The Scandalous Lady Sandford (Lost Ladies of London 3)

How her shaking limbs supported her weight, she’d never know. “Come,” she said as she walked past him and out into the corridor, “I’m keen to see my gift.”

“Let’s hope it’s not too thick for your dainty fingers to grasp.”

Oh, the man was incorrigible.

Once upstairs, he entered his chamber. Lillian hovered outside.

“You can come in.” Fabian sounded highly amused. “And I suggest you close the door. We wouldn’t want anyone to catch us in the act.”

“Know that your efforts to tease me are in vain.” She stepped into the inherently masculine space.

Rich oak panels lined the walls of his bedchamber. Curtains of forest-green velvet hung from the poster bed. The room reflected the dark, sensual character of its master. The pile of books on the side table spoke of the younger man who believed knowledge was power, the key to all of life’s conundrums.

He strode to the bed, and with his back to her fiddled with a wooden box. Lillian took a moment to close her eyes and inhale the aroma. Fabian's essence permeated the room. It was a different smell than she remembered. Notes of frankincense and sandalwood mingled with the fresh salty scent of the sea. The natural yet exotic fragrance spoke of maturity and mystery as opposed to youth.

“Keep your eyes closed and hold out your hand,” he said. “See how it feels when you wrap your fingers around this beauty.”

She obliged him, gasped at the sudden weight in her palm.

Fabian’s hand supported hers. “Is it not smooth and hard at the same time?”

“You speak of the wood.” Lillian opened her eyes and glanced at the pistol.

“It’s French but should serve you well while I arrange for a replacement.”

Lillian examined the barrel, hammer and frisson. She squeezed her right eye shut and aimed at the window.

“You have a steady hand.” Fabian stepped aside. “I trust you know how to load and fire the weapon?”

“Of course.” She offered a confident grin. “My brother never shirks his responsibilities.”

“That remains to be seen.”

She ignored his quip. Until he had a frank conversation with Vane, he would always believe his own version of events. “Is the pistol one of a pair?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“May I see the box?”

“Certainly.” He gestured to the bed. “Sit down if you wish. As you’ll be sleeping with me tonight, I suggest you make yourself comfortable.”

Lillian tutted. Why would she sleep with him when she had her own chamber? “Must we go over this again?”

He stepped closer and placed his hand on her upper arm. “A stranger has come ashore. Lord knows how many men seek satisfaction for your brother's misdeeds. Lord knows, there are plenty of men keen to see me fail, too.”

“One thing is certain. If Vane were here, he’d be hammering the gates demanding entrance.”

Fabian sighed. “I agree. If it’s Doyle, I suspect he’ll cling to the walls like a limpet hoping to remain undetected.” He glanced at the large bed. “You’ll sleep here tonight, where I know you’re safe.”

Something in his tone suggested she should heed his words. “You say sleep but are you certain that’s what you mean?”

He caressed her upper arm, the gesture more protective than a prelude to seduction. “You may wear your nightgown and bring your pistol, though I’d rather not wake in the night to feel something hard and solid pressing into my back.”

She didn’t have a nightgown, only her chemise. “A wall of pillows will prevent any misunderstanding. We shall keep to our own side.”

Fabian’s hand slipped from her arm. “Are we to sleep like enemies, too? Are we to remain on opposite ends of the battlefield with our defences raised?”

“For the time being.”