A Most Sinful Proposal (The Husband Hunters Club 2)

The sky lit with lightning, and a moment later there was another growl of thunder. Marissa knew she’d had enough. Pushing her way along one of the paths, she glanced up at the Beauchamp house looming above her, its dark windows like watching eyes. Lightning flashed again and just for a brief second she saw a figure, standing within the frame of the window, silhouetted against the room behind him.

He was watching her and she stared back. His hair was pale. Fair, like Valentine’s or George’s? Or was it gray, like Baron Von Hautt’s? Then the figure stepped back into the room and was gone, merging into the shadows.

“Valentine!” This time her voice was surely loud enough, but still there was no answer.

The wind suddenly gusted up around her, tossing leaves and branches. Rain splattered down in big drops, just a few at first, and then more rapidly. Wet now as well as frightened, Marissa forced her way through a great mound of tangled vines. Ahead of her lay a relatively open space, set in the middle of the garden. Low brick walls delineated what appeared to be the remains of a pond but was now little more than a muddy ditch.

There was something lying down there at the pond’s edge. Clothing and a pair of boots…Her heart began to beat harder. She reached the wall and climbed over it—it was only waist-high, but broken in places. Sharp rushes caught at her skirts and crackled under her shoes, but she no longer noticed. Now she was closer she could see exactly what was lying in the pond.

His boots were in the mud, his legs spread-eagled, while an outflung arm cradled his fair head.

She began to run.

Valentine.

Chapter 26

Marissa didn’t remember moving, but suddenly she was kneeling beside him, turning him over with hands that were surprisingly steady. His skin was pale, but not deathly so, and a trickle of blood ran down the side of his face from the lump on his brow, just below his hairline.

He must have fallen, knocked himself unconscious.

But Marissa knew that wasn’t what happened. She’d seen Von Hautt upstairs in the house, she was sure of it, and wherever the baron was disaster followed. He had already attacked Jasper, why not Valentine? Why not Marissa…?

A prickling sense of being watched brought her head around, eyes wide, searching the surrounding garden, but there was no one there. She was alone with an injured man.

What about George? Had he been attacked, too?

Marissa didn’t have time to go looking for him, and she wasn’t going to leave Valentine alone here, helpless and hurt. She began to tug at him, grasping the folds of his jacket and pulling him further from the remains of the pond. It occurred to her that if he’d fallen the other way, with his head in the muddy water, he might have drowned.

What would her world be like without Valentine Kent?

She felt dizzy at the thought. Was this the moment when a respectable young lady should faint? Marissa decided she couldn’t be very respectable because she had no intention of fainting. Instead she was angry, and getting angrier. Baron Von Hautt had attacked Valentine, her Valentine, and she was going to see that he was punished for it.

Valentine m

ade a noise, a groan, and Marissa stopped tugging at him. He opened his eyes, their color even more striking in the gathering gloom of the storm, and peered up at her as if he didn’t know who she was.

She cupped his face with her hands, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Darling Valentine, what happened?”

He looked at her blankly a moment more, and then all of a sudden understanding flooded his face. He tried to sit up. The abrupt movement must have made him light-headed because he stopped, cursing, and raised a hand to his head, examining the bump.

“Here, let me…” She tried to support him, but he didn’t want her help, and a moment later he had pushed himself to his feet and staggered over to the wall. He sat down on the crumbling bricks, still pale, but his voice was strong with resolve.

“I have to find Von Hautt.”

She came and stood before him. The rain was steady, and the feather in her bonnet was sodden, dangling down over her eyes and tickling her chin. Valentine’s hair was plastered to his skull, and the blood from his injury was mingling with the water and running down his cheek. She reached out and, with her sleeve, wiped it away.

“What happened to you?”

“I was searching for the rose. I don’t know how long he was watching me, but suddenly he was just there.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes, hard, as if he was trying to clear his head. “He said, ‘Give up, Kent, the rose is mine.’ I tried to grab hold of him, but my foot caught in some brambles, and he laughed while I tried to get free. Then George was shouting, coming along one of the paths.”

“I’ve been calling for George but he won’t answer. Valentine, tell me he isn’t hurt, too?” She was shaking now, from cold and reaction—the anger seemed to have shrunk to a little hard knot inside her.

He shook his head. “Von Hautt kicked out at me.” He put his hand to his ribs with a wince. “I fell. Hit my head on something on the ground. A stone or a brick, I think. He was looking down at me, grinning, and he said…he said…” He closed his eyes and stopped, grinding his teeth.

“What did he say?”