Page 14 of No One's Bride
Losing the auction had left him deranged.
Had he noticed she wore nothing but a cotton nightgown? At the auction house, he’d mentioned throwing her over his shoulder and locking her in the broom cupboard. Surely he’d been joking.
Drawing her behind the door, he held her tight against his chest. Her loose breasts were mere inches from his forearm. Her bottom was squashed against his groin.
She should be mortified, crippled with embarrassment, scared to the marrow of her bones, but a more shocking sensation took hold. One she knew to be the stirrings of arousal.
Good grief!
“There’s a thief in the house,” he whispered against her ear. His breath came quickly, but he took the time to inhale the scent of her hair. “If I release you, you mustn’t make a sound. I need to find him.”
Ailsa nodded. When fearing for one’s life, there was something comforting about being held in a man’s strong embrace. Then she remembered the man in question was the dreaded Lord Denton and quickly prised herself from his grasp.
“A thief?” she whispered, whirling round to face him. “How do ye know?”
His gaze slid over her hair, lingered on her mouth, dipped to the open neck of her nightgown. “I was passing on my way home and saw a suspicious fellow waiting by the railings. He entered via the basement door.”
“Then why are we hiding in my bedchamber?” She had never entertained a gentleman at home, let alone in her private sanctuary.
The viscount scanned the dark room, a smile touching his lips when he noticed the bookcase crammed with old volumes. “I wanted to ensure you were safe before brawling with a mindless villain in your basement.”
“How did ye get in?” Ailsa grabbed the scissors from the floor. He was sober and by no means a reprobate, but one had to take precautions. “Monroe locked the door.”
The lord shrugged. “It was open.”
“Oh!” The poor butler’s head had been in the clouds for days. “I’m coming with ye. I’ll nae wait here wondering what’s happened.”
Lord Denton knew better than to argue. That didn’t stop his curious gaze roving over her white nightgown. Doubtless he found the dowdy garment unflattering. Hence why he grumbled and tutted to himself before leading the way downstairs.
They crept through the house and eased the basement door open though the hinges creaked like an alley cat’s whine.
Ailsa stared into the gloom, her knees almost buckling when she realised his lordship was right.
The shadows shifted like a malevolent spirit, a strange ghostly form lingering at the foot of the stairs. The mass moved, morphing into the dark figure of a man who turned quickly and darted along the corridor.
A stream of obscenities left Lord Denton’s lips as he took to his heels and gave chase.
Hearing the commotion, Monroe rushed out of his room, lost his footing and crashed into the viscount.
“Cursed saints!” Lord Denton yelled.
Monroe collapsed into a heap on the floor, his tired muscles giving out.
“Go! I shall see to Monroe,” she panted, giving the lord her scissors and urging him to continue his pursuit. “Hurry, before the villain escapes.”
Lord Denton brooked no argument. He jumped over Monroe’s body and disappeared down the dark corridor while Ailsa called for the head footman’s assistance.
They managed to lug Monroe into his room.
After sending the other nosy servants back to bed and tucking the blankets around the dazed butler, Ailsa drew John into the corridor. “Ye’ll resume the role of butler until Monroe is well. I’ll send for Dr Mackenzie in the morning and will reside here until there’s a notable sign of improvement.”
Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise.
Her parents would understand why she had not stayed with the St Clairs. Monroe had served her father faithfully for twenty years, and his health was a priority.
A dishevelled Lord Denton returned, his blonde hair mussed, his breath coming in shallow pants. “I lost the blighter.” He braced his hands on his knees, hauled air deep into his lungs. “I lost him on Cleveland Row. He must have entered St James’ Park.”
Splatters of mud clung to his trousers. A sheen of perspiration coated his brow. The muscles in his shoulders bulged with tension, and his jaw was as firm as Kilt Rock. For a reason unbeknown, the sight caused an odd fluttering in Ailsa’s chest.
