The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

Was he annoyed at Mr Wycliff’s interference?

“This is dreadful,” she said, hoping for some reassurance that the horrible weather had affected his mood.

“We’ll be home soon.” Despite his abrupt tone, his choice of words eased her fears.

They galloped along the lane in silence. Lucius dodged the flying debris as the wind hurled broken branches and twigs in their path. Mud flicked off the horse’s hooves. The wind’s icy breath nipped at her cheeks, forcing her to press her face against Lucius’ chest.

Holding him—hugging him—brought immediate relief.

When they reached the castle, Lucius rode directly to the stables. Jonah appeared, his wet greatcoat plastered to his broad shoulders, his brown hair fastened at the nape with black ribbon. Were he a footman in a grand house, the mistress might summon him just for the pleasure of gazing upon his impressive physique.

“Robert needs help with the carriage.” Lucius removed his hat, shook off the excess water and gave it to Jonah. “He’s but half a mile along the track. Take Phaedrus and a length of rope. I’ll settle Miss Atwood, then saddle another horse and meet you there.”

Jonah nodded. “And if the carriage won’t budge?”

“Return with the horses.”

“Aye, sir.” Jonah mounted the black stallion and darted off into the dismal night.

Lucius turned to her. “We need to get you inside. Get you something warm to drink. Wash the mud off your feet.”

Without warning, he scooped her up into his strong arms and carried her across the cobbled courtyard. Not once did he lose his grip while pushing through the violent storm.

They entered the house near the servants’ hall, moved along the dark, narrow passages and past the small chapel with barely room for a pew. Lucius carried her into the drawing room, an inherently masculine space with burgundy furnishings and walnut tables. While the sight of lit candles and the roaring fire warmed her instantly, the low timber ceiling added to the stifling tension.

“Are you still angry with Mr Wycliff?” she said, as Lucius lowered her down onto the blanket spread across the sofa.

“Wycliff was acting in your interests.” He stared at her muddy feet though his mind was elsewhere. “For that, I am grateful. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment.”

He left the room and returned minutes later carrying a porcelain washbowl and a towel. He knelt before her, placed the bowl of water on the floor and captured her right ankle.

Her breath hitched.

Conflicting emotions clashed in his eyes—sadness, the faint flicker of desire. He exhaled deeply as he pushed the dirty hem of Sybil’s gown up to her bare calf and used the linen square to wash away the mud squelching between her toes.

“Are you worried about Robert and Samuel?” she said, watching him as he cleaned her foot as if she were as delicate as a doll.

He glanced briefly at the closed curtains moving back and forth as the wind found its way in through the shutters. “I should go to them,” he said, his anxiety evident. Yet he cupped her arch and dripped warm water over the bridge of her foot.

“Then go,” she urged. “I can attend to this task.”

“You should remove your wet cloak before you catch a chill.”

“I will.” She offered a reassuring smile. “By the time you return,

I shall have clean feet and dry clothes.” And she would attempt to discover what had brought about this melancholic mood.

A strange maudlin silence captured him again.

“Lucius, you should help Robert.” She snatched her foot from his grasp, bent down and took the linen square. “Samuel is so slight and hasn’t your strength, especially in this heavy downpour.”

Offering a huff and a mumbled curse, he stood. “Tomas is here and will watch over you until I return.” He took the towel and wiped the rivulets of water trickling down from his hair to the open neck of his shirt. “I cannot envisage being longer than an hour.”

“Go,” she said, laughing lightly. “Before the road becomes impassable.”

“You have the freedom of the house. Tomas will prepare supper if you’re hungry.”

“Go.”