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Inside, she had to be quaking.
But, dammit, he wanted to see her crack.
What was keeping her in check? Certainly not her own reserves. It had to be Chadwick.
Damn him to hell.
The assassin shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling that familiar rage boil up inside him. He'd been airmailing it for days now. But it was intensifying refusing to be quieted. It spilled over, surged through his veins, pulsed through his blood. He gave in to it, savoring its fire, although outwardly he knew his veneer was intact. No one watching would know the fury lashing through him.
He had to act. To vent his rage before it consumed him.
It was a good idea anyway. He could use the physical exertion. It would keep him razor-sharp for when he eliminated the Colby women. He'd view his next victim as target practice. He'd arrange things perfectly. Everyone would make the obvious, terrifying assumption that this latest murder was tied to the three unresolved crimes that had preceded it. Except for Lady Breanna, who'd be gripped by the horrifying prospect that this new killing was unrelated to the others, that it was a brutal warning just for her.
No one would guess it was both.
As for the killer's identity, that would feed right into the ton's natural inclination to believe there could never be a murderer among them. So deviant a mind must belong to a common criminal.
The stupid fools. There was nothing common about him.
A smile curved his lips as he visualized the pandemonium that would ensue. Both guests and hosts would be thrown into a panic. As a result, his remaining hours at Medford Manor would be thoroughly enjoyable.
Enjoyable but hectic. Too hectic to act.
He'd wait a day or two before absconding with the grieving young widow. Then, he'd ride to her home, grab her from there.
And have a lovely piece of merchandise to ship to Calais.
He glanced about, pleased to see that the gentlemen had split up, since riding conditions were not optimum. Some of them had remained outside to fish or shoot, some were heading inside to play whist. And some were going off by themselves, to enjoy a late breakfast or a strong brandy.
No one would remember who was where, and who was missing.
It was time to lure his target out to die.
Lord Richard Hart found the message in the pocket of his coat.
He had just left the manor, and was about to join a group of men who were fishing at the stream, when he discovered the folded slip of paper. Puzzled, he pulled it out, smoothed open what looked to be a sheet of feminine stationery. An anticipatory glint lit his eyes as he read the words, and the signature.
Ten minutes later, he was on horseback, galloping off to his destination.
He eased forward in his saddle, excitement rippling through him. He'd always been lucky with the ladies. Even now, at forty-five years of age, women were drawn to him. They were attracted to his still firm physique, his natural charm, and, of course, his staggering fortune. He'd been approached by many women, with every offer from a swift, one-time liaison to a long-term mistress. He'd accepted more than his share. Rarely did the identities of those who approached him come as a surprise. He had a sixth sense for knowing when someone wanted him. But never in his wildest dreams had he guessed that Lady Breanna Colby was among them.
He smiled, urging his horse to pick up speed. According to her note, she wanted to meet him on the far western side of the estate, away from the guests and the construction, where she knew they could be utterly alone.
Her only stipulations were that he told no one he was corning and that he brought the note with him, so she could destroy it and eliminate any chance of discovery. Their tryst, she'd declared, had to remain a secret.
That was fine with him. The less people who knew, the less chance there was of his new wife finding out
The notion of Lady Breanna wanting him, yearning for him, made his pulse race. True, this was one time he hadn't guessed, hadn't had an inkling of her desires.
But Breanna Colby was the ultimate lady, a woman who kept her feelings and her desires hidden
The realization that he was to be the one to free them made his mouth water.
He glanced back at the manor, secure in the knowledge that his young, inexperienced wife was sitting among a cluster of women, chatting on some inane subject. Her youth and virginity, which a few short months ago had seemed so incredibly appealing, had quickly lost their luster. She was malleable enough, but passive, passionless. As a result, he was fast growing tired of having her in his bed.
Lady Breanna “was different. Inexperienced, perhaps, but not passionless. After all, she was the mirror image of her cousin. And the heated expression on Sheldrake's face when he looked at his wife spoke volumes, proclaimed the exquisite Lady Anastasia to be all fire and initiative in bed.
So it would be the same with her cousin.
