Miles stared through the darkness, contemplating whether he should escort the lady safely through the woods. But he had no desire to play the knight errant. When it came to the delectable Miss Lovell his thoughts were far from noble—they were downright immoral.
Chapter Three
Miles was still staring at the cluster of trees when Drake’s deliberate cough dragged him from his reverie.
“It’s been some time since I’ve seen you so enthralled with a woman,” Drake said, his tone full of mischief. “Some time since I’ve seen the hazy look of desire warm your eyes.”
Miles snorted. “Then you mistake drooping lids for a sign of affection. I’m simply tired and need my bed.”
“Is that so?”
In all his dalliances, Miles had never felt an instant tug of attraction. But it would pass. Celibacy did that to a man. And it had been almost a year since he’d shared a woman’s bed.
“The lady piqued my interest,” he admitted. “You know how I thrive when faced with a challenge.”
Could he turn hatred to lust? That was the question.
“Do you not have enough problems without dallying with the locals?” Drake patted his mount and took hold of the reins. “Your brothers will not simply sit back while you take control of their company.”
“God damn, Drake. How many times must I tell you? Those fools are not my brothers.” Miles struggled to maintain his calm composure whenever anyone mentioned his father’s illegitimate offspring. “And it is no longer their company.”
When it came to Greystone Shipping, Miles now held the majority share. Although his father had wished for his favourite sons to inherit his fortune, Stephen and Edwin Harridan-Jones—derived from their mother’s name—lacked business acumen. The fools preferred brothels to boardrooms, lost more money in gaming hells than they did from ships sunk by storms in the Indian Ocean. For years Miles had craved nothing other than grabbing their heads and rubbing their noses in their defeat.
“They’re your father’s sons,” Drake replied, deliberately goading him. “Does that not make them family?”
“That makes them half-brothers.” The bastard sons of a whoremonger. Anger bubbled in Miles’ throat. “Don’t taunt me, Drake, not tonight. Not when I have other matters to contend with.”
Drake inclined his head in acquiescence. “You fear Miss Lovell has grounds for complaint?”
Miles sighed. A hollow feeling settled in his chest. “I doubt the lady would have taken the trouble to come here otherwise.”
“Then it’s time to see what awaits us beyond the gates.”
With some trepidation, Miles gathered Valiant’s reins and drew the stallion towards the entrance.
If horses were named after their owners, Miss Lovell’s mount might be called Brave or Gallant. Then again, Temptress would be more apt. How was it her eyes teased him with their innocence while still conveying disdain? How was it every derogatory word that flew from her lips left him more intrigued?
Miles shook his head to banish all thoughts of the lady from his mind then gripped the gate. Anger surfaced again when the rust coating the iron bars stained his riding gloves. “Damn Gilligan.” If the entrance to Greystone Manor was any indication, a blind fool could see that Miss Lovell spoke the truth.
“While I know you’ve been absent for some time, I didn’t imagine you’d have to force your way inside,” Drake said as Miles kicked open the gate and the damn thing nearly came off its hinges. “Tell me I have not postponed my return to London to slum in a hovel.”
“A hovel? Greystone Manor is the finest example of Jacobean architecture in England.” Miles considered the shabby gates and the plethora of dead weeds and leaves blocking their path. “I swear I shall bury that bastard Gilligan if half of what Miss Lovell said is true.”
Guilt pricked his conscience. Mr Gilligan had been a loyal and trustworthy steward for the ten years he’d been employed. Well, at least for the first five when his mother, Lady Greystone, served as mistr
ess of the manor.
They led their horses through the entrance and Miles came to a halt outside the gatekeeper’s cottage. “Wait. Mr Gilligan lives here. Let’s see what the fellow has to say for himself.”
One did not need to study the stone cottage in the daylight to note the thick carpet of moss covering the thatched roof, or the broken panes in the leaded windows. A strange smell clung to the air in the overgrown garden. That of roots rotting in the soil. That of death and decay.
Drake strolled over to the cottage shrouded in darkness, rubbed dirt off the window and peered inside. “Except for a few hungry mice, the house is empty.”
Had Miles not received his monthly correspondence from Gilligan, he might suppose the steward had met his maker. But then it had been months since Miles left for England. Even so, it was a year since Miles granted him the funds to replace the rotten roof, a year since he received word the job was done.
“I doubt anyone has lived here for years,” Drake continued. “Did you send word to the steward to inform him of your return?”
“As we were originally heading to London, I thought to deal with it then.” Oddly, Miles had been overcome with the sudden urge to ensure things were in order at home before seeing to the downfall of his half-brothers. “As far as Gilligan knows I’m still brokering deals in Assam.”