IMPROPER NIGHTS
Copyright; 2011 by LESLIE DICKEN
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters,
places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been
used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to
persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely
coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written
permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in
critical articles and reviews.
Her rotten father had actually done it.
Lord Worthstone had sold her off to the highest bidder as if she were a prized stallion. With the debts not repaid, Lenora Blakely was forced to marry a man more than twice her age. The man who now waited for her response.
She clenched her teeth. The paper slipped from her fingers and floated onto the large, mahogany desk.
The blasted promissory note clearly stated that she was to marry Lord Cavanaugh. The silver-haired man who owned Saybrooke Manor.
It didn't matter that she'd tried to avoid it.
From the moment her father died a month ago, Lenora began selling off items in the house. Furniture, paintings. So far she'd only made three-quarters of her father's debt.
It wasn't enough. The time had come to pay up. And she'd fallen short. Now Lord Cavanaugh would have her as a bride, her estate and lands as his own. Along with everything in it.
Tears stung, but not from pity. No, fury choked her throat. It all made sense now. Why her father kept her home from the London Seasons after her first one. Why he forced her to return home the day before she was to wed Henry at Gretna Green.
He must have written this note years ago when he borrowed the funds from Lord Cavanaugh. Damn her father and his blasted gambling addiction.
A shuffle of papers drew her attention. Lord Cavanaugh stood from behind his desk. His dark eyes measured her. "I know about your near wedding. It matters not to me."
Well, there went that idea. So she could not dissuade him with her unpleasant past.
She'd run out of options.
Lenora drew in a shaky breath, the scent of leather and polish filled her nostrils. Her home once smelled like this, instead of the dust and neglect of the last several months. The few servants left at Stonecreek House could not keep up with the demands of it.
"I'll give you two weeks," he said, taking the paper she'd let drop and placing it in a drawer in the desk. "Gather your belongings and choose a wedding dress. Take these days as your own. You still have your independence."
Fourteen more days of freedom. How little she appreciated it these last few years as she tried to keep the house running. She'd been a fool for taking it for granted.
A fortnight was not nearly enough time to go through the remainder of possessions.
Air pressed heavy in her lungs. So much to do in such a short time. If she only had a few more months, she could find another way to pay this debt. "Must it be in just two weeks' time?"
He nodded. "The cold weather will be upon us soon. Everything must be in place before the snows."
Lenora fisted her hands. She would not bring shame by running off or causing a scene, but she bloody well wouldn't give up either. "Then I must return to Stonecreek. There is much to be done."
"Certainly."
Lord Cavanaugh wasn't an unpleasant looking man. He wasn't obscene or grotesque in any sense. His graying temples and slight roundness were common indicators of a man in second part of his life. But she, at twenty, was less than half his age.
Dear Lord, she could be his daughter. He couldn't be a worse father than the one she'd had.
Lenora framed a pleasant smile. After all, her anger was at her father, not at the earl. "Is there anything else, my lord?"
He shook his head. "No, but I hear someone has arrived. Let us go see who it is."
She followed him out of the study to where a crowd gathered in the grand foyer. A visitor had arrived, one they obviously knew well as attentions were solely focused on him.
Lenora lifted on her toes to see over the servants and other house guests crowded around him. He was young, perhaps in his late twenties, and a head taller than most. His square jaw and strong nose were similar to Lord Cavanaugh's, but not the intense pair of vibrant blue eyes now focusing on her.
"My nephew," Lord Cavanaugh whispered at her side. "His visit had been planned many months ago, but now it appears he will be here to share in our vows. How fortuitous."
Lenora lifted her chin but found she could not reply. The stranger's gaze had not left hers. She was trapped under his predatory spell, as when a hunter ensnares its prey. Her pulse drew to a brisk rhythm. Palms dampened, knees weakened.
"Come." Lord Cavanaugh pressed on her back and she stepped forward, like a dog on a lead. She ought to be directed out the door and into her carriage, but instead, she was led to the stranger. "May I present Miss Blakely?"
He stepped forward, out of the crowd, his gaze still sharp and dangerous. Her clothes were instantly too tight, even suffocating. Mouth watered, forced her lips to part. A hum throbbed deep in her core.
Dear Lord, what hex did this man hold over her?
"Miss Blakely, this is Lord Blackford, my nephew."
A large hand captured hers and lifted it to his mouth. Full, sensual lips brushed her outer wrist, shivers raced to her toes. But instead of quitting the gesture after the proper amount of time, his silky tongue slid across her skin. Discreet. Nearly imperceptible.
Her eyelids drifted closed. A vision flashed of that tongue sweeping across her aching nipples.
With a whimper, Lenora pulled her hand away.
His lip curled. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Blakely. Will you be staying long?"
"In a fortnight, she will be here permanently. She is to be my bride." Lord Cavanaugh guided her to the front door.
Lenora glanced over her shoulder for a sign of regret or surprise on Lord Blackford face but saw nothing except a wider smile. "Until the wedding."
Then, he turned and led the crowd through the long hallway.
****
Unable to sleep, Lenora left the warmth of her bed and wandered down the hallway to her mother's rooms. She and her father had not entered them once her mother drowned two years ago. The pain was too unbearable.
Though never spoken, Lenora believed she and her father had held the same regard: they could just pretend her mother was in her room sleeping. It was foolish, certainly. But so often her mother had been ill or cheerless or dramatic. She'd take to her bed and spend days in the darkness. They could go nearly a week with no one seeing her save the servants.
And, so, they kept her door shut, pretended she slept. That one day she would decide to be a part of the family again.
It didn't happen, of course. Lenora's father spent more days in London and the like, drinking and gambling to forget.
Lenora looked for her own escape. Unfortunately, Henry had been the wrong choice.
She steeled herself, hand on the door. Heart hammered, throat tightened. It would be best to enter in the morning, when the room could fill with light from the sun.
Yet, an urgency lurked in her soul. She had just fourteen days to find something of value, something to pay off the debt so she would not be forced to marry Lord Cavanaugh.
She turned up the oil lamp, and pushed the door open. Immediately dust filled her nose. She sneezed several times but then pushed on.
Everything was how they left it. The servants had been told to ignore the room and so nothing had been moved from its place. Tables still held books and stitchings. The drapes were shut, dust and cobwebs littered each table and chair.
Lenora moved to the dresser, but then stopped. She hadn't any idea where her mother may have kept her jewels. Or if any remained. Her father may have stolen them to sell.
In fact, she couldn't remember seeing her mother wear any jewelry since she'd been a child. When Lady Worthstone would come down to supper or join at any party, her neck and ears were bare. Her wrists and fingers were as vacant as her eyes.
An ache tightened in Lenora's chest. This was a fool's errand. Coming in here in the dark of night would offer nothing but haunting memories of ghosts long buried.