By Any Other Name Page 3

  Rylla stuck her head out the window, calling back to him, “Thank you!”

  “Blast it. Stop!”

  But her carriage rumbled off down the street. Rylla sank back against the seat with a sigh. It was silly to be downcast about the matter; she scarcely knew the man. But she could taste him on her lips, feel his heat as he pulled her to him.

  The thought that she would never see Gregory Rose again was a cold ache in her chest.

  Chapter Four

  Gregory trotted up the steps of the graceful Queen Anne house where his cousin lived. He had wasted the morning in a frustrating and fruitless search for his mystery woman.

  How the devil had he let her slip away? At least he had overheard her give the driver the name of a church. Certain that his lovely deceiver either lived there or was visiting a friend who lived there, he had set out this morning for St. David’s, only to discover that the pastor was a childless widower without a houseguest. After tramping up and down several of the nearby streets, Gregory had to admit that there was little possibility of coming upon “Rolly” by simply wandering around the area. That left him with only one slim chance: Cousin Andrew.

  Despite “Rolly’s” disavowal, Gregory was certain she had recognized the name Sir Andrew Rose. Andrew was Gregory’s cousin and lifelong friend, and he moved in the best circles of society. He might know the woman’s name. Moreover, he was someone Gregory could talk to freely and whose curiosity would be minimal. It was a pleasant benefit of dealing with a man who was largely self-absorbed.

  Unfortunately, he was not a man Gregory felt comfortable pinning all his hopes on.

  Sir Andrew’s valet showed Gregory into his bedroom. His cousin, still clad in his dressing gown, was contemplating the clothes his valet had laid out on the bed before him.

  “Gregory!” Andrew had a winning smile. “Didn’t know you were in Edinburgh.”

  “I haven’t been here long. Had to make duty calls on my mother’s sisters first.”

  “I’m sure we can find more interesting places to visit.”

  “No doubt.” And no doubt they would be the sort of places Andrew should avoid. Gregory had deliberately not invited his cousin to accompany him to Faraday’s last night. The less Andrew saw of gambling dens, the better. “I am surprised to find you here. I thought you might go to Baillannan for Christmas.”

  “Thought I’d let the newlyweds have their first Christmas alone.” Andrew shrugged. There was little love lost between Andrew and his new brother-in-law. In fact, both Andrew’s sister Isobel and her husband Jack had suggested that Andrew leave their house last summer.

  “I didn’t feel much like Christmas at home, either,” Gregory admitted. “I thought Edinburgh would be a nice change from Kinclannoch.”

  “Purgatory would be a nice change from Kinclannoch.”

  “Isobel tells me you’ve joined the social whirl here.”

  Andrew snorted. “If you could call it that. Aunt Adelaide has decided it’s her duty to marry me off to a wealthy girl now that I’ve managed to lose the estate. She insists on dragging me to every bloody party she can find.”

  “You’re thinking of marriage?” Gregory looked at him in surprise.

  “I suppose I must at some point. It would be more pleasant to have a wealthy wife than a poor one. But the present hunt is all Aunt Adelaide’s idea.” He gave Gregory a pained look. “I used to think my aunt was a sweet, harmless female, but the woman is relentless.”

  “It’s probably wise to assume that no female is harmless. I need your help, Andrew.”

  “You do?” His cousin’s eyebrows lifted. “Whatever for?”

  “I’m looking for a girl.”

  “Will any girl do, or are you searching for a particular one?”

  “A very particular one. I don’t know her name. But I know she is a lady, and I think she lives relatively close to St. David’s church.”

  Andrew gazed at him blankly.

  “A sort of grayish stone church,” Gregory offered. “Has one of those pie-crust arches over the doorway. A few blocks north of here.”

  “Oh, yes, I think I recall seeing it.”

  “She told me a few other things, but I’m not sure they’re accurate.”

  “You think she lied to you?” Andrew’s brows soared higher.

  “It’s a distinct possibility. She’s twenty-two years old. And she said her father was a clergyman in some small town.”

  “Good Gad!” Now Andrew’s eyebrows were in danger of reaching his hairline. “A yellow-headed termagant?”

  “She is blond,” Gregory admitted, startled by the description. “Though I wouldn’t call her a termagant.”

  “If it’s the clergyman’s blond daughter I know, she certainly is. Her name is Eleanor McIntyre, but I would not advise finding her, Greg. You’ll be disappointed.”

  “I’m willing to risk it.”

  “It’s clear you haven’t spent much time in her company. I’ll grant you, she’s a handsome female, but about as sweet an armful as a bouquet of thistles.”

  “You seem to have a decided opinion about her.”

  “I should say so. I’ve danced with her. The dancing was nice enough. But when I asked her to promenade around the room afterward, she spent the entire time lecturing me.”

  “Lecturing! About what?”

  “Easier to say what she didn’t lecture me about. The evils of gambling. The demons of alcohol. The plight of the poor. At another party, I made the mistake of asking her if she’d care to take a stroll along the gallery. She acted as though I’d proposed to seduce her. She went on about the wickedness of men scattering their illegitimate progeny all over. As if I’d ever produced a by-blow! She is the most rigid, straitlaced, rule-abiding, prudish woman it has ever been my misfortune to meet.”

  “Perhaps we are talking about a different lady.” Gregory thought about the object of his pursuit and the way her mouth had yielded beneath his the night before. “I would not term her prudish.”

  “I hope it is a different girl. Miss McIntyre is not the sort of woman any man would want to attach his affections to.”

  “Still . . . I should like to meet her, just to make sure.”

  Andrew stared at him. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Can you introduce us?”

  “I could. But that would mean I’d have to talk to her.”

  Gregory chuckled. “Come, Andy, surely she cannot be that fearsome.”

  “She scares the devil out of me.” Andrew heaved a great sigh. “But if you are determined to throw yourself into the fire, I imagine she’ll be at Lady Stewart’s Christmas ball this evening. It’s an enormous affair. I have an invitation.”

  “Cousin, you are a true friend.”

  “Hmph. Best save your thanks until after you’ve talked to her.”

  Gregory left his cousin’s home in a far better mood than the one in which he had arrived. However little Andrew’s description matched the adventurous young woman Gregory had met, it seemed likely they were the same person. How many blond, twenty-two-year-old daughters of a country parson could be visiting Edinburgh?

  Gregory ignored his cousin’s martyred air when he insisted on arriving at the party that evening at an unfashionably early time. The ball was, as Andrew had predicted, a crush. While Christmas remained an austere celebration in much of Scotland, Lady Stewart clearly had adopted a more English style. Boughs of fir decorated banisters and mantels, and fat red candles ringed by holly glowed on every available surface. Mistletoe dangled in doorways, ready to ensnare the unwary. Gregory thought of catching the girl he sought under one of the mistletoe balls, and he smiled.

  Andrew announced his intention to seek the comforts of the host’s smoking room and the bowl of wassail that awaited there. Gregory, however, insisted on a tour of the party in search of Miss McIntyre. There was no sign of “Rolly.”

  “She probably had enough sense not to come early,” Andrew opined. “I say we visit the wassail bowl. Ever
ything will look brighter afterward.”

  Gregory sighed and turned for a last look at the entrance to the ballroom. A woman and man had just stepped into the room. As they moved forward, the two young women behind them were framed in the wide doorway.

  Gregory scarcely noticed one of the ladies, for his eyes were focused solely on the tall girl beside her. The high waist of her white gown emphasized pert breasts, their rounded tops enticingly skimmed by a wide neckline. A blue patterned shawl was draped around her arms, bared by short puffed sleeves. A cameo necklace was her only adornment. Her hair, shorter than the style worn by most ladies present, was not the dark blond it had appeared the night before, but a riot of fluffy golden curls, wound through with blue ribbon.

  Gregory stiffened. “There she is.”

  Andrew followed his gaze. “The devil! That is Eleanor McIntyre.”

  His cousin continued to talk, but Gregory did not hear him. He was already making his way toward the doorway, all his attention focused on Miss McIntyre. As if she had felt his gaze, she glanced in his direction. Her eyes widened in shock, and she bolted from the room.

  Gregory started after her.

  Chapter Five

  “Amaryllis, that is the third time you’ve yawned since we left the carriage,” Rylla’s mother said to her as they walked into the crowded ballroom. “Did you stay up late reading again last night?”

  “No, Mama.” It was more boredom that afflicted her than lack of sleep. The Stewarts’ Christmas ball seemed flat in comparison to her adventure last night.

  Eleanor cast a quick, sharp glance at Rylla. “I heard you up and about very early this morning. Were you all right?”

  “Mm. I had a bit of trouble sleeping.”

  It made Rylla uncomfortable to lie to Eleanor. More than that, she would have liked very much to tell her friend about the evening before. Not just about the freedom of walking about town or the strangeness of the gambling club or even the frightening robbery. Rylla ached to spill out everything that had happened afterward in Gregory Rose’s rooms. The only thing that kept her silent was the strong suspicion that such confidences would fill Eleanor with a horrified concern for Rylla’s soul.

  She followed her parents into the ballroom, pausing on the threshold to survey the room. And there, across the crowded ballroom, stood Gregory Rose. His eyes locked on her. Rylla froze, panic shooting through her.

  “Pardon me. I left something in my cloak,” she murmured to Eleanor, then whirled and hurried off.

  Rylla wove through the new arrivals behind her with no thought to where she was going, driven only by the need to get away. She hurried down a nearly empty hall that led toward the back of the house. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Gregory shove his way through the crowd at the door. Tall as he was, it took him only a sweeping look to locate her. He sidestepped a clot of people and strode down the hallway after her, his long strides eating up the distance.

  She spotted a small door tucked under the staircase. She suspected it opened into an oddly shaped storage closet much like the one they had beneath the staircase in her own home. Her first thought was to slip inside it to hide from Gregory, but she knew he would see her and follow. She had to face him.

  She turned, waiting. When Gregory reached her, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the closet with her. As she closed the door, darkness swallowed them. The only light was a glow at the bottom of the door.

  “Well.” There was something very much like a purr in his low voice. “What a welcome surprise.” His hands went to her waist as he stepped closer. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be so eager to be alone with me.”

  “I’m not,” Rylla replied crossly, putting her hands on his chest to shove him back. He was rock solid beneath her palms. And warm. His masculine scent filled her nostrils, and she felt curiously light-headed.

  “No? Then why, I wonder, did you pull me into this room?” Gregory’s teeth gleamed in the near darkness of the small space.

  “It’s not a room. It’s a closet.”

  “I know.” He lowered his head. “A very small . . . very dark . . .” She could feel the brush of his breath on her face as he came closer and closer until his lips hovered over her mouth, a mere inch away. “Very intimate closet.”

  His lips settled on hers, a gossamer touch that deepened as his arms slid around her. His kiss was warm and soft and damp, both invitation and demand. Rylla felt the same swift spear of heat rush through her as it had last night when Gregory had kissed her. Unconsciously she curled her hands into his lapels, seeking balance now instead of pushing him away. For a moment, she clung, her mouth answering his, before reason finally returned to her.

  Rylla jerked away, pulling out of his arms. “Stop. We—we must talk.” She was appalled by the shakiness in her voice.

  “Must we?” He moved forward, his hands going to her waist again. “This is much more entertaining. You know, until last night I’d never kissed a lass who tasted of cigars.”

  Rylla frowned. “If it was so terrible, one can only wonder why you kept at it so long.”

  He chuckled. “I didn’t say it was terrible. Just . . . exotic.”

  “Perhaps you should find a cigar smoker to kiss.”

  “Ah, but that would not be nearly as enjoyable as kissing you.” His lips curved seductively.

  She took another step back, coming up against a stack of boxes. “Stop. We have to talk. No one can know of—of what I did last night. My reputation is in your hands.”

  “It is safe there, I assure you. No one will hear any of it from me . . . Eleanor.”

  “What!” Rylla’s eyes widened in shock. Good heavens, what a coil! Now she had managed to embroil her friend in it, as well. “How did you—”

  “What? Did you think I would not pursue you? You gave me a few hints. It was enough.”

  “They weren’t hints,” Rylla protested. “You make it sound as if I wanted you to find me.”

  “Didn’t you?” There was a certain smug male satisfaction in his tone. It was, she decided, extremely annoying.

  “Of course not! The last thing I wanted was for you to search for me.”

  “I think perhaps you did.” His thumbs began a slow, enticing circling. “Makes one wonder whether you wanted to see if I would follow. If I wanted you enough.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “I don’t think I am.” He drew closer, so that only a fraction of an inch lay between their bodies all the way up and down. Somehow that infinitesimal space separating them was more stirring than if he had actually touched her.

  There was a crack, loud in the silence of their hideaway, as the handle of the door turned. Rylla felt the reaction go through Gregory like a shot even before the meaning of the noise registered. He pivoted, pulling her farther back.

  The newcomer paused after opening the door, admitting a slender shaft of light. Rylla could now see the stacks of boxes, trunks, and other articles stored in the small room. The space formed by the staircase above was long, the ceiling slanting downward to the rear. A narrow central passageway ran through the middle of the trunks and boxes. Gregory whisked Rylla up the aisle into the deepest recesses of the closet, bending down to avoid knocking his head on the sloping ceiling.

  As a footman stepped into the closet, Gregory ducked behind a pile of boxes and sat down on a trunk, pulling Rylla into his lap. They were hidden by the stack in front of them . . . as long as the servant didn’t go any deeper. Rylla wriggled back as far as she could. She felt Gregory jerk at her movement, and his arms tightened around her waist.

  They waited, trapped, as the footman searched the high shelf on the side wall of the closet, muttering beneath his breath. With each passing moment, the intimacy of their situation grew. Encompassed by the darkness, Rylla was intensely aware of her other senses.

  Gregory had curled his body protectively around her, so that she seemed surrounded by him—the heat and scent of his warm male body, the thud of his heart and the
rise and fall of his chest beneath her ear, the strength of his arms, the stirring of his breath upon her hair. That pulse of hard flesh beneath her.

  His body grew tauter, every muscle and sinew hardening. Rylla heard the beat of his heart increase, felt his chest rise and fall more rapidly. A soft insistent ache began to blossom between her legs. She shifted her position, and Gregory’s hand clenched convulsively in her skirts. The footman edged toward them. Rylla’s nerves were stretched to the snapping point.

  “Ha!” The footman slid something from the shelf. A moment later the door opened, then closed, and they were once more alone in the room. Rylla went limp with relief. Gregory, too, relaxed, his arms slowly sliding from her body.

  He let out a long sigh, his breath ruffling her hair. He curved one hand around her throat and slid it up to cup her chin. He turned Rylla’s face to him, and his mouth fastened on hers. This kiss was not the soft coaxing of his earlier kisses, but urgent and demanding. Curving one arm around her back, he let his other hand drift down her throat and onto her chest. Rylla jerked in surprise as he cupped her breast. But it was, she discovered, a delightful sensation. She made no protest, letting the pleasure wash through her.

  Gregory’s mouth roamed over her throat. Rylla’s head fell back, offering the vulnerable flesh to his touch. She could hear the harsh rasp of his breath. He mumbled something unintelligible against her skin. His hand left her breast, sliding lower. “Eleanor . . .”

  The name jarred Rylla out her pleasure-drenched daze. “No!” She jumped off his lap and staggered back, holding her hand out in front of her as if to ward him off. “Stop.”

  Chapter Six

  Gregory jerked forward as she left his lap, his hand lashing out and grabbing her skirts. He hung there for a charged moment, his eyes locked on hers, the only sound in the room the harsh in-and-out of his breath. He closed his eyes and opened his hand, letting her dress fall free.

  “You must stop calling me that.” Rylla edged out of the piles of storage. “I am not Eleanor McIntyre.”