Page 3 of An Enchanting Dare

“Do your friends truly know you, Lady Aisling? Do they know the person you really are, the passionate woman you keep hidden and buttoned up and that makes you blush and stammer for fear people will guess what you are hiding?”

Aisling lurched to her feet, too unnerved not to react.

“Whatever it is you think you know, you’re wrong,” she said, her fingers curled into fists, too much anger in the words not to reveal he’d hit a nerve.

He sighed and sat back, watching her. “I would not betray your confidence, Aisling. Perhaps I could help you. I know you sneaked out of Rowsley House after midnight in nothing but your nightrail in the middle of December. Were you meeting a lover? Someone you feel real passion for, unlike your affectionate regard for Mr Anson? Are you in trouble, love?”

“How dare you,” she whispered, so badly shaken she couldn’t think straight. “How d-dare you suggest—”

He got to his feet, a lithe, elegant movement that brought him too close to her. Aisling took a step back, uncertain if her knees would support her much longer.

“Aisling,” he said softly.

“No. I never gave you leave to use my name.” Aisling grasped at that, at something tangible and simple she could be angry about.

“My lady,” he corrected, his voice still gentle, persuasive.

“No!” she said, shaking her head. Aisling picked up her skirts and fled, unheeding of anyone watching her flight. She needed to be as far away from Sylvester Cootes as she could get, and she needed to stay away.

“Damnation,” Sylvester muttered under his breath.

People were looking at him, their gazes speculative. Ashton Anson among them. And now the fellow was coming this way. No doubt to warn him off. He could hardly blame him, either. He’d made a spectacular mess of that when he’d only wanted to put Aisling at ease. Why he felt so certain she needed his help, needed him, he did not know. Perhaps it was arrogance on his part, and it wouldn’t be the first time. Perhaps he’d convinced himself he was helping her when it was his own selfish desires at work, and he did desire her. He could not get the wretched woman out of his mind. She was an itch he could not scratch, and he was soon going to drive himself mad.

“She hates you,” Ash said cheerfully, sitting on the edge of the fountain and trailing his fingers in the water.

“Must you look so pleased about it? It’s not like you want her,” Sylvester groused, folding his arms. He’d spent a little time with Ash in Brighton, but didn’t know him well.

Ash smiled. “No, but I am her friend and feel a responsibility for her. I should not wish to see her made unhappy.”

“And you think I mean to make her unhappy?” Sylvester demanded, irritation climbing.

“Oh, set your hackles down, Mr Cootes. I meant no insult. As a matter of fact, I think you’re good for her. I’ve never seen her speak her mind or look so animated as she does in your company. You bring out the worst in her and it is a joy to see.”

Sylvester regarded Ash with consternation, taking a moment to decide if that had been an insult or not. He decided it had not and relaxed.

“I mean her no harm. I would never—”

“Toy with her affections?” Ash suggested, smoothing his hand lovingly over his white waistcoat and admiring the way the sun glittered on the gold thread of the embroidery.

“Chance would be a fine thing,” Sylvester muttered. “As you so kindly observed, she hates me.”

Ash shrugged. “Perhaps hate is too strong a word, but she does not like nor trust you. She doesn’t trust anyone, I think.”

“Why not?”

Ash got to his feet and turned to look in the direction that Aisling had disappeared in. “I don’t know. None of us do. Perhaps you can find out, but tread gently, Mr Cootes. I should hate to have to break your pretty nose.”

Ash winked at him and sauntered off, leaving Sylvester to ponder how on earth he was supposed to gain Lady Aisling’s trust.

Chapter 2

Wolf,

If you set foot on English soil, I will murder you with my bare hands. My reputation is shiny indeed, but it is only a superficial gleam and if you come and tarnish it, I will not easily forgive the harm you do. I am in pursuit of a wife, of a woman who means more to me than I care to consider, and if she slips through my fingers because of a scandal of your making, we will be at outs.

Once I am married, I will return to Paris to introduce my bride, or you may come to England with my blessing, but please, I beg you, not yet. The English have long memories and if you think your presence will not have people reaching for their weapons, whether with words or more tangible arms, you are a fool. Your father’s name is still spoken as a curse here. You might keep that in mind.

Do not for a moment think I have forgotten you, troublesome boy. For all there is a scant three years between us, I knew you needed a father who was not a brute even more than I did. It bewilders me to discover you consider me in this light when Nic is far better placed for the position, but I should be proud if we ever came close to providing something of a family for you. Please do not force me to return and mend something you broke in a temper fit. We always guarded each other from the monsters, did we not, Wulfric? I always shall. Tell me what troubles you and I shall give what words of wisdom I can.