Page 4 of Unmasking the Earl

As he came closer, the hairs rose on the back of her neck.

It was him! The man who’d been gazing up at her in that intensely intimate way. She gulped and dipped her head, hoping he wouldn’t recognize her in the looming darkness.

Oh. My. Goodness. Up close, the fellow was practically a giant, with the shoulders of an ox and a chest to match. It had been impossible to tell when looking down on him just what an impressive figure he made. She gulped again and clung tightly to Wycherley’s sleeve.

“Don’t look so dour, man,” said her noble knight. “You can return to your ale presently. Pray, walk beside us so Miss Blythe can see her way.”

Cassie cringed. Now the manservant knew her name. He would have a juicy tale to tell about her when he returned to his cronies, and who knew where her name would end up? On the gossiping tongues of the tabbies? At the gentlemen’s card tables? In the conversation beneath the church porch?

She bit her lip anxiously. Now would be the time to return to the ballroom, before her reputation was put at any further risk.

Then she thought of Julian dallying in the darkness with the flirtatious Lady Lucy and steeled her nerve. She would risk anything to save him from such an unsuitable companion.

Anything.

“Lead on,” Wycherley said encouragingly, patting her hand.

She lifted her chin and stared straight ahead, trying to look as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a young lady to be stepping out into the night with two men.

As they set off, Cassie became aware of a kind of restless energy about Wycherley, which communicated itself to her through the silk of his sleeve. He was fit, he was fast, and his sense of urgency spurred her on as she went over in her mind the paths they must follow to overtake their quarry.

The servant, Ganstridge, on the other hand, seemed in no hurry at all. Indeed, his heavy tread suggested he’d been called out on this errand much against his will. He was close enough for her to feel the heat emanating from his body, and despite Wycherley having a terrible reputation, she couldn’t help but feel this Ganstridge was the more dangerous of the two.

“So tell me, Miss Blythe,” said the captain, “now that we are fellow adventurers, might I call you by your first name?”

Ganstridge’s flambeau jerked up violently, creating a well of darkness in front of them. “Keep it steady, man,” snapped Wycherley. “You don’t want us to trip and break our necks!”

The light steadied, but the lack of apology from Wycherley’s servant made Cassie wonder if he perhaps wouldn’t mind if his master actually did break his neck.

Wycherley’s voice regained its velvety tone. “Am I too bold, Miss Blythe?”

Very aware that the servant was hanging on their every word, Cassie replied, “No more than anticipated, sir, for though we’ve not been properly introduced, your reputation precedes you.”

“Ah.” He pressed a hand to his chest in a gesture of woe. “I can guess what you’ve heard. Though, some of the stories are too wicked for your youthful ears.”

“I’m not a child, sir. I’m very nearly twenty, and I’ve read many books and journals. I have no illusions about men such as yourself.”

A snort erupted from her right side, which was quickly turned into a sneeze. “I beg your pardon, miss, zurr.”

Cassie gave the servant a sideways look. What an odd way of talking! He rolled his Rs and dragged out his Ss in a most exaggerated way. Not Oxfordshire. Somerset, perhaps? And…had he been laughing at her?

She turned her head away and discovered that Wycherley was treating her to a dazzling smile.

Cassie knew, in that instant, why he was a reputed Casanova. That lazy, tempting smile and those eyes with their wicked glint offered a gateway to pleasure of a most indecent sort.

She licked her lips and hoped she wasn’t blushing.

“You read a lot, do you?” he asked. “I can’t imagine such a charming young woman as a bluestocking. I’ll try to behave, but if I forget myself and call you Cassandra, please slap me for my insolence. Indeed, I urge you to do so, should I overstep the mark in any way.”

“Somebody needs to slap him.”

“Pardon?” Cassie snapped her head round—and up—to glare at Ganstridge. Surely, she hadn’t heard him correctly? His face remained impassive, thrown into stark planes of light and shadow by the dancing flame he carried. Small particles of soot had settled on his collar, and the smoke was blowing into his eyes, but he made no attempt to wipe them.

Wycherley’s free hand came up and caressed her fingers, instantly distracting her. “Ignore him, Cassandra,” he advised. “He ofttimes utters deprecations beneath his breath, but usually sets to his tasks with alacrity, so I put up with it. There is no one stronger in the world than Ganstridge. Is there, sirrah? I would have left him at home, but my groom’s sprained his wrist, and I can’t cosset Lady Lucy and drive a chaise at the same time. I say, those look like glasshouses ahead. Does that mean the maze is near?”

“Yes, we’re almost there.”

“You’re an angel,” he declared, pressing her hand to his mouth. “Not only beautiful, but clever, too. I truly admire such qualities in a woman. You must have a line of suitors as long as Paxton’s drive.”