His Lady Fair. Margo Maguire

to leave her for the time being. It had been nigh on impossible to turn away from those seductive curves that she’d barely managed to hide behind the russet gown.

      Enough had been left uncovered to whet his appetite.

      Nicholas took a gulp of mulled wine. ’Twas no matter now. He’d made his decision and he would let it stand. He would not intrude upon Lady Maria tonight. Better to let her rest her ankle overnight and let it heal some before he seduced her. Besides wanting her willing, he’d also like her able.

      Harry, Lord Lofton, sat down next to Nicholas and reached for one of the pitchers of ale on the table. He poured himself a cup.

      “Not interested in dice tonight, Kirkham?” Nick’s guest asked with a sly gleam in his eye.

      “I rather prefer the minstrels’ songs at the moment,” he replied lazily. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs to their full length, crossing his ankles indolently atop the table.

      “You wouldn’t be thinking of visiting a mysterious lady abovestairs, would you now?”

      Nick raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Most assuredly, the thought had crossed his mind repeatedly, though he was working to dissuade himself from that notion. He’d like nothing better than to see her in that russet gown…and then see her out of it again.

      “What do you hear of Carrington these days?” Nicholas asked, changing the subject. The Earl of Carrington was a close friend of the Duke of Sterlyng, and news of him could very well shed light on Sterlyng’s activities.

      “Gone to the Continent,” Harry replied. “Bexhill mentioned that Carrington’s taken ’is wife and daughters to Italy for a month or two.”

      Nicholas preferred never to take the word of the Earl of Bexhill, a pompous London sot, and had difficulty believing it now. Despite rumors to the contrary, Nick knew that Carrington was not on close terms with his wife, who usually remained at their country estate while the earl lived in London. The man’s departure with his family bore closer scrutiny, regardless of what that fool Bexhill might have said.

      “What’s in Italy?” Nicholas asked, taking another sip of wine. He made it appear quite the generous gulp.

      “The weather,” Harry replied. “Bexhill said that Carrington’s countess suffers from…aah, but you’ve diverted me from a more interesting topic.” Harry grinned wickedly. “The lady you’ve stashed in your tower.”

      “The woman is not your concern.”

      “Ah, but Kirkham,” Harry cajoled, “if you’re not interested, then what say you let me—”

      Nicholas swung his feet down from the table. “The lady is under my protection,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “And as long as she remains so, I—”

      “Want her for yourself, s’that it?” Harry asked drunkenly.

      “Do you not see another female here to interest you?” Nicholas asked, reining in his temper. Lofton had to be the most thick-skulled of all the wastrels known to Nick, but he often had access to information that Nicholas might otherwise miss. “The fairest and most willing young maids in all of Staffordshire are under Kirkham’s roof tonight.”

      “Ah, but the one you shroud in mystery is not—”

      “Mystery?” Nicholas scoffed.

      “You never allowed any of us to see her, did you?”

      “Certainly not,” Nick said indignantly. “Throw an innocent maiden to the wolves? I think not.”

      Hal laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve sprouted a conscience, Kirkham. I say she’s fair game.”

      “But then, you’re an ass, Lofton.”

      Hal barked out another laugh and furrowed his brow as he looked at his host speculatively. “That I am, Kirkham,” he said. “That I am.”

      Chapter Six

      Ria awoke chilled.

      She sat up in her bed, disoriented for a moment in the dark chamber. Then she remembered where she was.

      The thin gown she wore was little use against the cold, and Ria now wished she’d found something more substantial to wear to bed. Instead, she’d been enamored of a lovely white silk chemise with tiny sleeves and delicate embroidery along the neckline. There was no drawstring at the neck to close it, and it gaped, slipping off one shoulder, adding to her chill. Ria pulled it up, only to have the other side slide down.

      The castle was quiet now, without the sounds of revelry that had accompanied her drifting off to sleep. In fact, ’twas surprising she’d been able to sleep at all, with all the voices and music and laughter floating up to her from the hall.

      The draught given her by one of the maids must have aided her in falling asleep, Ria thought as she swung her legs out of the bed. She stepped down gingerly and half hopped to the hearth, taking care not to put weight on her injured ankle.

      Ria would have made it but for the low stool standing in her path. Invisible in the dark, it tripped her up as she neared the fire. She fell hard, letting out a yelp and pulling a chair down with her.

      She was not seriously injured, but couldn’t help groaning as she sat up. She must have roused everyone in the castle with all the clatter.

      Just as she feared, there was a sudden spate of voices outside her door. Embarrassed to have made such a disturbance, Ria started to pull herself up just as the door opened.

      “Return to your beds,” Lord Kirkham said to those who had gathered outside Ria’s chamber. His back was to her, but she sighed, knowing she would soon have to face him in all her clumsy splendor. When he turned, she saw that he carried a lamp.

      And he was only partially dressed.

      She clambered awkwardly to her feet as he closed the door behind him. On the tip of Ria’s tongue was an apology for the disturbance she’d caused, but she suddenly remembered who she was pretending to be. A woman of noble birth. A lady who would not think twice about rousing an entire household if there was something she needed.

      Nor would she quake at the sight of a half-dressed man coming to her aid. She was the daughter of a duchess, after all. The sight of a brawny chest with an intriguing mat of dark hair sprinkled across it meant naught to her. Nor was she particularly moved by the sight of his powerful legs, clad in hose and braes that were scandalously exposed by his lack of tunic.

      Not at all.

      She wiped her clammy hands on her gown and stood up, determined to play the noblewoman.

      “Have a care, Lady Maria,” Kirkham said as he approached her. “Else you’ll fall again. Are you hurt?”

      “Nay, my lord,” Ria replied lightly. “Only my pride.”

      “Mmm,” he said, setting the lamp on a low table near the bed. “Your pride is likely to be sporting a few new bruises on the morrow.”

      Ria bristled at the unmistakable sound of humor in his voice. After all, it was at her expense, and she did not appreciate bearing the brunt of his ridicule.

      “Let me help you.”

      Before she could react, he lifted her in his muscular arms and carried her away from the hearth.

      Kirkham’s scent pervaded her senses. He did not smell of strong drink. Nay, his scent was warm and masculine, and altogether too appealing. Alluring, somehow. Ria had never before experienced the kind of longing he aroused with a mere touch, and she remembered thinking him a dangerous man.

      This was the danger.

      The candle in the lamp flickered, and shadows played over Kirkham’s face. Ria could not read the expressions crossing his visage, but his eyes held a dark intensity as he carried her to the bed.

      Instead