Page 6 of Unmasking the Earl

His mouth twisted with bitterness. It was not his place to have such thoughts about any young female at this time. It was wholly inappropriate. But his self-imposed celibacy had taken its toll, it seemed.

He cast another glance at Miss Blythe and wondered how she would look in daylight. What exact shade of bronze was her hair, and was it light or dark? What color were her eyes?

Why had Wycherley picked her to show him the way to the maze? Did the blackguard have designs on her? Was she to be the replacement for Lady Lucy if he couldn’t prize her away from Mr. Carnforth?

Miss Blythe didn’t fit the captain’s usual choice of women. She was too fresh, too unsullied, and apt to blush at the tiniest thing. His employer’s preferences tended toward women with more gloss and experience, mature but still beautiful. Women eager to taste forbidden fruit.

Cassandra Blythe was more like Ned’s sister, Georgiana. She, too, had been fresh out of the schoolroom, innocent and untouched, but with a heart both great and giving.

His throat tightened. Where on earth was she? How could Georgiana have vanished so completely, like a bauble in a conjuror’s trick? She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be. He’d feel it if she were. No, that very same Captain Wycherley, for whom he was now working, had surely dishonored her, ruined her, and hidden her away so he could carry on his whoring and gambling with impunity.

But Ned would make him pay. When he had the proof, Captain Wycherley would pay dearly for what he’d done.

“Mr. Ganstridge?”

The lady’s voice was soft, like falling leaves in autumn, caressing the air. “Hmm? I mean, yes, Miss Blythe?”

“Could you slow down a little? I am in no particular hurry.”

Well, she should be, he thought grimly. Tongues were probably already wagging at her prolonged absence, and if it were known that she had departed in the company of the notorious Captain Wycherley, she could find herself in very deep water.

“I believe we must, miss,” he said. “My master would wish you returned to the ball posthaste.”

And Ned wanted to get her back there, too. She was far too tempting a morsel, and having just escaped the jaws of the leopard, she wouldn’t want to find herself in the clutches of the lion.

“Mr. Ganstridge, what amuses you so?”

He shook his head. “I beg your pardon, miss. Foolish thoughts. I do but laugh at myself.”

“A servant who laughs at himself? How very intriguing. Is it a jest you can share?”

It most certainly wasn’t. How much farther until they reached the damned house? This delectable young woman, with her voice of honey, made his body react in a way that staggered him.

He asked gruffly, “Did you throw those violets at me?”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Of course not! Why ever would you think so?”

Because, clearly, he was an idiot with too much imagination and a soft spot for a pretty face.

“I didn’t, really,” he said. “But I couldn’t tell from your face what you were thinking. You might have confused me with somebody you knew.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “You really shouldn’t have stared up at me like that. It was unutterably rude.”

“I am often told I forget my place.”

“I can well believe that. And you forget it now.”

He realized they had slowed their pace to nothing during this sparring, which wouldn’t do at all. He needed to get Miss Blythe back to the house quickly, before he said—or, God forbid, did—more than he ought. For if he took advantage of their situation, he would be no better than Wycherley.

“I really think we must hurry, miss.”

“It’s too hot to rush about, Mr. Ganstridge. When you saw me at the window, I was trying to cool down. And the violets were wilted, so I was just throwing them away. I don’t see the point in getting all hot again by hurrying.”

He ran a finger around the inside of his rough collar. He was feeling the heat, too, but for a very different reason. He must get her back now. It was imperative. He racked his brains for a way to speed her up.

“Miss Blythe, please mind your skirts.”

Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”