For Your Arms Only by Linden, Caroline (best fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

cold—but as she had realized in London, she hadn’t known him as well as she thought. It was Granny who worshipped him, and she had taught her granddaughters to do the same.

Now that Papa was gone, it seemed she was learning ever more unsavory things about him. Cressida had been working on the journal and made some progress, but it was years old and probably wouldn’t tell her anything about where he was now. Perhaps that was best. She would continue working on it, because she couldn’t bring herself to leave a puzzle undone, but only for enlightenment on who her father really was. If he truly was gone for good, it might be her only chance to know.

The cold of the stone gradually seeped through her skirts, and she rose to go back inside. The house was quieter when she did, the servants no longer standing at attention in the hall. The gentlemen who lived nearby must have gone home, and it was past the hour when Mrs. Hayes usually retired. From the drawing room she could still hear Julia and her cousin Emily, talking with John and Callie. She hesitated, not wanting to be rude but also not wanting to join them.

“Cressida.”

Her heart lurched. She swung around to see Alec, in his greatcoat and hat. He must have come in from the side door, closer to the stables, and missed crossing her path outdoors. He looked tired and dirty, but the sight of him unleashed a sudden burst of happiness within her.

“Yes?” she said, a little breathlessly.

Laughter drifted from the nearby drawing room, Julia’s voice and Emily’s. His eyes moved to the doors, then back to her face. “I trust you enjoyed the evening?” She nodded. He sighed, peeling off his riding gloves and stuffing them into his pocket. “Excellent. Might I…might I have a moment to speak to you?” Again she nodded, and walked with him in silence to his study.

A fire was already burning, and the lamps lit. A servant appeared to take away his coat and hat. Alec had to look away from Cressida until the footman left. She was temptation itself in that ocean green gown, with her hair pinned high on her crown and one long wisp curling down her cheek. It made him think of the other day, when he had held her up against the library door and her hair had tumbled loose as he dragged his fingers through it. He gestured toward the settee, and then sat as far from her as possible. “I must beg your pardon. I’ve spent this week looking into your father’s disappearance, and have found no trace of him.”

“Why must you beg pardon for that?”

Because he had thrown himself into that effort to avoid the house—and her. If he could locate her father, she would be able to leave his house before he lost whatever remained of his honor and seduced her, which had been on his mind almost every minute since he held her in his arms and tasted the soft skin at the nape of her neck. He didn’t want her to leave; quite the contrary. But he adamantly wanted her to have the freedom to leave. He knew all too well how it felt to be hemmed in and powerless in life. The best thing he could do for her—aside from controlling his private desires—was give her back what she had lost. So he traced every connection and possibility, riding out early in the morning and coming home late at night, making no secret of his object and paying generously for information. Stafford would have an apoplexy when he heard how much money Alec had spent in pursuit of this one sergeant. “Because I promised to keep you better informed of my actions,” he said. “In my defense, I can only say that it was tedious and tiring, and involved roaming about the country asking a great many people very dull questions.”

She nodded soberly. “I see.”

“I have looked from here to London and back, at every town on the main road and some off to the sides, and no one has seen him or heard from him since he vanished.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Alec didn’t feel compelled to tell her the uglier details, how many bills George Turner had left unpaid, nor how many of those publicans and merchants had expressed an interest in getting their hands around Turner’s neck, if not his purse. He didn’t tell her about the retired soldiers and officers who seemed oddly relieved Turner had gone missing, nor about the well-to-do widow who claimed he had been engaged to her even as she spat on the ground at the mention of his name. None of that changed the fact that all his inquiries had come to nothing. He would wait a bit longer, in case his questioning flushed out information later, but for once Alec was at a loss. The man had simply disappeared, along with his horse and whatever baggage he had taken to London. He didn’t want to discuss any of that with Cressida.

There was, however, the encounter in the library between them. She was a guest in his mother’s home, for pity’s sake, and he had trapped her and held her and kissed her. But when he tried to form an apology, it wouldn’t come; he knew he should regret his actions even as he thought about repeating them every day. Avoiding her hadn’t dimmed the desire at all, and now she was here beside him, more tempting than ever and not looking reproachful in the slightest. It was a siren call to the beast inside him, tempting him to close the distance between them and take up where he had left off that day, when she had been aroused and seductive and his for the taking.

But he was not that beast. Cressida Turner had a loyal but wary heart, and it had been broken once before. How could he ask her to