Page 23 of The Rake
With a sigh, Miss Keating moved closer to him, her voice low. “You said during the dance that you had something for me?”
“I risked life and limb,” Langley said, turning and walking to the edge of the veranda, looking down into Verne’s garden. There were, dotted throughout the lawn, trees and rose bushes, the shape of lanterns which created a pretty pattern to illuminate the visitor’s way. Were Langley a different man, were circumstances altered, he might offer his arm to Miss Keating and escort her through the garden, discussing something light, foolish, and amusing with the hope of making her laugh. Perhaps he might even try and steal a kiss. But those were not the circumstances they found themselves in.
“Were you shot at again?” There was a touching note of concern to her question and Langley turned to find Margot standing next to him, her hands resting beside his on the balustrade.
“Would it matter if I were?” Langley watched her closely through the moonlight.
“Of course,” she said, a line appearing between her brows. “I would be deeply concerned. You are the only person who knows the truth.”
With a bitter laugh, Langley turned and walked down a few steps towards the garden. Getting away from the music and the sound of the ball was suddenly appealing, and putting some distance between himself and the alluring scent that Margot was wearing was a necessity. She smelt of a heady blend of jasmine, vanilla, and a rich, fragrant spice—where had a vicar’s daughter found such an explicit scent that pulled up images of bedrooms,lace negligées and stockings…? It was also galling that he desperately wanted her approval—how needy of him.
Miss Keating followed him, down the steps, until she caught hold of his arm. “Are you going to tell me what you discovered, or simply leave me in suspense?”
From the pocket of his waistcoat, Langley pulled out what he had discovered at his men’s club, White’s. In his palm he held a small, slim silver key. He took hold of her hand, turned it upright, and gave it to her.
“It was inside the clock. On the second floor.” He had checked the other clocks in the club, and found no sign of another key.
She was frowning down at it, only a step above him, so Langley could stare directly into her face. Drink in every aspect of her features. He had dismissed her as pretty, but not extraordinary previously. Now the nearness of her was so acute, it was painful. The light was coming from behind her, so the shadows highlighted her cheekbones, her sharp nose, and elegant eyebrows. There was such clarity to her green eyes it might take a lifetime to understand them. “Are you certain that it had nothing to do with the clock itself?”
Drawing nearer, now they were only inches apart, Langley tapped the key. “The Ashmore family crest is at the base.”
Margot’s face shot up and he caught her smile. One of relief with a hint of pleasure at the corners. “Well done.”
The last time a woman had spoken to him with such a level of approval, Langley had had his head buried between that woman’s legs. He forced himself to take a step back, as suddenly he wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees before Margot, lever her down onto the cold, hard steps, lift her dress over her head and rip away at her stockings and undergarments below her gown, all keenness to explore her lithe body, to knowwhat her voice sounded like when she made the sweetest of keening noises and?—
“Langley?” She touched his shoulder, and he flinched in response, forcing himself to look back at her. There was still a limited amount of space between them, with their mouths close to each other, and he saw Margot sway just a little towards him.
“Call me Silvester,” he urged. His fingers moved and he gripped both of her arms, just above her gloves.
“You know I can’t.” Margot’s voice wavered, as if she were tempted, and he wondered how far he could push her to go until she whispered his name. If he did lean forward, press his hungry mouth against her tempting lips, would she finally moan it, say it, and acknowledge the strange, burning desire that pulsed between them?
There was a noise behind them, and Margot started. It was a lightly inflected voice followed by a heavier tone—Verne, and his dear friend Silverton. Langley watched as two members of the Oxford Set strolled out onto the veranda, both heading towards the same spot Margot and he stood in. As soon as they reached the top of the steps, they would be able to see Langley holding on to Miss Keating.
“We must move, we cannot be seen. It would not be safe,” Margot said. She grasped his hand and hurried them down into the garden. As they dashed down the steps, past the lit lanterns, Langley felt a touch of satisfaction that they had reached the pretty garden without any push on his part.
Pausing finally to throw themselves behind a wide tree, which hid them from view of the path, Margot turned and looked breathlessly up at Langley. “Why do you look so self-satisfied?”
“Most ladies would not regard being trapped outside with me as a point of safety for them. At least not if they valued their good name.” With a languid ease, Langley leant forward, framingMargot’s head between his two hands so she was trapped there, and awaited her response with bated breath.
CHAPTER 11
With practised calm, learnt she did not know where from, Margot drew away from the earl. If he were being truly, utterly, completely seductive, she did not think she would be able to resist, but somewhere she managed to ignore both his appeal and her own growing desire for him.
The fact of the matter was that Langley seemed to delight in the occasional subtle needling or teasing comment, which wormed their way under Margot’s reserve until she felt as if he were consuming her. It was difficult because he was the one she had trusted, he was the one she knew could not have killed Ashmore, and if the key in her hand was any proof, he was the one who was helping her get closer to solving the mystery.
In the dark garden, with the glinting, far-off lights of the ball, it felt as if the two of them were in their own secluded world. How easy it would be to give in to the lulling magic of the night, swayed by a man who was an expert in all things seduction, in pleasure… in a joy far too long denied Margot.
“What do we do now?” Her voice was brisker than she intended. She could not allow such wanton feelings to frame and dictate her choices—she would not fall victim to the same downfall that had seen her mother abandoned and castout. Were things different and her parents had been married, she might be Langley’s equal—she would have been a duke’s legitimate daughter, and might look to an earl for a match…
Where had that dangerous idea come from?Margot shook her head. With patient steps she moved around the tree, hearing the satisfying crunch of leaves beneath her feet. She was being ridiculous. She had assured Langley she had no interest in matrimony, and certainly not with someone like him, a man who could not comprehend the meaning of faithfulness any more than he could practise it.
“If each location on the map does not contain a diamond, then I assume they would contain a key instead. Like the one you found.” She forced herself to concentrate on the map that Ashmore had left. The markings on the key were not visible now in the semi darkness they stood in, but if there was a key, then there would be a lock. The question was how many keys they would need and where the final treasure would be found.
“I would have thought that rather obvious,” Langley said. “We need to go to each location, find the right clock and extract the key. It is a shame your godfather could not have just left these keys with his lawyer, or at a bank.”
“I can only assume he trusted neither.”
“But he did trust you,” Langley said. It was not a question, although there was an implication, and allusion to one through what he was suggesting—something underhand or rather something untoward. When Margot did not jump in, Langley pushed himself off the tree and walked over to the bench, sinking into the wooden seat. “I suppose he must have trusted you, and your family.”
