. “It’s in the Levels. Do you know anything about them?”

“Bogs? They were drained, weren’t they, as the Fens were?”

“Yes. It’s all farms now where there used to be marshes. The land’s flat and crossed with rhynes—that’s what they call the canals.”

“But what about your home itself? What is it like?”

Why did he insist on talking about Barrow House? “It’s, um, a little hard to describe.” That was putting it mildly. “It was built during the Tudor era. Actually, it was erected on the foundation of an old castle. It sits on one of the few elevated places in the Levels. You can see Glastonbury Tor from our land—if it isn’t too foggy. We’re not too far from Wells. Wells is quite lovely.” She launched into a description of the history of both the town and the cathedral.

Apparently the flood of words ended Con’s interest in the subject of her house, and he settled back into silence, though now he studied her rather than the view out the window. Lilah shifted uncomfortably and wondered what he was thinking.

It was a relief to reach Bath, where they had to change trains. Only one trip a day was scheduled for the short spur to Wells, which meant a two-hour wait, and by the time they reached Wells, it was late afternoon. She was pleased that the only vehicle they could hire was a one-horse trap that seated only two people, leaving the maid to ride in the hired cart with the luggage.

Glad as she was to be free of Cuddington’s gloomy presence, the knot in Lilah’s chest grew with every minute as they drew closer to her home. It was all dearly, hauntingly familiar. Twilight fog crept in as they drove, gathering above the rhynes and obscuring the road beneath their wheels. Willow trees planted in rows beside the numerous waterways rose above the mist, their drooping branches stirring in the evening air.

The land rose gradually, and the low-lying fog became patches of mist drifting across the ground. They turned onto the drive leading to the house, and the ache in Lilah’s chest swelled. There it was: Barrow House, looming before them in all its hulking, shopworn grandiosity, a testimony to the conceit of successive generations of Holcutts.

The house had started as a standard Tudor design in the shape of an H, but the family extended one leg of the H. A later Holcutt had added on another wing perpendicular to the extension, so that now the mansion was a rectangle with a chunk missing in the center of one side, looking more like a blocky backward C. It was as if three separate houses had been awkwardly mashed together.

All the wings faced inward to the hidden central courtyard, so that from whatever direction one came, the visitor was presented with the rear of the house, giving it a closed, secretive look. It was erected on a foundation of stone, in a flamboyantly Tudor style, the first two sections built of plaster and black wood beams forming geometric designs. The last wing was half-timbered, the lower section dark stone and the upper part decorated with black wooden shutters, carvings and window tracery, heightening the sinister appearance of the place.

Tudor arches, Tudor roses, trefoils and quatrefoils were everywhere, and slender ornamental brick chimneys forested the roofs. Oriel windows jutted out here and there, dozens of gables faced in all directions, and it was difficult to see how any more glass windows could have been crammed into the walls.

The gap between the top and bottom of the C opened to the inner courtyard. On the far side of that gap, the original wing jettied, each floor sticking out beyond the one below it. Like many Tudor buildings, it had come to warp and sag under the weight of the third floor, giving it a vaguely drunken appearance. An incongruous round stone tower bulged from its side.

In the bright sun of day, it was a decidedly peculiar house, but now, with dusk falling and fog wafting about, it was eerie, as well. Con let out an exclamation, and Lilah glanced warily at him. He was staring raptly at Barrow House, his hands loose on the reins.

“This is where you grew up?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Amazing.” He looked at her speculatively.

Lilah felt her cheeks flush, and she turned her head away, chagrined.