If the officer was indeed a guest in the house, Roger had to mentally revile the air of authority the man conveyed, which no doubt stemmed from a haughty attitude or perhaps even his military rank. He certainly couldn’t have commanded respect merely by his length of years. At the most, he looked no more than thirty and five.
The stranger’s imposing presence seemed highly inappropriate in the late marquess’s home. Having elevated a dark brow to a lofty height in some exasperation with the elderly butler, who at the moment seemed oblivious to everything but his own animated conversation with the lady, the officer gave every indication that he was expecting an introduction to the maid, as if he had some indubitable right to receive one. Perhaps, like his predecessors, he had become enthralled by her uncommon beauty, a premise that ofttimes had sorely nettled Roger’s mood when he found himself in the midst of her audience of aristocratic suitors.
Who the devil was this chap anyway?
That question was swept from conscious thought as Roger was jostled aside by the late lord’s only daughter. After falling well behind during their afternoon race, Samantha Galia Wyndham Burke had only just now arrived at her family’s country estate. Much in the manner of her closest friend, she seemed playfully intent upon eluding the man who had given chase, in this case her sandy-haired husband of nearly two years. In tossing a quick glance over her shoulder, she found him closing the distance between them at a rapid pace.
Perceval Burke’s height and long, leaping strides definitely gave him an advantage in his pursuit. Amid squeals of laughing protest, he gathered his wife in the crook of an arm and, with a devious chuckle, swept her around to face him. “Now I have you, my lovely.”
Dragging off her bonnet, Samantha peered up at her handsome husband through long, silky lashes as the corners of her soft lips curved coyly. “Should I believe I am in danger, sir?”
Sandy brows arched diabolically above gleaming blue eyes. “The worst kind, I fear.”
In sweetly contrived contrition, Samantha lowered her gaze as her gloved fingers toyed with the buttons of his suede waistcoat. Even so, her lips seemed inclined to twitch as she strove to restrain her merriment. “I suppose I must pay penance.”
“Aye,” her husband murmured huskily, squeezing her arm. “I shall see to it without delay upon our arrival home.”
The entrance of the third couple was considerably more dignified than the previous two. For some time now, Major Lord Stuart Burke had been hindered by a particularly painful wound, which he had received in the left buttock during the Battle of Waterloo. Yet his courtliness remained above reproach. Having drawn within his accommodating arm the daintily gloved hand of Miss Felicity Fairchild, a young, immensely fetching newcomer to the small nearby town of Bradford on Avon, Stuart escorted her into the great hall with all the gallantry of an officer and a gentleman, while she, with small, mincing steps and demure little smiles, glided along beside him.
Greatly encouraged by the arrival of the couples, Roger followed in their wake and sought to fortify his entrance further still by the example Perceval had set. Daring much, he dashed toward Adriana with every hope of catching her unaware, for if there was one thing at which he excelled, it was his speed and maneuverability. Having had to fend for himself and his mother amid the squalor of London streets prior to her death and his internment in an orphanage, he had learned the necessity of being swift at a very early age. It had either been that or have the stolen food stripped from his grasp by officials, an incident that had usually ended in a magistrate determining the fate of the thief.
The briskly advancing repetition of metal striking marble immediately claimed Adriana Sutton’s attention. Recognizing it as a sound that normally accompanied Roger’s every footfall, she glanced around in some surprise. It was as she had feared: The rascal was coming toward her with all possible speed.
In spite of the destructive and painful havoc the metallic wedges had wreaked upon her slippers and feet in the past, Adriana was far more dedicated to the idea of keeping the apprentice at bay. An unwed maid, she would allow no man the same familiarity Perceval had recently evidenced with his wife. She had yet to find any man that engaging. However disappointed she had been earlier to find herself once again in the company of Roger Elston, she could not bring herself to discomfit him by demanding a halt to his antics in the presence of her highborn friends. Her mother had never been one to abide rudeness of any sort, even when it was bestowed upon one who frequently forced his company on others.
Challenged to defeat the purposes of her indomitable suitor, Adriana spun away from Harrison with a well-feigned, lighthearted laugh, managing by a narrow margin to avoid Roger’s outstretched hand. Dedicated to the idea of staying out of the apprentice’s reach (as much as he would have had it otherwise), she continued her whirling dervish past the first several archways of the gallery, vaguely aware of Leo and Aris scurrying out of her way. Immediately on the heels of their flight, a wooden object rattled to the floor and then skittered across the marble somewhere ahead of her, making her wonder what the animals had inadvertently sent flying. She was just thankful she hadn’t heard an accompaniment of shattering glass. The metallic clacking, which had been nigh upon her heels, ceased abruptly as the hounds leapt from the gallery, where they had briefly sought refuge, into the hallway behind her, forestalling the apprentice’s advance. As for what the animals had actually overturned, Adriana’s curiosity went unappeased, for in the very next instant she came to a mind-jarring halt against an obstacle firmly rooted in her path, giving her cause to wonder if a tree had suddenly sprouted to soaring heights in the passageway. Taking into account her dazed senses, the notion seemed justifiable as she reeled away haphazardly.
The threat of falling seemed imminent as her booted toe struck the decorative molding at the bottom of an Italianate ornamented archway. Or was it a wickedly twining root over which she stumbled?
In the next instant, a long limb stretched forth from the seemingly oaken structure and clamped about her waist in an unyielding vise. Before her wits had time to clear, she was swept full length against a solid structure, which seemed far more human than any tree could have come close to duplicating. Once upon a time, she had plowed into her family’s portly cook in her haste to escape to the stables. The experience had been much like landing upon a pillow, a memory that now convinced her that whatever the nature of the one who currently imprisoned her, one fact was certain: The form was definitely not of feminine origin!
Lady Adriana Elynn Sutton had grown up in her family’s ancestral home no more than a hundred furlongs away, the youngest of three female offspring and, from her earliest years, a companion and close confidant of Samantha Wyndham. Although in many respects she had always been her father’s darling, she had nevertheless caused her mother and sisters untold hours of despair. Not only was she dissimilar in appearance from the three, being tall, ebon-eyed, and dark-haired like her handsome sire, but in a variety of other ways too numerous to mention.
Her mother, Christina, was the quintessence of a lady who had tried to sculpt her three daughters in the very same mold. To some degree she had been successful. The elder two, Jaclyn and Melora, had heeded their parents’ counsel and, when it met their mood, could convey a genteel demeanor that observers found both pleasing and attractive, to the extent that Jaclyn was now married, living near London, and the mother of two children. Melora, the second born, was not long from being wed. Adriana, on the other hand, had given every indication that she had been cast from an entirely different mold. Her siblings had even suggested that she was more like her paternal aunt than the family could bear.
Except for a contract of courtship and betrothal that had left her uncertain as to her future, Adriana considered herself as yet uncommitted and wasn’t at all eager for that circumstance to change. She was reluctant to assume lofty airs for the benefit of high-ranking guests and, in her mother’s opinion, had even seemed rebellious at times when, instead of donning her fines
t gowns, she’d appear before their visitors in riding attire, offer gracious excuses with enchanting smiles, and then flit out the door in a dizzying flash before any had the inclination to object.
Unquestionably her equestrian abilities ranked among the best in the area, especially when she rode the proud Andalusian stallion her father had had imported from Spain especially for her. But to achieve such skill as an accomplished rider, she had dedicated herself relentlessly to hours of training, something her fainthearted siblings had been disinclined to do soon after discovering they were not always safely ensconced in a sidesaddle. A tumble or two had made them keenly aware of that fact and abruptly turned their interests toward more ladylike activities.
Her mother had fretted untold hours over the tomboyish ways of her youngest offspring, who had proven far more adventuresome than her siblings, not only while racing Ulysses across the rolling fields or sending him flying over steep hurdles, but in her avid fascination with archery and firearms. Under her sire’s doting tutelage, she had acquired a keen eye for both and, from a goodly distance away, especially with the Ferguson rifle he had bestowed on her, could take down a stag or some other game to relieve the monotony of the fare served at the family table or to deliver dressed-out portions to people in need, most often to a couple who had taken in a dozen or more orphans. It was the opinions of her tutors that her doting sire had found most satisfying, however. According to those worthy scholars, Adriana Sutton had an intellect keen enough to be envied by many a learned gentleman.
In spite of such lauding praises from her instructors, her lack of certain accomplishments had earned sharp disapproval from her dainty, green-eyed, flaxen-haired sisters, a condemnation greatly strengthened by the fact that she was totally lacking any skill with a needle. She was especially loath to sing or play the harpsichord, at which both Jaclyn and Melora excelled. She was also fairly selective in extending her friendship to those of her own gender, for she couldn’t endure twittering little gossips who were forever whispering snide comments in others’ ears about this or that young lady who just happened to be more appealing than the little tale-mongers. It seemed deplorable to her sisters that she had far more gentlemen friends than feminine companions. “Why, what would people think?” they complained. Yet, inexplicably (definitely to those who frowned on her flawed, ofttimes unladylike behavior), Adriana Sutton had been much favored by the late Marquess of Randwulf, his family, and their loyal servants, many of whom had watched her grow from a painfully thin chit to an intriguingly beautiful young lady.
Now, here she was, caught in an unyielding vise that, by rights, should have made her hackles rise. At the moment, however, she was experiencing some difficulty in discerning reality from illusion. Under the circumstances, Adriana thought she had had every right to entertain the whimsical notion that a tree had taken root in the hall, for the towering form against which she had been swept left her inundated with impressions of a steely oak. The smoothly draped black skirt of her modish riding habit and its short, double-breasted Spencer jacket of forest-green velvet, fashionably set off by a creamy-hued jabot, seemed insufficient protection against the stalwart frame, for she had cause to wince within the unyielding embrace of the one who clasped her so tightly.
In a sudden, peevish attempt to push herself away and regain her dignity, she was relieved to find the man’s arms falling away. Upon reclaiming her freedom, she sought to retreat farther still from the fellow. Alas, her effort to escape fell far short of her expectation, for in backing away, she stepped on a stick or some other long, wooden object, which promptly slid forward beneath her booted foot, throwing her completely off balance. Her arms flayed wildly about in a frantic attempt to catch herself as the man reached for her. In desperation she clutched the first thing that came within proximity to her hand, the waist of the finely tailored red coat. Even then, her feet seemed to twist beneath her. The sole of her boot slipped, making her lose what little equipoise she had gained. Her frantic gyrations to recover her aplomb ended abruptly when her right thigh slammed into the manly loins. Her victim seemed to choke from her haphazard assault, but that was hardly the end of her disgrace. Her skirts rode nigh up to her knee as her left leg slid down the outer side of a hard, muscular limb, seemingly with the same intent as a skinning tool. It was difficult to determine who winced more from her outlandish feats, the officer or herself. Adriana only knew the inside of her leg felt as if it had been scraped raw after skimming down the man’s smoothly tailored white wool breeches. If any wrinkle had existed in his trousers, she had no doubt she would’ve been the first to discover it.
Diligently she sought to regain her modesty as well as her dignity as she strove to unmount the iron-thewed thigh, but, as much as she tried, she couldn’t ignore the fact that her softer parts felt sorely abused. Considering her discomfort, she had reason to doubt that she’d be able to grit out a smile, much less laugh at her own clumsiness. She could only wonder in agonized reflection what havoc she had reaped upon the man.
“I’m sorry . . . ,” she began, blushing hotly as she endeavored to hide her burgeoning chagrin and distress. She feared her pantaloons had cut creases where previously there had been none. “I didn’t mean—”
“Never mind,” the officer strangled out. The tendons in his cheeks fairly snapped as he struggled for control. His arm came around her waist once again, and he lifted her easily, shifting her weight off his thigh before settling her feet safely to the floor between his own shiny black boots.
Still struggling to surmount his manly discomfort, the officer closed his eyes and bent his head forward to await its ebbing, allowing Adriana to catch a vague scent of his cologne. Mingled with an underlying essence of soap and an equally indistinct trace of the fine, costly wool of his uniform, the pleasantly aromatic bouquet drifted upward into her nostrils, and twined tantalizingly through her senses. Adriana had never in her life experienced the like of such strangely provocative stirrings. Indeed, the manly fragrance seemed far more intoxicating than a glass of port on a warm evening. As difficult as it proved to be, she sought to lend her attention to what she was actually seeing rather than the warmly titillating ambience through which she had just drifted.
Another painful grimace evidenced the man’s continuing discomfort, tightening chiseled features and compressing well-formed lips as he endured the torment in silence. Stoic-faced, gentlemanly decorum didn’t seem at all conducive to abating his pain, however, for with a softly muttered apology he reached down between them beneath the protective shroud of her skirts.
Adriana made the mistake of glancing down before it dawned on her just what he was doing, gingerly readjusting the torpid fullness defined by his narrow-fitting breeches. Just as quickly, a breathless gasp was snatched from her throat, and her eyes went chasing off. She suffered through an endless moment of excruciating embarrassment as she tried diligently to banish from mind what she had just seen and to keep her thoughts firmly fixed on logical matters, such as the reason for this officer’s presence at Randwulf Manor. Yet it was impossible to ignore the heat creeping into her cheeks. It certainly didn’t help that she felt much like a ship adrift in some strange sea halfway around the world.
Purposefully, Adriana focused her gaze within an area no higher than closely cropped, dark brown hair and no lower than broad shoulders adorned with gold epaulettes affixed to the blazing red fabric of his military blouse. It seemed the only way she could keep her thoughts well in line with what was proper for an untried maid, but she never in her life imagined the alluring quintessence of masculinity could be embodied so completely in just one man.
In the midst of a handsome arrangement of chiseled features, darkly translucent gray eyes were now thankfully devoid of pain, at least enough to communicate some evidence of humor above a waywardly charming grin. Still, white teeth, as perfect as any she had seen in many a year, seemed far too bright to allow for sober reflection. Neatly clipped sideburns accentuated crisply chiseled bones beneath sun-b
ronzed cheeks. Poorly suppressed amusement momentarily compressed manly grooves that formed deep channels on either side of his mouth. Any woman would’ve stared in admiration at the intriguing results that perhaps had evolved through the years from simple dimples. Yet those indentations troubled Adriana, for they seemed to pluck at fibers long entrenched in her memory, as if strumming some tantalizingly evasive tune she had heard ages ago but now had difficulty bringing clearly to mind. If some faint recollection of those devilish creases actually did exist, then surely it was no recent memory and in all probability had been relegated to the dark, fathomless depths of her brain, where she could imagine such thoughts and remembrances of forgotten years were now moldering from disuse.
“Considering the discomfort we have shared in this past moment,” the officer murmured in a warmly hushed tone meant for her ears alone, “I think I should at least know the name of such a captivating companion before another calamity befalls us . . . Miss . . . ?”
The warmly mellow tones of her captor’s voice were imbued with a rich quality that seemed to vibrate through her womanly being. To Adriana’s amazement, the sound evoked a strangely pleasurable disturbance in areas far too private for an untried virgin even to consider, much less invite. As evocative as the sensations were, she didn’t know quite what to make of them. They seemed almost . . . wanton. But then, the image that had recently been scored into her brain had undoubtedly heightened her sensitivity to wayward imaginings. If not for the man’s sterling good looks, she’d still be struggling to drag her musings away from his loins.
“S-Sutton,” she stammered, and could have groaned in chagrin at the clumsiness of her tongue. Her present failure to articulate clearly could in no wise have been due to any painful bashfulness suffered in the presence of men, for hardly a month passed without some new request for her hand being addressed to her or her father. If anything, those pleas had become rather hackneyed, solidifying her disinterest while she awaited some news of the one to whom she had been promised.