A Measured Risk by Natasha Blackthorne

Note: Prologue omitted.

She wanted to be brave. She wanted to be herself again. The warmth of the sun on her face was pleasant; strengthening for one who had spent so many months secluded indoors. The green scents of August mingled with the pungent odour of horses blowing on the wind from the stables. As she reached the entrance, the rustle of the horses carried to her ears and her feet seemed to stall. One more step. She’d done this before…and failed. But it would really be so easy to take just one more step.

She swallowed against a throat gone dry. No, she couldn’t. Not just yet. But today, she would look inside. At least once before she left.

Richard Bourchier, the new Earl of Cranfield, William’s cousin and life-long bitter rival, was holding a two week long hunting party and the gentlemen were all out on their mounts. But her beloved Neroli would be in the stable. She closed her eyes and pictured the mare, a glossy chestnut beauty, calmly chewing her oats. The mild eyes that always glinted with affection.

How could she fear such a gentle creature?

All right—the time had come. With her resolution to action came a trembling all over, making her question her resolve. No, she had to do this. Just one glance, then she could leave and return to the house and ring for a cup of chamomile tea.

Such a silly fear for a woman; a widow about to turn twenty-three. Even a simpleton should be able to overcome this fear. And she would overcome it. Her chest grew tight and she fisted her hands at her side, digging her nails into her palms. She looked into the stable.

Her eyes fell on the first horse inside its stall. Dust motes floated on the air as a shaft of light outlined its sleek lines; shards of white light zigzagged in the periphery of her vision. William’s black stallion, Zeus, lifted his head and snorted.

Her chest grew tighter. He bumped his stall door and her legs went weak. She gripped the doorway. Whether here at Whitecross Hall or in Mayfair, William had always ridden Zeus every day. Now the grooms kept him exercised. What a powerful animal he was, his well-muscled legs capable of doing so much damage. She’d never have thought twice about that in the past. She would have walked right up to his stall and fed him an apple and petted his glossy coat before going to see Neroli. Now, such trust was unthinkable. He began to stomp, his iron shoes ringing on the stall floor. Her heart leapt into her throat and a strong urge to run jolted into her legs.

He kicked and bucked against the stall door, intent on getting her attention, and panic slammed into her. She jerked her eyes away and pulled back. All she could see was the hoof coming down.

Cracking William’s skull.

Splattering her with his life’s blood.

Cold sweat poured from her brow and she shivered as nausea overtook her. Her vision grew dim and she dropped to her knees. Moments of quaking passed as her stomach rebelled against her.

Once it was over, she crawled along the wall, away from the stable entrance. She flung herself back to the outside stable wall, her back slamming into the wood.

The further away she managed to get, the more her heart slowed. She swallowed convulsively, trying to rid her mouth of the lingering, acrid taste of vomit. Oh, what if someone should happen along and find her in this condition? She had to get control of herself. She pressed a hand to her lurching stomach and forced herself to take slow, measured breaths. As soon as she was able, she stood on her shaking legs.

What a dismal and complete failure.

She hadn’t even managed to see her beloved mare.

This terror—this weakness—was so intolerable. Logic she could handle. She could beat any man she knew at chess. She knew the contents of all the books in the study. But something like this fear, she didn’t know how to fix.

She was about to turn twenty-three, yet found her world ruled by fears as if she were a girl. Found herself forced to live with her late husband’s cousin and his wife as an unwanted relic.

Her father, the Duke of Saxby, a man of wavering interests, had at one time, early in her childhood, become fascinated by racehorses. He’d purchased a sizable horse farm with a luxurious hall in Ireland. Though her father had eventually lost interest in the venture and her parents had spent most of their time in Mayfair or in Norfolk on their ducal estate, Anne had grown up at the Irish hall.

Anne had inherited it when her father had died three years ago. As part of her jointure, upon William’s death it had reverted to her. If not for her incapacitating fear of horses and riding in a closed carriage, she would already be living there. The lady of the manor, her days filled with purpose once more. Foremost, she’d be independent. She hated being obligated to others in any way. People couldn’t be counted on—except maybe for servants, and then only because they were paid to serve and feared to lose their position.

Behind her, the hard drum of hooves sounded on the ground; the jingle of a bit and the heavy snort of a well-worked horse. She jerked her head up.

Flashing hooves and wide, snorting nostrils dominated her vision. The creature was huge; as black as death and headed straight towards her.

Everything went dark.

“Lady Cranfield?”

Her eyes fluttered open and she glanced about, her heart racing with unnamed fear. Then she recognised the cream and blue décor of the morning room. She was safe inside Whitecross Hall. Intense blue eyes met hers. Slowly, the face above her came into focus. The high forehead with its permanent vertical lines between the eyes, the strong jaw, the long, narrow nose. Jonathon Lloyd, the Earl of Ruel. He was rubbing her wrists. His large, long-fingered hands were hard and smooth, just as she’d imagined. Yet his touch was by far gentler than she would have expected for such a fierce-looking gentleman. A thrill chased up her arms and through her whole being. The feeling fascinated her. She’d never known its like. Part of her wanted to stay still and allow him to continue caressing that sensitive area of her wrists.

The more practical side of her won. She moved to sit.

He ceased his massage and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Slowly, now.” The note of command in his deep voice comforted her.

She allowed him to press her back to the settee.

“I must have become overheated.”

He studied her for a moment, his expression revealing nothing. “Undoubtedly.”

“You mustn’t miss today’s hunt on my account. I shall be fine.”

“I don’t care to hunt for pure sport. If I need something to eat, then I’ll do it, but in the most efficient way possible. I can’t abide gathering in the woods like a gaggle of geese and spending the day aimlessly wandering, while hissing and honking over the latest gossip. I was taking a morning ride but it’s a good thing I returned when I did, my lady.” A smile softened his hard-looking mouth.

Flutters took up residence in her stomach and her palms began to sweat. He always did that to her. People in general made her edgy, but this man in particular made her a ball of pure nerves. He was no classically handsome Lancelot, but a hard-boned Viking warrior. He’d intimidated her from the moment they’d met. But right now he fascinated her. Of course he was the one who had ridden up on the black monster. Logic told her that. Why else would he be the one concerning himself with her now? Where did a man find the courage to ride a beast like that?

“My lady?”

Anne turned her head. Her abigail stood in the doorway, her apple-cheeked face contorted with concern.

“I am fine, Nellie.” Anne turned back to Ruel.

He nodded, his eyes strangely intense for a moment. “Good day, Lady Cranfield.”

He stood and walked away with his characteristic erect posture and purposeful stride. Sunlight from the windows glinted on his ash-blond hair.

“I was waiting for you, my lady, and becoming quite worried by your lateness.” Nellie’s voice broke into Anne’s observation of Ruel.

It was a gentle reproach from a favoured servant, for Anne usually napped in the afternoons. The emotionally fragile widow who must be coddled. Just how vulnerable and pathetic she’d become, even in her servant’s eyes, hit her as it never had before, and it wasn’t a very comfortable realisation.

The weak were despised in this world. They had no place—neither ruler nor servant.

She was currently a person without a place. And it was a wholly intolerable position to be in.

“I feel fine.” Oh, what an atrocious fib. She hadn’t felt fine in almost a year.

“You mustn’t push yourself, my lady. You must remember what the doctor said…”

Her servant’s words faded as Anne’s gaze returned to follow Ruel’s departure, tracing every line of his tall, broad-shouldered frame, his long, powerful-looking legs. Such strength, such tenderness, such intensity in his azure eyes. It surprised her. Richard and Francesca were so sharp tongued and witty, and those who surrounded them were a fast, fashionable crowd—almost to the point of being scandalous. They seemed to care about nothing but pleasure. She’d previously dismissed Ruel as yet another of their ilk.

It was a question she pondered over the next few days as every morning, from the safe vantage of her bedchamber window, she watched him ride off on that monster of a warhorse. Watched him interact so comfortably with Richard and his circle, his wits sharper—and at times more painful—than a rapier. She found herself studying him from the corner of her eye, tracing every inch of his strong jaw and grateful not to be the focus of his attention.

He would turn, suddenly, and fix that beautiful yet formidable blue gaze upon her. The intensity took her breath away and every particle of her being came alive, as if attuned to him. Unable to stop herself, she’d face him, gazing into his eyes…well, it was absolutely the most unnerving thing, yet she found herself transfixed, incapable of breaking the spell.

Then someone would speak, stealing his attention, and he’d turn away…

Today, however, he had not turned away. They were in the music chamber. Richard’s wife, Francesca, was playing piano, accompanied by her constant shadow, the irritatingly girlish Lady Scott—or Cherry, as she was known to her friends. The other ladies were positioned by the large picture windows, busy painting watercolours of the large oak outside. The other men were nowhere to be seen.

Ruel’s stare pierced into her. There was something predatory and hot in that stare. It came to her, slowly, that he was pursuing her; challenging her.

Yes, her. Anne Bourchier, the Countess of Cranfield. The awkward, somewhat chubby girl who had hidden in the shadows during her season. The woman with the ice-cold embrace that had repulsed her husband, a wholly oversexed gentleman who never turned down a chance to roll in the sheets.

It was unthinkable that man like Ruel could possibly be interested in her.

He knew something about living and being brave. Something she wanted desperately to know.

Spinoza’s words echoed in her head. Yes, if she could gain better understanding of what true, natural bravery was, she could grasp hold of it and free herself.

An only child left alone by her parents and always separated from others by her rank and her social awkwardness, she’d found all her answers about life from reading. One could read and study people just like books, surely. If she could speak to him and analyse his responses, she could distil that knowledge into something she could use.

He continued to stare, as if daring her to make the move that would either end the game…or take it to the next step.

A giddy sense of power washed over her. For once, she had something someone else wanted, besides her wealth. She could use it to get closer to him. To observe and learn from him. Should she just give the signal and be done with it?

She knew nothing of such matters. What if she did it wrong, made herself look a fool? Gripping her open fan in her right hand, she lifted it in front of her face.

She intoned the words in her mind with all the power of her intention.

How long should she leave it there? She closed her eyes and silently counted to thirty, each number echoed by her pulse. Then she let her hand drop, her stomach bottoming out.

She’d done it.

Oh God, she’d actually done it.

Gooseflesh rose all over her body and an itchy, twitching sensation raced down her spine to energise her legs and feet. Without daring to check his reaction, she snapped her fan closed and fled the chamber, leaving behind the others and their merrymaking.

Once safely down the corridor, she leaned against the wall, whipped her fan open and fluttered it rapidly in front of her overheated face. Boot falls echoed in the empty passage way. Her hand froze. One quick glance took in his customary fierce expression.

Her heart pounded into life. She picked up her skirts, flew down the corridor and dashed into the study.

It was empty but for the odour of cigars lingering in the air.

She stared at the doorway, still filled with edgy energy.

What would he say or do once he found she wasn’t playing quite the game he thought she was? But how else to speak to Jonathon Lloyd, the seventh Earl of Ruel, away from the bevy of hangers-on he attracted?

She turned to stare out of the window, watching the wind toss the mighty oak as if it were but a willow.

The door closed softly.

She turned. He was advancing on her. At the sight of him, she caught her breath. His tall body was long-limbed and large-boned, yet in perfect proportion. Masculine elegance. Now, as always, his hair was styled with the appropriate amount of disarray. His clothes were eminently fashionable. Yet she’d never once seen him glance in a mirror or fidget with his cravat or hair, as other gentlemen were wont to do. He didn’t seem to give a damn.

He scanned the room with a sweeping yet comprehensive stare, as if he were still on a battlefield, searching for hidden dangers. Then he narrowed his gaze on her.

Her heart fluttered with little shocks of apprehension. Heavens…to be the object of that stern, intense gaze.

“You did strike me as the studious type,” he said, advancing towards her with the deliberate motions of a warrior.

She backed all the way into the bookcase.

“Why did you run away?” His deep voice settled in her belly, rich and warm, like crème brûlée on a cold winter’s night.

“Because I wanted you to follow.” She tried to sound sophisticated and seductive, but her voice choked off on the last word.

Ruel placed his hand on the shelf above her head and blocked her path to the door. His tall, solidly muscled body leaned over her, surrounding her with the sumptuous, sinful scents of tobacco, Scotch whisky and something masculine and undeniably dangerous. A slow, sensual smile stretched his hard mouth.

He appeared different. Softer. More approachable.

At the change, her insides seemed to flip over.

“Well, sweeting, getting us off alone was a very inspired idea.” He touched one of her fallen ringlets. “I am bored to distraction with endless hunting and fencing.”

As he slowly wrapped the curl around two fingers, he brushed her collarbone. Fiery sparks tingled down her spine, so intense that she shivered and her nipples beaded, pressing against her stays. By some instinct she hadn’t even known she possessed, she arched her back, presenting herself for his assessment.

His eyes shone so vividly blue against his bronzed face that they resembled cornflowers. She swallowed tightly and wished for a long drink of claret. This more personal side of him suddenly seemed far more hazardous than his usually fierce exterior.

Well, no matter. There was nothing to fear. She would allow only as much contact as need be to get to know him a little. Since being torn from her lonely yet secure life in Ireland and thrust into society at age sixteen, she’d spent her time allowing people only as near as was comfortable. She was an expert at emotional evasion.

It should be easy to regain her control.

But now, as late afternoon sun rays played over his pale hair, turning it to the colour of winter wheat, all her carefully rehearsed words flew away.

An intimate smile, one that invited her to play, tugged at his mouth.

“In a situation like this, alone with a gentleman, it’s perfectly normal for a lady to feel some apprehension.” His hushed voice, barely audible above the piano and boisterous singing from down the corridor, accentuated their isolation. He brushed his fingertips over her cheek and his gaze became so piercing that she had to lower her eyes. “She will invariably ask herself if he will try to kiss her.”

She jerked her eyes back to his face. God, he couldn’t mean to—Not yet, surely… Peculiar, heated chills swept over her. She tried to take a step back, but found her arse flush against the bookshelf.

He leaned closer; so close that his Scotch-scented breath tickled her face. “And just in case you are wondering, Lady Cranfield—the answer is most assuredly yes.”

She should demand that he put his arm down so she could pass by and leave. She really should. But she couldn’t stop looking at his hard mouth and wondering what it would feel like upon hers. He was so close to her, his breath blew on her lips. If she moved but a fraction, she’d be kissing him.

Dear God. Her breath began to come very fast and short. Her throat went tight with a suppressed moan.

His eyes burnt as brightly as aquamarines. He looked so fierce. If he kissed her, if he dared… Oh God, it would be so harsh. That cruel-looking mouth could express itself no other way.

Excitement rushed through her, sending tingles to every point of her body, even her toes.

But no, he wouldn’t. Not yet.

He kept leaning closer. He didn’t close his eyes. Instead, he seemed to focus all the harder upon her.

Heart pounding and unable to move away, she braced herself for his assault.

His lips brushed hers, barely. A gossamer caress.

He lifted his head.

It was done.

Ended.

And it hadn’t even begun.

He held her chin, appearing so cool, so unaffected. His kiss had seemed to sear her. An urge to put her fingers to her lips arose in her. She resisted it, for it would give away too much of how she was affected.

He traced his thumb along her lower lip, slowly, deliberately, as he studied her with eyes that now glittered with something powerful and predatory. Heat pooled in her pelvis, low and spreading even lower.

She went weak all over, as if she’d lain in a sunny window seat for too long. Her knees almost buckled. She forced them to lock. To be strong.

It should not have affected her so profoundly. It had just been a peck—not a true kiss at all. William had poured out all of his skill upon her and hadn’t garnered even a tenth of the reaction in her that this man’s peck had.

Ruel traced her jaw line with his fingertips. Unthinkingly, she leaned in to his touch.

“Of course, once he has kissed her, then it’s his turn to wonder…” His voice sounded unnaturally loud to her ears. “How will she respond? Will she withdraw, or can he ignite some hidden fire?”

She sensed that he was toying with her. She’d didn’t understand flirtation—why had she imagined she could carry this ruse off? Was he making advances in order to have a laugh with Francesca and her simpering friends later? Hurt blossomed in her chest. She resented him for that. She ought to feel indignant, superior, uncaring—anything but hurt.

“Please don’t make sport of me.”

She cringed. Was that quavering, pleading voice really hers?

An infinitesimal pause. “Now, why on earth would I do such a thing?” His voice was as smooth as velvet.

“To please your vanity,” she replied, trying to regain her wits.

“Here.” He placed her hand to his chest. The contours of his muscles were hard, powerfully developed. Even more so than she’d expected. His body heat radiated through the satin and, beneath her hand, his heart beat was rapid and strong.

“Is that vanity?” He put a finger under her chin, giving her no choice but to face him. “Is it?” He gentled his grip.

The warmth in his voice settled over her like luscious hot chocolate. Melting her insides to quivering burgoo, rendering her speechless, unable to move.

“My dear, lovely Lady Cranfield, I am going kiss you again.”

Then he touched his mouth to hers, more firmly this time. Delicious, steady pressure. Her lips trembled and she clutched his lapels. He lifted his head. At the loss, a throaty, pleading moan sounded in her ears. Had it really come from her?

Clearly, now was the time for her to reassert some control over her reactions. To put him at a more comfortable distance.

“Kiss me back.” At the commanding edge in his voice, hot, sweet honey pooled in her belly.

What had she wanted to ask him? Focus? Dear God, what rubbish. She could scarcely remember her own name, much less anything else. What madness had made her think she could maintain control over him?

He traced her mouth with his tongue. Deliberately; lingeringly. This time she couldn’t hold back a moan. She had grown to dislike it when William kissed her opened mouthed. It had always seemed such an overheated, messy thing. But where was her coldness now? She was burning to know what it would feel like to know Ruel’s full kiss. She had to know—just once—or she would surely die.

Tentatively, tremulously, she opened her mouth.

He thrust inside, his tongue like a bold blade of flame as it touched hers. He tasted of whisky and something smoky, too sensual to be borne. Fire burst within her, spreading over her breasts. Of their own volition, her hands slid up his muscled arms and she gripped his shoulders and moaned again.

She twisted and pressed her breasts against his chest, trying to increase the sensation on her taut, aching nipples. However, her stays prevented it. Her frustration vibrated deep in her throat, another longer, more intense moan.

The sound startled her and, for a moment, it was as if she was staring down at the two of them. She didn’t recognise herself, but she couldn’t stop kissing him back. Couldn’t stop rubbing her breasts against him.

Who was this uninhibited strumpet? His breathing changed, growing heavier. He cupped her face with his large, long-fingered hands, angling her head. She went even more boneless and allowed him to move her as suited his wont.

He probed more forcefully with his tongue, went deeper, compelling her to open further, to melt against him more completely. He slid his hand to her neck and threaded his fingertips through her hair. He lifted the heavy mass off her neck. Cool air rushed over her nape. In one quick movement, he tightened his hold and, with gentle but firm pressure, he pulled her head back. Her shocked gasp came out as a mere whimper, muffled by his demanding mouth.

No man had ever handled her like this. She’d never even suspected a gentleman would handle a woman—even one of his whores—like this. If she had any sense left, she ought to be frightened, offended—enraged.

Instead, her nipples pebbled painfully and heat twisted through her insides.

He tore his mouth from hers. As she gasped for breath, a sense of loss hit her so intensely that she felt disorientated. She stood there, leaning against his hard body, panting open-mouthed, with her head pulled backwards by his grip.

He studied her and tightened his grasp, pulling more harshly this time. A violent shaft of desire stabbed her, womb-deep.

Warmth, and what looked very much like satisfaction, shone in his gaze.

He laid his other hand along her collarbone in what could only be called a blatant, sexually possessive manner. The skin crinkled around his eyes. He was smiling, ever so slightly. Something had just happened. She didn’t understand what it was. If only she could think, she would be able to reason it out. However, liquid warmth pooled in her lower pelvis and flowed out between her legs in a gush that came so suddenly she gasped. Her sex throbbed as if it were a beating heart.

Coherent thought was impossible.

He shifted and throbbing heat seared her, even through their clothing.

His erection.

Its long, thick, tubular weight was more substantial than William’s.

Ruel brushed his fingers against her back. Tugging, pulling.

Undoing her laces.

She froze and placed her hands on his chest. “Don’t.”

The gown slipped and she automatically clutched the dark purple silk to herself.

He took hold of her wrists, easily circling them with the forefinger and thumb of each hand. “Let the gown fall away.”

He used the voice. The one from the dreams she only reluctantly admitted to herself. The very confident, commanding tone that the nameless, faceless man used in her nocturnal fantasies. Her secret lover who would press her down and—

“I want you to remove the rest of your garments and then I want you to lie on that crimson divan and display yourself for me.”

She threw a glance at the divan, her favourite spot in this whole house. The image his words conjured—her, lying naked on the crimson velvet, open for his perusal—burnt into her brain. Her inner muscles contracted several times—hard. The folds between her legs swelled and grew slicker.

Of course, despite her wayward dreams, she didn’t really want to do something like that.

Couldn’t possibly.

She barely knew Ruel. Yet there was that innate sense that she could trust him. That she could give in to his whims and it would be safe. A secret shared between them. Temptation tingled through her, increasing with every beat of her heart.

She had never been reckless in her life. A trembling began in her legs.

She turned back to him. His features were tight with desire, his stare commanding and compelling. She wanted to be reckless with this man.

“The door is locked. The others aren’t going to come in here—the gentlemen are all occupied with fencing and the ladies are busy with their watercolours.”

She’d never allow herself the luxury of surrendering to this. For this was pure emotion and it would be giving him too much of herself.

“I won’t do it.” She had intended to make her tone resolute. That thready, pleading voice couldn’t possibly be hers.

“It would please me.” His firm tone sent a new wave of lassitude through her limbs.

Need twisted in her lower stomach and a fresh cascade of wetness slicked her intimate folds. It slid down her inner thighs.

Wait—How had they come to this moment? Where the devil was the reserve and sexual coolness that had driven William into other arms? This virtual stranger held some kind of special power over her. God. It was unthinkable. It was terrifying.

“No.” Her strident denial echoed jarringly in her ears.

He released her wrists.

She pulled the gown up high and clutched it tight. She wanted to run. She should run. But his large, strong body still stood between her and the exit. Would he really attempt to stop her if she tried to flee? Her heart pounded at the thought. Because she knew that if he put his hands on her and stopped her, especially if he did it as forcefully and firmly as he’d behaved thus far, she’d melt for him.

What a revelation! She’d never suspected such a creature existed in her secret heart, waiting for someone to come along and draw her out.

“You’d better leave now.” She pushed the words past her shaking lips.