away from him. Then he, too, had become cold and angry, seeming to tower over her even though he had not moved. And despite his fury, she had still wanted to confess!
How could she be such a fool? Stephen Conley was no different from the other pumped up, arrogant popinjays of the ton . He was kin to the man who had sired her, then threw her to the likes of Reverend Hallowsby.
What would Stephen do if he liked a maid's smile? If that little scene was anything to judge by, he would act just as her father had. Just like the old baron, he would lie with her, creating another bastard, then forgetting her, leaving the child to a life of humiliation and degradation.
To tell Stephen the truth would be like handing him the torch to light the fire by which to burn her at the stake. He would never understand what had brought her to such lengths. He would never even try.
She knew all this, and yet barely one day in his house and already she felt vulnerable around him, susceptible to his charm and mesmerized by his sheer presence.
It was insane!
Gillian let her head drop back against the door, her heart heavy. What did it matter why this was happening? For some reason, she was weak around the earl. For her own sake, as well as her mother's, she must find a way to stop his heinous influence. She must remain strong around the man.
Her only hope was to avoid him. True, he would pursue her. She saw that her past intrigued him. She would have to be very careful. Thank heaven Gillian knew how to fade into the woodwork when necessary. With any luck, the Season would keep both her and the earl so busy she would never see him except in passing.
Then if God smiled on her, she would be safely married before anyone discovered the truth.
Yes, she decided, it was a good plan. She could manage it. She must manage it.
Feeling better, Gillian stood and stripped off her dress, taking time to wash the perspiration from her face. She needed an ally. Someone quick, part of the earl's household, and totally loyal to her. Someone not strictly moral who would help her achieve her goals.
Only one person fit that description.
Tom.
Perhaps it was time to visit the mews.
Chapter 4
Rule #5:
A lady does not run barefoot after cutthroats.
Gillian went straight to the window and looked out to judge the distance to the ground. Although not an expert climber, she had extensive experience working her way over the rough Yorkshire terrain while looking for herbs. She would have no difficulty managing the trellis, assuming she could swing out through her window far enough to grab it.
She could, of course, try to sneak out of the house through the servants' stairways, but Stephen was still awake and about. She could not risk him finding her. It would have to be the trellis.
Gillian eased open the window and squeezed her way through headfirst and backward until all but her legs were outside. She sat there a moment, breathing deeply of the London night, then abruptly changed her mind. She was used to moonswept moors, the near silence of the country, and the sweet, fresh scent of heather. By comparison, London felt crowded, noisy, and choked with noxious odors. The buildings seemed to huddle together, trapping the stench inside. Even the moon had no room to peep through. The only illumination came from gas lamps, which shed tiny pools of greasy yellow light.
It was very much like those gothic novels Amanda had so loved, and Gillian repressed a shudder of mixed fear and excitement.
Then she shook her head. She was in a perfectly respectable area of London about to cross a cobbled back alley to sneak into the mews. There were no mad Bedlamites or hideous ghouls lurking about, and it was foolish to even imagine such things.
With calm resolve, Gillian pulled herself upright to stand on her windowsill, one arm hooked inside to anchor her. The sill was slick from the evening rain, so she quickly kicked off her slippers. Her bare toes would maintain
How could she be such a fool? Stephen Conley was no different from the other pumped up, arrogant popinjays of the ton . He was kin to the man who had sired her, then threw her to the likes of Reverend Hallowsby.
What would Stephen do if he liked a maid's smile? If that little scene was anything to judge by, he would act just as her father had. Just like the old baron, he would lie with her, creating another bastard, then forgetting her, leaving the child to a life of humiliation and degradation.
To tell Stephen the truth would be like handing him the torch to light the fire by which to burn her at the stake. He would never understand what had brought her to such lengths. He would never even try.
She knew all this, and yet barely one day in his house and already she felt vulnerable around him, susceptible to his charm and mesmerized by his sheer presence.
It was insane!
Gillian let her head drop back against the door, her heart heavy. What did it matter why this was happening? For some reason, she was weak around the earl. For her own sake, as well as her mother's, she must find a way to stop his heinous influence. She must remain strong around the man.
Her only hope was to avoid him. True, he would pursue her. She saw that her past intrigued him. She would have to be very careful. Thank heaven Gillian knew how to fade into the woodwork when necessary. With any luck, the Season would keep both her and the earl so busy she would never see him except in passing.
Then if God smiled on her, she would be safely married before anyone discovered the truth.
Yes, she decided, it was a good plan. She could manage it. She must manage it.
Feeling better, Gillian stood and stripped off her dress, taking time to wash the perspiration from her face. She needed an ally. Someone quick, part of the earl's household, and totally loyal to her. Someone not strictly moral who would help her achieve her goals.
Only one person fit that description.
Tom.
Perhaps it was time to visit the mews.
Chapter 4
Rule #5:
A lady does not run barefoot after cutthroats.
Gillian went straight to the window and looked out to judge the distance to the ground. Although not an expert climber, she had extensive experience working her way over the rough Yorkshire terrain while looking for herbs. She would have no difficulty managing the trellis, assuming she could swing out through her window far enough to grab it.
She could, of course, try to sneak out of the house through the servants' stairways, but Stephen was still awake and about. She could not risk him finding her. It would have to be the trellis.
Gillian eased open the window and squeezed her way through headfirst and backward until all but her legs were outside. She sat there a moment, breathing deeply of the London night, then abruptly changed her mind. She was used to moonswept moors, the near silence of the country, and the sweet, fresh scent of heather. By comparison, London felt crowded, noisy, and choked with noxious odors. The buildings seemed to huddle together, trapping the stench inside. Even the moon had no room to peep through. The only illumination came from gas lamps, which shed tiny pools of greasy yellow light.
It was very much like those gothic novels Amanda had so loved, and Gillian repressed a shudder of mixed fear and excitement.
Then she shook her head. She was in a perfectly respectable area of London about to cross a cobbled back alley to sneak into the mews. There were no mad Bedlamites or hideous ghouls lurking about, and it was foolish to even imagine such things.
With calm resolve, Gillian pulled herself upright to stand on her windowsill, one arm hooked inside to anchor her. The sill was slick from the evening rain, so she quickly kicked off her slippers. Her bare toes would maintain
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