The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)

“In that case, you’re in for a treat—our cider is made on the estate.” Hughes arrived, and Stacie delegated to the butler the task of providing Camber with a mug of their best cider before seeing him on his way.

“Good day, my lord,” Camber said, addressing Frederick, now buried in the book.

Frederick didn’t look up, just raised a hand. “Again, my thanks—I’ll be in touch when I next have an acquisition that requires your expertise.”

Camber tried but failed to hide an indulgent smile, bowed to Stacie, and followed Hughes from the room.

Stacie ambled back to the armchair and sank into it. Smiling indulgently herself, she watched Frederick pore over the old tome; he was completely and utterly engrossed.

The sight reminded her of the promise she’d made when she’d been negotiating with him over his appearances at her musical events. “I’d forgotten I guaranteed you access to my great-grandmother’s musical legacy.” When he looked up, blinking, she continued, “The old musical texts and folios of music at Raventhorne Abbey—remember?”

“Ah, yes.” Renewed interest lit his eyes.

“I’m sure Ryder and Mary won’t mind if we borrow the books and folios for a while.”

Frederick studied her eyes, then said, “We can call on Ryder and Mary when next we go up to town.”

She smiled and nodded. “We’ll have to remember.”

Yes, they would, because if he had his way, they wouldn’t be returning to London for months.

Stacie stretched, then waved a hand at his recently acquired tome. “If you’re finished for the moment, can I have a quick perusal?”

He glanced down at the book he’d only just started examining, then closed it and handed it to her. He watched as she took it, laid it in her lap, and carefully opened the cover.

He studied the sight of her poring over the book. The past weeks with her here, just him and her and the staff and estate workers, had been his notion of idyllic. He saw no reason for the interlude to end before it needed to—even in pursuit of rare manuscripts.

It was something of a minor shock to realize that, above all, he wanted to keep Stacie to himself—to hoard her smiles, to greedily capture all her attention, to selfishly wallow in her very presence and exclude every possible distraction.

Selfish, certainly.

In love, indubitably.

Luckily, with respect to his actions and the motives that drove them, his wife appeared to be blissfully blind.

Stacie woke in the depths of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep. She knew it was deep night from the quality of the silence that blanketed the Hall. Even outside, bar the distant hoot of an owl, all lay quiet under a cloudy and moonless sky.

Frederick lay softly snoring beside her; she didn’t want to wake him by tossing and turning, so she lay still and willed herself to sleep.

To no avail.

Finally, she slipped from beneath his arm, flung her robe about her, found her slippers and eased her feet into them, then crept from the room. There was just enough light to see her way as she walked quietly through the gallery, down the stairs, and turned to

ward the kitchen. A glass of warm milk was a childhood remedy for wakefulness she’d continued to use into adulthood; for her, it was usually effective.

She pushed through the swinging green-baize-covered door, walked down the deeply shadowed corridor beyond, and passed under the archway at its end, into the large kitchen. The servants’ hall stretched to her left; she turned right, toward the kitchen proper and the long deal table that ran down its length. A glow emanated from the huge hearth in the wall beyond the table’s end, assuring her that the kitchen fire, although banked, still burned. Focusing on the hearth, smiling, she headed for the welcoming glow.

To her right, a shadow shifted.

Startled, she half turned—only to have a man loom before her. Before she could gasp, let alone scream, he locked his hands about her throat.

And squeezed.

She tried to raise her knee, but he shoved her against the table and crowded close, his body pinning hers. Shocked, she stared into a face shadowed by a hat pulled low and a muffler wound about nose and chin; all she could see was a pair of dark eyes gleaming malevolently at her.

Instinctively, her hands had risen to where his fingers cruelly gripped. Desperate, she tried to pry his hands away, but couldn’t budge even one finger.

Her lungs heaved and strained. She was starting to choke; her head was swimming.