She lay silent for a few minutes, feeling safe, truly protected, for the first time since leaving Boston. “He became a nightmare after that. He hounded me at every turn. He accosted me at balls, trying to force kisses. He said if I did not come to him, he would let it be known I’m a harlot. He would not relent. He resorted to using my father’s heavy investments in his schemes as blackmail. He threatened to tell his wealthy friends my father was not an honest man to work with, ruining his business. I was terrified. I needed to escape the vile blackguard. So, I devised a plan.”
Anthony peered down at her with a scowl. “What plan?”
“I wrote Brandon to remind him of his promise. But he replied that he’d gotten married. I should have been devastated, but truthfully I was more annoyed my plans had been foiled. So, I resolved to travel alone instead, with a paid companion. My twenty-first birthday is in a couple days.” She sighed and fell into the daydreams that had sustained her over the past difficult months. “So, you see? My inheritance will let me leave London and do as I wish. I shall tour the continents and have as many adventures as possible. When I marry, it shan’t be to someone from London’s haute monde.”
Anthony’s body had grown still beneath her. “Yes. I see.”
She stifled a yawn, exhaustion draining her. “I foolishly believed I could ignore Orwell’s advances until then. I never imagined that he would kidnap me. I was so afraid.” She glanced up at him with a smile. “And then my gallant knight rode up on his white horse and rescued me.”
“Odin is black,” Anthony said evenly.
She snuggled deeper into his embrace. After last night, his sensual touch had replaced the fear and distaste of Orwell’s. Anthony’s easy acceptance of her impurity still left her stunned. She instinctively knew he would not hold her in contempt, even now, after she’d confessed everything. “By the way, how did you know I was abducted?”
“I had a trail put on you. I was not comfortable with how Orwell hounded you.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. She probably should be miffed at his arrogant interference. But she wasn’t. If not for his concern, her life would now be an unbearable nightmare. If she were alive at all. “I will always be in your debt, Lord Anthony.”
Another yawn rushed from her.
“We will continue this discussion later,” he said. “Including your debt to me.” He shifted her closer, wrapping her in his arms. “But for now, sleep.”
It felt perfectly natural, and so right, to place her cheek against the crook of his neck and do as he commanded. And so, she did.
Chapter Thirteen
The lush expanse of Anthony’s estate awed Phillipa. The dark green, rolling lushness of the lawns stole her breath. Rows of flowers sprawled in majestic beauty, surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges. Dozens of elm trees lined the stately driveway. Several French gardens were scattered about in wild disarray, completing the charming effect. In the light of day, what had seemed like a large manor house was in fact an elegant mansion.
Upon rousing, she had slipped from the bed, grateful to see her clothes stitched, ironed, and laid out for her. Then heat had seared her entire body realizing that the maid must have seen her wrapped in Anthony’s arms.
After a long, warm bath, she had made her way down the massive hallway and winding staircase, to the sunroom where the butler directed her. It was aptly named, facing east where the sun rose, with an entire wall of windows. The yellow, green, and silver decor of the room was stunning in its elegance, and yet, the room invited comfort.
Footmen had paraded in with eggs, bacon, cheese, cakes, and tea, to fill the sideboard. But it was the fragrant aroma of coffee that had roused her from her worrying thoughts. She had queried the footman, and had been pleased to have recognized the heady roasted scent of Jamaican blue mountain coffee, a favorite of hers.
She’d eaten her fill and waited with a feeling akin to dread for Anthony to descend. The beauty of his property could not soothe the riotous emotions that jangled inside her. Joy that he had made love to her without disdain. She felt no shame at her own part in their bed play. Though she blushed recalling all the ways he had taken her. She had never expected that making love could be so tumultuous, so delicious.
Where was he? Doubt and worry gnawed at her.
She rose, and tentatively wandered through the mazelike main level of the house. In a small, bright room, she found an easel positioned in front of the windows facing the gardens. She picked up a bit of charcoal. She’d always had an artistic bent, so she sat down before the easel and started to sketch. Her hands slashed with bold movements, and before long, the raw beauty that was Anthony appeared on the paper. She drew him as how she saw him—vital, energetic, and a little rakish. On a whim, she added wings that arched with graceful power on his back. She brushed the charcoal, her brows frowning in intense concentration as she darkened his wings, turning them a deep shade of midnight.