Page 55

He nodded and led the way to his father’s study. His study. He gestured toward the settee. “Won’t you sit down?”

He took his own seat a decorous distance away. She was beautiful in that ocean green gown, with her hair pinned high on her crown and one long wisp curling down her cheek. It made him think of the library, when her hair had tumbled loose as he pushed his fingers through it.

Dangerous thoughts like that were growing harder and harder for him to ignore, so he had thrown himself into the search. If he could locate her father, she would be able to leave his house before he either went mad or kissed her again, which had been on his mind almost every minute since he held her in his arms and tasted the soft skin just below her ear.

He didn't want her to leave; quite the contrary. But she must have the choice to leave. He knew all too well how it felt to be hemmed in and powerless in life. The best thing he could do for her—aside from controlling his unruly desires—was give her back what she had lost.

So he traced every connection and possibility he could find, making no secret of his object and paying generously for information. Stafford would have an apoplexy when he saw how much money Alec had spent in pursuit of this one sergeant.

"I must beg your pardon,” he said. “I promised to keep you informed of my progress. I’ve spent this week looking into your father's disappearance, but have found no trace of him."

She bit her lip and looked away. “Why must you beg pardon for that?"

Because he was failing her—and himself. He had given his word that he find Turner, and was privately confounded that he hadn’t been able to pick up even a trace of the man’s whereabouts.

What he had found? Unpaid bills, and the many publicans and merchants who expressed an interest in putting their hands around Turner's neck, if not his purse. Retired soldiers and officers who seemed oddly relieved Turner had gone missing. A well-to-do widow who claimed Turner was engaged to her, even as she spat on the ground at the mention of his name. He would wait a bit longer, in case his questioning flushed out information later, but Alec was at a loss. The man had simply disappeared, along with his horse and whatever baggage he took to London.

Alec didn’t tell Cressida about any of that because none of it told him where to find Turner.

"I have looked from here to London and back, at every town on the main road and some off to the sides, and no one has seen him or heard from him since he vanished." He paused. "I'm sorry."

She nodded soberly. “Thank you."

He nodded. They sat in silence.

Or rather, in the taut silence permeated by the memory of that encounter in the library. She was a guest in his mother's home, for pity's sake, and he had grabbed her and held her and kissed her. But when he tried to form an apology, it wouldn't come; he knew he should regret his actions even as he thought about repeating them every day. Avoiding her hadn't dimmed the desire at all, and now she was here with him, more tempting than ever and not looking reproachful in the slightest. It was tempting him to close the distance between them and take up where he had left off that day, when she had clung to him and whispered his name with longing.

But he couldn’t. He wasn't the sort of man she needed, a decent honorable man who could give her a proper home. He was a man adrift, disgusting to his own family and reviled by his neighbors. She would be a fool to accept anything he offered her. And he would be cruel to offer, knowing how likely it was to end in breaking her heart again.

Alec focused on his hands, clasped on his knee. "Unless there’s something in his journal, I fear we have few avenues left to explore."

She started at the word “journal.” "Oh! Yes, I’ve been working on it, but haven't solved the code yet."

He nodded. "Perhaps that will reveal something."

She nodded, smoothing her palms over her lap. "Yes, perhaps." After a moment of awkward silence she got to her feet. "Thank you for telling me. Good night."

He drew a harsh breath as she crossed the room. "Cressida." She paused at the door without looking back. "The other day, in the library. . . " Slowly she turned her head, not quite facing him. Her eyelashes veiled her gaze. "I apologize."

Her eyelashes trembled. "For what?"

"For—" Not for kissing her. Not for touching her. "For keeping you when you wished to go."

"And for the rest?"

Finally she looked at him, that direct, open gaze that had first caught his attention. Alec couldn't lie to her now to save his soul. "I am only sorry for that if you are."

The color rose in her face and her eyes glowed. He would probably spend the rest of his life trying to find a name for their color. "Good," she whispered. "Neither am I." She opened the door and went out, closing it softly behind her.

* * *

Cressida went to her room, hardly able to believe herself. She might as well have said out loud that she wanted him. The flare of desire in his eyes must have made her reckless and bold. She just didn't know what it would lead to.

Callie was unpinning her hair, humming quietly. There was color in her face and a sparkle in her eye that Cressida hadn’t seen in a long time. The rose silk dress was hanging over the wardrobe door, as if spread out for continued admiration and enjoyment. The sight brought back her conversation with Tom, and shook her out of her haze of longing. Silently she picked up the brush and went to work on Callie’s curls.

“What a lovely evening.” Callie smiled at her reflection. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes.”