Chapter 5

There on the wall was the infamous woman whose swan dive off the cliffs had tainted his family's lives forever. Bastian studied the portrait for a moment. A fair-skinned woman with a hint of rose in her cheeks gazed out from the layers of oil with serious gray eyes. Her pale blue gown molded to her curves, and waves of rich ebony hair tumbled down her shoulders to tease the tops of her breasts. There was a curious expression on her face. She was happy, but wariness lurked in the depths of her eyes, as though she expected to lose her joy at any moment.

Below the painting, a flesh-and-blood woman stood with her back to him. Windblown hair, dark as a raven's wing, spiraled down her back in enticing waves. He had the sudden urge to thread his fingers through the silken strands and shape her full curves with his other hand. A curious burning settled deep in his bones, and a ringing filled his ears as visions of him pinning her to a bed filled his mind. Wild, erotic thoughts tumbled through him, stealing his breath before he regained control and focused on his visitor again.

As though she'd heard his lustful thoughts, the woman turned to face him, cheeks flaming. She couldn't have known what he was thinking. His hand dropped from the door handle, and his jaw slackened in shock.

The dreamy gray eyes fixed on him were identical to the eyes of the woman painted above her. Noble, high cheekbones, curving brows, a sensual mouth made for kisses, and that nose, both delicate and impish, a perfect fit for the face of the woman before him. Her inky-black tresses and curves designed perfectly for a man's hands made her a living memory of a woman centuries gone.

Dear God He repeated the words in his head over and over, mesmerized by the closeness of their shared features.

"You must be Lord Weymouth. I'm Jane Seyton."

The woman strode over to him, hand outstretched. Without thinking, he took it. Heat flared between them. He inhaled sharply.

She dropped his hand and retreated a step, her eyes wide. Had she felt the same jolt he had?

"I sent you a letter explaining that there couldn't be visitors here until renovations were complete. I also told you that I wouldn't let you see any of my family's documents." He grunted, but his gaze kept straying to the portrait behind her, comparing her features to Isabelle's. There was no obvious difference, and that alone had him blinking.

"I waited four months. I assumed the renovations were complete" Her gaze darted around the room, and she seemed to hesitate as though mentally kicking herself for believing the work would be done so soon. "If you'd only let me see the documents, I could be out of here in a week at most, I swear. I just need enough to be able to write a publishable thesis."

For some reason, her reaction angered him. He didn't want her here when the castle wasn't looking as it should. It was a reflection of him and his family, and to have her intrude was strange, even unsettling. A rush of temper overcame himone he didn't know he could possess. The powerful emotion was almost foreign, as though not entirely his own.

"Are all of you Americans like this? Barge into a man's home, seeking evidence of scandals that ruined his family for two centuries? Have you no thought to how that destroys my family's fragile reputation?" he growled low through clenched teeth.

Her lips thinned, and the color in her cheeks faded. She looked pale, vulnerable, as though his outburst had upset her.

Her lovely eyes disappeared from his view as her gaze dropped to the floor. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize it would be such an inconvenience." She sounded genuinely apologetic.

With a heavy sigh, he let his tense shoulders drop. "I apologize for my harsh reply, Miss Seyton. But really, you must leave. I am having trouble with the workmen, and we keep running into problems."

Her face brightened, gray eyes sparkling with energy again. "I need this, Lord Weymouth. If I can't find primary sources to accompany my assertions on the effect of the tragedies of Stormclyffe on the Weymouth community, my committee chair won't approve of my paper, and I'd have to start over on a totally new topic. I wouldn't be in your way. I'll stick to the libraries, the attics. That sort of thing. I could help you, if you like. I'm handy at quite a few things, not just research."

An odd stirring deep in Bastian turned his irritation at her into something different so quickly he barely had time to acknowledge it.

Desire.

Caught in slow-building currents of fascination and hunger for this complete and total stranger, he wanted to see if her handiness extended to activities between the sheets. She seemed to glow with a repressed sexuality, a woman unaware of her appeal. This was not the bookish woman he'd expected. Whatever he'd envisioned she would be like, perhaps wearing a tweed dress suit, spectacles perched on her nose, and a prim chignon, she was certainly not that.

There was something natural about her that appealed to him. She wore no makeup, and she was lovelier for it. Her somewhat casual attire looked comfortable, yet sophisticated. Quite unlike any of the women he had dated in the past. She was a woman who wouldn't wear a slinky dress and strappy high heels. Her sensuality was the sort that would flower before him when he had her naked on a bed.

What an image that was!

It took every ounce of his willpower to convince his body that a physical response was not a good idea. He closed the door and leaned back against it, examining her face, trying desperately to focus on it and not the rest of her body.

"Why do you care so much about the history of this place? I know from your letters you've never been here before. Why Stormclyffe? Why the obsession over people who are dead and gone? You can't change the past." In that brief instant, Bastian wondered who he was trying to convince: himself or her. He didn't know.

She turned away, moving about the room. She paused to pick up a framed photograph of his grandparents. Dust from the shelf, disturbed by her movement, wove through the streaks of sunlight coming in from the windows.

"There's something about Stormclyffe. It calls to me." Another blush highlighted her face, accenting her lovely cheeks. "I want to learn everything about it and uncover its secrets. You have to let me stay. Please."

He snatched a photograph out of her hand, clutching it to his chest with one palm. "Ms. Seyton."

"Jane."

It disturbed him. He couldn't get a read on this woman, couldn't decide why she was so interested in his home. It was obvious that her desire to stay wasn't just out of a scholarly interest. There was something more there, but she wouldn't tell himyet.

He set the photograph aside on a shelf above her reach.

"What secrets do you think lurk in my home, Jane?" His voice caressed her name, hoping his silky tone would crumble her defenses a little. He had to regain command of the situation.

She nibbled her bottom lip, and a wave of arousal slammed into him like a freight train. A thousand delicious thoughts flashed through his head of what he'd like to do to those lips. He practically had to shake his head to clear it of the growing lust. What was wrong with him? He'd never been so out of control before. No better than a young man with his first girl, he couldn't keep his thoughts away from her and her body.

"Well?" He had the sudden desire to corner her, catch her, claim her. It had been ages since the predatory urge to seduce a woman had overtaken him. Bastian fought off his rising desire to unravel the puzzle she presented. Who was Jane Seyton? Sexy, yet innocent graduate student, or was she Mata Hari determined to seduce his secrets out of him for her own gain?

She pirouetted on her toe with all the grace of a ballerina and followed the line of bookshelves, one finger leaving a line in the dusty wood near the faded spines of the books.

"Jane," he growled and cornered her at the end of the left side of the drawing room.

"Hmm?" She spun to face him, eyes widening at him as he glared down at her. She was short, and he towered over her by a good eight inches.

His voice dropped from a growl to a husky whisper. "My family's history is an unhappy one, and it is crucial I maintain what little dignity the dead have left. I need to know why you want to dig up the past. And don't feed me any stories about your dissertation. I know there's another reason you are here."