Regency Affairs Part 2: Books 7-12 Of 12. Ann Lethbridge

go there. She is cleverer than you think. Alec dragged his eyes away and wished the rest of his body could be as effectively controlled.

      Rosalie, too, was in turmoil, because Alec looked different. Stunningly different. He’d changed into formal attire—a black tailcoat that fitted his broad shoulders to perfection, cream skintight kerseymere breeches that clung rather too well to his strong thighs, and highly-polished Hessian boots. Sudden heat surged through her insides. Although his jaw was starting to look darkly unshaven and his thick black hair was rumpled and ungroomed, he looked quite heartbreakingly handsome.

      A ripple of warning, of danger, was squeezing at her chest.

      She gazed round, rather wildly looking for something to fill her thoughts other than him. ‘Alec,’ she said, ‘this is not right. These clothes. The food. We are stealing.’

      Alec regarded her with speculative dark eyes. ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘The food was an oversight; we have every right to help ourselves. And my clothes are my own.’

      ‘Your—’

      ‘Indeed. After all, this is the house I grew up in.’

      Her heart had juddered completely to a halt.

      ‘I was trying to tell you earlier,’ he went on. ‘But you didn’t believe me, did you?’

      ‘I thought, perhaps …’

      ‘You thought, perhaps, that I was some impoverished relative, kept hidden below stairs when the ton came to call?’

      She flushed. Alec could tell those were her exact suspicions.

      And yet in all other ways this woman was again confounding all his expectations. Damn it all, most females would exclaim avidly over this wonderful house and any hint of a connection to such wealth. Would cry out in delight over the clothes and dress themselves, if offered the chance, in the most showy, the most expensive. Especially a woman who’d worked at the Temple of Beauty.

      Instead, she’d chosen the simplest gown there was, which showed off her slender yet gorgeous figure to absolute perfection. She was either utterly naïve or she was playing him at his own game very cleverly.

      This whole visit was intended to test her—yet it was he who was being wrong-footed at every turn.

      Sighing inwardly at the mystery that was Rosalie Rowland, he drew out a chair for her. ‘Yes, I grew up here,’ he said softly. ‘My father—who is away at present—is a peer of the realm—an earl, no less. And as for me—I, Mrs Rowland, am his younger son.’

Chapter Fourteen

      Oh, no. Why hadn’t she guessed? The way he carried himself. The way he spoke. His natural air of authority. His father—an earl … She dragged in a ragged breath. ‘I see. And for what reason, Captain Stewart, did you decide it wasn’t worth telling me this earlier?’

      ‘I suppose I never considered it important.’ Alec pulled out a chair for her, his steady eyes never leaving her face. ‘And anyway, I thought we were both being selective about the truth.’

      Yes. She made a tiny gesture of despair and sat down slowly. Yes, indeed. ‘But how can you turn your back on all this, to live in—?’

      ‘A wreck like Two Crows Castle?’ He pulled up a chair for himself at the table, next to her. ‘Simple—my father and I are not on the best of terms.’ His tone was dismissive. ‘And before your eyes widen at the thought of my incredible wealth, let me just point out that I’m due to inherit not one penny.’

      ‘Do you really think I’m interested in your wealth? I simply don’t understand why you had to deceive me, and—and …’

      She stopped. He leaned across the table to put just the tip of his forefinger on her lips. And her words dried in her throat.

      ‘Deception? Now, I thought you were the master of that, Mrs Rowland,’ he said quietly.

      At just one touch of his fingers, she found herself racked with stomach-clenching uncertainty. He was handsome. He was formidable. He was utterly dangerous. And soon she must ask him why her dying sister had breathed his name.

      She forced herself to appear calm. ‘Where is your father?’

      ‘He’s at his estate in the country, with his wife—my stepmother.’ He was unfolding his napkin. ‘The clothes from which you had your choice up there are about to become my stepmother’s cast-offs. She feels that all fashions are sadly outmoded after three months.’

      ‘So your mother …’

      ‘Died long ago, in a hunting accident.’

      Rosalie’s cheeks flushed. ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise.’ She hesitated. ‘But this … this place, this food! Who …?’

      ‘I told you, my father is away. The food is an error.’ He was watching her quizzically as he began to carve a slice of ham for her. ‘And do you know, I think I’ve had enough of your questions for the time being, Ro Rowland. You’re not an investigative reporter now.’

      She shivered at the sting in his calm voice. But—Alec Stewart, the black sheep of an extremely wealthy family. In those clothes, she could believe it. So different from his usual attire, yet still so rawly masculine. She tossed her head. He’d put them on to impress on her, no doubt, that he was an earl’s son! In case she started getting ideas above her station, perhaps.

      ‘Why don’t you eat?’ he asked almost languidly. ‘Take your pick. Chicken gélatine. Buttered lobster. Veal pie …’

      ‘I—I can’t. I’m worried about Katy.’

      ‘I’ve told you—Katy is quite safe at Two Crows Castle with my men guarding her. Happy, too. And you’re no use to her at all if you’re half-dead from hunger. Eat. Drink. You’ve been ill—you need to build up your strength.’ He’d already filled her glass with a fine white wine.

      ‘You are rather taking my breath away with all these surprises,’ she said as steadily as she could.

      He was cutting some pie to put on her plate. ‘Then get your revenge. Tell me more about your childhood. You’ve already informed me your mother was French and your father an English painter. But wasn’t it a strange decision for your mother to move to England when he died?’

      ‘My mother had no family left in Paris. And I think my parents had always planned to move back to England some day. So she decided to take us—’

      ‘Us,’ he broke in. ‘Do you have brothers? Sisters?’

      Oh, a blunder there. ‘A sister. One sister.’

      He drank his wine, still carefully watching her. ‘And did your little family find a friendly welcome at this cottage in Oxfordshire?’

      This time she met his brooding gaze steadily. ‘Thanks to the war, my mother’s nationality was regarded as little short of a crime. And the cottage turned out to be almost a ruin. Yet my mother would not leave—partly because she had nowhere else to go, but also because it had been my father’s dying wish that she come to the place he’d loved …’ She paused to fight back the ache rising in her throat.

      ‘And now your mother is dead. Your husband, too.’ His voice was soft.

      Oh, Lord, her lies. ‘Yes, indeed!’ She drank some wine—she certainly needed it.

      He met her eyes calmly. The light from the candles defined anew the sculpted planes and angles of his lean, square-jawed face. He continued, ‘So you decided to come to London. As a writer of