A Man Of Many Talents by Deborah Simmons

Christian jerked his attention from the intriguing curve of her backside back to the business at hand. “If so, you won’t find it tonight,” he replied. And if, by some miracle she did, he wasn’t about to use it. He didn’t care if ten men and a boy were down there banging.
    “Why not?” she asked, glancing up at him sharply. Christian began to realize that the lovely Miss Parkinson did not like to hear any negatives. This was one determined woman. Too bad he couldn’t redirect that steely res olve in a different direction…
    Christian tried to look just as resolute. “Because it’s too dark and far too dangerous. Do you have any idea what’s below?”
    “No,” she admitted.
    Christian shook his head at her recklessness. Brave and foolish. “There could be any sort of old cellars, dungeons, passages, and steps, all of them crumbling, and I for one don’t care to be entombed down there when either we fall or our knocking friend, who already knows his way around, locks us up!”
    At last he seemed to have gotten through to her, for she stopped her searching and straightened, visibly disappointed. And for some reason, seeing that slight droop to her mouth made Christian feel an urge to remedy it. “Aren’t there any plans to the house, made perhaps when the additions were built?”
    “How would I know?”
    “Well, you are the owner of the place.” When she looked nonplussed, he felt a pang. The Governess obviously wanted to act immediately, and without a firm and immediate plan, she appeared a bit lost. “ Tomorrow we’ll start searching the library,” Christian promised.
    Miss Parkinson nodded, tight-lipped. “I just hate to give up now when we’ve finally made contact. Do you suppose he is trying to direct us to a specific spot?”
    “I don’t think so. The rapping doesn’t seem to be affected by our movements.” In truth, he didn’t believe the sound had anything to do with Sir Boundefort, beyond a judicious use of rumors about the old fellow’s appearances. Someone was trying to scare them away, or, worse, was involved in some thing nefarious. In either case, Christian thought it prudent for the brave and foolish Miss Parkinson to be safely away.
    “I’ll walk you back to your room,” Christian announced.
    “There is really no need,” she replied, wariness in her gaze and a certain chill back in her voice.
    “I insist,” Christian said, inclining his head. Although his hostess looked as though she would like to refuse, there was really no polite way for her to do so. Thankfully, the Governess usually observed the social niceties, so with a stiff nod she stepped forward. Christian grinned as he walked beside her, amused by her reluctance. Was she still concerned about his warning that he would not be caught in a compromising position? Christian wasn’t. Indeed, he was beginning to find the notion appealing.
    And although he had never been the fanciful sort, moving through the shadowed rooms of the house, alone in their circle of lamplight, was rather novel and inviting. Of course, the fact that she was dressed in her nightclothes, however utilitarian they might be, didn’t hurt. And then there were the lilacs. Every few steps a stray draft would send the scent wafting over him until it was all he could do not to seize her—just to see if she was really as delicious as she smelled.
    His pulse pounding, his senses roused, Christian discovered their little nighttime stroll was an exercise in restraint, an unaccustomed experience for him, to be sure. The very act of disciplining himself only seemed to heighten his interest in a sort of vicious cycle. By the time they reached the main stairway, all he could think about was rolling around in a big bed draped with lilac blossoms—and Miss Parkinson.
    When she halted at the bottom of the stairs and turned, her hand upon the railing, the lamplight gilded her lovely features and Christian was hard-pressed not to touch her. His palms were as