A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet #2)(57)

“Thank you, my lady.”
“But I don’t know anything about your family. I don’t know who your father was, or your mother, or what sort of connections you might possess. You have been well brought up, that much is clear, but beyond that . . .” She held up her hands. And then she looked directly into Anne’s eyes. “My nephew must marry someone with a clear and unstained status.”
“I realize that,” Anne said quietly.
“She will almost certainly come from a noble family.”
Anne swallowed, trying not to let any emotion show on her face.
“It is not strictly necessary, of course. It is possible he might marry a girl from the gentry. But she would have to be most exceptional.” Lady Pleinsworth took a step toward her, and her head tilted slightly to the side, as if she were trying to see right down inside of her. “I like you, Miss Wynter,” she said slowly, “but I do not know you. Do you understand?”
Anne nodded.
Lady Pleinsworth walked to the door and placed her hand on the knob. “I suspect,” she said quietly, “that you do not want me to know you.”
And then she departed, leaving Anne alone with her flickering candle and tortuous thoughts.
There was no misconstruing the meaning of Lady Pleinsworth’s comments. She had been warning her to stay away from Lord Winstead, or rather, to make sure that he stayed away from her. But it had been bittersweet. She’d left a sad little door open, hinting that Anne might be considered a suitable match if more were known of her background.
But of course that was impossible.
Could you imagine? Telling Lady Pleinsworth the truth about her background?
Well, the thing is, I’m not a virgin.
And my name is not really Anne Wynter.
Oh, and I stabbed a man and now he’s madly hunting me until I’m dead.
A desperate, horrified giggle popped out of Anne’s throat. What a resumé that was.
“I’m a prize,” she said into the darkness, and then she laughed some more. Or maybe she cried. After a while, it was hard to tell which was which.

Chapter Fifteen


The following morning, before any female member of his family could put a stop to what Daniel knew was improper behavior, he strode down the hall and rapped sharply on the door to the blue guest bedroom. He was already dressed for traveling; he planned to leave for London within the hour.
There was no sound from within the chamber, so Daniel knocked again. This time he heard a bit of rustling, followed by a groggy “Enter.”
He did, shutting the door behind him just in time to hear Anne gasp, “My lord!”
“I need to speak with you,” he said succinctly.
She nodded, scrambling to pull her covers up to her chin, which he frankly thought was ridiculous, given the thoroughly unappealing sack she appeared to have put on in lieu of a nightgown.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, blinking furiously.
Without preamble, he said, “I’m leaving for London this morning.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I’m sure you know by now that the harness was cut.”
She nodded.
“It was Lord Ramsgate,” he said. “One of his men. Probably the one I went out to investigate. The one I told you was a drunkard.”
“You said he wreaked havoc from the stables to the inn,” she whispered.
“Indeed,” he said, every muscle in his body straining to keep himself perfectly still as he spoke. If he moved, if he let down his guard for even one moment, he did not know what would happen. He might scream. He might beat the walls. All he knew was that something furious was building within him, and every time he thought it was done, that his rage could not possibly expand further, something inside seemed to pop and crackle. His skin grew too tight, and the anger, the fury—it fought to break free.
Hotter. Blacker. Squeezing at his very soul.
“Lord Winstead?” she said quietly, and he could not imagine what sliver of rage had shown on his face, because her eyes had grown wide and alarmed. And then, in the barest of whispers: “Daniel?”
It was the first time she had said his name.
He swallowed, clenching his teeth together as he fought for control. “This would not be the first time he has tried to kill me,” he finally said. “But it is the first time he has very nearly killed someone else in the attempt.”
He watched her closely. She was still clutching the covers under her chin, her fingers wrapped over the edge. Her mouth moved, as if she wanted to say something. He waited.
She did not speak.
He remained still, his body straight, his hands clasped behind his back. There was something so unbearably formal about the tableau, despite the fact that Anne was in bed, her hair mussed with sleep, a single thick braid resting on her right shoulder.
They did not usually speak with such stiffness. Perhaps they should have done, perhaps that would have saved him from such infatuation, which would have saved her from being in his company on the day Ramsgate had chosen to make his move.
It would have been better for her if they had never met, clearly.
“What will you do?” she finally asked.
“When I find him?”
She gave a small nod.
“I don’t know. If he’s lucky I won’t strangle him on sight. He was probably behind the attack in London, too. The one we all thought was just bad luck, a couple of petty thieves out for a heavy purse.”
“It might have been,” she said. “You can’t know. People are robbed all the time in London. It’s—”
“Are you defending him?” he asked incredulously.