Whirlwind Affair

'Impossible.' He squeezed her hands and stepped closer to her. 'And why would you want to?'

'Why? How can you even ask?' There was no disguising the anguish sneaking into her voice. 'To involve myself with another man…' Her words trailed off, and a shudder ran through her.

'But I am nothing like David.' A muscle jerked in his jaw and his eyes narrowed. 'But you think I am. You've told me so. Twice. And I believed you were paying me a tremendous compliment.' An incredulous sound burst from his lips, and he released her hands, stepping back from her with a half-baffled, half- angry expression. 'May I ask exactly what I've done to give you any reason to think so badly of me?'

'I did not mean that I believed you to be a criminal-'

'Very kind, I'm sure,' he murmured dryly.

'But you do remind me of him in other ways. Ways that are difficult to describe.'

'We resemble each other?'

'Physically, no. David was very handsome.'

'Ah. I see. Well, that splat you just heard was my manly ego hitting the floor.'

Embarrassment flooded her. 'I did not mean to imply… what I meant was… oh, botheration.' Annoyance shoved her embarrassment aside. 'The truth of the matter is that while David was very handsome, you are even more so. But it's your manner that is just like him. You possess the same carefree, fun- loving, never-take-anything-seriously personality.'

'I'm afraid I must beg to differ. There are a number of things I take very seriously.'

'Perhaps. But it matters not. I refuse to risk myself again. To any degree. For any man. Clearly no one has ever betrayed your trust.'

'Not in the way yours was betrayed, no.'

'Then you cannot possibly understand the humiliation and despair.'

Something flashed in his eyes. 'I know despair,' he said quietly. 'But what either of us has experienced in the past has no bearing on this… attraction we feel for each other. I want to show you something.' Reaching into his cream brocade waistcoat, he withdrew a piece of vellum, which he carefully unfolded and handed to her.

Allie looked down and stilled. It was a sketch. Of her.

' Elizabeth gave this to me,' he said, 'so I would recognize you at the pier. I believe she sent you one of me for the same reason.'

'Yes.' And I've looked at it every day.

'I've looked at that sketch every day, Allie,' he said softly.

Her gaze snapped back up to his. Before she could react to his words, which so eerily mirrored her own thoughts, he went on, 'I've been enchanted by that woman from the moment I saw her.'

Allie stared at the laughing young woman in the sketch, and a lump settled in her throat. Handing him back the drawing, she said, 'She doesn't exist anymore.'

'Yes, she does. She's just hiding.' He reached out and trailed a single fingertip down her cheek. 'We simply need to coax her to come out and play.'

A confusing mixture of fear and longing shook her. 'Why would you want to?'

'Because I want to know her. I think I'd like her… Indeed, I already do. And I think she'd like me.'

God help her, she already does. Far too much.

He refolded the sketch, then slipped it back into his pocket. 'You are welcome to try to ignore your feelings, resist them, if you like, but I can promise you won't be able to. Not for long.'

The sheer arrogance of his statement-combined with the fact that she feared he was correct-irked her. A pique of pride lifted her brows. 'How can you be so certain?'

'Because unlike you, I'm not afraid of how our kiss made me feel. Because I cannot even imagine not exploring those feelings further. Because you think I'm handsome, and I think you're absolutely beautiful. And because, if it's the last thing I ever do, I will make you realize that I am nothing like David.' He stepped toward her until they almost, but not quite, touched. Then he leaned down to whisper directly in her ear, his warm breath tickling across her sensitive skin, 'You won't be able to ignore what's between us, Allie, because I won't let you. And you'll never again doubt that I can be a very serious man.'

*********

Closing his bedchamber door behind him,-Robert leaned back against the oak panel and drew in a much-needed deep breath. Her luscious taste lingered on his tongue, and the memory of her flowery scent teased his senses. God help him, he wanted her. And was determined to have her.

But her words drifted back to him. I did not mean that I believed you to be a criminal…

He squeezed his eyes shut against the guilt battering him. What would she say, how would she react, if she knew about his own criminal past? Images of the fire, the damage he'd caused, of Nate, all collided in his mind, and he dragged his hands down his face. He'd denied he was anything like her thieving late husband, and he wasn't-but would she believe that if she knew about his darkest hour?

The years rolled away, and he vividly recalled that night. Visiting a pub on the outskirts of London. His surprise at seeing Cyril Owens, the blacksmith from the village near Bradford Hall. Cyril drunkenly bragging to a group of sailors about a girl he'd recently had, and how he'd used his own brand of charm to 'convince' her. Filled with disgust, Robert had turned away. But then Cyril had said her name. Hannah.

He'd realized with horror whom Cyril meant. Hannah Morehouse, Nate's daughter. Nate Morehouse was more than just of one of Bradford Hall's longtime grooms-more than just a servant. Robert admired and respected the man; he considered him a friend. He recalled Nate mentioning how concerned he was about Hannah, how withdrawn and quiet she'd become over the past several weeks. And now Robert knew why.

The urge to wrap his hands around Owens' neck was strong, but he managed to control the impulse. There were better ways to see justice served. So he'd gone to Nate. Told him what he'd overheard. He'd then assured the stricken man that he would handle the situation, in his own way, vowing that justice would be done. Dear God, he'd been such a young, impetuous fool. All my fault…

He dragged his hands through his hair and blew out a long breath. His stomach clenched as he imagined Allie's reaction to the story, given her disastrous history with David.

It was not a chance he was willing to take.

Not yet. Damn it, he wished he could tell her the truth. Wished he wasn't bound by his promise. He couldn't avoid forever telling her the version of the story everyone knew, but surely he could put it off a while longer.

Yes, surely there was no harm in waiting a while longer.

Chapter 12

Redfern limped up the cobbled walkway leading to the earl's house, cursing his rotten luck. Blast that screamin' banshee of a maid. If it weren't for her, he'd have the bloody box. And he wouldn't be sportin' a sore ankle from leapin' over the damn balcony rail. Bad enough he'd landed with a bone-jarrin' thud, turnin' his ankle, but he landed with that bone-jarrin' thud right in some sort of thorny bush. Now his ankle throbbed, his best breeches and jacket were torn all up, and his arse hurt like hell. Were there any bones in a man's arse? 'Cause if there were, he knew he'd broken the bastards. All 'cause of that screamin' wench. Typical woman. Never knew when to shut up. Maybe when he'd washed his hands of the nightmare this job had become, he'd pay that screamin' wench a little private visit.

But for now, the earl were not going to be pleased he'd failed to get the box. Why the devil would he want the piece of junk? He'd considered avoidin' the earl, not reportin' in until he had the goods, but decided it were better to let Lord Shelbourne know he were on the job and huntin' for that box. Otherwise Shelbourne might get it into his head to kill first, ask questions afterward. I'll get the box tomorrow. Without fail.

He knocked on the big double doors. Shelbourne's uppity butler Willis opened the door. Damn, Redfern hated the way that pompous bloke looked at him-down his long, skinny nose as if he were his bloody majesty and Redfern were a piece of flotsam on his shoe. Devil take it, the man somehow seemed to sniff