Page 55 of Some Like It Wild
Crispin straightened, wondering if he was losing his mind. He had arrived back at Warrick Park on his horse only a few minutes before the duke’s crested carriage had come rolling up the drive. He had cursed his ill timing until he saw both his cousin and Miss Darby disembark from the carriage and head for the Doric temple at the edge of the lake. He had waited until he was sure their moonlight tryst was going to encompass more than just a few chaste kisses before setting off on his own quest. So how had the two of them managed to sneak up the stairs and into the bedchamber without his knowledge?
He pressed his ear to the door again. “Ah, me sweet Cookie,” purred that throaty masculine voice, “once yer me bride, we’ll play hide-the-sausage-in-the-puddin’ every night o’ the week.”
Crispin straightened more abruptly this time, torn between fascination and horror. Those were hardly the words he’d imagined his stoic cousin using to court the lovely Miss Darby.
His bewilderment was interrupted by a muffled yet rhythmic banging, as if an iron headboard was repeatedly striking the wall. That was when he realized the noises weren’t coming from the main bedchamber of the suite but from the connecting dressing room just down the corridor. The dressing room currently occupied by his cousin’s hulking valet.
Crispin swore beneath his breath. Those passionate moans and savage grunts might very well mask the sounds of him searching his cousin’s bedchamber, but what if they didn’t? He certainly couldn’t afford to get caught red-handed by the gold-toothed barbarian. Being dragged away from his “pudding” prematurely might put the beefy giant in a very foul temper indeed.
Knowing he had only one course of action left to him, Crispin turned and slipped back into the shadows.
Crispin eased open the door of Miss Darby’s suite. There was something both alluring and wicked about sneaking into a lady’s bedchamber in the dead of night, even if that lady was not abed. Moonlight bathed the deserted room in a pearly glow. A scent that was mysterious and floral and unmistakably feminine perfumed the air.
He stood with hands on hips, surveying the room for a long moment. In truth, he didn’t even know what he was looking for. The best he could hope for was some sort of evidence he could use as a weapon to prove his cousin was not the man his uncle believed him to be. Or the man the guests at Lord Newton’s soiree had been fawning over with such disgusting adulation.
Spurred on by that thought, he strode over to the armoire and began rifling briskly through its drawers. He moved on to the dressing table next, but his search yielded nothing of interest or import, unless one could count a handful of hairpins, a half-empty bottle of lilac water and a pair of tortoiseshell combs.
His frustration mounting, he swung around to glare at the bed itself. He couldn’t say what instinct drove him there. He only knew that as a boy he had once hidden treasures he knew his mother wouldn’t approve of under his pillow—a piece of shiny quartz he’d found in the garden, a robin’s tail feather, a book of naughty etchings he’d pilfered from his uncle’s library.
He slid his hand beneath the pillows and bolsters piled against the headboard. Nothing. He was withdrawing it when he heard a telltale crackle coming from one of the large feather pillows. He slipped his hand inside its satin cover, his fingers quickly locating a folded piece of paper.
As he unfolded it, a primitive thrill of excitement shot through him.
It was a well-weathered broadsheet—the sort the authorities nailed up on trees and posts when they were searching for someone who had committed a terrible crime. Someone like the nameless highwayman sketched on the page.
A nameless highwayman with a steely gaze and a telltale dimple in his rugged jaw.
A more casual observer might not have recognized the outlaw in the sketch, but Crispin had seen that steely gaze before, had faced it over the length of blade he had believed would end his life.
He returned the pillow to its place, smoothing out its satin cover. If Miss Darby slept with the broadsheet beneath her pillow, she must believe it to be very dear indeed. But it would be even dearer to the Scottish authorities. A bitter smile touched his lips. And dearer yet to him.
“What are you doing here?”
Shoving the broadsheet into his waistcoat, Crispin whirled around to find Miss Darby’s maidservant standing in the dressing-room doorway.
Chapter 21
Although Crispin would have thought it impossible, the young maidservant looked even more enchanting than she had on the staircase.
Her short, buttery curls were tousled and her dusky blue eyes heavy lidded from sleep. Moonlight sifted through the folds of her nightdress, rendering them translucent and hinting at the svelte curves beneath.
For a moment, Crispin could only stare, struck mute once again by her radiant beauty. He still couldn’t shake the sensation that they’d stood gazing at each other in just such a way at some other time, in some other place.
She folded her arms over her chest, giving him a sleepy scowl. “I asked you what you were doing here.”
“I came to see you,” he said, blurting out the first words that popped into his head.
“Me?”
He nodded, regaining both the use of his tongue and his ability to improvise. “When I saw your mistress at the soiree tonight, I realized you’d be here all alone.”
Her face brightened. “You were at the soiree? Oh, tell me all about it, won’t you? I was positively sick with disappointment because I didn’t get to go. Was there dancing? And French champagne? And little iced cakes shaped like hearts?”
Crispin was puzzled by her reaction. It would have been odd for even the most devoted of maidservants to accompany her mistress to such an event.
He drew nearer to her, unable to resist the temptation. “Had I known you fancied French champagne and iced cakes, I would have smuggled some out of the party for you.” He held out a hand to her. “I’m afraid all I have to offer you is a dance.”
She warily eyed his extended hand. “How are we to dance when there’s no music?”
