Page 44 of His Wicked Charm

“I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting that particular skill.” He smiled and stood up, reaching a hand down to her.

Lilah took his hand. He held it too long, but she didn’t mind. As they strolled down the corridor to her door, she said, “I apologize, too. I said a number of things I used to believe about you, but I don’t really think them any longer. You’re inordinately irritating, but...” She raised her eyes to his as they stopped outside her bedroom door. “You have a good heart and a good mind. And I don’t dislike you either.”

Con laughed. “I’ll take that as high praise from you.” He released her hand, stepping back. “Good night. Sleep well.”

“Con...” Lilah said as he started away, and he turned back, his eyebrows raised in question. “Today on the train...when you kissed me? I enjoyed it, too.”

Lilah turned and slipped inside her bedroom.

* * *

WELL, THAT CERTAINLY destroyed any chance he had of going to sleep quickly.

He had kissed Lilah before and thoroughly enjoyed it. But it was one thing to steal a few kisses, to tease her into blushing and taste the sweetness of her mouth. This morning’s kisses had been something else altogether. Passion had roared up in him so hard and fast, so hungry, that for a few minutes, he had been oblivious to the world.

Knowing that Lilah enjoyed it, having felt her flame up in ardor, absolutely incandescent...well, that changed everything. Before it had been flirtation and fun. This was dangerous. This was the sort of hunger that turned a man blind and stupid, that sent him rushing toward something he knew was absolutely wrong.

Everything inside him thrummed with the desire to follow his instincts. But all the complications and barriers that made wooing Lilah a dangerous proposition were still there. If she were anyone else...but she was not. However rash Lilah might think him, this was one time when he had to be careful. It was no longer only he who might suffer. There was his brother. Sabrina. Lilah herself.

He took off his jacket and cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat, then poured a glass of whiskey from the decanter Vesta had thoughtfully provided. Dropping into the chair, he considered the puzzle of Lilah Holcutt. Con had never been able to resist a puzzle.

How the devil could the practical, sensible, self-admittedly unimaginative Lilah have sprung from this fantastical home? It was too bad this wasn’t the place they must search. It was bound to have secret staircases and hidden rooms. Priest holes. Doors behind tapestries, bookshelves that swung out. Even dungeons—after all, Lilah said it was built on top of an ancient castle.

Come to think of it, perhaps Lilah wasn’t all that different from her home. She had the same quality of secrecy, of things hidden beneath the surface. He had seen glimpses of the personality beneath her polite mask—in her laughter, in the way she joined in his hunt for the kidnappers. Most of all, in the heat and hunger of her kiss. The longer he knew her and the closer he came to her, the more he discovered that he didn’t really know her at all.

Why did she never visit this house? Yes, it was strange, which would not appeal to Lilah, but it was her childhood home, which usually made a person fond of a place. Then there was the way she had acted with her aunt. Vesta had seemed overjoyed to see Lilah, but Lilah had been distant.

He remembered the sight of her standing stiff in Vesta’s arms, enduring her embrace, not welcoming it. Vesta was the sort of flamboyant character who would discomfit Lilah. But there had been more there than embarrassment. Not exactly dislike, but something...hard.

And why had Lilah, at the age of twelve, gone to live with her other aunt in London? Lilah had said it was because her father felt she needed a woman’s guidance. But why, when she already had an aunt living with her?

He wondered how Lilah had felt, what she thought about being sent away. She seemed fond of her Aunt Helena, but still, it must have been painful. Lilah said little about her father. Indeed, she rarely talked about her family or childhood at all. Wasn’t that a trifle strange in itself?

Con had given her half a dozen stories about his family and childhood on that long ride in pursuit of the kidnappers. Lilah had told him nothing. The only reason he’d learned anything about her father was because he’d questioned her about the key.

Lilah hadn’t wanted him to see her house; he’d seen the mortification on her face. He was certain it was the reason for her reluctance to invite him. That was a relief, of course, but now he had to wonder why it embarrassed her so.

Barrow House was peculiar, obviously, but he couldn’t imagine why she would think a Moreland would object to oddity. Least of all him. But perhaps it was the opposite—that she feared he would be attracted to it, that it would rouse his curiosity. Or that he would see something in Lilah, too, some aspect she didn’t want revealed.

That was an intriguing thought, and he spent the rest of his drink on it. After that he went to bed. He fell asleep thinking of Lilah.

He wasn’t sure what awakened him, but his eyes popped open and he lay for a moment, listening. There was nothing but silence. Only the creaks and noises of an unfamiliar house. But he was wide-awake now. With a sigh, he swung out of bed and went to the dresser to open his pocket watch. Two o’clock.

Going to the window, he pushed aside the drapes and gazed out at the night. The moon was almost full, palely lighting the landscape below him. He could make out the dark shapes of trees and shrubbery, the broad pathway leading into the center of the garden.

A white figure moved below him. His heart gave a jump, then he smiled at himself. It was a real person, no phantom, just a woman in a white nightgown. He leaned closer to the glass. Why was a woman walking in the garden in the middle of the night?

It was Lilah. She was too far away and the light too faint to see her clearly, but he recognized that fall of hair even in the fainter light from the moon. What the devil was Lilah doing outside at two o’clock in the morning? And dressed only in her nightgown?

Stunned, he watched her move along the path, then turn left and walk out of sight into the shadows and trees. She was not hurrying, but neither was it the ambling, aimless walk of a person taking a stroll. She had a destination. But what? Why? Even on a warm summer night, what would make the very proper Lilah leave her bedroom wearing only a simple shift?

His first thought, his only thought, was that she was meeting someone. Meeting a man—one she knew quite well if she was wearing nothing but a nightgown. Something hot and acidic bloomed in his chest, such an unfamiliar feeling that it took a moment to recognize it as jealousy.

Con pulled out his shirt and began to dress, then stopped. What was he doing? Was he actually going to follow her? And what did he intend to do if he found her in the embrace of a lover? He had no claim on Lilah.

He turned back to the window, torn. It wasn’t jealousy, just his usual insatiable need to know. He had no right to be jealous, no hold on Lilah. A few kisses, no matter how torrid, did not make a relationship. Oh, the devil. Of course he was jealous.

At that moment, she walked back into view. He let out a breath, the knot in his chest easing. Thank goodness he hadn’t made an idiot of himself by running out after her. But why had she sneaked out of the house at this hour, only to stay no more than five minutes?