At Last the Rogue Returns (Avenging Lords 1)

Lydia cast her gaze to the old oak chest serving as a dressing table, to the silver brush far from arm’s reach. She would have to distract him if she had any hope of escaping. And escape she must. As long as Lord Randall remained at Dunnam Park, this house was no longer a safe haven.

“Then if you won’t show me your back again, at least let me feast upon your naked body.” Had she eaten dinner, her stomach might have sent a morsel back up to her throat with that comment.

Lord Randall offered a confident smile. “My dear, you don’t know how it pleases me to hear you say that. Though I hate to boast, prepare to be impressed.”

The silk drawers slipped past his hips, and his manhood sprang free from a … from a … Good Lord. The man was bald below the waist. Lydia wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and erase the image from her mind, but there was no time for modesty.

“I knew that a lady of your

modern thinking would approve.” Hands on hips, Randall stood proudly despite the fact his drawers were gathered like silk shackles around his ankles. “It’s all the rage in France you know.”

Lydia shuffled back towards the door as her mind conjured an image of his valet on bended knee, wielding a blade with an unsteady hand. “Again you seem to have mistaken my shocked expression for one of approval. In truth, I find your toilet habits rather … rather repulsive. What I desire is a strong, virile man”—namely Lord Greystone—“not one brimming with effeminacy.”

Rudolph Randall’s chin dropped.

With no time to linger, Lydia swung around, unlocked the door and charged down the narrow stairs. Randall’s curses reached her ears, along with odd shuffles and then the thud of a heavy weight hitting the floorboards.

“Come back here,” Randall shouted. “These blasted drawers.”

But Lydia was at the servants’ door. She dashed down the cold stone steps, down and down until at ground level. Once outside, she took a second to catch her breath. She didn’t know whether to punch the air with relief or frustration, for it was then she realised her feet were bare. Running through the woods proved difficult by day when wearing boots, only a fool would attempt it barefoot at night.

“Miss Lovell?” Randall’s angry voice echoed in the distance. “Wait. Come back.”

With no choice but to run, Lydia gathered up the hem of her nightdress and hurried along the flagstone path. Once at the gravel drive, she had no choice but to wince and grit her teeth as the tiny stones dug into her soles. Sharp pains shot up her legs, but still, she pressed on. Relief came when she reached the grass verge, and the coolness of the dew-soaked grass soothed her sore feet.

And then the rain came.

The first few droplets landed on her cheeks. Before long she was blinking away the water from her lashes, and then the heavens opened, the torrential downpour pelting her skin.

Drenched and tired, she breathed a sigh when she arrived at Greystone’s gate. She opened it with ease, noted that someone had cleared the weeds and debris. The glow of candlelight flickered in the window of the gatehouse. She recalled Greystone made mention of moving Mr Roberts and his family. But it was not that man’s help she needed. Mr Roberts’ embrace would not ease her fears and banish her nightmares.

Lydia pressed on, her sodden garment dragging her down. Numb feet helped her cope with the pain of navigating Greystone’s drive. When she reached the front door her knees almost buckled, and she gripped the brass knocker and let it fall.

She waited.

No one came.

She thumped the door and listened for the sound of footsteps.

Still, no one came.

Lydia descended the steps and surveyed the facade. The curtains were closed, not even a sliver of candlelight pierced the night. A rumble of thunder in the distance heightened her anxiety.

The only hope of gaining access was through the servants’ quarters. It was that or seek shelter with Mr Roberts. Hurrying around to the back of the sprawling mansion, she stopped abruptly. Golden rays of light beamed out onto the terrace from a long row of French doors. One was ajar.

Curiosity carried her forward.

Lydia mounted the stone steps, crept to the narrow wall separating the two sets of doors and peered inside.

The sight stole her breath.

It wasn’t the glittering chandelier or the host of standing candelabras that brought a lump to her throat. It wasn’t the way the light reflected on the plates of looking glass hanging in gilt frames or the warmth created from the polished oak floor.

No.

Greystone stood in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but his breeches. His dark hair looked damp, and she couldn’t help but sigh when he pushed a rakish lock back from his brow. Opposite him, Dariell stood in the same relaxed dress. He was more slender than the viscount but the muscles in his abdomen rippled with every movement.

“Have you had enough now?” Dariell said in his calm, soothing voice.