Seductive Deception

Chapter 8

The abandoned dower house on the Littleton estate was quaint by beau monde standards. The grounds were overgrown with weeds well above Morgan's knees. English ivy and rose vines grew ram-shod over its once white brick walls, concealing it from passersby. Morgan wasn't versed in architectural style, but he surmised it stood in this same spot for centuries, slowly succumbing to the earth from neglect.

Tess informed him that the estate was embroiled in controversy over the suspicious death of its owner, Lord Littleton, Oscar Pennywick, a few years back. As a result, the estate remained a ghost of its former self, with only the occasional bystander to comment on its tragic history.

Morgan tucked a knife in his trouser pocket before he left. One could never be too careful, especially when meeting a stranger in nowhere. He expected the door to open with a creek, but it swung open silently, allowing him time to explore.

Strangely, he heard ticking clocks, lots of ticking clocks, but couldn't place them.

The entryway spilled into a drawing room with a massive stone fireplace flanked by two high-backed chairs. In the remnants of the day's light, a thin veil of dust coated everything in the room. He expected a musty smell from the vacant place, but to his surprise and delight, a floral scent permeated through the room. He traced its origin to a bouquet sitting in a vase on the armoire.

"Hello?"

He waited. No answer.

"Is anyone here?"

He felt around for his knife, prepared to lunge at someone if needed, and gripped it in his hand, praying it didn't slip as his palms sweat. He swallowed hard, craning his neck, looking for signs of life.

Who thought it was a good idea to visit an empty dower house? And, most importantly, who would ever think it a good idea for a woman...alone? He was beginning to worry for the safety of Madam Cerise when he heard a tell-tale creak of a floorboard, and before he could think, lunged, pulling whomever it was into his arms pulling them back into him, his arm around their chest.

"Lord Whittington?"

His breath caught as he slowly removed the knife, his heart thudding like a drum— hard and resolute against his chest.

"Madam Cerise?" he whispered, the warmth of his breath unfurling around her ear. Her hood brushed against his nose and left the trace scent of something vaguely familiar in its wake—Rosewater?

She nodded timidly.

Her body, flush against him, was rigid, softening only when he dropped his knife into his trouser pocket.

For a moment, he held her there, listening to her breathe, unwilling to admit that he liked the feel of her body against him, the way she fit neatly into the curves and hollows of his much larger chest. How long had it been since he'd held someone like this? Had he ever?

He wouldn't consider himself a rogue, but he'd lain with women during the war for companionship. He had needs, and those needs were met. Providing him the basic human comfort he craved, the warmth and security he desperately, even if it were momentary.

Reluctantly, he released her, and she took a shaky breath, spinning around to face him.

She was the same woman he'd seen at the textiles shop, cloaked from head to toe in full mourning and, most peculiarly, a domino mask. Why the domino mask? Why the disguise?

He couldn't see much of her, with her face obscured, but her eyes slivers of...were they gray? Peeked out at him, a shiver of awareness trickled through his body. Who was this woman?